Meanwhile, while Diomedes slept, a nefarious meeting was taking place, two men's hatching out conspiracies.
In the dimly lit chamber of the guest quarters within the palace, Prince Rhesus of Thrace lounged on a cushioned seat, his imposing figure radiating impatience. Across from him sat Prince Ageon of Athens, his slender frame draped in a finely woven chiton, his sharp eyes glinting with calculation. Between them lay a table adorned with half-finished goblets of wine, the air thick with tension.
"It seems we have a common enemy," Ageon began, his voice smooth and measured.
Rhesus smirked arrogantly, swirling the wine in his cup. "The so-called champion of Argos is hardly an enemy to me. He is but a tool of the princess, a glorified peasant playing at heroics."
Ageon leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing. "Take it from an Athenian, my Thracian friend—while we may be cunning, we are also insightful. I observed Diomedes during his match. His movements were not merely skilled but deliberate, almost an art form. It's as though he's been touched by the gods themselves. And while you were too busy glaring at him with disdain, I noticed something else—though he avoided the Cretan's strikes, he could have easily taken them without harm. I've seen such confidence only in warriors who know they are far beyond their opponents."
Rhesus's smirk faltered, replaced by a scowl. "Then we should kill him," he said bluntly, his voice laced with venom.
Ageon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Crude and short-sighted, as expected of a Thracian. An assassination would be too conspicuous, especially with all eyes on the games. It would raise suspicions and potentially jeopardize both our missions. No, what we need to do is weaken him—mentally, physically, perhaps both."
Rhesus leaned back, his scowl deepening. "And what, exactly, is your plan, oh wise Athenian?"
Ageon smirked, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "The details will take time, but suffice it to say, we will exploit his weaknesses, sow doubt where he feels most confident. A warrior's mind is as crucial as his body, and even the strongest can falter when thrown into uncertainty."
Rhesus narrowed his eyes, considering the words. "And why, Ageon, are you so eager to see him fall? What do you stand to gain?"
Ageon's smirk grew wider, his tone taking on an air of mock sincerity. "Let's just say I enjoy a good challenge. Besides, wouldn't it be a shame if a commoner outshone not one, but two noble princes in this agōn gamikos? I intend to secure both the favor of the gods and the hand of Princess Andromeda. And if it means forging a temporary alliance with a Thracian, so be it."
Rhesus studied Ageon carefully before nodding, a reluctant agreement forming between them. "Very well, Athenian. But if you fail, know that I will take matters into my own hands."
Ageon raised his goblet, his expression unreadable. "Then let us hope, for both our sakes, that I do not fail."
The two princes clinked their cups together, an uneasy alliance forged in the shadows of the night, their scheming words carried away by the flickering candlelight.
________________________________________
The morning sun bathed the training grounds in warm light as Diomedes went through his usual routine. Each strike of his spear against the training dummy was precise, his movements fluid and deliberate. The rhythmic sounds of training echoed across the grounds, drawing the attention of nearby soldiers who stopped to watch the famed champion practice. His heightened spirit made him acutely aware of every gaze, but one, in particular, felt different—lingering, calculating.
After concluding his training, Diomedes bathed, the cool water refreshing him after the morning's exertions. He then made his way to the mess hall, where he joined the soldiers for a meal. The aroma of roasted lamb and freshly baked bread filled the air. As he ate, his sharp instincts noticed three men seated at a far corner, pretending to engage in casual conversation but constantly stealing glances at him. Their furtive gestures and the way they kept their faces turned away made their intentions clear.
Finishing his meal calmly, Diomedes rose and left, deliberately heading toward the palace stables. His gait was unhurried, but his senses were on high alert. Once out of sight, he slipped into the shadows of a nearby alley. Moments later, the three spies crept after him, their footsteps hesitant yet purposeful.
With a sudden burst of speed, Diomedes emerged from his hiding spot, grabbing one of the men by the collar and slamming him against a wall. The other two froze in shock before attempting to flee, but Diomedes was faster. A swift kick sent one sprawling, while the other was pinned with a forceful grip on his arm.
"Who sent you?" Diomedes demanded, his voice low and threatening.
The first man, trembling, stammered, "We—we don't know, sir! Someone paid us to follow you."
"Paid you? How much?"
"Three silver coins each," another blurted, clutching his bruised ribs.
Diomedes studied them for a moment, his sharp gaze piercing through their terror. These men were no warriors; their trembling hands and fearful eyes spoke of inexperience. They were mere pawns. Satisfied that they posed no real threat, he released them but not before delivering a stern warning.
"Run back to whoever hired you and tell them this: Diomedes is not someone to trifle with."
The men nodded frantically and fled, clutching their battered bodies. Diomedes watched them disappear into the distance, his mind already turning over the implications of this encounter. Someone was plotting against him, and the timing—right before the next round of the agōn gamikos—was too convenient to be a coincidence.
By midday, the amphitheater was once again alive with excitement. The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Tritius stepped forward, his booming voice cutting through the noise.
"People of Argos, today's first match pits the strength of Sparta against the pride of Thessaly!" he declared, his words met with raucous cheers. "On one side, we have the champion of Prince Menelaus of Sparta—a warrior forged in the fires of Sparta's legendary training! This man has defeated wolves with his bare hands and represents the pinnacle of Spartan excellence!"
The Spartan champion stepped forward, his chiseled physique and stoic demeanor earning gasps of admiration. Draped in a crimson cloak, his bronze armor gleamed under the sun, and his short sword and shield seemed like extensions of his body.
"And his opponent," Tritius continued, "is the champion of Thessaly's prince—a gladiator of unparalleled skill who has reigned undefeated in Thessaly's arenas for five years! This man has carved his name into history with victories that echo across the land!"
The Thessalian champion strode into the arena, his presence equally commanding. He was slightly taller than his Spartan counterpart, his body honed from years of brutal combat. Wielding a dual-headed axe, he exuded an aura of ferocity that thrilled the crowd.
The two warriors faced off, the tension in the arena palpable. As the signal to begin was given, they clashed with a ferocity that left the crowd breathless.
The Spartan champion fought with measured precision, each strike of his sword aimed to exploit weaknesses in his opponent's stance. His shield was not just a tool for defense but a weapon in itself, bashing and throwing the Thessalian off balance. The Thessalian, however, was no novice. He countered with brute strength and unpredictable swings of his axe, forcing the Spartan to stay on the defensive.
The duel was a showcase of two distinct combat philosophies: the Spartan's disciplined and tactical approach versus the Thessalian's raw power and unorthodox techniques. The crowd roared with every exchange, their allegiances split between the two warriors.
But as the fight wore on, the Spartan's training and endurance began to show. While the Thessalian's strikes grew slower and less precise, the Spartan remained relentless, his movements as sharp as they had been at the start. With a swift maneuver, he disarmed the Thessalian, his sword tip resting just inches from his opponent's throat.
The Thessalian champion, panting and bloodied, yielded, dropping to one knee. The crowd erupted in applause, their cheers echoing through the amphitheater.
Tritius raised his arms to quiet the crowd. "Victory goes to the Spartan champion!"
Prince Menelaus stood, his expression one of smug satisfaction as he basked in the adoration of the crowd. His gaze briefly flicked to Andromeda, as if to remind her of Sparta's superiority.
Diomedes watched the fight with keen interest, analyzing every movement. The Spartan's discipline impressed him, but he also noted the subtle signs of weariness that could have been exploited. As his mind turned over these observations, his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp glance from Prince Rhesus, whose face was a mask of barely concealed rage.
Diomedes smirked to himself. He had more than just spies to worry about—enemies were revealing themselves with every passing moment.
His gaze went back to the arena, the crowd's excitement slowly fading, he watched as Tritius called the next fight of the day.