by A. J. Demas
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Join the Club
List of Places
Acknowledgments
Also by A.J. Demas
About the Author
Strong Wine
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A.J. Demas
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© 2021 by A.J. Demas
Published October 2021 by Sexton’s Cottage Books.
All rights reserved.
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Cover art by Vic Grey
Cover design by Alice Degan
Preface
Strong Wine is the final book in the Sword Dance trilogy, following Sword Dance and Saffron Alley.
You can find a refresher on some of the place names from previous books at the end of this volume.
Chapter 1
It started to rain when Damiskos was halfway home, just a light mist beading in his hair, which was still damp from the baths. He quickened his pace, swinging his cane, and arrived at the pink door in Saffron Alley only a little wetter than he had been when he set out.
The house was quiet, and he paused a moment in the hall as usual, wanting to call out but not sure what to say. “I’m home”?
It had been a month since he first walked through the door of Varazda’s house. Every so often in moments like these when he was alone, he had the odd idea that the house was cradling him like a pair of cupped hands, an extension of its master’s love. Maybe it was because it was so obviously Varazda’s house, the comfortable, eccentric elegance of it so precisely adapted to him.
Varazda had never said, “I love you,” but he had said Damiskos was loved. He felt loved all the time, out in the city by himself or working in the garden or lying in bed next to Varazda.
Or—as last night—underneath Varazda. Damiskos grinned in the dim hallway at the memory.
“Damiskos?” Yazata’s voice was hushed as he looked out from the kitchen. “Oh, it is you. You’ve got wet! Let me fetch you a towel. Remi is asleep in the sitting room.”
Damiskos came through into the kitchen, and Yazata brought a towel and made him sit on a bench while he dried his hair for him as if Damiskos were a little boy.
“There, that’s better.” Yazata ran his fingers through Damiskos’s hair, then abruptly snatched his hand away. “Are you cold? I’ll make you some tea.”
“I’m fine—I was swimming. It warms you up.”
Yazata gave him a disapproving, grandmotherly look until Damiskos said, “Tea, yes. Absolutely.”
Damiskos rested his cheek on his hand as he watched Yazata bustle to the workbench and scoop tea leaves. Yazata was very physically affectionate; so was Varazda, for that matter. The whole family hugged and kissed and snuggled with each other. Lately Damiskos had noticed Yazata starting to treat him the same way, then catching himself and stopping, still wary around Damiskos. But they were making progress.
“Varazda’s not back from his thing?” He couldn’t remember what it was called: a celebration in honour of the birth of a friend’s child.
“Not yet. Ariston went out, too. To the fishmonger’s.”
“You’re letting him buy fish now?”
“Goodness, no. He needs to sketch some for his new piece.”
“Ah.”
Yazata finished making the tea and checked on the rain, then, finding it had not increased to a downpour yet, went out to visit Maia across the street. Damiskos took his cup into the sitting room, where Remi was curled up on the cushions of one of the divans, sleeping with her bottom in the air. He settled into his usual seat in the corner and looked out the half-open door at the light rain sparkling with unexpected sunlight in the garden.
He had planted a couple of shrubs in pots against the far wall and built a trellis to train vines on in the spring. He and Ariston had dug a hole for a fountain and lined it with bricks as a substrate for the veneer of marble chips that Ariston had planned. Ariston’s workbench in the corner had expanded and become much more cluttered since he had left Themistokles’s studio and begun building a clientele of his own. Pieces of his first commission, a series of aquatic-themed reliefs to decorate a new public toilet, were propped against the wall in various stages of completion.
Damiskos himself had been officially jobless for two weeks now. He had managed to leave his post at the Quartermaster’s Office without returning to Pheme, because his deputy had done well enough in his absence to warrant a promotion. It had all been accomplished by letter, a strange way for his military career finally to end, but in a way it also seemed fitting. Every so often in the past two weeks he had thought about it, and a kind of unmoored feeling would come over him, as if part of his identity had been cut loose, and he wasn’t yet sure how he felt about it.
Then the other day Varazda had introduced him to someone, quite naturally, as a retired soldier. And Damiskos had thought, with a sense of shock, That’s what I am. Finally, after five years of pretending that he hadn’t left the legions, he really had.
He would have to return to Pheme at some point to see about his pension.
He would have to return to Pheme at some point because he was still paying to rent an apartment on the Vallina Hill, and to board Xanthe at a stable nearby, because he had come to Boukos a month ago with only a small bag, thinking he was staying a week, and because he hadn’t seen his parents in a month or adequately explained to them what he was doing in Boukos.
But if he were to go back to Pheme, that would, surely, be the moment when he’d have to ask Varazda what came next. He had no idea how he was going to do that.
What was the question, even? Were they still at the stage where it would be appropriate to ask, “Can I stay a while longer?” Or was it time to say, “Can I stay forever?” But there was always the risk, with the latter question, that Varazda might say—well, not “No,” but at least “Maybe.” And then what? “Can I stay for the time being, at least?”
Yesterday had been Damiskos’s thirty-third birthday. Zashians liked to celebrate birthdays in style, and so as soon as he’d let slip the date, Damiskos had been expecting something. Yazata had cooked a sumptuous meal and invited Marzana and Chereia and their sons. Ariston had given Damiskos a clay statuette of Terza and the Bull that he had made himself. Varazda had given him a pair of warm pyjamas—and later, when they were alone in their bedroom, a blue glass bottle of expensive scented oil. They had put that to use immediately.
Damiskos sipped the last of his tea and leaned his head back against the cushions of the divan. Outside the rain was coming down harder.
It was pouring by the time Varazda got home. He ran all the way from the end of Fountain Street with his hands in fists inside his coat sleeves, and stood in the front hall catching his breath and dripping on the tiles. Yazata appeared with a towel and held a finger to his lips, nodding toward the sitting room.
“Can you help me with my hair?” Varazda whispered, displaying his freshly hennaed hands.
Yazata tsked genially. He helped Varazda strip off his wet coat and unbraid his hair, and rubbed it dry with the towel. Varazda gave him a kiss on the nose.
“Is Dami back yet?”
“In there. Take a look.”
Varazda followed Yaz
ata’s gesture and went to look in through the sitting-room door. Remi was sleeping in a chubby-limbed heap, face down on the divan, and Dami was stretched out on the corner seat, one arm flung out on the cushions, head tipped back, equally deeply asleep. Selene was hunkered on the floor nearby.
Varazda smiled, looking in at them. He felt a ridiculous sense of pride. Remi was his daughter, whom he’d raised since she was a few weeks old, so it was all very well to feel proud of her. But Dami didn’t belong to him, wasn’t his responsibility. Yet Varazda found himself sometimes wanting to nudge their friends and acquaintances, point, and say, “You see how happy he is now? You see how the strain is gone from his eyes, how much more easily and genuinely he smiles? I did that.”
Dami even looked fitter—something Varazda wouldn’t have thought possible—after a month of exercising in the pool at the Baths of Soukos, pushing himself hard without overtaxing his knee. He walked more easily, carried his cane more but needed it less. He was relaxed and at ease around Varazda’s family now. Neither he nor Varazda had spoken about how much longer he was going to stay.
Varazda thought about the night before, after Dami’s birthday dinner. They had retired as soon as their guests left, the rest of their household considerately melting away, and in the lamplight in their bedroom, Varazda had danced for Dami, with Dami, moving around him, shedding clothes as he went, until they ended up on Dami’s bed, with Dami on his stomach …
“How is Babak’s baby?” Yazata asked, coming up behind Varazda.
“Hm?” For a moment he couldn’t think what Yaza was talking about. “Oh, healthy and adorable.”
“And the mother?”
“Overwhelmed, clearly. Having a son seems to have made Babak return to his roots, and I don’t think she was ready for it.”
Yazata winced sympathetically. “She will need to brace herself for the wedding.”
They heard the door on the other side of the house open, and Yazata rushed off to proffer towels and shush Ariston and Kallisto, whose voices could be heard in the front room.
Varazda stood a moment longer looking at Dami lying on the divan and remembering the night before. He shivered.
The name for it in The Three Gardens had something to do with a pomegranate, but Varazda knew how Dami would have described it: Varazda had fucked him. Dami would have said that to flatter Varazda, of course, even though Varazda had only used his fingers, with Dami lying on his stomach, which was probably not the best position—and finally he’d had to shift to get his hand down to touch himself. Varazda had deliberately not done it for him.
Dami was usually happy to cuddle and talk after making love, but last night he had just lain there with a smile on his face, looking … fucked. It had given Varazda that same feeling of pride. I did that. It had been a good birthday present.
He went through into the room that he still thought of as Dami’s to change his clothes. In the recent reorganization of the household, Varazda had lost his bedroom, and indeed more or less the upper floor of his house. Remi had decided that she wanted a room of her own, so Varazda had moved downstairs to the new room he’d added for Dami, and they’d gotten the builder in again to put a door through to connect the upper floors of the two houses so that Remi wasn’t upstairs on her own. It had worked well.
Dami and Remi were still napping when Varazda came back out into the sitting room. He could hear whispering coming from Ariston and Yazata’s front room, and when he went into the kitchen to get himself a drink, Ariston appeared in the doorway. He wore a green mantle that Kallisto had given him the other day, wrapped in a style that made him look elegantly tall and lean rather than gangly. He beckoned to Varazda mysteriously.
“We want to talk to you,” he said unnecessarily, when Varazda had come in and closed the door behind him. “Have a seat.” He indicated Yazata’s large wicker chair, then dove in to plump the cushion before stepping back.
Varazda gave him a puzzled look and sat. Ari sat on the edge of his desk, and Yazata perched on the stool in front of it. Kallisto lingered near the window, looking like she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there.
Ari cleared his throat and flicked back his hair, which he was growing out in accordance with the latest fashion. “It’s about Damiskos.”
“Oh?” Varazda tried hard for a neutral tone, and thought he just about managed it.
“We don’t want him to leave!” Yazata blurted out.
Varazda blinked. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it was not this. “That’s … good. I don’t want him to leave either. But it’s really up to him.”
“We want him to stay,” Ari reiterated, presumably thinking Varazda might not have understood the first time. “We’ve talked about it and we all agree.”
“Yes,” said Varazda patiently. “I also agree. I’m not thinking of turning him out, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Kallisto turned away from the window. “They’re worried you’re not doing enough to make sure he stays,” she said, looking embarrassed.
She was a courtesan who specialized in flogging and choking her clients for their pleasure, and this embarrassed her.
“Yeah,” said Ariston, shooting her a grateful smile. “Are you, you know, meeting his needs? In bed, I mean. He’s a man—you’ve got to—”
“That is not what I meant!” Yazata yelped, jumping to his feet and knocking over the stool in his haste. “Holy God, Ariston, what do you mean talking about such things? Such things are private!”
Ari spread his hands hopelessly, glancing between Yazata and Kallisto. “What? That’s what I thought we were talking about.”
Kallisto shook her head in a clear keep me out of this.
“What I meant,” Yazata spoke before Ari could go on, “was—can we afford to keep him?”
“To, uh, what?”
“No, no, that was not what I meant to say—forgive me. Can we afford for him to remain with us … indefinitely? We—Ariston and Kallisto and I—have discussed it, and we all agree that we very much want him to stay, and so if there are any economies to be made, I am quite willing—”
“Yazata, immortal gods,” Ari groaned. “He’s got a pension. He can work. He was First Whatever of the Whatever! Have you not noticed that he’s good at basically everything?”
“Of course I know that,” said Yazata, almost hotly. “He is the best of men—I think I scarcely knew men like him existed until he came into our lives. Of course if he wants to work, if Varazda wants him to work—but if not,” he ended, his voice dropping shyly, “I—I like having him around the house.”
“Yaza,” said Varazda, holding up a hand. He got up from the chair. “Ari.” He glanced at Kallisto, whom he suspected of being more involved in this than she wanted to admit. “I’m glad to know that you want Damiskos to stay. I’m sure he will be glad to know it too.”
“I don’t—” Kallisto began, then put her hand to her lips. “Er. I don’t necessarily think you should tell him about this conversation.”
Varazda gave her a look. “I wasn’t thinking of it. But thank you.”
They all jumped at the sound of a knock on Varazda’s door.
“I’ll get it,” Kallisto offered eagerly, already starting across the room.
Varazda glanced between his two friends after she had left. They were still giving him earnest looks.
“You really have to make sure you’re—” Ari started.
“If there’s anything we can do,” Yazata said at the same time, then heard what Ari had been saying. “Not in that regard. Holy angels.”
Varazda rubbed his fingertips between his eyebrows and said nothing.
“It’s a letter,” said Kallisto, reappearing. “For Damiskos. From Pheme.”
Chapter 2
“It’s from my parents,” Dami said, holding the tablet loosely in his hands and looking down at it as if something about it bothered him.
Remi looked up from the floor where she was feeding Selene crumbs of stale bis
cuit. “You have parents?” She sounded surprised.
Dami smiled down at her, a little sadly. “I do. They live in Pheme. They want me to come see them.” He looked up at Varazda. Apologetically? Varazda couldn’t tell.
“Anything wrong?” Varazda asked.
Dami frowned down at the letter again. “Hard to say. They claim it’s urgent, but I’m afraid with them that likely means they don’t want to tell me what it is because they know I won’t like it.” He looked up at Varazda again, and this time his expression was definitely apologetic. “I’m sorry,” he said, in case that hadn’t been obvious. “I think I’ll have to go.”
Yazata had been hovering in the kitchen pretending—or, knowing him, really trying—not to listen, but now he looked in the doorway.
“Is anything the matter?” Yazata ventured. “At home? Er—in Pheme?”
“My parents want to see me about something,” said Dami, putting on one of his tired, don’t-worry-about-me smiles. “I daresay it’s nothing serious, but I do owe them a visit. And it’s a good time to go, before the stormy season.”
“You’re going away?” Remi cried, looking desolate.
“Just for a little while.” Dami didn’t meet Varazda’s eye. “It doesn’t take long to get to Pheme.”
“You’re coming back?” Remi pursued.
“Yes,” said Varazda. “Of course.”
“You’re leaving?” Ariston appeared in the sitting-room doorway. “What—already?”
