35. Punched
35
Punched
Theron
Kalias’ color was seeping back.
It was as evident as her worrying exhaustion.
He found himself constantly thinking about it during Assembly sessions and court hearings, losing focus and forcing his mind back to the matter at hand.
So he reasoned with himself: she would tell me if she needed my help with anything. I have to trust her.
Yet the nagging concern for her persisted. He couldn’t clear his mind of it, occasionally slipping into the dreaded scenario: that one morning, he’d find her exhausted beyond recovery.
That she could end up dead because of him. Just like Amatheia.
It had happened enough times for him to finally recognize that, in his effort to catch up with all the pressing matters of Hesperis that had piled up during his absence from the capital, he’d not been to the gymnasium once.
So he went there straight away, his head buzzing after another long day.
Situated within the Palace grounds, his private gymnasium was accessible only for the sons of the highest-ranking aristocrats and his personal sentinels. The stairs of his private staircase led him down to the entry.
Slaps, grunts, and shouts rang out from behind the partition, the smacking sound of fists making him smile as he inhaled the familiar smell of the clay floor. He stripped down to his loincloth, rubbed oil all over his body, and slipped on his padded leather gloves, securing them with straps on his wrists.
“Endurance! Footwork! Blocks!” Lykos’ roar pierced the air.
Theron stepped from behind the wooden partition just in time to see Lykos, standing on the top of the circular boxing ring, sending Philon to the ground with one quick punch.
Cheers and clapping erupted.
Lykos helped Philon up. “You lasted surprisingly long today. There’s hope.”
Philon grinned and spat blood on the ring. “I’ll always be better at archery, polemarchos. ”
“Try someone your size . ” Theron strode to the boxing ring.
“Oh, afternoon, Majesty.” Lykos mock-saluted him while wiping sweat off his brow. “Well met. I was just looking to beat the daylight out of someone important to feel accomplished for the day.”
Heads turned, faces split with grins. Argyros, Chrysantos, Drakon. A couple of aristocrats’ sons, gleaming with sweat and striving to look important in the company of veterans.
“I have a headache from sitting all day in the Assembly and council chambers. Trust me, I feel like punching someone in the face. Might as well be yours.”
“If only you ever made good on that promise, Majesty.” Lykos cracked a grin, readjusting the strap on his leather glove. Then he narrowed his eyes at him. “Since I haven’t seen you here since you’ve returned, warm up first.” He nodded at Argyros, who strode to the corner and grabbed the drum.
Philon staggered off the ring, massaging his shoulder.
Theron climbed up and began his warm-up war dance routine with Lykos mirroring him across the ring. Locked in their dance, they inched to each other until chest met chest, then split apart. Theron had found the rhythm he was used to with Lykos, losing himself in the sound of Argyros’ drum.
Energy boiled inside him, making him lighter, happier—just like he’d hoped. No wonder I’ve been distracted. This is what I need. Blood rushed in his veins and he thirsted for an outlet.
His warriors stomped their feet or clapped, humming the war chant.
“Place your bets wisely.” Lykos wagged his finger at them, earning chuckles.
Theron met Lykos’ eyes across the clay ring and knew his friend was ready to settle the score they hadn’t squared so far.
Perhaps today.
They faced each other, hands up in front of their faces.
Lykos jumped forward first, with a jab Theron barely had time to dodge before he swiftly counter-punched, aiming straight for Lykos’ stomach.
Whistles erupted from the sidelines, mingled with the sound of Argyros’ drum.
But Lykos shifted back swiftly, his grin widening. “Familiarity breeds contempt, eh, Theron?”
Bloody eel. Theron shifted his stance in a blink and shot out again, almost hitting Lykos on the shoulder—not a real blow, as Lykos managed to side-step it at the last moment. Close enough.
“I should probably tell you,” Lykos said in a low voice, barely audible in the noise around them, “that I’ve been approached again by some councilors to direct your attention to their eligible daughters.”
“Splendid,” Theron growled, watching his friend’s footwork and looking for the opening.
“They’re throwing bribes at me.”
“Contemptible.”
“Care to know what brought this on?”
Theron hesitated and missed his opportunity to land a hit on Lykos. “No idea.”
“Unusually dense of you, Theron,” Lykos observed, circling him like a wolf. “Calliste.”
“What?” Theron froze for a moment, losing his focus.
In a blink, Lykos lunged forward with a treacherous jab Theron had seen in action enough times to know better than to risk avoiding it and cut his losses by blocking it. Lykos’ punch was like a log hitting his left forearm, known to knock down even the bulkiest men. Theron hissed at the explosion of pain as his muscles screamed in agony.
“Pay attention,” murmured Lykos, stepping back half a step.
Argyros’ drum grew louder against the racket of whistles and clapping.
“You have what people assume is an unmarried woman living exclusively in your wing,” Lykos said between clipped intakes of air. “Does that surprise you?”
“You know she’s married,” Theron spat from between clenched teeth, hating the hopeless feeling that stirred in his gut at saying it.
Lykos locked stare with him. “That’s hardly better. Imagine the uproar if the Assembly found out that you keep a married woman who refuses to give her husband’s name in your quarters?”
“She’s a healer for my son, damn it. My only hope, by the looks of it.” His energy had shifted, anger replacing the lightness.
Lykos responded with a flurry of jabs.
Theron parried them, weaving away, then lunged forward again, trading blows Lykos suddenly couldn’t keep up with.
“Who stirred it all?” Theron cornered him near the edge of the boxing ring. “Solon?”
“Likely. Panakeios has also been busy.” Lykos breathed hard, keeping his defense.
Theron spat a vile swear word.
“Mind my delicate ears.” Lykos was back on the offensive, sweat trickling down his temples and chest. “First, you court Eumelia but never make it official.” His punches turned unforgiving, relentless. “Now you’re toying with Calliste. If I didn’t know you any better—”
“It’s none of your business.” Theron drove forward with furious energy, parrying back some of Lykos’ punches and gaining momentum. “And you have it all wrong. I keep out of her way, except when I carry her back in the morning.”
Lykos bared his teeth. “I can carry her back.”
“Don’t you dare—” Theron attacked with a growl, striking with enough force to drive him back to the edge of the ring.
Lykos stepped back, his eyes wide behind the sweat that crisscrossed down his face, plastering the strands of raven hair against his neck, his arm raising to block another punch.
It never came. Theron froze, shocked at the rage that clouded his brain at the thought that Lykos would touch Calliste… Gods. What was I thinking? He staggered back, dropping his fists to the sides. His lungs heaved with scorching breaths, but something infinitely worse burned in his chest—the knowledge that, for a split second, he was ready to hurt Lykos over a harmless joke that should have never incited him the way it did.
“Theron.” Lykos approached him with caution, his chest marked with red blooms from the punches. “What was that about?”
“Do you find the idea of carrying her amusing?” Theron narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps to someone with an endless choice of women ready to be his playthings, it is. But not for me.”
Lykos’ flat stare was that of a wolf ready to pounce for his throat. “You should know me better than that.”
The tension between them thickened like a mist.
Lykos’ eyes flickered over his shoulder. “Xanthos is looking for you.”
Theron looked around, spotting his advisor standing in the faraway corner, waiting. He turned away and stepped down from the ring, ignoring the confused stares of his warriors, waiting for the conclusion of the fight.
Not today.
***
With silent Xanthos at his side, Theron stormed off to his quarters, relieved to see his bath already filled. Thank you, Gaiane.
From a wooden bench carved with gilt shells and sea-horses, Xanthos eyed the red marks Lykos had left on his body. “A friendly exchange with your polemarchos ?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Theron undressed and sank into the steaming water with a sigh.
Xanthos’s gaze drifted to the tiled floor before settling on the mosaic beside the marble tub.
Theron splashed water over his face and slicked back his hair. “When were you planning to tell me that the Assembly is gossiping about me and Calliste?”
“When I have enough information,” Xanthos replied, a telling wrinkle between his drawn brows. “And when I think you’re ready.”
Theron grabbed a handful of his favorite scrubbing salt from its malachite pot and ran it over his chest and shoulders. “Go ahead.”
“The Assembly haven’t failed to notice that you dismissed the most renowned physician and replaced him with an unknown healer—”
“A High Priestess, Xanthos.”
“The Order of Epione is almost unknown in Anthemos. Not a single healer has come down here for centuries.”
“For a good reason,” Theron said, recalling Leontia’s explanation.
“Then why is Calliste here?” Xanthos leaned back. “To be blunt, she’s an outsider of an unknown origin you’ve entrusted with the future of our kingdom. The Assembly is confused by your behavior. Not to mention,” he added quietly, “that she was seen on arrival here, and she’s attractive. People think simplistically, unfortunately.”
Not that they’re much mistaken.
“And since barely anybody has access to her, it looks like you’re keeping a mistress, and this doesn’t help her case. Solon probably takes offense because of Amatheia’s memory.”
Theron scrubbed his arms to the raw, until he’d reached the place where Lykos punched him and hissed in pain. “Kalias is getting better.”
“I’d say that he’s not getting worse. Is there a definite, tangible improvement? Has he woken up? No.”
“I know he’s getting better. I can see it.”
“Fine. But Calliste is too much of a guarded secret. Another gossip, no doubt coming from Panakeios, is that she’s a witch set on manipulating you or getting your favor.”
“I saw her temple, Xanthos, and the goddess she serves. It’s as much a cave of witches as my court is a brothel.”
Xanthos snorted. “Interesting comparison.”
“I was aiming for a good image. Also, she swore her loyalty to me.”
“Theron.” Xanthos leaned forward. “I’ve been trying to investigate her past. Lykos told me I had your permission and gave me all the details. Well, all three of them.”
Theron turned to face his advisor across the room, shocked by how his heart jumped. “And?”
“I’m waiting to speak with one of the trusted priestesses in Hera’s Temple. She has access to marital records… since I understand Calliste is married.”
That hopelessness welled up in his chest. “Yes. Her husband—”
“I know. An abuser. But that she’s married reassures me to some extent—I know that even as a king, you’d never…” His brows rose as he shot him an incisive look. “At least I hope so.”
“If you’re here to remind me that I’m supposed to set an example with my godsdamned immaculate moral standing, it’s been duly noted,” Theron scoffed. “No, I wouldn’t try to seduce a married woman, because I was raised better than that. Happy?”
Xanthos shrugged. “This isn’t my main concern.”
“No? Is it the same worry that the Assembly has? They don’t get to see Calliste, so they think she spends her days plotting to seduce and manipulate me?” He couldn’t help but snort. “They didn’t mind when I courted Eumelia.”
“Eumelia is a much beloved musician and a pride of our capital. You courting her made sense, because it reminds people of the story of King of Olynthos, which is the stuff of ballads now,” Xanthos said smoothly, as if he’d already thought it through. Which he probably had. “But even this was seen as your flight of fancy, charming and chaste, rather than a serious business…”
Probably because it wasn’t real. Not that you’d know.
“But Calliste? Her reputation is unknown at best.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Whatever this is leading up to, it’s not in the best interests of your House or your kingdom, Theron. And if remarrying is on the cards…”
Theron stilled.
“You should consider either Erythia of House Kraneia or Kleio of House Morea. The House of Kraneia holds more influence and would be a more favorable choice—”
“We’ve been through this. Kalias is the rightful heir to the throne. I won’t risk that by marrying into another House, even if they’re allied and have more combined power than the House of Fousteios,” Theron scoffed and climbed out of the bath, catching the towel Xanthos tossed to him. “It’s a recipe for a civil war, especially with Solon behaving the way he does.”
“You can mitigate any future conflicts with well-worded prenuptial agreements. Picking a respectable House as a continuation of your bloodline will be seen as a sign of stability and continuity.”
“That’s what I heard seven years ago about the House of Fousteios.” Theron’s jaw ticked.
Xanthos sighed. “Pick your next bride from the allied Houses who have more power than the House of Fousteios. This will solve the problem.”
“I’m not marrying ever again.”
“You care about Calliste.” Xanthos leaned back. “Don’t you? You are different since returning from that journey to Mount Hellecon.”
“Of course I’m different. Kalias is getting better.”
“It’s not that, Theron.” Xanthos shook his head. “I’ve been watching you, and I know you better than most. You’re calmer. Happier. But unfocused. Which tells me something.” He sighed.
“Xanthos—”
“I’d love Calliste’s situation to be different, but if her marital status comes to light, it will be a scandal neither of you might recover from. What if, by a wild chance, her husband finds out that she’s here and publicly accuses you of adultery? We both know what the law says about it. We drafted it together.”
His blood ran cold.
“Now imagine Solon uncovered it—”
“On a rare day that he’s sober?” Theron scoffed.
“As long as he’s legally your father-in-law, you mustn’t dismiss him. He can get you into trouble with some temples.”
“Then he won’t have a place at my court anymore.”
“Still, the harm this might cause may be irreparable. It’s about your image, too, Theron. Hera’s Temple will be the first to condemn you if Calliste’s situation comes to light. You cannot fight the Assembly and the Temples at the same time.”
Theron finished drying himself. “Your advice?”
Xanthos passed him the robe and shrugged.
“Nothing?” Theron slipped on the smooth, navy nighttime robe. “Interesting. You’re always full of advice.”
“Advice is like a seed—it won’t take root on stony ground, Theron.”
“I have a feeling you’re insulting me.”
Xanthos rose with a thin smile. “I just know when I’m wasting my breath.”
Despite everything, Theron laughed. “Do I come across as so unreasonable?”
“You don’t seem like your rational self right now, so I’d advise you to tread carefully. Don’t stir up any more gossip until I find out about Calliste.”
“I’ve only once let Assembly control my life.” Theron spread out the towel on the wooden rail to dry. “Never again will I let them dictate what I do. She’s not a witch, Xanthos, and she’s helping my son get better through the divine aid of her goddess.” He paused, running his hand through his hair. “She’s doing her best even though I dragged her here against her will and have promised her nothing in return.” Then he looked at his advisor, a thought hitting him. “I haven’t even thanked her properly so far. She’s sacrificing her health for my son and all I’ve been doing is avoiding her.”
“Why?” Xanthos cast him a shrewd look.
He didn’t meet his eyes. “I have my reasons. My personal stance on her is not for anyone to judge. Is it clear?”
“It’s clear to me,” Xanthos replied with a bow. “But I’m not the Assembly, your court, or the Temples. I have left a couple of documents for you to sign and reminders for upcoming functions that you must attend in the next few days.”
“You do know how to make me happy.”
“I suggest an early night, Majesty.”
Once Xanthos’ footsteps had quietened outside, Theron sat down on the wooden bench, his elbows on his thighs, fingers interlaced.
His mind drifted back to that morning two days earlier and her feeble plea. Can you stay with me for a moment?
If only she knew the cost of him sitting beside her, keeping his thoughts from straying into the fantasy that kept him awake in Hellenixia.
He slipped nonetheless; kissed her hand while she was asleep—and immediately left, on the edge of self-control.
“Damn it,” he growled as he snapped to his feet, marching to his study and scowling at the papers Xanthos had left before lowering himself behind his desk.
He grabbed the first document, read it, and signed it, his jaw ticking.
The Assembly won’t be telling me what to do. Never again. I’ve done the right thing once before. And to what outcome?
He scanned the next document, but instead of letters, he saw Amatheia dying, her eyes full of pain and accusation. Darkness pulled at him again. He narrowed his eyes at the letters in front of him before signing at the bottom, then he swiped them away, barely keeping himself from tearing it apart, thinking about staying up into the night, navigating the sea of ink.
I’m done with doing the right things. Done.
He opened the drawer in his desk, fixing his eyes on Calliste’s knife. Lykos turned it in to him on the same day he confiscated it from her.
As he unsheathed it, he ran his thumb along the ivory handle carved with vines and adorned with three emeralds shaped like leaves.
When Lykos had handed him the blade, it was spotless, which told him she took care of her tools, just like she did with those under her care—even when she was heartbroken.
He’d noticed it first in Petrakelis Passage: her patient smile as she tended to the wounded, pushing her grief deep inside.
He only truly understood the cost of it in Hellenixia, during their chance encounter, when he let her glimpse inside his soul and she paid him in kind.
Theron reached for the phial of oil and a soft cloth he kept next to it, his mind calming as he began to polish the steel.
He focused solely on his task at hand until the blade gleamed. He re-sheathed it with care and locked it away in his drawer before rising. Leaving behind his unfinished paperwork and holding on to the newfound calm for the first time in what felt like ages, he strode into his bedroom.