Eros - Third Chapter

[tatia85]

Title: Eros
Author: Tatia85
Rating: NC-17 [and not always for sex!]. 
Notes: This story contains reference to harsh situations. For more disclaimers please see the introduction here:  http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1158.html#cutid1 . 
Note 2°: I am so very, very sorry that this chapter took so long. I always want to have the next chapter ready before to post one. And RL had been really hard lately, my pc broke, I had a lot of tests and so on. Anyway, here it is.
Disclaimers: any character you recognize belongs to Annie Proulx. OC are mine. Well, some characters are historical. No money made.
Dedication: Definitively to my wonderful beta the_ravingloony. She helped me with the language, listened to me when I was unsure about the fic [often. Very often] and cheered my up! Not to mention her wise advise. Thanks cucciola!
Summary: Jack and Ennis in Sparta, set during the Persian War. Ennis is a noble, and Jack... his believed to be a serf.

Things start to happens in this chapter... while womebody whaches in the shadows.

Feedback: Well, I would love to know what you think of it. Even if you want to flame me, go ahead, I really don't care [and I admit, it is not an easy story this one =P].

VERY IMPORTANT NOTE: if you aren't familiar with Sparta or with the Ancient Greece, you should read here: 
http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1158.html#cutid1 . There is an Introduction and a section about warning.

To read the prologue click here: http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1387.html#cutid1

Here to read the First Chapter: http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1783.html#cutid1

Here to read the Second Chapter: http://tatia85.livejournal.com/1994.html#cutid1

494

The darkness surrounds the tall temple of Artemis, hiding its proud, shining beauty.
The shrine’s shadow makes the night deeper, blue shades lurking in the narrow passages between buildings.
The first snow, already melted, creates small puddles in the street, the Winter still too shy to make itself known in that time when the world balances itself carefully between night and day.
Songs hummed by authoritative priests came from the tall Acropolis, wrapping the nearest, proudest house into tight coils, reminding them of the nearby ritual.
The city stays still, listening to the song, holding its breath, the soothing darkness unbroken. 
Only a pale glow, the illumination from a lantern inside a house, once beautiful and arrogant, now beaten, dares to break the night sacred to Artemis.
A young man stays still, looking at nothing, or maybe at the hollow space between the city and the mountains. His light, curly hair is carefully combed, grazing over his cheeks, his lips tight, golden eyes wandering behind his own thoughts.

In a higher house, another man with tight lips looks at nothing.
Dark hair, long as that of the younger boy outside his house, skims over his broad shoulders.
Dark brown eyes look at the cypress statues of the Kuclonas’ ancient heroes.
His features become even tenser, hearing outside the sacred song, his hands clenched into fist.
A black mastiff, like the one who tried to give comfort to his master nineteen years before, whines softly.
Adrasto turns abruptly towards the little wooden door, his mouth twitching slightly for pain at that sudden movement.
There is no sound.
His eyes look at the newer statue, a beautiful woman, still young and the dark eyes closed, a sigh escaping the tight mouth, along with a whisper.
-Iantha… our son would have made the ritual tomorrow…-
Another spark of pain crosses his stern features, nothing to do with the hideous, wrinkled scar over his left thigh, close to the groin.
Adrasto looks at it, contemplating his trophy from the help his city gave to Athene sixteen years before. And what it took from him.
His jaw clenches. Without further words, he limps toward his pallet, the only sound following him the soft click of the mastiff’s claws and the priest’s chanted melody.
Nothing else is heard this night into the silent house, lacking of echoes of children's little feet or women's slow hum.

A slow wind seeps into the hut, thanks to the quietly opened door.
In the hovel, where the air is heavy with smoke and the smell of people and animals, there are only the soft snores of an old man.
No stars, no songs.
A young man looks out cautiously, his gaze grazing over the clearing in the mountain.
Smiling wildly, he steps carefully out; his sandals don’t make a sound into the mountain’s eerie silence.
The wind, curious, plays with his dark hair, blue eyes shine with enthusiasm not less than the proud temple with the moon.
The sheep bleat close and a jerk passes through the young body, which flexes like a green twig.
Slowly, the young man relaxes, cursing under his breath.
One step after the other, he walks slowly, dreamily away from the hut.
Then, he starts to run, and a wild, happy laugh reverberates into the gleaming darkness, the crystalline jingle of the stream the only answer.

Far, far away, north from where the city stands and the stream whispers, in the highest temple, in the lowest chamber down the ground, a small woman, of no age, sits over a humble golden stool, looking with wild eyes into the smoke.
The smallest of smiles creeps over her wrinkled features, almost breaking lips unused to the gesture.
-And so… It starts-
An ancient, frail hand makes a tiny gesture.
A man, black-bearded, with a long cane, made smooth by the years, glides slowly next to the old woman.
The woman doesn’t look at him, misty eyes wandering over a wound in the ground, over the smoke that came from it.
-Look, Omero’s heir. Look.-
And, quietly, with eyes sad, hand clenching over the cane, the man looks…

The drums roll. The flutes play.
The rhythmic melody fills the agorà in front of the shining fair Temple.
Cadenced steps of heavy armed men come close.
In the crowded space, a young hilot opens his eyes, as blue as the cloudless sky, wide.
No breeze shakes the priests' white robes or their bands which fall over their shoulder while they sing the ancient tune.
The song seems to fill the air itself, the drums and flutes and steps making the ground shake.
The detachments come heavily, announced by the sound of spears against bronze shields.
One step, one blow.
Red cloaks. Red tunics. Bronze shields and armour.
The blue eyed hilot makes his way among the Perieces and among his kind, eager to come close, the tune thumping into his ears, into his heart. His breath is short by the time he reaches the base of the wooden basement.
Over the vibrating ground, the two Kings, Cleomenes and Demarantos, sit on their simple stools, gesturing towards the temple.
The drums and the steps end.
Only the flute’s sweet melody keeps echoing into the cool, still air.
Quietly, the temple’s doors open and the Ephores come out, sitting close to the Kings.
Stratippos of the Licariston.
The young hilot's gaze moves away from the king and the temple and the musician.
The announcer’s voice is calling the boys who want to become Irenes. Protector of the city. Part of the mighty military force of Sparta.
Paramonos of the Kleosphiles.
Under the wide eyes of the young man of their age and harder history, one by one the boys are undressed, their already strong arms taken by two attendants.
The city stays still. Only the flutes keep their haunting melody.

Unseen by his peers, one man, behind the king’s stool, isn’t looking to the rite.
His dark eyes stare, hidden by the red plumed helmed, towards a pair of blue ones.
For the first time since he can remember, Adrasto is trembling.

All the young men are over the basement.
Almost all.
The announcer is silent, even the flutes stop their playing.
The kings raise their hands, simultaneously…
The young blue-eyed hilot bends his dark head, to see even better, holding breath with the crowd.
In the last moment, something moves behind the columns.
Murmurs.
Hundred of eyebrows frown.
The announcer clears his throat.
Ennis of the Tzalatton.
A fair boy comes in, his eyes downcast.
Without help, without looking, he undresses himself.
A pair of blue eyes looks at the latest man, missing the word by the High Priest while he cuts the ram’s throat, sacrificing to the gods.
A night, long ago… a look…
The sharp sound of whip against skin mixing with the sweet of flutes which start again their haunting melody.
Young muscle tenses, then relaxes.
The flutes keep the time for the whips.
In the still air of the square, a small gust of wind rises, bringing smell of human and animal blood.
The first boy falls, senseless, with a slow thudding sound.
Then, another.
The crowd holds its breath; the drums start to roll again accompanying the flute.
Only one young man stands, but he isn’t looking at the crowd, or at the high priest who keeps his slow song.
Hazel eyes lock with blue ones while blood drips over thighs. The gust of wind is still again.
The light changes, hitting the white marble and then the hazel eyes.
The mass sees the young man closing his eyes and falling over onto the ground, and one helping hand comes out from behind a column, at the base of the wooden basement.
The attendants shift the hesitant hand roughly.
At the base of the basement Ioan blinks.
There is no light, no flute, no drums. No smell of blood.
Suddenly, the young hilot turns on his heels, and starts to run into the still crowded square.
Away, only away.
On the other side of the agora another young man is taken away.
Only once in the upcoming darkness his eyes open, slowly.
But, not seeing what they want, they close soon after.

Far, far away, north from where the city stands and the stream whispers, into the highest temple, in the lowest chamber down the ground, the old woman averts her eyes from the smoke, looking into the sad black eyes of the bearded man.
-It is started. -
Hearing the solemn words of the priestess, the man slowly shakes and sighs, wearily, a sound as ancient as the world and turns, starting to walk, without a sound.
-Minosses-
At the sound of his name, the man stops dead in his tracks, without turning.
-He is born to be a sacrifice. Remember the world of Apollo. Remember why you have been with him.-
Again, the man nods, slowly, like he has all the weigh of the Earth over his shoulders, like he is Atlantes comes out from the ancient tales.
-True, Perialla… but don’t forgot… there are greatest forces than the God you worship… and at least one straightest archer. Remember Daphne.-
With no other sound, while the old woman scowls, the man walks away.

Snow falls.
A gush of wind comes inside the house, full of draughts: rough-placed stones which offer little shelter from the harshest days of winter.
Within the small room, the wind plays in the air, bringing around grey flocks of dust.
The light of the brazier in the main hall is too far away to light the darkness, but two hazel eyes search nonetheless in the cloudy sky.
Lying on his stomach, the young man has to risecarefully over the coarse wooden table which works as bed to look into the small window.
Grey.
He sighs, putting his blonde head over his hard hands, again.
He sees blue.
Blue like a pair of eyes that held him up, even when he just wants to fall.
Blue.
He turns his head slowly, careful about not messing the white, spotted with red, bandages which cover his back.
The snow keeps falling, and the city of Sparta looks white and asleep.
And still, he sees blue.

-Damn snow!-
The man’s cuss is the only sound in the hollow space of the mountain.
The air is still, giving the frosted landscape an impression of eternity.
The cold trees’ fingers touch the young man’s shoulders slightly while he passes through them, leaving tracks in the snow.
He sighs, his own breath becoming clouds in front of him.
Blue eyes search for something, a sign of life, in the dead Taygeto’s winter.
Nothing is in sight over the ice mantled mountains, white against the grey sky.
The man claps his hands together, searching for warmth and shivers at the too-sharp sound in the eerie silence.
He keeps walking, cursing slowly to hear something.
After a while he let out a heavy sigh, seeing a brown building over the white winter’s coat.
The man smiles warmly at the trail of smoke that rose from the hut’s roof, walking quicker than before.
-You shouldn’t be out, Ioan-
The young startles, turning abruptly, his breath caught in his throat.
The black-bearded man behind him smiles slowly, a spark of fun in his dark eyes.
-You make to much noise. Always. May be your name. Names have got power.-
The deep voice of the man sounds weird in the sharp winter’s day coldness, but the warmth in it causes the younger man to smile.
-Minosses, I was searching for you all the past moon! Where have you been? You always disappear without telling anyone…-
The black eyes of the older man look at the younger thoughtfully, his long cane, made smooth by years, rhythmically hits the ground behind the snow while he walks toward his hut.
-And you know, young man, that you must not ask about it-
Ioan sighs, entering the warm cabin behind his master, his faces lighting up when his eyes search, and find, all the familiar things: the cither, the sheep’ catguts, the herbs, the straw mattress, the stools next to the heart.
-So, Shout, what is the reason you are here for?-
The young man blushes while he closes the door, and he clears his throat. Little signs of embarrassment welcomed by a slight smile from the older man.
-Master, I just enjoy your company!-
A slow chuckle escapes the older man, who raises an eyebrow.
Ioan sighs, falling over a stool.
-I can’t bear my father all the winter without some free time.-
Minosses smiles, nodding slowly, sitting next to the boy and poking at the fire, quietly.
-You are at the right age to find yourself a woman, Ioan. You could start your own household.-
Black eyes follow wisely the young boy, turning soft and sad when he chews his lips.
-I… don’t think I ever will.-
Too lost in his own thoughts, the young man doesn’t see the change in his companion.
For some long minutes, both the men stay still, each lost in their own thoughts.
The older man hand caresses slightly a dried bunch of flowers, touching the six petals with care, not to ruin them.
Silently, he gives the flowers to the boy, a question, in his heart already answered, in his eyes.
The boy almost jumps over his stool, gazing over the little bunch his master is giving to him.
Hyacinths.
He looks almost sadly at them, grey now but originally of a deep red-violet color and nods softly.
-A beautiful tale… Hyacinth, loved by two gods…- The deep, exercises voice of the aedo rises in the little, warm world of the hut -But sad. It ends with death. Apollo couldn’t have him… And curse his own immortality when his young, beloved boy died. You can’t always have what you love-
Blue eyes flash at those words, but the young man attempts to speak are cut short by a weave of Minosses’ hand.
-I heard that Cleomenes wants to fight against Argo… again. I guess he can’t bear to have been defeated by a woman. Some malicious persons say that the true reason his that now Telesillas is dead and so she can’t beat him again…”-
After a second of indecision, the young man chuckles.
-I don’t see why we should care, Minosses. We are… serf. Nothing more, now. We had once been great but there are only the ruin over Hilotes to prove that… and I don’t think you are a hilot at all.-
The last words are spoken with wavering voice, but the only answer is a knowing smile, which creates wrinkles in the corner of the older man eyes.
-Well, young Shout, you are in age to be chosen as a servant for some Spartiates. And you know something about the art of Asclepios. You could be a useful one… if you got chosen by a Spartiate.-
The old man is watching attentively now and the sparks of hope in the blue’s eyes of the other man don’t pass unnoticed.
He sighs quietly, inside, hearing against words said by a wrinkled voice “And so… it starts”.
Only after a few second Ioan rushed voice penetrates the mist of his thoughts.
-…is dangerous this year. I heard that next one they killed half of Demarantos flock.-
The boy turns his dark heard towards Minosses, frowning.
-Minosses, are you listening? The krypteia might come near here this year!-
Still in another world, one of smoke and a hidden, oracle chamber, the man lets out a slow, rueful smile.
-You have got nothing to worry about. You won’t die by the hand of the krypteia.-
Minosses sees the eyebrow of his disciple turning in surprise and his smile grows even more rueful, his eyes turning towards the fire cracking next to them.
He is born to be a sacrifice
-Sometimes I wonder who you are Minosses… aside the last aedo. Listen, I might have nothing to worry but what about you? You are here all by yourself! You should come down, closer to me and my family…-
Again, the hand of the older man cuts his words short.
Minosses stands up, walking towards the door, opening it slightly.
-You should go. There is a storm coming-
Ioan looks at his master, slowly rising himself on his feet and nods, frowning, his eyes dancing between the man and the open door.
With a sigh, he starts to walk out.
Minosses doesn’t avert his black eyes from the boy’s back, until he is disappeared in the wood. And then still, for some times, he keeps staring at nothing.
He is born to be a sacrifice.

The snow is melting.
The natural grey of the city’s buildings, the muddy brown of the street, appear again.
The wind plays, still cold, with the hair of the man, who sits into the small chamber, entering by the various draughts in the stone wall, bringing smells of mud and thaw: the shy announcement of Spring.
Nine men are in the room, seven sitting on wooden stools, in circle, around a brazier which barely lights their stern features, other two stand up, helms over their face, looking like metallic stone into the fire which creates eerie reflections over their shining bronze armors.
The evening is over the proud city, darkening its still cold streets.
Low, deep, murmuring voice talks, the brazier their only witness.
-Yes, it is time to the Krypteia to take care of that hermit and everybody who gravitates next to him. It is dangerous. We can’t leave him unattended.-
One of the two armored men near the brazier speaks, as quiet as steel.
The others nod, and nobody sees the spark in the eyes of one of the standing men, a hand which clenches the spear a little more.
-The boys who will enter the krypteia have been chosen. Yet, there is another issue to discusses… fellows Ephores, Kings of Sparta, what to do with the young Tzalatton?-
It is one of the un-armed men who speak, now, and everybody else looks around, shiftily for one second. Just one, but it is enough.
The King who hasn’t yet spoken opens his mouth, slowly, and then clenches it again. Dark eyes look into the ones of the other armored man.
Finally, King Demarantos spoke.
-He can’t go into the krypteia. He isn’t a hoplite. He has given an amazing proof during the Artemis’ Feast, but he… he refused to have an Inspirer. How can a boy become a man without one? Remember Philippos of the Ippocrates… he strongly refused… so strongly that…-
The words hang in the air, heavy into the light, cold space, and some of those old, hard, war-used men look down.
-Ephores of Sparta, my fellow Kings… I have got an answer to our little trouble with that boy-
King Cleomenes waits till all the eyes are on him, before talking again.
-I am going to start my campaign against Argo. Let the boy to come with me as a scout. We will need one. He will take a hilot attendant and we will go.-
The Kings look at each other, while the Ephores do the same.
Everybody nods, and the Kings stand up.
-Very well, then. Adrasto, take care of it. It is time to go. May the Gods be with you-
The Kings nod their greeting, leaving with their guards.
One of the two armed guards looks for a second far, far away. Over the mountain.
Searching blue.

-I haven’t got the first clue to why that damned attendant wanted me! Me! I told him that my family had just me, fuck, my father and uncle are old, and I haven’t got any brother or sister for what that matters. But no, the asshole wanted Ioan, and Ioan only! Fuck!-
-Don’t tell me. I have got some brothers though. It is weird, usually the Spartiates don’t take away the only young man in a farm… they have to eat, after all, war or not war. Just if someone very important asked for you, because you are a good orderly you may be taken anyway. Sure nobody asked for you? No high-time Spartiate?-
-Fuck no! I have never been in a war! And I don’t want to, Gods above!-
-Shut up, Ioan! They are coming! Pray the gods we won’t be chosen!-
Both the young men stand still, in a line of other hilots like them, lowering their heads obediently while the Spartiate chosen for war look at them.
It is the first warm day of spring, and the wind plays with the Spartiates long hair, the sun shining brightly above.
Ioan’s eyes look at his feet, his sandals brushing the fresh grass slightly. He raises his head a little, looking at the mountain, searching his hut, his farm…
Yet, when the first Spartiates come close, the young man lifts his face a little, to look at them. Without armor, but with swords at their belt. He looks in awe while they move, in perfect synchrony, and his body shivers a little.
A poke in his ribcage makes him lower his dark head again.
He keeps still, while some men take hilots away from their family, maybe never to come back, the wind cold over his sweaty neck, counting nervously the grass threads.
Time goes on.
The wind is calmer now, and the sun lower. Carefully, the young man shifts his weight from one foot to the other, when…
-I want that one.-
The deep voice startles him, and the young man raises his head.
Blue meets hazel, again, and the hilot stays still, the world around suddenly immobile.

Adrasto looks down the hill, a bloodied figure in the dying light of sunset.
A slow smile creeps over his weathered face when he sees the blonde horseman collect the blue-eyed hilot and he nods, sighing.
After, he turns on his heels, walking away from the sunset, into his ancient, hollow home.

In the small hut, the fire is cracking, and it is the only sound.
The older man is watching, his mouth a thin line, while the young man packs his things.
Often, blue eyes peek towards him and busy hands still for a second, waiting… but it is a second, and they go back to their work.
The logs are barely embers when the young man straightens up, looking at his father.
-I have to go.-
Without a word, the man nods, bending to poke the fire.
-Say… say goodbye to mom and Uncle Stratarchos for me when they will be back from the upper pastures.-
Again, only a nod from the older man, who doesn’t look at his son, or so called man.
Slowly, the young man opens the door, to slam it furiously soon after, running down the mountain, past the clearing, into the wood, and past down, under the full moon watchful eye. He doesn’t notice the quiet beauty of the spring night, nor the first gems over the trees.
And he doesn’t notice the flash of moonlight against armor, or the slow sounds of young men who carefully march in the opposite direction.

Kuclonas: Twister… you remember this, don’t you? =P
The help his city gave to Athene: in the 510 BC a coalition of Spartans and Alcmeons, a smaller city’s citizens, chased away the tyrant Ippia from Athene. Adrasto was here... but he came home badly injured. 
Agorà: the square. It was the economic, religious and politic centre of the city.
Atlantes: a mythological giant which had the sky over his shoulder [literally].
Daphne: a myth involving Apollo… and another “deity” ;P No, I am not going to tell you what is it about. You have to found it by yourself if you really want! =P Yeah, I am evil.
Hyacinths: another flower with a story behind =) But Minosses tells us all is needed, doesn’t he? =D
“I heard… beat him again”: all true. In the 519 Sparta tried to submit Argo, but it didn’t succeed. The latin historic Macrobio says the reason of the Spartan’s defeat was the Argive’s women, lead by Telesillas.
Asclepios: son of Apollo [yes, Apollo is everywhere!] and god of Medicine.
Krypteia: sort of secret police made of the best of young Spartiates, in their 19 year. They made punitive expeditions towards hilots as a “rite of passage”
Inspire& “how… without one”: Inspirer was the traditional “name” of the man in the pederasty relationships used in ancient Sparta. It was considered a very, very important part of growing up. Since Ennis refused to have one [more in the next chapters] his passage from boyhood to manhood is in question.