Chapter 1
“But I don’t want to practice with a sword!” I seethed, kicking my legs into my father’s guardsman’s chest, while beating my fists into the bronze armor covering his back. He had me over his shoulder, carrying me down the narrow corridor of the castle, away from my aunts who were in the drawing room.
“Your father’s orders, my prince,” Balthezius announced, not being afflicted at all by my blows. But how could he be hurt? The man was a brute, able to lift heavy boulders and withstand many wounds in battle. My pounds into him were just feathers against limestone. If it wasn’t for the drumming vibrations that ricocheted off his metal breastplate, creating a pattern of echoing thumps, he probably would have never even noticed me beating into him.
“No! I don’t want to participate. I refuse to!” I shouted. The castle servants passed right by us, not even drawing an eye to my outburst. It was a spectacle they were so used to by now. My father, King Oeagrus, demanded that I devote half of my day to the arts and the other half to training to become a skilled warrior, as he once was.
My time spent painting a portrait of Dionysus draped in a fine white tunic imbibing on red wine, holding an ornate golden goblet was abruptly put to an end by Balthezius, who dragged me away from my acclaimed masterpiece, only to have me suffer through an intolerable session on the training grounds today.
It was completely unfair!
My aunts, all eight of them, and my mother weremuses, goddesses of all things art, music, and poetry. As a younger child, they were my inspirations. Their creativity was unlike anything I had ever seen before. Colorful murals and paintings created by them covered nearly every square inch stone wall of the castle. Voices that were melodic, singing hymns of the tales of gods and goddesses and other famous stories throughout our history were sung every hour by my mother and aunts. At the dinner table, each muse would share a few lines from poems they managed to create earlier in the day. Some verses were better than any I’ve seen in scrolls and books I’ve read with my erudite teachers and scholars throughout my education.
Yet, as I came to be the age of twelve now, I envied my mother and her sisters. As women, being gifted in the arts was common. No one judged them for their talents and being fully devoted to their arts. However, a man could not live such a life. At least, that is how it was defined to me by the king and my teachers.
Throughout my childhood, my father found my interest in music and art to be a sort ofphaseI would overcome as I grew into my adolescence and then manhood. Much to his dismay, I became even more engrossed with these passions as I became older.
The king was not having any of it.No son of his would grow up to be a failure of a warrior, as he bluntly put it. After all, my father was a direct bloodline descendent of Atlas, who carried the world and the sky on his shoulders. Titanic masculinity and strength ebbed and flowed in his veins. So naturally, any son of his was expected to follow in his and his male ancestors’ footsteps.
Unfortunately for him, this son was swayed in a different path. A path that his mother and aunts had significant influence over him on. If only my father could let me be my authentic self, instead of letting society and our bloodline protocols dictate what I ought to be.
Balthezius dropped me into the sand, tossing a steel sword at the ground in front of me. “Now go. Train to be great warrior you are destined to be, young prince. Your kingdom depends on it, after all.”
I wish the sand would just swallow me whole. Let me sink into an abyss and be brought into a world where anyone could be whoever they wanted to be. Where one could pursue their passions and wildest dreams without having to suffer from conformities.
But I knew such a world did not exist for me. I was stuck in this one, and therefore, I needed to abide by its rules until I could somehow find a way to override them and live the life I wanted tochoosefor myself.
Picking up the sword my father’s guard had tossed me, I rose to my feet, grinding my teeth at him, for forcing me into these next few hours of chaos I never wanted to endure. He revealed a sickly grin at me. “That’s it! That’s the aggression your father’s looking for. But take it out in battle. There’s no better way for a man to release all of his anger and built-up rage than in bloodshed.”
I turned around and walked towards the posts of bagged straw and swung my blade at them, in various maneuvers I’d been taught in the past year. My arm muscles ached with soreness with every additional swing I took. Sweat perspired down my face in a fury.
In my head, I imagined this target was my father and all the other men in his castle who forced me to practice for war. I continued to strike the bags mercilessly until I could barely move my arms. My breaths became long-winded, and I kneeled into the golden sand panting, thinking of this life I never wanted to be born into. A life that was meant for a follower of Ares and not for someone who prayed to Apollo like my mother, aunts, and I did.
A firm pressure was applied to my shoulder. The callous from his hand bore into me, and instantly I knew exactly who it belonged to. Standing up, I spun around to glance up at my father, who intimidatingly hovered over me. “I’ve been told you’ve given Balthezius a hard time again, son.” He spoke sternly, in a way that made me know he was not to be trifled with.
I squeezed the hilt of my sword with all my might, deeply annoyed that my father learned of my disobedience. As much as I wanted to be done with building my battle skills, I also had a dichotomous desire to please the King of Pieria and all of Thrace. Such was the dilemma I’ve struggled with all of my childhood. Pursuing my passion in the arts, which evidently disappointed my father to no end, or commit to a miserable life with a blade forever in my hand.
“Only because I was almost finished with my painting. If he had just given me a few more minutes…” I tried to explain my volatile behavior from earlier, but my father interrupted me, not allowing to further elaborate on my reasoning.
“Orpheus! What have I always taught you, whether it be in battle or when it comes to the arts?” he asked in a vexed tone.
I let out a deep sigh. “Always prepare for what you don’t expect,” I mumbled, agitated that I knew where he was going with this. “Things should never go your way. And if they do, it means you didn’t work as hard for it,” I finished with.
My father closed his eyes and nodded with approval. “Exactly. Whether it be one hour, five minutes, or even a few seconds, your painting will be finished soon. Just because it isn’t done in the time you expected it to be, does not give you the right to lash out and cause a tirade.”
All I could do was bow and agree with him. “Yes, my king. I understand.”
I expected a further reprimand from my father, but instead he threw his hands up in the air. “I’ve tried so hard to make you a warrior, son. I assumed it was what you would want to be as well. Men of our bloodline… we have certain expectations that should be met. But you, you would rather further your practice in the passions of your mother. I’ve tried so hard to make you into the finest and strongest Thracian warrior I know you are capable of being, but you just won’t have it, will you?”
This was a conversation that I longed for my father to have with me years ago, but was relieved to hear him now wish to know about my desires. “I’m not meant to be a warrior, father. I despise it. It’s difficult for me to describe how I’m feeling,” but I would do my best to get my opinion across to him. “My heart races with the songs that I play, with the words that I write in my poetry. It leaps out from my chest with every spot of paint I place on the panels of parchment and linen. But I do not feel its loud vibration when I hold a sword.”
King Oeagrus slowly turned his head away from me. A darkened shadow on his cheek faced me from the reflection of the sun on the opposite side of it. “I know how you feel, Orpheus,” he revealed.
My eyes widened with great alarm. My head darting up at him with wonder. “But how? I thought you…” but he disrupted my thoughts aloud.
“I was once in the same situation as you, my son. At my own gatherings and feasts, I used to sing with the bards. I even played the harp many times in my day. But my skills as a warrior were something that could not be ignored. I had grace in battle, and the fierceness of a lion when I struck my opponents. With the proper guidance, I could triumph in war and become the King of Thrace. The path of war brought me great success in my lifetime. It was a wise decision for me to part ways with the grandeur passions of music,” he confessed.
“But what if going to war is not the best decision for me? What if all of this training for battle is for nothing? What may have been fortuitous for you may not be for me,” I explained.