by A. J. Demas
“In case you need to scale any more walls,” Aradne agreed.
“Do please be careful,” said Nione.
“What else can we do?” Aradne mused. “There’s no body to look at—he’s been cremated and his ashes buried by this time. They told us that at the house,” she added to Nione. “We didn’t ask.”
“Good.”
“Oh, and the family’s engaged an advocate called Eulios,” Varazda added.
Nione winced. “Just what one would expect, I’m afraid.”
“He’s good?” said Varazda.
“Well, he’s famous. He defended Dimon Auriadoros—do you remember him?” she asked Aradne.
“The parricide?”
“The man who was acquitted of parricide, I think you mean.”
“Yeah, but everybody knows—oh. Right.” She grimaced.
“I’ll speak to my own legal man,” said Nione. “I’m sure Damiskos’s family will have engaged someone good, but … actually, you know, if I’m honest, I’m not sure of that. I’ll send a message to Chariton.”
It was raining when they left the wine shop. They parted ways because Nione and Aradne had an engagement on the Vallina Hill. Varazda intended to walk back to the house, change his clothes to something less ostentatiously Zashian than what he had worn to impersonate a fortune teller that morning, and go in search of Helenos’s last place of residence. But by the time he arrived at Aradne’s house the rain had become a stinging downpour, and a trip across the river was out of the question. He changed into dry clothes and sat in Aradne’s peristyle, watching the rain soak her garden.
He wondered what Dami was doing, how he was coping, trapped in that apartment with his parents and the family of his former betrothed. Did his life with Varazda in Boukos already seem like a dream, like another world he feared he would never be able to return to? Varazda pushed his fingers into his hair, trying to shake the feeling that there might be some truth in that.
Some of the household women had come out to sit in the peristyle with their spinning and to listen to another passage from the novel they had been reading in the kitchen the previous night. A character named Doris was making a long, impassioned speech to the hero, Alkaios, about why she must “set him free” so that he could be with another.
“Eudoxia is young and pure. With her you could hold your head up in the agora—you need be ashamed no more.”
The hero protested; he loved Doris with a passion that defied convention, he would go with her into exile if need be, into the Land of Dead, and so on. Varazda remembered that the novel was called Alkaios and Eudoxia, not Alkaios and Doris, so obviously he was going to change his mind at some point. Or she was going to leave him “for his own good.” Or, because it was a novel, get tragically killed, leaving him free to be with Eudoxia.
Varazda got up and went back into the house. He sought out writing implements and composed a letter to his family—to Ari, really, with passages for him to read aloud to Yazata and Remi. With his audience in mind, he downplayed the gravity of the situation, made it sound as if he had it well under control. He put in some observations about Pheme for Remi and reassured Ariston that he hadn’t forgotten his promise to visit the Temple of Xereus and admire the friezes.
Chapter 8
The following morning, Varazda was prepared to set out early. He rose before his hosts, dressed in Zashian clothes, and put in his earrings. He planned to create an impression in the Skalina neighbourhood.
He was eating a solitary breakfast, sitting cross-legged on one of Aradne’s couches, when Niko put his head around the dining-room door to say, “There’s someone here to see you, Pharastes.”
“Yes?” said Varazda warily. He couldn’t think who knew he was here. “Did they ask for me by name?”
“Yup. ‘Someone named Pharastes,’ he said. He has a message for you.”
“All right. Ask him to step in, will you?”
“Will do.”
Niko disappeared, and a few moments later a stranger came through the dining-room door. A stranger whom Varazda had no trouble identifying.
“I, uh—” The man glanced around the room as if expecting someone else to be there, then looked back at Varazda, his expression increasingly astonished.
“You must be Timiskos,” said Varazda helpfully.
Dami’s younger brother looked a great deal like him: the same strong nose, the same colouring, the same curly hair, although Timiskos wore his longer and was scrupulously clean-shaven. He was something like a decade younger than Dami, and they had different mothers (a situation Varazda had never inquired into, since he knew Dami’s father and mother were still married). Maybe it was from his mother than Timiskos had inherited his heavy-lidded, sad-looking eyes and his softer jawline. He was slimmer than Dami, his presence far less intimidating.
“Uh. Yes, I—how did you know?”
“Damiskos talks about you.” Varazda smiled. “And you look alike. Will you join me? I’m just having breakfast.”
Timiskos came around the couches and sat down stiffly. “I’m afraid I’m rather … er.”
Varazda gave him a tolerant smile. “Did Damiskos send you with a message?”
“Oh. Uh. Yes. He said that if you wanted to get any message to him, you can send a message through me. Or—rather, if you want, I can carry—you know—I can come, and …”
“Act as a go-between,” Varazda suggested.
“Yes, that’s it, yes. Sorry, I’m a little surprised, I’m afraid. I’m being quite rude about it, aren’t I?” He laughed nervously.
Varazda shook his head, smiling. “Not at all. Did Damiskos happen to tell you who I am?”
“Well, roughly. But he definitely left out a few things! Did he—I guess he brought you back from Sasia?”
“No, we met on Pheme and I live in Boukos.”
“Right, but—he does … does he … Uh. You’re his lover? He was going to move to Boukos to live with you.”
“Yes … ” Varazda wasn’t quite sure how to take that last sentence. Was going to move to Boukos? “That’s me.”
“Blessed Orante. Well. I don’t know what to say. Sorry, I guess.”
“Sorry … for what?”
“That he’s going to marry Ino and move to Kargania to farm shit, or whatever. Oh. Anaxe’s tits. You didn’t know about that.”
“I didn’t know about that.”
“Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” Timiskos popped up from the couch then sat back down, wiping his palms convulsively over the skirt of his tunic. “How can I—what can I—”
“We didn’t have much time to talk,” said Varazda, rather resenting that he had to be the one to offer comfort after Timiskos had just dropped that on him. “I snuck in his window last night, and we were interrupted before he had time to tell me everything.”
“You, uh … what?” Timiskos shook his head as if he thought he must have misheard. “Well, here’s what it is. Father and Myrto—”
“Are you allowed to bring guests into the house?” Varazda cut him off.
“Er. It depends who’s on the door—some of them are stricter than others.”
“If I were to accompany you back to the house now, say, would whoever’s guarding the door be likely to let me in?”
Timiskos thought about that for a moment. “Yes. I think so. But—”
“Good,” said Varazda, uncrossing his legs. “Let’s do that.”
By the time they arrived at the Temnons’ home, Timiskos seemed to have become almost excited about the prospect of springing Varazda on his father and stepmother (he always scrupulously referred to her as his stepmother). From what Varazda knew of them, this was understandable.
Timiskos was also, Varazda thought, doing his best to be nice to his brother’s lover. He wasn’t doing too bad a job of it, though Varazda wasn’t in any mood to appreciate it. Timiskos hadn’t asked any of the usual rude questions about Varazda’s clothes or general appearance. He asked what part of Sasia Varazda was from, as if aware
that Sasia did have different parts to it. He did say, “You speak Pseuchaian so well,” but he had the grace to look embarrassed about it afterward.
Varazda had not changed his clothes before leaving Aradne’s house, though he had thought about it. Did he want to face Dami’s family looking so aggressively Zashian? Did it matter?
He kept thinking about that novel the women had been reading. With Eudoxia you could hold your head up in the agora—you need be ashamed no more. Dami wasn’t ashamed of him; Varazda knew that. But just then, he wanted to give Dami the opportunity to prove it.
The guard on the door beside the barbershop today seemed to enjoy his job less than the one two days earlier. He waved Timiskos and Varazda in with only a token raised eyebrow. They ascended a steep flight of stairs to a cramped landing with one door. Timiskos reached for the handle and paused to give Varazda an uncertain look over his shoulder.
“I, uh—I hope this isn’t going to be too awful for you. They’re going to be weird. They’re … always weird.”
“Thanks for the warning,” said Varazda.
Timiskos opened the door, and they walked in.
The atrium of the apartment was large and airy and more tasteful than Varazda had expected. He had formed an impression of Dami’s family as tacky people, but their home actually looked quite gracious. The walls were painted in a delicate peach, with small floral motifs. At the far end of the atrium, a number of wicker chairs and a couch had been placed in a casual arrangement, perfect for conversation, with a couple of potted trees to screen the area from the rest of the atrium, and an ornamented brazier for warmth.
The family, gathered in this area, looked up at Timiskos’s entrance and went on looking, with wider eyes, when they saw Varazda.
They had obviously just got up, and from the look of them, this was earlier than they usually rose. There was a dark-haired, striking woman in late middle age, beautifully dressed but with her hairdo only half finished, easily identifiable as Dami’s mother. There was his father, also recognizable, though mostly by his nose. His greying hair was standing up on the sides, his chin was unshaven, and his eyes were puffy. His tunic had crumbs on it.
There was another middle-aged couple, a man and woman sitting together on the couch, who must have been the ex-fiancée’s parents. They had a subtly crumpled look to them, and when their eyes had finished widening, they narrowed suspiciously.
Finally there was a younger, very pretty woman, more put-together than the rest of them in a blue gown, with sleek blonde hair and a long neck. She was looking at Varazda with open fascination.
“Where’s Damiskos?” his brother asked, approaching the family group. “I’ve brought—uh—someone to see him.”
“He’s in the bath,” supplied a young woman with tumbling-down hair who peeked out from behind one of the potted trees. She began blushing and turned away to resume putting up her mistress’s hair.
“Oh,” said Timiskos. “Well, this is Pharastes. He’s—” He paused to clear his throat. “He’s the reason Damiskos was planning to move to Boukos.”
Of course that was when Dami walked in, barefoot, with wet hair and a towel in one hand.
He looked at Varazda, and for a moment there was no expression on his face beyond blank shock. Then he lit up with one of his warm, beautiful smiles.
“Hey,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
He crossed the atrium to Varazda and took his hand.
“I couldn’t stay away,” Varazda said.
“May I?” Dami whispered.
“Sure.”
Dami leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“You’re up early,” Dami said.
“Yes, well. I have work to do.”
Damiskos felt as if a fog had lifted from his mind. It was like the clarity of the battlefield in the still moments before the troops clashed. His mission was to protect Varazda from his parents and from Korinna and Simonides; nothing mattered more than that.
Varazda would not hear any insulting questions or ignorant remarks. He didn’t deserve that. He was the most splendid thing in the world, standing there in the Temnons’ newly decorated atrium in his Zashian clothes, with his hair loose and his hands patterned with henna.
He had climbed through the window two nights ago, and that had been wonderful, but this—walking through the door—was more than Damiskos had ever imagined anyone doing for him.
“I could get breakfast,” Gaia suggested in a small voice, looking out from the shelter of the orange tree. “Is—is everyone ready for breakfast?”
“Thanks, Gaia,” said Damiskos. “That sounds great.”
She scurried off to the kitchen. Timiskos was standing awkwardly behind Damiskos and Varazda.
“He, uh, wanted to come—” Timiskos started.
“To meet your family,” Varazda finished for him.
“And here they are. Mother, Father—this is Varazda. You can call him Pharastes, if you like.” He finished the introductions, to dead silence. “My parents’ friends, Simonides and Korinna, and their daughter Ino.”
“I am very pleased to meet you,” said Varazda gracefully, making one of the little Zashian-style bows that Damiskos had not seen him do since the early days of their acquaintance.
“Will you … join us for breakfast?” Damiskos’s mother asked finally.
“I have already eaten,” said Varazda, “but I would be very happy to sit with you.”
As Varazda stepped forward toward the table, Timiskos looked at his brother. “Damiskos, you might have prepared me! I mean—”
Damiskos slapped him on the back. “I guess I should have! I didn’t realize you were so easily overcome by the sight of a pretty face.”
“That’s not—”
“Sure that’s what you meant.”
“Do come sit with us,” said Myrto, beckoning to Varazda, “while we wait for Gaia to bring our food.”
Damiskos accompanied Varazda to the sitting area and pulled up a chair for him.
“This is a beautiful room,” said Varazda as he sat. No one replied.
“Myrto,” said Korinna, leaning forward across the table, “is this the sort of guest you regularly invite into your home?”
“Sure,” said Damiskos. “I’ve brought a few of my lovers home before, right, Mother? You remember Memnon and Phoros.”
“Yes … ” said Myrto vaguely. “I liked Phoros—he was very good-looking.”
“But Phemian,” Korinna suggested. “Not … Sasian.”
“Dirty dogs,” Simonides muttered.
“Do you like the room?” Timiskos said abruptly, turning to Varazda. “I worked on the design.”
“Did you really?” Varazda turned toward him with a sparkling smile, masterfully flaunting his appreciation of Timiskos’s change of subject. “It’s lovely. Elegant but comfortable. I like how you grouped the chairs over here.”
“Oh. Thank you. I thought it was rather original.” He began talking, somewhat randomly, about tables and frescoes, and Varazda listened with the same bright attention.
Damiskos glanced around the table. Myrto still looked confused, and Philion looked like he had just unsuspectingly bitten into a wormy apple. Korinna looked like she was ready to tear out someone’s throat with her teeth, but was having a hard time deciding whose.
“What,” Damiskos’s father finally burst out, “in the name of Nepharos’s hairy—”
“Sir,” said Damiskos loudly. “Varazda learned that I was in trouble and came to see me. That’s what he is doing here.”
“What? But—but what the—”
“I understand your surprise, sir. I believe I had only hinted that I had a new lover.”
“But he’s—” Philion gestured wildly. “He’s—”
“He’s who I was visiting in Boukos.”
“I don’t care about that. I want to know—Will you shut up?” Philion growled at his younger son. “Nobody cares about your wall-paintings and your gods-cursed potte
d trees, you—”
“I know a few words in Sasian,” Ino said suddenly, in the overloud voice that she sometimes used accidentally—though this time Damiskos would have bet it wasn’t an accident. “Kusko, santia, pasavina, shas.”
Varazda’s eyes widened slightly. “Those are all … metal-working terms, I think. I’m afraid I don’t know what they mean.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Ino, as if the two of them were alone in the room, “because I do. Could I look at your earrings? Are they from Sasia? I mean Zash. I want to see what technique was used.”
Varazda beamed at her and reached up to unhook one of his earrings. “Of course.”
“Don’t encourage her!” Korinna snapped, shooting out a hand to keep Varazda from passing Ino the earring. He started and dropped it.
Varazda didn’t even glare, in any way worthy of the name—not like Damiskos knew he was capable of glaring—but his look was enough to make Korinna shrink back in her chair. It was deeply satisfying.
“Here you go!” said Gaia, darting forward and picking up the earring from the floor. She hesitated a moment, then passed it to Ino, with a wary glance at Korinna. For a moment there was excruciating silence as Ino studied the earring.
“It’s silver-gilt,” she announced finally. “Not gold all the way through. Did you know that?”
Korinna tsked as if she herself were not wearing brass and glass beads.
Varazda smiled. “I did. I have a few solid gold pieces, but I find gilt much more economical.”
“Oh, it is. Do you know how it’s made? It’s an interesting technique. What you do is—”
“How—how do you know about that?” Damiskos interrupted, flat-footed but desperate to keep Ino from revealing too much of her technical knowledge in front of her mother, who would eventually put two and two together. “Oh, I guess your late husband must have talked about it sometimes.”
“Yes,” said Ino after a moment, slowly, “and I—wanted to be a good wife, so … I always listened.”
“Oh, he talked about nothing else,” Korinna scoffed. “He was the most tedious man.”
