HYACINTHUS - CHAPTER 1

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Chapter 1

My earliest memories were of the sun.

In my favourite, I was in the palace gardens, my little lungs filling with laughter as I chased my brother Harpalus across the lawn. The sweet, lightly powdered scent of peonies trickled through the sun-soaked air as we raced towards a stream that glistened in the fading light. Spinning around, I stared at the heavens, squinting in the bright sunlight. For a moment, I stood there, letting the sun kiss my cheeks and its warmth soak into my skin, forgetting all my troubles and fears. Then, I remembered I was playing a game.

 Harpalus had paused a few steps away, his attention on me whilst I admired the sun. As I turned to face him, he grinned, the dimples he shared with me creasing his golden-brown skin. He did not run – he did not move at all. It was an opportunity; one I would have been a fool not to take. I lunged forward and tackled him to the ground. He tried to fight against me, thrashing his arms and legs, only a little stronger than mine. Then, he met my gaze and saw my own smile. We descended into a fit of laughter as our mother wove her way through the garden towards us.

‘Do not hurt your brother, agapité,’ my mother Diomede spoke, a smile upon her lips. She wore a red dress with a cloak draped across her shoulders to keep out the evening’s chill. In her arms, she cradled our sister Polyboea, only a few months old.

‘We were only playing,’ Harpalus defended me. ‘We were pretending to be heroes.’

‘Heroes?’ Diomede tilted her head, her hazel eyes sparkling. ‘Like Heracles?’

Harpalus began to nod, but I shook my head. ‘I will be greater than Heracles,’ I replied, grinning at Polyboea as she played with the front of our mother’s dress. I released my brother and got to my feet, standing on the lawn before my mother. Then, I reached out to Polyboea. She took my hand, wrapping her fist around my fingers as her big hazel eyes, the same shade as our mother’s, locked on mine. She giggled.

‘How?’ My mother rested her hand on my shoulder. ‘How will you be greater?’

I told my mother that heroes did not need to explain themselves. In truth, I was too young to know the true meaning of glory, but I would not let this hinder my dreams. Whatever my future, it would be one of my choosing, my crafting, and one that would bring me the fame I truly deserved.

In another memory, I was six, playing with toy soldiers at my mother’s feet. Fading rays of sunlight crept through the windows, turning the marble floor into gold, as servants braided my mother’s auburn hair. When they had finished, Diomede dismissed them, then scooped me up and sat me on her lap. As she tided my hair, a mess of dark curls, she told me of the three wise goddesses who determined a man’s fate.

‘They can be wicked,’ she told me, ‘but they will not harm you as they have others.’ When I asked her how she could know this, for she was no prophetess, she only smiled.

The Moirai had visited me a few days after my birth, an honour they paid to every newborn. Offerings had been left out to appease them so they might grant me a long life, and candles had been lit to guide them to my crib. As the goddesses crept through the palace, my family slept, fearful that if they did not hide beneath their sheets, they might disturb the goddesses, or worse, offend them.

Not all my family had trembled in the darkness. My mother had crept through the corridors to see the Moirai. Hiding behind a pillar so they would not see her, she was close enough to watch them as they worked. Clotho had spun the thread for Lachesis, who measured it, determining the length of my life. The third sister, Atropos, chose where to make the cut. My mother had not seen her cut the thread; such an act was one of those precious things hidden from mortal eyes. This did not matter, for my mother had seen the length of thread Lachesis had measured. It was long, a sign I would live a full, rich life.

Even when the first hairs had begun to appear on my chin, I still believed my mother’s tale. I returned to her quarters, devouring every detail she gave as she told her tale once more. She assured me that this was no story, no fable parents told children to give them false hope. That I would live the life she had foreseen was certain. The Moirai could be cruel, but they were honest; it was not in their nature to lie.

Diomede knew I was destined for something greater than other men, but she did not know what my fate would be. Even after I had spent months trying to unearth such a mystery, no destiny had revealed itself to me. There was little setting me apart from other men. I had my voice, but few bards were remembered for this. Their power lay in the stories they told, not the beauty of their melodies. As I became a man, I still did not know what my future might be. Nobody truly did at such a young age, but others at least knew how they might like to spend their years on earth. All of us Spartan men would be warriors, but some had their passions. When our legions returned home from war, they would embrace these, working as painters or sculptors for wealthy nobles and priests. Even a poor helot knew what he was destined for – a life spent in the fields.

A youth filled with riches and the love of my parents had given me much, but it had not provided me with an understanding of my place in the world. This thought might have terrified others, but it only served to bore me. I imagined the gods laughing at my self-pity; look at this sorry thing, another man wasting his life longing for something he will never know. Could this truly be the destiny my mother had promised me? What heroes spent their lives starving, cursed with an insatiable hunger for something greater than their own mediocrity?

Others might have thought me mad to still believe my mother's words. My foolishness lingered still in adulthood, clinging to the tendrils of my mind and denying me any respite. Even in the early months of a long summer, when bees lulled about in their hives and the solstice loomed near, I thought of my future still. In those days spent in the sun, its rays pressing gentle kisses to my skin, I would lay in the gardens and listen to the air as it hummed sweet melodies to me. No matter how long I lay there, I could never discover what such beautiful harmonies meant. Whatever their meaning, my heart always hoped they had been sent by the gods.

As all Greeks knew, the state of Lacedaemon was at heart a warrior nation. I had trained at my brother Harpalus’ side since I was a boy in the gymnasium, sparring him with swords and spears. The city of Sparta I had been born into was one of recovery, of rebuilding from an age of neglect, so it was important to my father Amyclas that the next generation was strong. Many of the kings of our time ruled only for greed or glory, but my father cared little for either of these notions. He ruled for his people. Amyclas was a good man: generous to his subjects, stern with his nobles, and devout to the gods. Above all else, my father wished for his kingdom to prosper. The gods rewarded him for his selflessness by granting his prayers.

We might have praised strength, but Spartans did not devote every waking moment to training. I spent my free time honing the talents I had: my skill with the lyre and the sweet sound of my voice. When I tired of music, and breezes fluttered through the city, cooling the sultry air, I embraced another gift the gods had given me. As I roamed the hillsides, I picked fruit for the palace kitchens. This was a helot’s job, but I did not care; I had always had a talent for knowing when fruit was perfectly ripe.

On other days, when my father’s time was stolen by meetings that ran from dawn until dusk, and my brothers were busy elsewhere, I sat upon the throne of Sparta. When guests arrived, I would greet them on the king’s behalf, and when heralds brought urgent news, I would send servants to take their tales to my father. When the last snow of my eighteenth winter had thawed and the first buds of spring had poked their heads through the frozen earth, my father’s absences from the throne room grew more prolonged as he helped to plan the celebrations for my brother Cynortas turning twenty. No longer would Cynortas train with his peers in the gymnasium beneath the shade of trees. Twenty was the age at which a Spartan man would join our army, and for a prince to join these hallowed ranks was a cause for celebration. In the days leading up to these celebrations, as my family prepared for feasts, speeches, and hunts, I often found myself sitting upon the throne, ruling in Amyclas’ absence.

Even as I ruled in my father’s place, and even with my desperation to know my own destiny, I did not feel any envy for the fate I knew I would never have. I could welcome guests and give orders knowing our nobles would never judge me for my actions when I became king. Three men stood between me and the throne – three brothers, and the countless heirs they would sire. I might have desired the glory kingship would bring with the same strength as the sun longed to rest its weary head in the cool waters of the ocean each night, but I did not long for a life where every decision had already been made for me. Whatever my destiny would reveal itself to be, I could sit upon my father’s throne content in the knowledge that Sparta’s crown would never sit upon my head.

Orius would accompany me on the days I spent in the throne room. He was my father's most trusted herald and a loyal friend of the family. He had known me when I had taken my first steps stumbling through the royal palace, and when I had spent hours as a boy in the throne room, watching my father speak with messengers and dignitaries. I had asked my father once what skill made a man a good herald. Must they have a good memory? I had asked. Should they be skilled in rhetoric?

My father shook his head in response to my questions. When I had begged him to give me an answer, he had laughed, his grin wide like a lion. It was no skill he demanded from a herald, he revealed, but devotion.

‘You must let them make a god of you,’ Amyclas said. ‘If they worship you, you know you have their heart. If they are truly devoted, they will never betray you for another king.’

Only when I became a man and watched my father as he greeted guests for Cynortas’ celebrations did I truly understand how devoted Orius was. When the winebearer took too long fetching my father a drink, Orius was the first to scorn them, and when Amyclas beckoned him forward, Orius gave him his kindest smile and lowest bow. My father wanted for nothing – to Orius, he truly was a deity.

Though I had often ruled in my father’s place as Cynortas’ celebrations neared, my father had insisted that he sit upon his own throne to greet these guests. Most of those invited would arrive the night before the feast, but those deemed special enough – foreign envoys and my father’s most esteemed generals – were granted the privilege of another night in the palace. As I stood at the foot of my father’s throne, and the sunlight streaming in through the oculus lit up the tiled floor beneath my feet, my muscles seemed to switch in boredom, at my day’s training being delayed. My father, noticing this, looked down at me with a hearty grin.

‘Two more to greet,’ he promised, ‘and then I will spare you the burden of my company’.

With my other brothers busy elsewhere, my father had chosen me to accompany him that morning in the throne room so that he might show off one of his children to his guests. Yet, he thought I would not be there if I could choose. I shook my head at his words, then bowed it.

‘You know I find your company an honour, father. Never a burden.’

He smiled in response. Then, setting down his cup of wine, he called to Orius to usher in the final guests. Orius, ever obedient, bowed so low that his forehead might have scraped the tiled floor. Moments later, he disappeared into the antechamber. When he returned, a faint gleam of sweat coated his features, and his knees trembled.

‘The gods of the wind,’ Orius announced, ‘Boreas and Zephyrus.’

Thrown open by a gust of wind, the heavy oak doors slammed against the painted walls with an audible thud. My father started, rising from his throne. I blinked, trying to bat away the bright beams of sunlight streaming through the open door.

In eighteen years, I had never set eyes upon a god. Only a lucky – or unlucky – few ever would. So, as the two Anemoi strode into the throne room, I did not know what to expect.

When they came to a halt, they did not stand on the tiled floor like mortal men, but floated an inch above it, their wings gently pulsating to keep them into the air. Though they were winged, and a foot taller than even our most impressive warriors, there was little else marking them as gods. They were bearded, like men, and dressed in drapery so familiar, yet so fine it would turn even the faces of the kings of our cities green with envy. 

When I saw my father kneeling, I remembered that I had to kneel also.

‘You need not kneel.’ One of the gods spoke. I eyed him carefully. His hair and beard were longer than his brothers, and his limbs, beneath which muscles rippled, were free of any gems or jewels. ‘We are your guests, Zephyrus and I both.’ Then, a smile crossed his rugged features. ‘Truly, we should bow to you.’

My father got to his feet, his legs a little unsteady. I mimicked his movements.

Amyclas bowed his head courteously. ‘We are honoured by your presence in our city,’ he managed to speak. ‘Are you here for my son’s celebrations?’ Though my father had been a hero in his youth, slaying monsters with his peers, he had never met a god.

Boreas looked to his brother, Zephyrus, then gave my father a nod. ‘If the guest list can be extended by two names,’ he said.

‘I am certain it can,’ Amyclas replied. Allowing himself a smile, my father walked down the steps that lead to his throne, halting before the Anemoi.

Though Amyclas and Boreas continued to speak, I did not hear their words. My attention rested upon Boreas’ younger, most glamorous brother, Zephyrus.

He bowed to me, piercing grey eyes locked on mine. I returned the gesture, which made him smile.

‘They speak of the beauty of Sparta’s daughters,’ Zephyrus spoke. ‘I did not realise that Aphrodite had also blessed Sparta’s sons.’ His voice was not as deep as his brothers, yet not light or buoyant either. It lurked somewhere in between, a muddy grey in a world of purest black and softest white.

I bowed my head, smiling. ‘You flatter me.’ I was used to compliments, to hidden meanings in smiles, to hands that found their way to mine. I had never minded such attention, for all claimed I was the most beautiful of my father’s children, and I felt it was an honour to be admired so. That, and Zephyrus was handsome, but with him…there was something in his eyes, a desire I did not recognise. Would compliments satisfy him for long? Stolen glances and smiles?

I did not think so. He was a god, and they were known for their lovers, for their lust.

Zephyrus shook his head. ‘No, I speak the truth.’ His gaze did not rest on me; it travelled across the throne room. When his eyes met mine once more, his smile widened.

‘You will be at your brother’s feast?’ He had softened his voice, as if to please me. I could not decide whether it had.

I nodded.

‘And until then?’

I looked to my father; he was still speaking with Boreas. ‘Until then,’ I turned back to Zephyrus, ‘I will be training with my peers or enjoying meals with my family. Other than that, I have little planned.’

‘Good.’ My words had pleased him. Did his words please me? His eyes twinkled, the light like the brilliant rays of a faltering, fatal star. As he stepped towards me, I felt his eyes trail over me like waves lapped at sand.

‘Perhaps I will see you before then, if you have little planned.’

Boreas had finished speaking with Amyclas and made to move towards his brother. I had questions for him, for Zephyrus, but when I opened my mouth to speak, only air escaped my lips. Instead, I took a step back and smiled kindly at the Anemoi. As they made their way towards the door, my father at their heels, I stood there still, my limbs frozen as I mulled over Zephryrus’ words.

Some time passed – seconds, minutes, hours, I did not know. Once I felt free of Zephyrus’ words, I straightened my shoulders and made my way towards the door. Each step echoed as my sandals struck the cool marble floor.

Orius appeared, from the antechamber, from elsewhere, I did not know. I halted as he bowed before me – not as low as he bowed to my father.

‘Your Highness,’ he spoke.

I studied his features for a moment; they gave nothing away.

‘Is all well?’ I asked, twisting my lips into what I hoped resembled a smile.

He nodded, then froze, as if he regretted moving his head. ‘All is well,’ he confirmed, ‘but there is someone else, my prince. Another guest.’

‘Another?’ A frown crossed my brow. My father seemed certain that the Anemoi were the final two – he had left the throne room with them. ‘Who is he?’ I asked.

‘He has given no man his name,’ Orius told me. ‘He has only spoken to request an audience with the king. He claims he has travelled the length of the Peloponnese in search of Amyclas’ famed xenia.’ Xenia, ruled over by Zeus, was a sacred form of hospitality that all Greeks were obliged to offer to guests in need of it.

I looked to the door. My father was gone, and I would not disturb him to greet a guest. ‘He will have to make do with mine,’ I replied. ‘You may show him into the hall.’

Whilst Orius stepped outside to call to our guest, I ascended the throne and asked the cupbearer for a drink. As the heavy doors were opened by guards, the man stepped inside. I let the sweet wine sit on my tongue for a few moments as I studied the face of the guest I was to open my home to.

I had been wrong to think him a man. As he stood before me, and bowed, it became quite clear he was no ordinary mortal, but something more. Radiance beamed from him as beauty would from any other. His skin was sun-kissed and golden as if sunlight shone from within him. Long curls of blond hair brushed against his shoulders, and smooth muscles rippled beneath his skin as he moved. This man had divine blood coursing through his veins, I was quite certain of it. He did not look much older than me, yet no mortal our age looked quite like him.

Kneeling upon the rug my father had placed many moons ago to comfort the knees of weary travellers, he peered through the gloomy darkness of the throne room, as if struggling to make out my face.

‘You are not King Amyclas,’ he said after a few moments. His brow was creased.

‘I am not,’ I replied. ‘I am Hyacinthus, a prince, and his son.’

‘It is a pity you are not Amyclas,’ this stranger spoke. As he tilted his head upwards, loose curls of hair fell backwards. His frown faded, replaced by a smile. ‘I have thought of many ways to flatter the king of Sparta. I do not know if my compliments will prove as effective if showered upon one of Sparta’s princes,’ he confessed. His voice was softer than I had imagined it might be, as if this too had been kissed by the sun’s golden rays.

‘You do not need to worry about compliments,’ I told the man. Spartans were not vain; we did not demand flattery to grant a man hospitality. ‘Sparta abides by the laws of xenia in keeping with the demands of Father Zeus, who rules the skies. I will honour your request in accordance with these laws, but I will ask two things of you.’

The man looked up at me expectantly, his brow arched.

'Before you are shown to where you will stay, I ask for your name and your story. Where do you hail from?' I asked, resting my cup on my knee and my thumb on its rim.

Our guest lowered his head before he spoke. ‘You may call me Phoeb,’ he spoke, meeting my eye once more. A few strands of golden hair fell across his face, concealing his features from me. ‘Since my early childhood, I have lived in Delphi. I had a quiet youth, spending my time learning the arts of hunting, medicine, and music.’ He smiled at me. ‘I believe you have spent time learning these skills also.’

‘All Spartans are skilled warriors and athletes,’ I replied, nodding. ‘We are raised from birth to bring our polis pride.’

As Phoeb gazed up at me, waiting to hear what words I would utter next, the sunlight streaming through the oculus illuminated a golden broach that fastened his tunic. I eyed this carefully. ‘Who is your father?’ I demanded to know.

‘He is a humble farmer, nothing more,’ Phoeb skilfully dismissed the question. ‘If I told you his name, you would not know it.’

I passed my drink to the cupbearer. ‘You live in Delphi,’ I spoke, my gaze returning to Phoeb. ‘How do you earn a living? Are you a priest?’

Phoeb’s gaze shifted to the fading beams of light that had crept into the throne room. He watched as they struck the dust swirling in the air before he granted me a response. ‘Would it please you if I said that I was?’ He asked, resting his hands on his knees.

‘Only if it was the truth,’ I replied, my gaze following his every movement.

‘Then I will not lie to you and say that I am,’ he replied.

Phoeb was concealing something from me. Why? I wondered, resting my head against the back of the throne. Then, another thought; what would my father do if he were here? Would he press him for an answer? Would he deny a man xenia if he did not know who he truly was?

I shook my head, dismissing these questions. It did not matter what my father would do; I was the man sitting on Sparta's throne. I would act as I saw fit.

I chose to drop the matter. Rising from the throne, I moved down the steps and stopped before Phoeb. He tilted his head towards the heavens so he might still meet my gaze. For a moment, we remained like that, eyes locked, studying one another. Freckles were scattered across his nose and cheeks like stars in the night sky, and his eyes were a dark blue, the same shade as the darkening skies. As I noted these features, I found myself wondering what part of my face his gaze had focused on.

I broke the stillness that had settled upon us by offering Phoeb my right hand. He took it, pulling himself up from the ground. He had the body of an athlete – long legs and toned arms – yet despite his athletic build, he was no taller than I was.

‘Khaireís, Phoeb,' I greeted him, embracing him as a brother-in-arms. His skin was warm to the touch as if heated by the sun. As we parted, he replied with the same greeting I had uttered. With xenia honoured, and Phoeb welcomed into my home, I signalled for a servant to approach. One emerged from a hidden corner of the room and bowed to me. His name was Dismas, I recalled, a man not much older than myself. Yet, I had not trained with him in the gymnasium as I had with other men my age, for he was a helot.

‘Dismas will show you to your room,’ I told Phoeb. ‘While you are in our city, you must treat the palace, the grounds, and the city as your own, as if you were a Spartan. We are holding festivities in the coming days for my brother Cynortas, and you are more than welcome to attend them.’

‘I must thank you for the kindness you have shown to me,’ Phoeb spoke. Dismas waited at his side, his eyes locked on the stone floor. ‘May Zeus repay you generously for granting me hospitality,’ Phoeb added. He took a step towards Dismas, ready to follow him to his room before he glanced over his shoulder and blessed me with one of his smiles.

‘Until we meet again,’ Phoeb spoke. I smiled in response. My skin warmed by the weakened rays of sunlight, I stood there and watched Phoeb fade from view as Helios’ chariot began to dive towards the waves.

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