Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Jokaste," Kastor-exalted says.

The kithara is an instrument that can play stirring songs of war and romantic ballads but what it is not good at is transitioning between the two. Kallias has cursed the instrument silently and illicitly countless times, but despite its unyielding strings, the rush he gets from a perfect transition has always been worth it. He smooths the melody into something soft and lyrical, the ballad of Iphegenia, and earns a glance and slight upturn of lips from Lady Jokaste, stepping into the chambers.

The new music certainly sings out to her - her statuesque figure and the silken gown whispering over marble, material like liquid silver. The firelight draws glints of gold from her hair. Kallias cannot help but look. Ianessa draws up the folds of her dancing gown with a small huff of annoyance that is shockingly audible. Euphymia’s jealousy is almost tangible, even halfway across the room. Kallias, seeing the small frown Kastor throws in Ianessa’s direction, allows himself a small, secretive smile. It takes a lot for slaves of a Prince to break form, but Lady Jokaste has a way of ruffling feathers.

“I have not heard such elegant transitions on the kithara before,” Jokaste says as she approaches Kastor’s table. Kallias, standing behind Kastor’s high-backed chair, can hear her very clearly. Her northern accent turns her words musical, enunciation soft. “Adrastus does indeed have an eye for talent.”

“I have not seen you for a week and the slave is what you mention?” Kastor says, as he waves at Galene for more wine. It's a version of the playful tone Kastor uses often with his slaves, one that usually precedes rough nights, tangled bedsheets and bruising, but comes out as more of a growl.

"Exalted," Jokaste replies, simply. She sidesteps Kastor's imperious reach for her, looping around so she can kiss him chastely on the cheek, before she floats over to the dresser table. A shadow passes over Kastor's face, and Kallias feels his heartbeat quickening in response. Kastor’s temper is like the summer storm - quick to build, faster to unleash, and never predictable. It is the first time it's been entirely directed at Jokaste.

A glimmer of green flashes in Kallias’ periphery; Jokaste has picked up the silken dress on the dresser. It is a deep rich emerald that glistens like water. "You should not spoil me so."

The shadow flickers between Kallias’ brows and in his wolfen eyes then lessens, just as Galene arrives with a pitcher of wine, expertly timed.

"Finest silk from Varenne," Kastor says, tracing the golden engravings on his goblet with one finger. “I had it selected from the markets this morning.”

"Hiding nothing," Jokaste says, holding the fabric to her cheek, trailing it slowly from jaw to delicate clavicle.

Kallias has been trained for Kastor and he's served a half year in Kastor’s household. He can read the fire in Kastor’s eyes, so easily ignited into fury or passion, well enough by now. He knows what his master likes; knows how to stoke the fire and not be burnt. He sees in Kastor's eyes, which follow the fabric’s trajectory, a different hunger, one that would never be directed at a slave. The hunger of waiting. The hunger of wanting, and not having.

"Wear it for me," Kastor says. He raises two fingers at Kallias, a signal to stop the music and move to kneel with the other slaves until he is needed again.

"It befits a queen," Jokaste says, and smiles, slow and conspiratorial. "I shall wear it when it is suitable."

Kallias touches his forehead to the marble and closes his eyes.

It's her response every time.

The following afternoon, Kallias plays the song of Parthenos in the background as Kastor proceeds with daily duties. There are heralds bringing news of the solemn progression of kyroi come to Ios to make tributes for King Theomedes’ good health. Menaidos of Sicyon is allocated to Kastor’s villa, which provokes a rare moment of satisfaction - Kastor has long admired the decorated general’s military prowess. There are palace staff seeking approval for details for the inevitable feasts and ceremonies must be held to welcome the kyroi. In a rare moment of magnanimity, Kastor even receives a few commoners - a red-cheeked woman who delivers him a bouquet of summer hydrangeas, blooming purple, blue and white; a metal worker’s apprentice who offers up a selection of just-made knives; a Patran father and son presenting intricate woven fabrics, and, finally, a bearded merchant dressed excessively for the heat in long sleeves and a laced up high collar. He gifts Kastor with a skein of wine with a wax-sealed note containing instructions for future deliveries, should Kastor-exalted desire them.  

There are a few hostile whispers amongst Kastor’s advisors at the clear Veretian influence in the merchant’s dress but Kastor receives him with impeccable politeness as he does with the others - even takes the note with his own hand. There is an air of impatience about him as he gestures for his steward to take the items away, and rises for his daily visit to the King’s chambers. King Theomedes is ill. He has been for awhile now. The eagle-eyed diligence Kastor had shown towards his father’s health - personal consultation with the King’s physicians and careful examination of everything being fed to the King - has been surprising to Kallias and even to slaves like Euphymia and Ianessa, who have served him for much longer than Kallias. The memory of Kallias’ own father’s face has long been lost to him.

He is allowed to accompany Kastor as far as the heavy doors to the King’s chambers. Lykaios is already prostrated by the door, a sign Prince Damianos is already inside, and the sight of her long golden hair provokes a small curl of the lip on Kastor. Kallias sinks beside Lykaios in identical prostration. The door opens with the sound of heavy wood on tiled floor, and then closes.

It is only then that they may rise from their prostration to remain on their knees with feet tucked under them, waiting the return of their masters. Kallias can see the golden lion pin holding Lykaios’ wispy dress in place. The contours of the lion head and mane are familiar, achingly so. Protocol and the presence of the liveried guards, whose gazes are not devoid of interest, dictates they may not talk to each other. Kallias settles for looking at Lykaios’ light brown eyes, the delicate column of her throat, and the ease with which she maintains perfect form. He knows that she is one of Damianos’ oldest slaves, gifted when Damianos came of age more than a decade ago. The tastes of royalty are fickle and it is a mark of highest honour to have pleased one’s master for so long, though - as Galene had whispered with unbecoming glee when he had first joined the household - it was rumoured that the Prince had not taken her into his bed for many moons.

“It is not simply her, he has not taken any new slaves,” Euphymia had replied scornfully. “Adrastus has not offered any for a long time. Perhaps the Prince is courting, as our master is.”

Or perhaps Adrastus is preparing someone special , Kallias had countered in his mind. Euphymia’s mention of courting had brought the conversation topic dangerously close to Lady Jokaste and Kastor’s own, still-secret courtship and, therefore, to an abrupt end. Gossip was for serving girls and stable boys. For slaves - royal slaves - it was a guilty, forbidden thing. Perhaps whispers about another’s slaves could be excused, but not those of one’s own master. Lady Jokaste was important - necessary - to their own futures, and so they could not openly speak of her to each other. Protocol forbade it. The game of royal favour forbade it, doublefold.

Conceal your strategy.  

Footsteps. Kallias dips his head to the floor at the same time as Lykaios. Low murmuring voices and the smell of incense and medicine accompany the scrape of an opening door.

“Lykaios,” says a voice that is not his master’s - younger, softer, slightly hoarse with strain. Prostrated as he is, Kallias can only catch a glimpse of a sandled foot and feel the stirring of air beside him as Lykaios rises, and departs.

Long moments later, “come,” his own master’s voice calls, and Kallias rises, and follows.

The stars are high and candles low when he is called for again, by Ianessa returning from Kastor’s evening meal.

“Tread lightly,” Ianessa tells him as he passes her, an uncharacteristic warning. There’s an an even more uncharacteristic anxiety twisting the usually haughty set of her features. “Lady Jokaste is here. They are...in disagreement.”

They are, and in the middle of it when Kallias steps quietly into the room. Lady Jokaste sits, posture stiff, on the other end of the chaise where Kastor is sprawled. She is pointedly wearing her own dress, a soft dove grey. Candlelight throws their shadows in sharp relief against the plain walls. Neither looks up as Kallias finds a place in the corner and places the kithara on his lap.

“Are we to give up our best?” Kastor is saying. “Adrastus does not have many to spare.”

“We can spare no less,” Jokaste murmurs. “You will need it. His honour guard will fight to the death for him. His household-”

“Is that of comfort to me?” Kastor demands. Stormclouds. “He is beloved, he is revered, he is even the first request of the many on this note. Am I to suffer your esteem of him as well?”  

Silence.

“You may leave the slave offering to me,” Jokaste says cooly, and Kallias’ breath catches with her daring. She’s dancing on the knife edge of favour, and Kallias, measuring the darkness in Kastor’s gaze, knows from precedent how easily she might be cut down. “I will ensure they can be exchanged for the troops you require. The best of them, worthy of royal First Nights.”

A beat.

“Let us not speak of this,” Kastor says. He looks up, and seems to see Kallias for the first time. “Play.”

“Which song would you prefer, Exalted?” Kallias asks, as softly as he dares.

“Play the song of Persepa,” Lady Jokaste says, turning. Kallias stares at her - there’s an archly challenging look in her gaze. It is the myth of a young maiden, abducted by the warrior king of the underlands, and a song not designed for a kithara. He meets Jokaste’s gaze and plays out the first chord of the song. He thinks he sees the flicker of reaction in her expression before she turns away.

“ Jokaste ,” Kastor says, reaching for her, his gesture conciliatory.

She allows his touch, just briefly, before pulling away.

“I am yours,” she says, but it is detached. Kallias wonders if his master hears it. She who remained as the leaves fell to death, jewelled fruits in her hands as her mother wept. He wonders if Persepa had stayed willingly.  

That night, he dreams of stars, and fires and ceremonies. Of curled hair and hazel eyes, forlorn in the moonlight. The scent of chamomile and apricots, sunlight filtering through yellowing tree leaves, and longing, heat pooling in Kallias’ stomach, the ghost of a cheek against his own-

Kallias wakes to a rush of night air and the crash of waves. For a moment, breathing heavily, he simply stares up at the high white ceiling. He is in his small room within the slave headquarters. Kastor had taken Ianessa to bed for once and part of Kallias acknowledges this is a failing on his part; his standing in the household has been slipping the past few days, and this must be rectified. A larger part is grateful that the space around him is cool and empty.

The chords of the song of Persepa are still ringing in his ears. Kallias closes his eyes, remembering.

It’s not designed for the kithara. Erasmus’ voice had surely been higher, but his spectre in Kallias’ dreams had long since become the Erasmus he last remembered seeing in the palace training quarters, grown gracefully into his coltish limbs. They had started this game on one of those lazy summer afternoons long past, the air saturated with the fragrance of fruits, laced with the faint smell of sea salt. It began with Kallias making music on his kithara for Erasmus’ favourite pieces of poetry. Then, the following afternoon, Erasmus had found a bunch of old scrolls in Nereus’ library full of ancient and discarded songs that had fallen out of favour with royalty. They had spent the afternoon poring through the melodies, Erasmus making up words to accompany them and teasing Kallias about how awful the flute melody sounded, adapted on his kithara. Then the next afternoon. And the next. It had been half game, half challenge, something none of the others had understood.

When he had first begun palace training, Kallias’ dreams had been full of such memories, a continuous litany of names and songs and stories, Erasmus’ gentle presence beside him. Then Erasmus had - finally finally - arrived, the subtle purity that Nereus had always prized in him brightened to a shine, and the names, songs and stories grew more complex as they plundered the palace library together with the smiling approval of their trainers. A few short, happy months and Kallias’ dreams had changed to something more fevered, the longing sharp and aching, something incomprehensible and yet, somehow, as old as time.

The night sky is only just starting to pale with the morning light. Kallias curls in on himself, feeling the rapid pulse of his heartbeat. After enough nights, Euphymia had whispered to him as she had tended to him after his First, it is harder for them to know . He had not understood her words, at the time. She had been kind to him, kinder than the others, before his rise had displaced her own. He cannot afford to regret it. Kallias takes himself in his hands, feels a rush of illicit daring that translates into heat that floods through his body, leaving him trembling, gasping quietly, in its wake. There were legends, weren’t there, of spirits who could be summoned by name?

Kallias closes his eyes.

Erasmus, Erasmus, Erasmus .

The next night, Jokaste requests the ballad of Endymion, loved by a goddess but for the price of eternal sleep. The night after, the story of Kallisto, hunted across the night sky for breaking her vows of chastity. The night after, a story of sirens and a raging sea, then the punishment of Nereus, which appeases Kastor. Some nights, she arrives at suppertime and stays late, sending all slaves from the room until, eventually, she calls for Kallias to end the evening in song before she departs. The approbation from Euphymia and Galene is almost tangible, the words between them unspoken. Herein lies one who will not be threatened by Jokaste’s rise. Sometimes she gives Kallias a brief respite, requesting songs predictably favoured by the female courtiers - the Decision for Three Goddesses, and the Conquest of Arsaces, which had been Erasmus’ favourite.

Some nights they talk in veiled undertones of slaves and offerings, of guards and deals, and she is, in all measures of the word, Kastor’s betrothed, giving commands to his servants that he allows with smug satisfaction. Yet, the royal court is silent on them and, some nights, she does not visit at all.

Kastor, like his brother and father, favours songs of battle, likes to comment idly about his resemblance to Archellus and the heroes of old, crowned in splendours of blood and gold. Playing for him is easy - Kallias has been trained for it and Kastor enjoys repetition. Jokaste’s requests present the heart-pounding rush of challenge in Kallias for the first time since entering Kastor’s household. The day after she catches him off guard with a Patran song, he requests sheets of Patran music - and Vaskian, to be safe - from Tarchon, who delivers them to his chamber unsmiling.

There’s a feeling of emptiness in studying the music without Erasmus beside him. There are moments in the half-light of afternoons where Kallias imagines him as a ghost of light and dust-motes, and the focus always comes more quickly, knowing that Erasmus is training somewhere in the depths of the palace. Kallias is not high enough in rank to initiate visits to the training slaves but he will be, unless Erasmus ascends first. For now, he bends down to keep practising. He takes it as a victory when he correctly fulfils her request for a Vaskian song performed in the Royal courts and enjoys seeing the silent appraisal on her face, the slight uplift of her fingers on the glass in acknowledgment.

The song is a sad one. All the songs she chooses herself, Kallias does not fail to notice, are sad.

The stop-start pattern of her behaviour is such that the surprise of her summons - on a hot summer day with Kastor out on affairs of the palace - does not even seem unusual. The commoner woman had returned repeatedly with hydrangeas for Kastor, which is what Kallias brings with him as he steps out to the courtyard of Kastor’s apartments with his servant. The hot air is heady with the scent of food, the courtyard bustling with preparations of palace staff, working on short notice to accommodate the kyroi of Mellos and Dice, who had sent word of their plans to arrive three days hence. He does not have too far to walk - and he is thankful for it. A prize royal slave walking without his master, though untouchable, would be unusual enough to be noticed and noted, but the courtyard is busy and he keeps to the shadows, and passes quickly enough.

Lately, she has taken to residing during the day in a small antechamber off the side of Kastor’s main apartments, opening out to a small balcony with a view of the courtyard below and, further, the glimmer of sapphire ocean down the sheer cliffs. Kastor would not have chosen the long, white silken sheets waving in the summer heat, nor the reclining chair filling the space, or the green ferns trailing fronds against the bright marble, but it is all there. She has a knack for this, Kallias notes; of demanding comforts from a space in which she does not, technically, have a right.

He is careful to step quietly as protocol dictates, but her handmaiden murmurs softly to her as soon as he steps into the room and Kallias pauses as she turns, dropping to one knee and proffering the bouquet to her, his head lowered.

“For my Lady, from Kastor-exalted,” he says. It is, technically, a truth.

He’s expecting her handmaiden to receive the flowers on her behalf, but a wave of perfume hits him before he feels her lift the bouquet from his hands.

“Flowers, from those raised in gardens,” she says, and there’s an edge to the amusement in her voice that Kallias can’t quite decipher. “I did not think Kastor cared for them. From which garden did you come?”

Kallias blinks, startled. “This one was raised in the gardens of Nereus,” he says, dipping his forehead to the marble. He forces himself to relax, sinking into the prostration, but also wonders if it’s too late. Kallias is used to seeing more than most but, above anything, is used to that gaze being unreturned. A slave, a prize slave, does not think and does not listen. Lady Jokaste does not speak to him like a slave, not quite.

“That is a name I have not heard,” Lady Jokaste says as he lifts from the prostration, still on his knees. He cannot decipher her tone. “Adrastus would have me picking from Markos and Rhode’s crop. You are a rare one, then, to be plucked from a garden of pageboys. And rising so quickly. I have not seen Galene or Euphymia at his side since you arrived. And so well read on myths.”

Kallias lowers his gaze, keeps his movements minimal. She is not one be impressed by simpering and gratitude. “This slave lives to serve.”

“And are you familiar with Veretian tales?” her next question is mild.

Kallias’ heartbeat drums in his ears. Here are songs he cannot know, in the shape of all the missing scrolls in the library that had been taken when relations had soured once more under Theomedes. We cannot help it, Erasmus had said, the calm voice of reason to Kallias’ fire and indignation. Be content Kallias .  

“No, my lady,” he says, leeching the emotion from his voice. “We are not taught the stories of the enemy.”

“Hardly a loss,” she remarks, her tone suddenly disdainful. “Full of distressed women in tall castles, noble princes in heavy iron, and old magic that will save you in times of need.”

She pauses, and Kallias realises his eyes are wide, too aware, that he is leaning forward, thirsty for more information. He relaxes with a flare of shame, and anger too. Jokaste gives him a wry smile. It’s a win for her. “And not suited to the kithara at all.”

Kallias waits.

“An eye for detail will serve you well,” Jokaste says. “Give thanks to your master. It is to his credit that he has trained such thoughtful slaves.”

It’s a slip-up to have been seen - unforgivable - but Kallias is unsurprised when he is requested to accompany Kastor to the main banquet hall in a celebration to welcome arrivals of the kyroi of Mellos and Dice. Jokaste, it seems, enjoys rewarding him for her small victories.

With six kyroi in attendance, it is the largest gathering outside the Kingsmeet and both Princes and King Theomedes are to be present. His lashes feel heavy with paint. To be presented formally to the court at such an occasion is a high honour - near unprecedented and Kallias keenly feels the pressure of gazes on him as he follows Kastor through the lower section of the hall. The weight of his slave collar is a grounding presence around his neck, the fine fabric of his clothes floating behind him with his movement. He keeps his steps light and posture straight, eyes demure, as he weaves through courtiers and serving slaves, laden with dishes of sweetmeats and wine. Kastor’s pleasure at the way the court’s attention swings to him as they walk through the throngs can be clearly felt.

Only close proximity to the King reveals the shadows under Theomedes’ eyes, and the way he is slightly slumped in his chair. A sour note of illness lingers in the air. Aden, beside him, is hovering solicitously with a cloth but just a little too closely. Kastor bends to kiss his father’s brow in greeting and Kallias, heart in his throat, prostrates himself before the scrutiny of the high table as protocol demands of new slaves.   

“So this is the one I have been hearing about in the palace,” Meniados, kyroi of Sicyon comments, as Kallias rises from his prostration. He is middle-aged, with easy laughing eyes and a youthful energy despite the grey streaks in his slightly wild beard. “Adrastus does have an eye.”

It is meant as a compliment to Kastor, who looks chiefly to Theomedes. The King regards Kallias briefly before giving a single nod of approval. Damianos, sitting on Theomedes’ right hand side, raises a goblet to Kastor in silent acknowledgment, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly. Damianos, Kallias thinks, an unfamiliar awe stirring in him. He had caught only scraps of the Prince in his prostration - an impression of dark eyes, strong features and full lips, before he had lowered his head. Erasmus is his. Erasmus is for him .  

“It’s a good thing he is not Damen’s type or there would be a fight,” Meniados is saying to Theomedes. “And a kithara player - my Anthousa is a favourite in the household for her skill. I’m sure this one provides you similar comfort.”   

“A comfort surely necessary in these times,” Nikandros, kyroi of Delpha comments. Though decades younger than Meniados and perhaps even younger than Kastor, his serious expression conjures Tarchon’s image - a disapproving older brother, preparing to reprimand. There's nothing to suggest sarcasm in his neutral, steady voice but it is clear Kastor hears it nonetheless.

Next to him, on Theomedes’ right hand side, Damianos raises an eyebrow, the edges of his mouth quirking.

“Small comforts,” Kastor says stiffly, attention swung in Nikandros’ direction. “And glad ones, in these times.”

There is a silent, flinty moment between them, before the court’s attention is claimed by the display fighters and acrobats who have just entered the court.

Dismissed, Kallias catches Aden’s eye briefly as he takes his position behind Kastor’s chair, settling his kithara on his lap. The shock in Aden’s green eyes is obvious, as is the slight note of satisfaction. So Kallias is human after all . He forces his hands to unclench. The highest honour a new royal slave can obtain from the court is to be asked to perform during his presentation. Only a few slaves in history have ever been afforded this and Kallias had been sure the moment had been his, right until Nikandros had opened his mouth. He was distantly aware of Kastor’s anger at the loss of the court’s and the King’s attention, a fire to his own disappointment. He had been so close.

The display fighters are bowing and taking their places.

“A promising fight deserved promising music,” Damianos says. He has not raised his voice by much, but the attention of the court swings to him anyway, the hush somehow palpable, despite the music and clatter of people and movement. Kallias watched Kastor’s shoulders stiffen. Damianos looks at Kastor, then catches Kallias’ eye. His expression is nonchalant, but there is spark of awareness in his dark eyes, underlying the warm amusement. “Play the Fall of Inachtos, if you please.”

Many songs and rounds of applause later, when Kastor’s smile has returned, Jokaste makes her way to the high table and requests a ballad of Apollo from Kallias, an easy enough request, for there are many.

He picks the song about Apollo’s fight with the Python of Delpha. It's a fast, sinuous melody full of staccato notes and swooping crescendos, the sort Erasmus always worried about because of the damage it did to Kallias’ fingers. In Damianos’ golden presence, it's impossible not to think of Erasmus. Jokaste is still standing there, with the calm confidence of someone who expects to be acknowledged.  Instinctively, Kallias looks around for Kastor but the Prince is further down the hall, in conversation with one of Meniados’ bannermen. It does not seem to matter - Prince Damianos, breaking off from a conversation with Nikandros about skirmishes on the Veretian border, greets her with a startling warmth and familiarity, inviting her to sit with him by the high table. She does, with carefully light movements, on the edge of the couch as though she is prepared to spring away at any moment.

“Kyroi,” Jokaste says, inclining her head. Kallias has seen the expressions of harder men than Nikandros melt before her, but the stoniness in Nikandros’ expression does not shift, even as he makes a cursory acknowledgment in return. Her expression does not flicker with the rejection and Damianos quickly engages them both in conversation, his arm resting lightly against the back of the chaise where she is sitting, hand curved towards her arm. Kallias is watching her posture relax, by infinitesimal degrees, until the scent of spiced apricots fills the air - a final note to the elaborate meal. Nikandros rises and excuses himself, asking for Damianos’ company out to the gardens, a significant request only possible from an old and dearly regarded friend of the Prince.

Kallias watches them go, then watches as Jokaste makes obeisance to Theomedes before retreating to the malaise of courtiers down the hall, heading straight for Kastor. Kallias keeps watching.

He thinks of the argument between Jokaste and Kastor, of the talks of soldiers and guards, and slave offerings. The words are hazy, gleaned from snatches of conversation. He thinks of Nikandros, feeling like he is glimpsing the edges of something elusive, something wrong and treacherous. An eye for detail will serve you well , she had said.

His first lesson at the palace had been with Adrastus, a rare honour afforded to those chosen for the royal retinue, but the lesson had been simple. It was the same words Kallias had learnt his very first day of slave training, a young terrified boy in line in Nereus’ gardens. By the time he had been facing the Keeper of Slaves, it was a litany he could recite without thinking, a matter of course. It had been an odd lesson in fundamentals.

“All I do, say or think, at the will of my master. I am nothing without my master. I am nothing. I do not listen. I do not think. I obey,” he had recited.

Adrastus had merely looked at him, dark eyes like a stone wall. “Again,” he had said.

Kallias understands the reasons for that now. It is impossible not to listen, now that the talk between Kastor and Jokaste has wrenched itself into context, the dark anger and dislike in Kastor’s voice directed at someone real. A Prince, plotting against a kyroi. A Prince, discussing the slaughter of honour guards, the exchange of slaves. Every other night, a step towards that end in Kastor and Jokaste’s quiet conversation, and notes that he now realises are letters. The thought is unspeakable, horrific.

“The condition is to make him a bed slave,” Kastor says one night, as he holds a note over open flame. Kallias watches the paper curl and blacken, trying to wipe his mind blank, to shut out the words. “For his nephew.”

There is a long silence. Jokaste looks up, her expression momentarily haunting in the yellow candlelight. There is something wide and essential in her unguarded expression that Kallias cannot quite make out. A second, and then it’s shuttered.   

“And what do you think?” she asks.

Kastor frowns. “No. We do not make slaves of free men.”

Only of boys, Kallias thinks, unable to stop the sudden bitterness of his thoughts, the memories of star-speckled night and the warmth of Erasmus’ body, just out of touch. His finger plucks a string too hard - the note rings out, sharp. He senses, rather than sees, a tiny flicker of Jokaste’s attention in his direction.

“I think it is worth considering,” she says.   

“Kallias.”

Aden’s voice, behind him. Kallias looks up and nods in acknowledgment, moving slightly to allow Aden to kneel on the cushions beside him. The sounds of the summer insects and the feeling of heat leeches itself slowly back into Kallias’ awareness. His pulse beats with the distant sound of barking and galloping hooves. The cool white canvas of the tents is open and flapping in the breeze, a small mercy in the heat. It is Kallias’ first time accompanying Kastor to a hunt, the event itself proposed by the kyroi of Ios a few days ago in an effort to revive King Theomedes’ spirits. The King himself would be riding, albeit in the back of the party as his physicians advised.

In the context of a hunt, it is permissible for the royal slaves to stay in one tent, waiting together for their masters’ return. Aden is dressed befitting his status, a beautiful white chiton hanging off his shoulder, held up by the golden pin marking him as the slave of the King, his tumbled burgundy curls gleaming. The brief flare of smug satisfaction at the feast is gone, replaced by admiration in Aden’s green eyes that is familiar to Kallias from their days of training together at the palace. Though uncomfortable at close range, it is far more welcome than Euphymia’s shrewd, calculating gaze that Kallias has gotten used to.

It is perhaps his unusually warm regard for Aden that emboldens the other to divulge far more than protocol dictates. They speak of Kallias’ performance at the feast, Adrastus’ new crop of slaves in training (‘hopeless,’ Aden says, lip curling in distaste), even touching on the King’s health and the constant attention of his sons, which could only speak to ominous tidings. Aden has always been restless, eagerly feeding of the affairs of others, and it is this quality that Kallias finds himself indulging, not without a slight flare of shame at what Erasmus would say to it all.

“They say Damianos-exalted is courting,” Aden says, voice low, excited. It is clear he has been saving the most salacious story for last. “They say it’s a lady of the court, though Exalted wishes to strengthen alliances with Patras. Adrastus and Tarchon have refrained from presenting new slaves for him.”

Kallias feels his breath catch, and forces an exhale. He makes himself speak calmly. “A shame. Erasmus had been so close to his First Night too.”

"He is too old," Aden says abruptly, the note souring his voice. He has a piece of sweetmeat in his hand, which he is unconsciously crumbling, his grip too hard.  This jealousy, too, is familiar. Aden spent only a summer with Erasmus and Kallias in the palace training grounds, but the fierce jealousy Erasmus had unwittingly provoked in Aden mars the clean lines of his features. "And nothing special, I hear. Exalted would tire of him in a moon's time, if he will even consummate the First Night."

Aden stops, flushes darkly. It is the height of impropriety, to speak ill of another’s First; Kallias sees the fear of reproach in Aden’s green eyes, along with a certain searching quality. Many had been jealous of Erasmus - for his looks, for his pin, and because of Kallias’ attention. Aden had been jealous because of all three.

But friendship between slaves is fickle and they have been separated from Erasmus for a long time. Kallias concentrates on maintaining the silence between them and feels, more than sees, Aden relax. Aden’s next whisper is in Kallias’ ear, closer than anyone has ever dared to come. “Erasmus does not even suit the Prince’s taste, don’t you think?”

Kallias does not allow his expression to change. "I do not think of him at all."

They are interrupted by a sudden bray of the hunting horn in the distance - one, two, three calls. Kallias is well-versed in hunting protocol, but even the newest training slave would know, from the ripple of shock that passed through their tent, that something has gone wrong.

The emergency signal, with royalty on the field.

He feels his stomach drop.

They are ushered back to the palace. In a moment of neglect or oversight, they are not given instruction. Kallias should make his way back to Kastor’s quarters, but he has not been told to and so remains with Lykaios and Ianora, Damianos’ slaves, at the entrance of the King’s suite. From his position, he can see the wide expanse of sky, blue between the stone columns.

They wait for a long, long time, even as the murmurings around them grow louder. King Theomedes has taken ill on the hunt, the first steward to return had said, as he returned with a pack of hunting hounds, white and shocked. And, over the course of the afternoon - King Theomedes had been brought to his chambers by the kyroi, Prince Damianos dealt the killing blow to the mountain lion even as he rushed to his father’s side and stopped the King’s horse from bolting, both Princes and the palace physicians are tending to the King now.

The sun is red as blood by the time Damianos exits the chambers, moving with the sharp movements of a commander, the lines of his body tense.

Everyone startles to attention, even as he waves for his slaves - and Kallias - to rise from their prostration.

“Exalted.”

Jokaste’s voice. Kallias turns and stares. Next to Lykaios and Ianora, she could be a triplet with her bright hair, but she moves past them to stand before Damianos, too close and too familiar for a courtesan. “You need to rest. Your brother will attend to him.”

There is heat in the long silence of their gaze, and Kallias wonders how she can stand it. He feels a flush of his own, a painful need to avert his eyes, bow his head. It wars with his impulse to keep looking.

It’s almost a surprise when she takes a step back, simple and graceful. They do not touch and Damianos reaches to take Lykaios’ hand instead, Ianora trailing behind. Kallias watches them walk away, and releases the breath he had not realised he had been holding. He feels like he did at the feast, watching the edge of something hidden swim into view, elusive to touch.

Hydrangeas again, on another hot, summer day. The last of the kyroi have sent word. Arriving soon , the servants whisper, and the true message is on their faces. The King is dying .

There are faint shadows newly under Jokaste’s eyes. It is not cold, but she has a shawl around her shoulders. Her face is thinner and there is a weariness to her that Kallias had not perceived until he kneels before her in her antechamber. She is sitting alone and staring out at the sea, her handmaidens nowhere in sight. A summer illness, she had assured Kastor the night before. Tell Kallias to bring me hydrangeas during the day. The scent pleases me and soothes the nausea.

That is not why she wants him here. She had seen him, that day outside the King’s chambers. She had seen him listening, far earlier than that. Kallias thinks of his position in Kastor’s household. He does not need her help to secure him the final place as favourite and he also knows, deep-seated and intuitive, that she will not be sabotaging it. He thinks to Nikandros and Kastor’s expressions, of the small moment outside the King’s rooms. He holds the upper hand. Only just.

“There is someone you want,” Jokaste says, as though the conversation has already been had. “Is he marked?”

Kallias fights against his reaction, the traitorous part of his mind that is never far away from calling Erasmus’ name. Too late, he realizes he had told her truthfully about Nereus. He thinks of the golden lion pin on Erasmus’ shoulder. It’s too obvious, his weakness too bright in the air. Someone , she had said. Not something. He can sense her satisfaction, a hypothesis confirmed. Back to the stalemate, the pair of them evenly matched in what he has come to think of as a silent challenge, edged in the music she keeps demanding of him.

He needs to speak. “This one wishes only to serve, my lady.”

“Those who are marked enjoy no happy endings,” she says, almost sad. Then, as he rises to leave, “Next time, play me the ballad of Apollo and the laurel tree.”

It’s a sign of honour that Kallias is requested to accompany Kastor to prepare for the ceremonial games, conducted to honour the kyroi departing from Ios. They would have to do so soon, and depart with the traditional ceremonial games conducted to welcome them - the okton, spear throwing, wrestling, sword-fighting. They would also be the same games played to celebrate the coronation of a new King, and the knowledge is evident in the hard set of Kastor’s mouth.

Any occasion to watch the Princes fight is a ceremonial event, out in the open space of the palace courtyard. The midday sun has half the court drooping beneath silk awnings, but Damianos is standing in the sun, inspecting the phalanx of weaponry.

Kastor greets the other kyroi, inclining a head in Nikandros’ direction where he is helping Damianos with the weaponry. Kallias retreats to the shade to stand with Kleitos, the sole male slave in Damianos’ more permanent retinue and whom Kallias has only seen in passing. Half a head taller than Kallias, Kleitos is long and lean, his features severe, with sloping eyes and brows hinting of Vaskian ancestry. He had trained in wrestling, Kallias recalls, an unusual pursuit for a royal slave.    

The exchange begins, as is custom, with Damianos and Kastor circling each other, full of comfortable wariness and measured steps. As Kallias predicts, Damianos breaks first, launching forward with his wooden sword to meet Kastor’s, a sequence that forces Kastor back several steps, breaking the line of the circle. Kastor, silent and intent, returns with a flurry of blows of his own, which Damianos meets and forces back, ending with a strike to Kastor’s hip that the latter only just fends off.

“Your left side is unprotected,” Damianos says, shifting his weight and stance into a different position. Kallias can see every muscle in his body working, the ease with which Damianos fends off Kastor’s swordwork, his expression relaxed, almost joyous. The sunlight gleams gold and copper over Damianos’ skin, grace and power in every line of his limbs. The sigh of the crowd is almost audible. It’s impossible not to stare at him. It is not in Kallias’ nature to dwell on the impossible but for a moment, he feels a flutter of what Aden must crave, what Erasmus would - will - have soon.

A step and turn, and Kastor is on his back in the dirt, his own sword falling beside him with a muffled clunk on the sawdust; Damianos’ practice sword pointed at his stomach. A pause, and then Damianos laughs, loud and clear.

“You should see the expression on your face, brother,” he says, extending a hand to Kastor on the ground. “You would have won this bout with it alone.”

The lion pin on his shoulder flashes gold in the midday sun. There is a beat. Kastor reaches out a clasps Damianos’ proffered arm, picking himself up off the dirt, passing a hand over his dusty pants. Damianos reaches out to squeeze Kastor’s shoulder with good-natured acknowledgment, moving to his retinue and reaching out to accept Kleitos’ towel, his thumb passing briefly over the slave’s cheekbone. Nikandros watches on, his gaze lingering on Kastor a moment before he bows his head in stony politeness and follows Damianos out.  

Kallias is looking at Kastor. At the clenched fist that is Kastor’s left hand. At the expression on Kastor’s face, as Damianos had turned away. He’s seen it on Aden’s. There’s a roaring in his ears. He thinks of Jokaste, of slaves and crowns, and of lions.

The song of Apollo and the laurel tree is another obscure ballad, lost among the more impressive epics of slaying sun gods and curses on disrespectful mortals. Kallias is at the tail end of the song, which requires him to pluck long, mournful notes from the kithara strings, imitating the descending echo of chimes.

“You would leave it unfinished,” Kastor says.

"What is victory if it cannot be felt," Jokaste replies. Kallias pauses, letting the notes fall softly, like slowing footsteps. The room is cold. "What is death but quick and sure?"

Kastor’s expression is caught with the idea, considering. Kallias thinks, nauseous, of the bright line of Damianos’ profile and the golden lion on his shoulder and imagines Kastor ripping it off. It’s a feeling of total wrongness, a thunderclap.

"He will not be well treated. His new master will see to that."

"There can be no witnesses," Kastor says.

"All the honour guard," Jokaste replies, like a promise. Her voice is inflectionless. Kallias’ fingers hurt. The note trembles in the air, Adrastus’ voice echoing in his head. All I do, say or think, at the will of my master. I am nothing without my master. I am nothing. I do not listen. I do not think. I obey.

“It’s not enough,” Kastor says sharply.

"His servants. His slaves," Jokaste presses on, cool, relentless. “His servants’ servants. The slaves he would have had. Everyone with his mark. Leave him with nothing. Leave him to rot.”

The night is strangely airless; the heat feels like a wall against his lungs. The crash of waves is louder and Kallias closes his eyes against the moonlight. He is in the slave’s antechamber adjoining the King’s room. When it became apparent Kastor and Damianos were determined to stay by their father’s side every night, he had been moved here. In here, the sour, musky scent of sickness and decay from the other room cuts through the perfumed incense. This room is Aden’s, temporarily empty because Aden is tending to his King tonight. It will not be his for much longer. Erasmus might, any day, be in the palace, perhaps as a gift from the Keeper of the Slaves to a newly crowned King. Many moons ago, he had been afraid, on Erasmus’ behalf, of the spite in Aden’s eyes, of Aden’s desire for the lion pin. Now, it’s Kastor’s eyes he sees. Those who are marked enjoy no happy endings .

Erasmus. Erasmus is marked. Erasmus must be safe. He can afford no compromise.

The need to breathe drags him out of his bed, to the small window, a great luxury afforded to the King’s prize slaves. It’s the deep of the night, the only sound the soft crackle of torchlight. Outside, the view is of the back gardens of Theomedes’ villa, white night blooms releasing fragrance in the air.

He thinks of the story of Apollo and the laurel tree - the unwilling nymph he had chosen to be his lover, whom he had chased, and chase until she had fled him into death. He doesn’t remember her name. No one remembers her name. He thinks of Jokaste, about the pieces she holds and what he has on her. There is someone you want , she had said, and he had given her the answer, but she had gambled it away for an arrangement Kallias does not quite understand.

A glint of moonlight, movement in the garden very close by - too close. Kallias steps back from the window, presses himself against the side of the wall and carefully looks out.

It is Jokaste. Jokaste, her hand resting on Damen’s chest, just below his lion pin; his arms around her, cupping the back of her head, their foreheads close. Damianos shares Kastor’s colouring and noble features, but there’s a tenderness to the way he’s holding her that unnerves Kallias more than Kastor's hunger. It’s a transgressive intimacy, a wordless search for comfort. He would hold Erasmus like this , Kallias thinks, and, for a moment, he is breathless. Damianos is everything Kallias wants to be. And he will lose.

"Damen," Jokaste says softly, like a goodbye. "Damen."  

Hydrangeas again, but smaller, the cobalt blue being bleached out of the petals with the cold. It would not be long before they wilt.

“There’s something I want,” he says. Once, he might have trembled.

“What have you, to bargain with?”

“There is someone you want. More than this.”

She is silent. Kallias can hear the confidence of the truth in his own voice, and the recognition of it in her eyes. He thinks, again, to the nameless nymph and wonders if anyone else sees that, for all her unaffected smiles and graceful posture, Jokaste’s eyes are that of prey.

“You cannot win,” she says. It’s not a threat, merely a statement of fact, flatly voiced.  

“My master will be generous,” Kallias says. He feels his own anger, another unfamiliar, deeply wrong sensation. He wants to fling her betrayal - her silent, careless betrayal - in her face. It’s a reckless, out-of-control thought. But he is a slave. He does not play the game of kings, as she is doing. He does not have to. If I ask for Erasmus, he will give me Erasmus.

“Yes, he will,” Jokaste says, as if reading his mind. “You will be unprecedented. A slave who dared to listen .”

A slave who dared to listen .

It is unimaginable, Kallias thinks sickly; every mote of his being resists the idea. His thoughts are clearing for the first time since he understood what she’s truly been fighting for, but it’s a brief spill of golden light before thunderclouds. Electricity in the smell of the air and in the bright, hard edge of her voice.

Unprecedented, she had said. If a slave could listen. If a slave could talk . He thinks of Galene, of Euphymia, of Ianessa, and himself, attending to Kastor in the presence of open secrets, trusted only because they are nothing - less than nothing.

He lifts his gaze to Jokaste’s. She sits, her eyes cool, one eyebrow arched as if to say So?

And who would take any slave, knowing they might - could - listen? Unthinkable. The image of Tarchon and Nereus swim before him, hazy. Slaves who could not obey the core rules were not fit to be slaves, thrown out of the gardens. But Kastor. Kastor would take no chances, once given the knowledge of such a possibility. Kallias will have Erasmus. Kallias can save Erasmus, he can save himself, but-

“You know what you want,” Jokaste says. Kallias thinks to the night in the garden and to what she had said. It’s painful, in its familiarity. A simple acceptance of loss. “What will you give up to get it?”

The next time he sees her, she is sitting in Kastor’s bed, her torso against the headboard, looking, remarkably, just as she had before entering Kastor’s chambers in the green silken dress and ordering everyone out. The paint on her face is barely smudged. Kastor is sprawled on the sheets, the picture of satisfaction.

“Leave the slave offerings to me,” Jokaste says. She had said that before, moons ago. Kallias stares at her. She does not look at him. She places a hand on Kastor’s chest, fingers moving steadily down as she leans in. In the firelight, the green of her dress glows. A curl of hair loosens from its coiled bun, brushing gently against her collarbone. “Including him. He will know my choice is you, at the very end, before he goes.”

Kastor’s eyes narrow, mouth twisting. It’s an ugly expression, Kallias thinks. At some point, everything about his master has become ugly. Then Kastor looks over at him. "What is it, to be a slave?"

Kallias swallows. Thinks of Erasmus, of apricot trees and the warmth of Erasmus' skin. And of the collar around his neck. The words come out jagged with the truth.

"To be what your master wishes you to be. To be nothing."

Kastor nods. His eyes gleam, dark and wolfen.

"A slow death hurts the most," Lady Jokaste says as he turns to her, with the slow satisfaction of one with leisurely nights ahead to savour his prize. Her gaze slides to Kallias, and he thinks of the nameless nymph, seconds before the branches closed over her. "You are dismissed."

"You called him Damen," Kallias says. It is not quite a question, nor is it quite an argument. Jokaste looks at him. Up close, he can see the startling slate blue of her eyes for the first time.

"Since the beginning," she says. Outside, there is a rumble. The silken sheets at the window ebb to the beat of the late-summer rain, loud and heavy. The air smells, overwhelmingly, of rain and flowers. Half a summer ago, he might have thought it absurd that he could look her in the eye. Now they sit in the same room, favoured slave and secret paramour, soon to be legitimised. The gold pin on Kallias’ shoulder is heavy. Soon it will be heavier, with lions.

"There is nothing more we can do," Jokaste says into the silence.

There is, for Kallias. It weighs in the air between them, on his shoulders. He cannot erase a mark as bright, as lion-headed, as the one pinned to Erasmus' shoulder. But he can taint it, destroy it, and be as hated as she will be. He draws a deep breath, willing his voice not to shake. "When?"

It is Jokaste's voice that falters, just slightly. A small victory, as little as it matters.  

"Soon."

He finds him in the apricot orchards that divide the training grounds from the palace. Apricots dot the ground, trampled dark and sticky, and past their time. The fragrance lingers in the last of the summer air. The paint on his cheeks are stiff in the dry air, like a second skin. He doesn’t have long. Jokaste can only buy him so much time. Again, he thinks of the song of the nameless nymph. The transformation, to her, had been a mercy, as bark had closed over human flesh and run smooth, hard, impervious. It had not spoken of the pain, to be swallowed silently and endured.

To get what you want, you have to know what you’re willing to give up.  

The boy turns at the sound of his footfall.

"Aden," Kallias says. "I need your help."