Chương 3: Chapter Two: Named After an Emperor, Born to a Baker

Never before had Cyrus considered the possibility of feeling full from eating fire. And yet here he was, completely stuffed as if he'd devoured an entire banquet, three extinguished flames deep into his experimentation. But there was none of that feeling of satisfaction that often followed a good meal. No, the fire sat deep within his belly instead, bulky and uncomfortable like hot stones. He almost laughed at himself. Truly, what madness had taken control of him? Why had he continued such experimentation?

Fire was fire, not something to be consumed! By all logical reasons, he should be dead! Yet, in no way did Cyrus feel like he was dying, even in the slightest. In fact, he felt remarkably better, especially with the uncomfortable ache inside his stomach all gone now. Flexing his fingers, he ran them over his face, making sure that there truly were no burns. How is this possible… he thought incredulously. His mind naturally arose with thoughts, the most prominent of them being the stories of old.

Tales of demigods and special mortals capable of doing impossible feats that other mortals could not even think of attempting. Though Cyrus had never given those tales much thought past the occasional childlike wonder, it was different now. The impossible things that happened to them had just happened to him. Staring down at his hands, devoid of any burns, a reluctant thought creeped up into his mind. Could I… could I be something like that? He almost cringed at the pure audacity. How absurd!

He was a baker's son, utterly incomparable to the backstories of other heroes. Those men were born different, so much so that even the gods of Olympus took interest in them. Cyrus was in no way like that. But then again, he thought, eyeing the weak embers surrounding the klibanos. Eating straight fire isn't exactly normal, is it? And with that thought, Cyrus let himself indulge in the fantasy for a moment. Oh, how great would it be?

All those bullies that constantly tormented him because of his strange name, Cyrus could finally get his revenge on them. He could almost imagine the scene with crystal clear perfection. He would be standing above them, flames curling between his fingers, while the bullies wept and whimpered beneath him, begging for their lives. Such a perfect delusion. His lips twitched upwards, until the feeling curdled and rotted, embarrassment unfolding within him. How foolish, he mocked himself. I'm not a hero.

Cyrus shook his head. Whatever this strange trick with the fire was, it was probably nothing more than some peculiar quirk. His imagination had soured fast enough, filling his heart with bitterness, that Cyrus nearly missed the sound of his father's voice. The sound came from outside, but was steadily growing closer. The bread! Cyrus scrambled to his feet. He'd been so absorbed in his own private nonsense that he'd completely forgotten about the artos still resting inside the hearth.

Diving for the flint, he began striking at it clumsily, until a tiny flicker burst out. The coals caught—albeit weakly, as they were nearly spent of energy—and a flame sputtered to life. Wincing, he knelt beside the kilbanos and lifted the heavy clay lid. The sight inside was sad. The artos sitting there had turned pale and cold, nowhere near the risen, golden loaf that his father would produce effortlessly. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

His father's voice growing louder outside, Cyrus lowered the dome back down, careful to not disturb the little heat that remained, and swept the coals onto the clay sides. Sitting back on his heels, he stared at the hearth, the surrounding coals beginning to crackle. Then, a thought struck him. His eyes widened. What if it isn't me at all? Now that was a far more plausible explanation. What if it wasn't him, but the…. The hearth? It wouldn't be the first time Cyrus had heard of it.

The village elders did always claim that restless spirits and forgotten shrines haunted the hills around Boeotia. Perhaps some minor daimon had taken up residence in their hearth without anyone the wiser, and it had simply chosen to wake up today. Glancing at the hearth, the same place where his family had cooked over for decades, he frowned. I guess there's only one way to make sure, he decided.

Before Cyrus could begin to talk himself out of it, the door to the courtyard opened, and his father stepped through, his face ruddy and red, muttering about the audacity of people under his breath.

"Cyrus," he called out, glancing at the smoking kilbanos.

"Is the artos —""It's fine, Father! But I must go, I'll return before evening meal!" He bounded out the door, ignoring his father's confused, "Cyrus, wait—". With the golden glory of the afternoon meeting him outside, Cyrus let himself bask for a moment within the warm glow. Then, he began quickly walking down the familiar dirt path, heading towards the outskirts of their tiny village. Their settlement—barely composed of a hundred people—was tucked into the rolling hills of Boeotia.

At first glance, it wasn't much to look at—forgettable next to the grandeur of Thebes just a few days' trip away. Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. But to Cyrus, it was still home. Walking past the familiar houses on all sides, each one looking nearly identical to the other, all made from dried mud bricks, their low roofs thatched with reeds pulled from Lake Copais, Cyrus sniffed the air.

He found that it was filled with the scent of smoke and fish, mingling with the loamy stench of goats penned somewhere out of sight. Shaking his head to focus himself, Cyrus trudged on ahead, his mind running through his plan. There was a shrine to Hermes not far away. Very modest, it was little more than just a small altar where travelers would stop occasionally and give homage to the god of safe passage.

If this truly was a whole situation that had resulted from some sort of daimon being within the hearth, then a whole different flame with no connection whatsoever to his home should do absolutely nothing when Cyrus stood before it. Feeling his lips tug upwards, he couldn't help but feel quite satisfied. It was a brilliant plan, tackling all the fronts. If nothing happened, he'd know the hearth was the thing that was bizarre and could stop indulging in ridiculous fantasies. If something did happen…

Cyrus shook that thought away, unwilling to even consider the possibility. When the shrine came into view, it was truly as unremarkable as in his memories. The only sign that there had been human activity was the scattered grain offerings across the altar. Cyrus glanced around at the empty roads, until even his heart was certain that there wasn't a soul in sight. Satisfied, he knelt before the altar, gazing at the little flame as it burned right in front of him. Alright… he thought, excitement seeping into him.

Letting his eyes unfocus, Cyrus attempted to do the same thing he'd done back at the hearth. Then, with a pull of his lungs, he breathed in slowly from his nose, letting his mind wander. Almost immediately, his belly flinched with the familiar vacant ache. His eyes widened. Is it really— He opened his mouth, and drank the flame in. Heat rushed down his gullet. Cyrus let out a delighted laugh, no matter how disbelieving he was.

He watched, transfixed, as the tiny offering flame guttered, shriveled, and blinked out of existence right before his eyes. It hadn't been the hearth! He stared down at his hands. It's me! It's me! Cyrus rode the wave of giddy excitement, feeling almost intoxicated, until he forced his mind to focus. This wasn't the place to stand around daydreaming. Rising to his feet, he began heading towards the village, while trying his best to dust off the dirt that had stubbornly clung to his legs.

But he'd barely gone a few steps down the road when he spotted someone approaching from the opposite direction. Cyrus's stomach sank. The youth wore fine linen garments dyed a brilliant saffron—a color derived from pure crocus dye, so expensive that most families in their tiny village would have to starve for a year just to afford a minuscule drop of it. His head was adorned with dark curls, immaculately shined and oiled.

Trailing behind him was an older Thracian slave carrying a basket of fresh flowers, sent along, no doubt, to mind the boy through whatever errand had brought him out here. Cyrus knew exactly who it was. Leandros. The eldest son of Ktesios, the wealthiest landowner in the region. Cyrus's first instinct was to drop his gaze to the ground and keep walking, quickening his pace to hug the far edge of the path.

If he was lucky, Leandros would be too absorbed in whatever idle errand had brought the noble out here to their little town to bother noticing a baker's son slipping past. He'd nearly made it, passing shoulder-to-shoulder with Leandros and his slave, close enough to catch the expensive, cloying scent of oil in the other boy's hair. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead, Cyrus slipped past without a word. A few steps later, once the pair was safely behind him, Cyrus released a hushed breath of relief.

The Fates be praised, he thought. He didn't see me.

"Hold." Cyrus froze, his heart dropping straight into his sandals. He kept walking for one more step, praying fervently that the command had been meant for the slave, before Leandros spoke again.

"You didn't think to greet me?" Cyrus stiffened. Slowly, he turned, bowing his head.

"Forgive me. I didn't wish to trouble you."

"How considerate." Leandros's lips twitched.

"And yet here I am, troubled all the same, by the sight of a boy strolling past his betters without so much as a bow." He cocked his head, studying Cyrus.

"Tell me. Where does a boy like you find himself walking all alone?"

"A small errand for my father," Cyrus lied. Leandros scoffed.

"An errand…" he repeated, his words dripping with disbelief. Then suddenly, he leaned in close, studying Cyrus.

"Wait. I know your face. You're the baker's whelp, aren't you? Cyrus, is that the name?" He sneered.

"Named after an emperor, but born only to be a baker." Cyrus held his tongue, even as his cheeks burned with shame.

"Tell me," Leandros went on, "what manner of father names their son after Cyrus the Great? Was it some delusion of grandeur? You are all peasants! Why must your father be so foolish?" At that insult to his very family, Cyrus could no longer hold his tongue.

"What is it to you?" he snapped back. Leandros laughed with scorn.

"What is it to me? Well, it simply is an insult to me! To think peasants like you could even consider me as your equal… my virtues won't allow it!" Cyrus felt fury enliven his heart. Damn your virtues! But he did not dare voice his thoughts. Instead, Cyrus bit down hard on his left cheek, until the taste of coppery blood filled his tongue, and his jaw ached from the exertion. Leandros studied him a bit longer, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction, but when none came, his expression morphed into one of boredom.

"This isn't worth my valuable time," he muttered, waving for his slave to follow.

"Off with you, whelp. And if you can, tell your father to reconsider your name. You are not worthy of it." With that, he began walking down the dirt path. Cyrus's body trembled and shook, his blood practically boiling. He knew the smart thing to do would be to take this merciful excuse and scurry home. But his shoulders felt heavy, as if his entire torso was being pushed down, the sheer metaphysical weight of all this humiliation grounding his feet. Stiffening, he stared daggers at the other boy's retreating back.

"You are an hys!" Cyrus spat after him.

"A fat, spoiled swine!" Leandros paused in his step. Though Cyrus could already feel the regret seeping into his skin, it was far too late. The noble's son turned around slowly, all of the amusement having drained out of his porcelain-like face. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Say that again," he hissed.

"Let me hear it again." Cyrus was immediately shocked with a wave of cold panic, his limbs stiffening. All the reckless anger drained out of him, leaving only the realization that he had gone much too far. Without a word, Cyrus spun on his heel and bolted down the road with everything he had.

"Seize him!" Leandros screamed the command. The proceeding events were blurry in Cyrus's mind. He remembered hearing a basket crash to the ground, then suddenly, as if he'd always been there, the Thracian slave was beside him. He grabbed Cyrus's arm with an iron grip and wrenched him backwards. Though Cyrus screamed, whipping his fists around wildly, it was to no avail. The slave's clutches were too monstrously inhumane with strength.

"Let go of me!" But it was already too late. Leandros approached, his eyes flashing. He stopped in front of Cyrus, and began rolling back the folds of his chiton. He licked his lips, seemingly savoring the moment.

"A dog that doesn't know its place," he said, "must be beaten until it remembers." He drew back his fist. And that was the last thing Cyrus remembered.