Chương 5: Chapter Four: Existing at the Pleasures of Better Men

When Cyrus awoke the next morning, he was immediately hit with an amalgamation of pain. It was as if he'd been shattered into pieces, then fused back together, but with cheap lead. The very movement he tried to roll out of bed, he was struck with a shuddering agony that ripped through him. Marooned by the pain, he sat stiffly on his mat for several minutes, trying to shake off the agonizing vertigo. Still, the physical pain quickly subsided as his mind was once again choked by the lies he'd told yesterday.

He had made such a grievous mistake, then what? Instead of owing up to it like a man, he had instead spat out such grievous lies to his parents. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stand. He had no right to be sitting here looking so pitiful. At the very least, I'm not going to look weak in front of them. Cyrus shoved his agony away, slapping a mask on his face. After smoothing and shaking down his tunic, he walked out into the oikos —the family courtyard.

Already, the air was packed with the tasteful scent of bread baking. He found his family busy at work; his mother vigorously kneading a huge mound of dough, while his father kneeled beside the hearth, effortlessly sliding the shaped pieces of flour, salt, and water in.

"Ah, Cyrus." His mother's ever watchful ears quickly picked up the sound of the courtyard door creaking open.

"How are you? How is your head and body?" Well, truthfully Cyrus felt like he was about to collapse right there and there. But if he was supposedly so great at telling lies, he could tell one right now, couldn't he?

"I'm fine," he managed, though it came out weak. Shaking off that sickly tone, he forced his lips to curve upwards in a beaming smile.

"A lot better than yesterday." To prove his point, he sat down at their small wooden table for breakfast. When his mother brought him a plate of maza, olives, and a bowl of watered-down wine, Cyrus shoved everything down his gullet without pause. His throat protested under the onslaught of sudden pressure, and his stomach recoiled, trying to spit it back out. But he forced it down, tense under his mother's watchful gaze.

"You should rest today, paidi mou," his father said, looking up from the hearth.

"No, I can do my chores," Cyrus insisted quickly, eager to escape the household and the stifling presence of both his parents.

"How about I go fetch some water from the fountain?" He turned towards an empty clay hydria that was resting against the wall. He reached towards it, but before he could grasp it, a heavy hand stalled him.

"No," his father said firmly.

"You will not walk alone today, paidi mou." Cyrus blinked, surprised and frustrated at the sudden interruption.

"What do you mean, father? It will take only a few minutes."

"And what if the bandits are still around?" His father retorted. Picking up a staff constructed from a knot of olive branches—something usually reserved for long journeys, he nodded at Cyrus.

"I shall come with you. I won't have my son endure another beating if I can help it." Before Cyrus could protest, he was interrupted by the patter of footsteps. He sighed at the characteristic sound. His siblings had arrived. The first one to pop out was Lydia, his little sister at seven years old. She burst into the room, clutching her favorite doll—a terracotta plaggon —to her chest. As her bright eyes focused on Cyrus's face—probably bruised beyond belief—she stiffened, her feet nearly tripping up the other.

"What happened, Adelphe?" she cried, running over to yank at his tunic. Her eyes watered with worry.

"Mother said you were hit by bad men! Are you okay?"

"No, Lydia, I'm fine," Cyrus mumbled. He could barely keep standing, as a deafening headache struck him right then and there. But the pure guilt from all these lies kept him going. From behind his little sister, Nikias appeared. At seventeen, their eldest brother was already nearly identical to their father, built strong and broad-shouldered. He leaned against a wall, frowning at Cyrus. His eyes drifting down, he noticed the staff in their father's hands. Nikias's face flashed with skepticism.

"Father?" he asked, his pitch deep with manhood.

"Where are you going?"

"I am walking Cyrus to the spring," his father announced.

"Be with your mother, and help her with the bread." At that, Nikias gave a frown. But he offered no protest, instead just giving a curt nod. Cyrus felt uncomfortable at the sudden development. But under the expectant gaze of his father, no other choices presented themselves before him. Hoisting up the clay hydria, Cyrus quickly followed his father out of the door.

The trek to the village's krene —a stone fountain that supplied water to the neighborhood—was barely a few minutes, the necessary structure located right in the heart of their public square. They found a group of the village's citizens gathered around there, conversing and sharing gossip, while streams of water poured out of the jaws of a carved limestone lion." Chaire, Karpos!" Both Cyrus and his father turned at the sudden greeting.

It was Timon, a stonemason who worked on his craft down at the bay of the river and sold them at the marketplace. His father stepped forward to clasp the mason's hand in his own, initiating a proper handshake. But as their hands parted, Timon noticed Cyrus's ruined face, eyes widening.

"What… is this truly your son, Karpos? What happened?" His father shook his head, his face grim.

"Bandits," he said.

"They ambushed him." At the mention of such barbaric behavior, the nearby townspeople stiffened. Timon cursed.

"Bandits? Here?" His face dark, he turned fully towards Cyrus.

"Are you sure, boy? Our roads have been safe for years now. Why so suddenly…"

"I didn't see much," Cyrus mumbled, quickly submerging the hydria into the water to evade their scrutinizing stares. He prayed the vague response would stifle the interrogation.

"It… it all happened very quickly."

"Do you see his face?" his father interjected, fury tensing his voice. Timon beat at his chest.

"Yes, we cannot just let this pass. We must alert the demarche before another traveler meets a far grimmer fate."

"My thoughts exactly," his father agreed.

"I intend to bring word to him myself, the moment Cyrus and I return to the house." Cyrus kept his gaze down, focusing on completely filling the clay vessel in his hands. He could hardly breathe, the guilt acting like a noose around his neck. Just a little longer, he lied to himself, hoisting the filled hydria onto his hip. Just endure today, and the storm will pass soon. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. But the gods, it seemed, preferred a tragedy.

While his father's back was still turned towards Timon, a cloaked shadow detached itself from the crowd and glided up beside him.

"You. Baker's son." Cyrus jerked in surprise, the water sloshing over the jar's lips and soaking his tunic. He snapped his head around to find the same Thracian slave from yesterday—standing so close that Cyrus could smell the man's sour sweat and grease on his soiled tunic. The slave didn't look at him, keeping his gaze fastened on the damp stone walls of the krene.

"My master wishes to see you again," he muttered coldly.

"Meet him at the shrine to Hermes before midday." Cyrus's stomach plummeted, his insides twisting into a frigid knot.

"Tell him I'm not coming." The Thractian finally turned his head, looking directly at Cyrus with sunken eyes devoid of any pity or warmth.

"He said you would say that," the slave whispered into Cyrus's ear, his breath smelling stale and sour.

"And he says that you do not have a choice." The slave offered a mocking bow of head, then melted back into the crowd, vanishing within seconds.

"Cyrus?" His father appeared suddenly beside him.

"Who was that you were speaking with?" Cyrus gulped.

"No one," he hastily spoke.

"Just someone asking for directions."

"I see." Oblivious to the threat his own son had received, his father turned back to finish his conversation with Timon. Cyrus stared down at the water inside the jar. His hands were trembling. ❦ ❦ ❦ Cyrus had been lingering near the hearth ever since his return, waiting for an opportune moment to slip away. And finally, he could see a chance worth taking. His father was gone, having left to find the demarch, and his mother was busy with bakery work, currently kneading huge mounds of dough.

Lydia was off in her room playing with her toys, and Nikias was finishing his own chores somewhere deep within the storeroom. Now, Cyrus thought, exhilaration filling his limbs. Slipping up, he walked as inconspicuously as he could to the door of the courtyard.

"Mother, I am going to sit outside for a while. My head still aches from all this noise." Not looking up from her kneading, his mother grunted.

"Very well, but don't stray far." The excuse presenting itself, Cyrus wasted no time. He bounded out into the streets, ducking out of the door quickly. Outside, Lord Helios was high in the sky, making the air awfully stifling and humid. Keeping his head down, Cyrus made sure to avoid the main road. Instead, he slipped into a pace within a smaller side road, in hopes that he wouldn't run into anybody he knew. Hastened by the rising sun, Cyrus walked quickly. But the faster he walked, the more his injuries protested.

More than once did he consider turning back and just going home. Oh, how he wished he could do just that. But he knew that Leandros's cruelty had no limits. This was his payment. He had made such a stupid mistake in riling the boy, and it was now time to pay for it. Yet, the moment the shrine came into view, he realized instantly how badly he'd miscalculated. Leandros wasn't alone. Two men were waiting alongside the boy at the shrine.

Just from the muscled look of them, Cyrus could tell these were bodyguards or something akin to that. There was a third figure, lounging beneath the shade of a fig tree. With a tunic nearly as fancy as Leandros's, and pleasant facial features, his mouth was open in a mocking laugh as Cyrus approached. Leandros stood at the side, wearing a venomous grin.

"And there he is!" He announced loudly, waving his hand.

"Come, come near! We have much to talk about!" Cyrus cautiously walked forward with legs that felt like dry sticks, ready to tip over and crash into the dirt. Leandros walked forward, slinging his arm around Cyrus's shoulder.

"I must admit, my good man, that I suspected that you wouldn't show up today. Word around the village this morning was interesting! Seriously, bandits?" Cyrus gulped.

"You… heard of it?"

"My, of course!" Leandros chuckled as if Cyrus had asked the stupidest question ever.

"I also heard your father has been making quite a fool of himself, trying to gain an audience with the demarch." He turned to the boy lounging off to the side.

"Now, let me introduce you to Darius. My friend, come closer. This is the one who set my rage alight yesterday." The boy-–Darius—sauntered out, his lips a mocking smirk.

"This is him? Doesn't look like much."

"Well, looks are rather deceitful," Leandros countered, slapping Cyurs's arm.

"He could become a strapping young man one day, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." Darius yawned.

"If you are going to get along with it, be faster. The day is dull, and I need entertainment." Leandros sighed theatrically.

"My, of course. I also find myself growing bored and tired by the minute." He turned towards Cyrus, gesturing at one of the muscled bodyguards.

"This is Ateas. Good Scythian stock, who I bought at an auction in Thebes." His grip around Cyrus's shoulders increased.

"I find myself wanting to test his strength today." Cyrus's heart tore through with panic.

"I-I only came here to speak, Leandros. Please. Think about it. I'll do anything, an apology, or a reimbursement for your troubles." Leandros—raising a perfectly shaped brow—howled with laughter.

"An apology? From you?" He wiped his eyes.

"I'm afraid your apology isn't worth much. Make no mistake, Cyrus. I am not mad. I am simply curious about something." The noble's son grinned.

"I wonder how many blows your body can take before succumbing to Lord Hade's grasp." Cyrus took a step back. Damn—"Ateas." Leandros commanded the bodyguard.

"Begin." And the next thing Cyrus knew, his world had exploded with pain. The Scythian showed no hesitation whatsoever, his inhumane strength pounding down upon Cyrus. Strikes took to his stomach, ripping the breath from his lungs, sending his torso folding upon itself. Don't fight back, Cyrus demanded of himself despite the pain, repeating it like a mantra. Don't fight back, don't fight— His chest, his legs, his ribs, no part was spared from the merciless beating.

Cyrus cried out, but even as the agony threatened to cripple him, he forced his hands to remain limp at his sides, refusing every instinct that was screaming at him to raise them in defense. Another blow slammed into Cyrus's side, and he could hear the sounds of internal organs popping. Warm blood dribbled out of his lips. Leandros howled with laughter.

"Do you know what you remind me of right now, Cyrus? A dog! A Kyon! A dog with no shame or honor." The noble's son kicked out, striking Cyrus's legs, and sending him crumpling atop the ground.

"What exactly did the gods intend you for, Cyrus?" Leandros mused.

"Certainly not greatness. Perhaps only this. Existing at the pleasure of better men." Darius laughed again from the sidelines, sounding absolutely delighted. Leandros straightened, staring down at Cyrus. His manicured face contorted with utter disgust, as if even being associated as the same species as Cyrus was the greatest of insults.

"Pitiful." Leandros held out his hand toward Cyrus's face, holding palm open and fingers spread wide. It was the moutza, a terrible, derogatory gesture, meant to fling filth and ash into the face of a man too worthless to even deserve words. Amused by the poisonous flourish, Darius collapsed into howls of laughter. As for Cyrus… The longer he stared at those splayed fingers, the more his fury grew. Urges filled him.

Oh, how he wished he could just reach out and absolutely sink his teeth or nails into Leandros's perfect flesh. Heat rose from the bowels of his stomach, his blood crackling until it felt about ready to just blow out of his very skin. It was like a deadly serpent, the fury coiling through his limbs, tightening its grip. His heart was beating, beating far too fast, so fast that even his ears seemed to hear it. His breaths were a whine, and his boiling blood was discordant.

The word darkened and darkened, poisoned and filling with crimson. The malice filling him acted like a fire, greedily consuming his fear, his pain, and his shattered dignity, leaving behind only calcified hatred. He shuddered. The urge to strike out seemed to no longer even be a choice. It wasn't instinct either. No, it was a necessity. He had to strike Leandros. There was just no other way. He felt intoxicated, like he was a stone balanced on the lip of a cliff. Then, that fragile equilibrium snapped apart.