We entered a vast hall—a true museum of weapons. It had no windows, only small openings near the top of the walls for ventilation. At the center stood an equestrian statue of a warrior in the midst of battle. The horse was captured at full gallop, while the warrior was poised to throw his spear with his right hand. The rest of the room was filled with weapons of every kind, from swords and battle axes to bows, slings, and spears. The walls were no exception—there was scarcely a place where some weapon or piece of armor was not hanging. Even the ceiling was decorated with scenes from famous battles.

  Thanida gazed at the objects in the hall with fascination, as though she were on a free visit to the British Museum. As a battle mage, she felt completely in her element, surrounded by so many legendary weapons. We began to walk around the room, with Chareleos acting as our guide. Thanida’s eyes sparkled with interest as she examined each exhibit, while Elesya seemed indifferent, wearing only a calculated smile.

  On a wooden panel hung several short swords with extremely curved tips.

  “Adamantine sickles—the hardest alloy known,” Chareleos explained. “They are so tough and sharp that they could even cut the muscles of a god. They can split stone without damaging their edge. In fact, they sharpen themselves every time they are used.”

  Near one end of the hall stood a small stone pedestal. Resting on a gilded wooden stand was a forked spear which must once have been magnificent but was now broken. A golden sleeve held the two fragments together. Chareleos led us there proudly.

  “The Pelian spear, which belonged to the great hero Achilles. A light and perfectly balanced weapon, ready to pierce its enemies even from thirty paces away. Legend says the spear was not merely a weapon—it could also heal wounds when necessary. Unfortunately, it bears a spell that prevents any mortal other than Achilles from using it. Still, even if it cannot be wielded in battle, it is an important piece in my collection.”

  Thanida, who was passionate about the lives of the great heroes of antiquity, studied the spear carefully, almost reverently. I suspected that, to her, this weapon was as sacred as a relic would be to a devout believer.

  Circling the hall on the right side, I noticed a pan flute made of reed stems hanging on the wall. I gave the old man a puzzled look, and he hurried to explain:

  “Look—this is Pan’s flute. At first glance, it seems like a harmless musical instrument, but it is nothing of the sort. With its enchanted music, Pan forced his enemies to dance until they collapsed… or even until they died, if he wished. A treacherous and terrible weapon at the same time.”

  We passed several siege engines resembling ballistae. Their strings were drawn tight, as if they were ready to launch their projectiles—whether arrows or boulders—at any moment.

  On a small black table inlaid with gold stood several vials made of greenish glass.

  “What’s inside these vials?” I asked curiously.

  “Here,” the old man replied, “you will find ichor. It is a magical fluid secreted by the bodies of gods and other supernatural beings. It kills any mortal instantly at the slightest touch. It is said that the ichor in these vials is the very substance that flowed from the body of Talos, the bronze giant slain by Medea through magic. Of course, I cannot say how true the legend of Talos is, but I can guarantee that the ichor in these vials is perfectly authentic. I doubt you would want to touch it,” he added with a laugh.

  Thanida wrinkled her nose when she heard about the properties of ichor.

  “It is beneath the dignity of any true warrior to resort to poisons,” she said sharply. “Enemies must be defeated with weapons or with magic. We should never use base means—poisons, traps, or other tricks.”

  Chareleos burst out laughing, his harsh, cavernous guffaws echoing unpleasantly through the hall.

  “So you think so? Then allow me to show you the Bow of Heracles,” the old man said, pointing toward a display case. “As you know, its arrows are poisoned with the venom of the Hydra of Lerna. The venom is so powerful that it can make even the immortal gods suffer.”

  I looked at the bow and arrows and found nothing unusual about them. It was an ordinary bow, the kind any hunter of antiquity might have owned. Beside the bow and quiver lay a lion’s pelt and a wooden club.

  “Once, Heracles struck the centaur Chiron with a poisoned arrow. Chiron was immortal, so the Hydra’s venom did not kill him, but it caused him terrible suffering. In the end, Chiron chose to renounce his immortality and take his own life, just to escape the pain.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Elesya studied the quiver with one eyebrow raised, and her lips—emphasized by her striking makeup—curved into a faint smile.

  “What fine irony,” she said, then turned toward Thanida. “It seems your favorite hero, Heracles, forgot that the weapon you wield always turns against you in the end. It took only a single drop of poison from these arrows, smeared onto a tunic, to make the great hero suffer horribly until he begged to be burned alive on Mount Oeta. Not a very heroic death for a ‘true warrior,’ don’t you think?”

  Thanida turned abruptly, her eyes flashing with cold fury as her hand clenched around the hilt of her sword.

  “You are mistaken, Elesya. Heracles did not die like an ordinary man. Even on his funeral pyre he behaved like a hero, facing the flames without uttering a sound. Nike, the goddess of victory, lifted him to the heavens in a chariot of fire and made him immortal among the constellations. Apotheosis is a hero’s final victory—one your mind, occupied with clothes and cosmetics, is incapable of grasping.”

  Elesya did not flinch under Thanida’s gaze. On the contrary, boldly, she stepped closer to confront her. Her tight black outfit stood in sharp contrast to Thanida’s warrior armor. She gently picked up one of Heracles’ arrows from the quiver and examined it closely.

  “A beautiful story, Thanida,” she replied in a thoughtful voice, running her fingers lightly along the arrowhead. “But the truth is that after the flames died out, nothing remained but ashes—and a few verses sung by poets to trick us into believing that life has meaning beyond survival. After death, there is nothing except the legends the living choose to believe in. Heracles is now only a constellation. The constellation of a man kneeling, ready to be defeated if the gods had not helped him at the right moment. All that truly remains of him are these poisoned arrows. And after so many centuries, I suspect even the poison on them has long since decomposed,” she concluded, placing the arrow back in the quiver.

  “The young lady has a mind as sharp as an adamantine sickle,” Chareleos remarked, inclining his head slightly. “Rarely does beauty house such well-articulated cynicism.”

  I had begun to sweat with anxiety. The two girls were provoking each other at a most inappropriate moment. I hoped with all my heart that this would not turn into another scene like those during our sea voyage. Fortunately, Thanida had the wisdom not to rise to the challenge. She turned her back on Elesya and moved farther into the hall to admire other exhibits.

  Chareleos, however, watched the girls with admiration. Their confrontation seemed to give him particular pleasure.

  “Now I understand better why it is said that the fate of every ancient hero was decided by a woman,” he went on. “Out of jealousy for Iole, Deianira poisoned Heracles—without knowing it—believing she was casting a love spell. Jason would have achieved nothing in the Argonauts’ expedition without Medea at his side. Nor would Achilles have become a hero without the help of his mother, the goddess Thetis. Atalanta’s skill provoked a deadly quarrel among the hunters who pursued the Calydonian boar, for the men could not accept being surpassed by a woman. And let us not forget that beautiful Helen of Troy was the cause of a war in which hundreds of heroes died and a great city was destroyed.”

  He paused briefly, as if recalling the myths he had just recounted, then continued:

  “It seems to me that women have a tremendous influence in ancient myths—perhaps even greater than that of men. You should be careful,” Chareleos said, looking at me.

  I had to agree with him. If ancient women were anything like Elesya and Thanida, it was no wonder things spiraled out of control so quickly.

  In the right corner, on a small table painted red and black, rested two sandals made of woven leather.

  “And are these sandals a weapon too?” Thanida asked.

  “Not exactly,” the old man laughed. “They are called talaria. They are the sandals of Perseus, given to him by the god Hermes. Whoever wears them can fly without needing any spell at all.”

  “Exactly what I need,” Thanida murmured to herself, gazing regretfully at the two shoes.

  Elesya smiled faintly when she heard Thanida’s remark. Of course, she no longer needed magical sandals—she could fly whenever she wished using encapsulated magic. But Thanida did not know our secret. Elesya and I had decided that no one else must learn about the existence of Vabazon’s magic.

  As we passed several statues of warriors, another exhibit caught my attention. It was a tree trunk with an axe embedded in it. Streaks of dried blood had run down from the spot where the weapon had struck the wood.

  “This is the axe of Erysichthon of Thessaly, the one who angered the gods!” Chareleos said. “This king cut down the sacred tree of the goddess Demeter, inside which a nymph lived. From the very first blow of the axe, blood began to flow from the tree, but that did not stop Erysichthon from carrying his crime through to the end. The nymph died along with the tree, and the goddess punished the king severely. Do you know how?”

  I shook my head, since I no longer remembered the details of the ancient myths. Still, I was certain that if he wished, Chareleos could have written an entire encyclopedia about the exhibits in his museum.

  “She sent upon him Limos, endless hunger. Erysichthon was seized by terrible hunger and thirst, but no matter how much he ate or drank, he was never satisfied. The king sold all his wealth to buy the food he needed, yet his torment never ceased. Left without money and without a kingdom, Erysichthon even sold his daughter, Mestra, several times. In the end, he became a beggar, forgotten by all.”

  “Perhaps the poor man suffered from diabetes,” I thought to myself. The symptoms matched Erysichthon’s illness perfectly. In that case, what would have saved him was not more food, but a daily dose of insulin. Had he been born in my country, he would surely have survived.

  “Or perhaps not,” I added silently, remembering how high the price of insulin had become. Erysichthon would only have prolonged his agony. He would have spent his fortune on the doses he needed, and then, once the money ran out, his death would have been the same. The medical–industrial complex would have finished him off just as efficiently as the gods’ curse.