Captive Prince (Captive Prince 1)

‘Live in the world,’ said Kallias.

It wasn’t what he had meant to say, and he stared at Kallias, and felt himself flush. And he was aware of something different in Kallias, too, as Kallias drew alongside him, and leaned on the stone balustrade, his eyes on the ocean.

‘What is it?’

‘Kastor has returned from Delpha early. Tomorrow will be my First Night.’

He looked at Kallias, saw that distant expression on his face as he gazed out at the water, looking out to a world Erasmus couldn’t imagine.

‘I’ll work hard,’ Erasmus heard himself saying, the words a tumble. ‘I’ll work so hard to catch up with you. You promised me in the gardens of Nereus that we’d see each other again, and I promise you now. I’ll come to the palace, and you’ll be a fêted slave, you’ll perform on the kithara at the King’s table every night, and Kastor will never be without you. You’ll be magnificent. Nisos will write songs about you, and every man in the palace will look at you and envy Kastor.’

Kallias didn’t say anything, and the silence stretched out until Erasmus grew self conscious of the words he had spoken. And then Kallias spoke in a raw little voice.

‘I wish you could be my first.’

He felt the words in his body, little explosions. It was as if he lay uncovered on the pallet as he had done in his small room, offering up his longing. His own lips parted without sound.

Kallias said, ‘Would you . . . would you put your arms around my neck?’

His heart beat painfully. He nodded, then wanted to hide his head. He felt lightheaded with daring. He slid his arms around Kallias’s neck, feeling the smooth skin of his neck. His eyes closed to just feel. Snippets of verse floated through his mind.

In the columned halls, we embrace

His cheek rests against mine

Happiness like this comes once in a thousand years

He put his forehead against Kallias’s.

‘Erasmus,’ said Kallias, unsteadily.

‘It’s all right. It’s all right as long as we don’t—’

He felt Kallias’s fingers on his hips. It was a delicate, helpless touch that preserved the space between their bodies. But it was as if he had completed a circle, Erasmus’s arms around Kallias’s neck, Kallias’s fingers at his hips. The space between their bodies felt clouded and hot. He understood why those three places on his body were forbidden to him, because all of them began to ache.

He couldn’t open his eyes, as he felt the embrace tighten, their cheeks pressing against one another, rubbing together, blindly, lost to the sensation, and just for a moment he felt—

‘We can’t!’

It was Kallias who pushed him away with a strangled cry. Kallias was panting, two feet away, his body curved around itself, as a breeze lifted the leaves of the tree, and they swayed back and forth, as the ocean swelled far below.

On the morning of Kallias’s First Night ceremony, he ate apricots.

Little round halves, ripened just past their early tang to perfect sweetness. Apricots, figs stuffed with a paste of almonds and honey, slices of salty cheese that crumbled against the tongue. Festival food for everyone: the ceremonies of First Night eclipsed anything he had seen in the gardens of Nereus, the height of a slave’s career. And at the centre of it all, Kallias, paint on his face, the gold collar around his neck. Erasmus looked at him from a distance, holding on to the promise he had made to Kallias, tightly. Kallias performed his role in the ceremony with perfect form. He never once looked at Erasmus.

Tarchon said, ‘He is fit for a King. I always questioned Adrastus’s decision to send him to Kastor.’

Your friend is a triumph, the attendants whispered to him the next morning. And in the weeks after that, He is the jewel of Kastor’s household. He performs on kithara every night at table, displacing Ianessa. The King would covet him, if he weren’t sick.

Aden was shaking him awake.

‘What is it?’ He rubbed his eyes sleepily. Aden was kneeling next to his narrow bed.

‘Kallias is here. He had an errand for Kastor. He wants to see you.’

It was like a dream, but he hurried to put on his silks, pinning them as best he could. ‘Come quickly,’ Aden said. ‘He’s waiting.’

He stepped out into the garden, following Aden out, past the courtyard to the paths winding through the trees. It was past midnight, and the gardens were so quiet that he could hear the sounds of the ocean, a soft murmur. He felt the paths under his bare feet. In the moonlight, he saw a slender, familiar figure gazing out at the water beyond the high cliffs.