Page 41 of Eryx
Paris met the other man’s gaze and stopped turning the blade as he dropped his hand below the table. I couldn’t see from my place across from them, but by the softness in the other man’s eyes as he watched Paris, I would’ve wagered anything that they were holding each other out of sight of the other Spartiates.
No one else seemed to notice—or perhaps they didn’t care—but I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They were like me and Axios. I knew it in my bones. I had heard tales of men bedding other men, but I’d never witnessed two men being so familiar with my own eyes. The way their gazes locked said so much without them having to say a word.
Belos spoke against the Athenian general Iphicrates some more, cursing the man’s name. Then, the men shifted the topic to the war and how Sparta, even while having lost a battle, still remained strong. I finished my glass of wine, eating a wedge of bread in between drinks, so the potency didn’t affect me much.
“Damos might’ve been a coward,” Belos announced, causing me to tear my gaze from Paris and the man beside him. “But he knew how to tell a damned good story. There are moments when I think of our travels and sitting beside him in front of a blazing fire as he told stories and made us forget about the cold and hunger for a while.”
An ache punctured my chest at the mention of my father. I showed no signs of it, though, and sat taller in the chair.
“There was one he told of a man who killed himself near a stream,” Belos continued. “We all believed it to be rubbish, and yet we couldn’t stop listening until he spoke the last word.”
“The man was called Narcissus,” I said. “Father told the story to me as well.”
“You’ll be better than Damos, boy.” Belos jabbed a finger at me. “I look into your eyes and see a warrior. Never forget that you make your own fate in this life. You might be the son of a coward, but you will grow to lead men into battle and be feared by enemies far and wide.”
The eyes of a warrior. Many men had told me the same. Apart from one.
Axios said I had eyes like the grass that swayed in the field during spring. He said I was his home.
He’s my home too.
After Belos left the room, most of the men followed him. Several of them staggered out the door, their faces flushed and their eyes glassy. Some had lost sons at the Battle of Lachaeum and had found their comfort in the dark red wine. Others had drunk in celebration of the men who’d died, saying they’d honored Sparta with their lives.
Death was not the end, after all.
Before Paris could leave, I approached him. He stood several inches taller than me and had scars across his chest. The other man had a different type of mark on his skin…not a scar or a scrape. It resembled a bruise but was of the wrong color. That’s when I noticed very faint bite marks on his neck.
“I saw you eyeing my dagger earlier,” Paris said, pulling it from the holder on his hip. “You remember the life you took?”
I nodded.
“Good. I suspect you’ll take many more before Sparta is finished with you.” Paris returned the blade to his hip. “Their faces will blend together after a while. You will forget the color of their hair and the shade of their eyes, but you’ll remember the feeling of watching the life drain from them. The only color you’ll know is red.”
Red… like the blood that’d stained my palms after killing the helot. The color that’d dripped from Axios’ lip as I punched him, the color that’d covered his back as he was whipped so many years ago for trying to steal bread. Yes, I knew it well.
“You stare at the mark on my neck,” the other man said. “Tell me, boy, have you known a woman’s touch?”
“No,” I said, having no desire to do so. “I take it you haven’t, either. That mark came from no woman, but rather from the man at your side.”
Paris’ eyes widened before he puffed out his chest and stepped forward. The other man placed a hand on him, holding him back.
“Yes,” the man answered, cocking his head. “I’m curious as to how you knew that. I suppose it matters not how you knew.”
“The other men may be oblivious, but I see the way you two move around each other. How your bodies react to each other’s closeness even when both of your attentions are elsewhere. The reaction derives from a deep affection for another soul.”
“The boy from the dining mess,” Paris said. “The one who felt compassion for the slaves. You killed the creature because you were protecting this boy. Is he why you’re so observant on these matters?”
“He is,” I answered, walking closer to them. “And I have many questions. How do you please a man?”
They seemed taken aback by my brashness, but I needed to know. My body had started responding to Axios in new ways. When we kissed, my blood pulsed swiftly through my veins and my entire body heated. And when Axios gently kissed my neck, I trembled. Needing… something. I’d heard men speak of burying their pricks between a woman’s legs, of riding her hard. Yet, I didn’t know how it worked between two men.
“What makes you believe I’ll tell you what you want to know?” Paris asked, his gaze sharp like the blade on his hip.
“Tell the boy, Paris,” the man said, grazing his fingertips over Paris’ bicep. “You remember what it was like for us at first. Painful and messy. Spare the boy that pain. We have enough of it in our lives already.”
With his expression softening, Paris touched the other man’s lower back before pulling his hand away. “As you wish, Galen.” He strode toward the table and grabbed the vase of wine. “Sit and fill your mug, boy. We’ll need more wine if we’re going to have this conversation.”
Smiling, I joined them at the table.
