CHAPTER 1: The Secret
The peace is a lie.
Five years ago, we broke Athens and thought we had forged a new age with Spartan iron. But victory is a poison, slow and sweet. The gold and the whispers flow into our city now, and the old ways, the hard ways that built us, feel like a fading dream. My father’s Sparta was built on black broth and discipline. My Sparta is being built on the plunder of an empire we do not know how to rule.
I feel the fracture deep in my bones, a flaw in the granite of our state. From my position amongst the others, I look up from the valley, where the dust of the dromos rises. Here, us boys are being forged into men for a world that is changing. And up there, on the wild flanks of Taygetus, the man I once called brother—the best of our family, cast out for a moment’s weakness—lives in the shadows of the very mountain that defines us, a disappointment to not only me, but to our father as well.
399 BC.
The air in the gymnasium was thick with the scent of dust, hot skin, and olive oil. Most of us are still young, but I am now 18, and finally ready to be chosen. We are all a living frieze of potential, a new generation of Spartan bodies gleaming under the harsh sun. I stood among them, conscious of my own form—not the brute power some possessed, nor the height desired by many, but a long, fluid architecture of smooth golden muscle, a blend of a runner's grace and a climber's resilience, every contour defined, knowing the real prize was my mind.
I gazed up at the men looking down at us, watching us for signs of greatness, sizing us up for potential. And I was the center of their storm – the most prized young man to be the eromenos for a potential erastes: a prospective warrior to be trained by an honoured one; a student for a teacher; a boy for a man. I had the most potential to be claimed of the year. My lineage superseded my features, but my features solidified the claim.
The pursuit though, had already begun. Not in secret – I already had many suitors vying for my and my father’s attention. What no one else knew though was that I had already selected the man I wanted. In more ways than Sparta would allow.
I saw them all, the men who were there to claim their right, to become an erastes to a budding boy, to choose one who would do them the greatest honour. But I also knew of the true bond between a master and his student, a man and his boy. I had heard whispers of what it meant, and the duty you owed your erastes as he trained you to become a man. To give not only your body in training, but to submit in duty to satisfy your master’s needs. This was expected: not to be enjoyed by the eromenos, but to show you were his submissive boy, completely.
Among those trying to lay claim to me was a man I was known to and was known to me. He was a successful eromenos, now an honoured member of Sparta’s army, and one of impeccable insight. A pre-planned arrangement with him, led to a secret meeting, where I lost all inhibitions and not only agreed to become his eromenos when the time came, but lust took us both over and not only did I submit to him, I enjoyed every stolen moment and yearned for the next.
We had met where the olive groves whispered secrets to the slopes of Taygetus, far from the judging eyes of the city. When his large shadow fell over me, it did not feel like an eclipse, but like a shelter, that made me turn over my left shoulder to steal a glance at the man who asked to meet him secretly. His hands, which could splinter wood and shatter bone, cradled my chin with a tenderness that made my knees go weak. "Lysander," he breathed, and my name was a prayer on his lips, not a command. This was not yet the sanctioned, virtuous union of the erastes and eromenos. This was something forbidden, a truth we stole from the lies of our world. He stood half a foot taller than me, his shoulders wider than my already broad ones, making my heartbeat faster than I thought possible as he moved even closer behind me. Then his mouth found mine, not in a taking, but in a question. And my answer was a surrender that felt like victory. The hard, ridged plane of his stomach against my back, the corded strength of his arms around me—this was not the claiming of a mentor. This was the collision of two equals, two souls, desperate and hungry.
In the dark, in what would become our secret spot, we were not Spartans, though his rank and honour remained with her. We were simply two men, one older, one younger, and the passion that coiled in my belly was a fire that had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with a truth so terrifying and beautiful it could only be spoken here, in the sacred, stolen dark, with the taste of his skin on my tongue. I had thought my desire to be unacceptable, to fantasize about the touch of another man on my skin. To discover I was not alone, and that he felt the same, a man with such stature as he, would not only want to lay claim to me as his, but ache to be with me intimately broke my guilt and I found myself giving in easily to his needs.
In our earlier meetings, we planned to be teacher and student; we planned to be the acceptable, highly praised union of erastes and eromenos; we would be bonded publicly forever. And my duty as his eromenos would be honoured, giving us the ease to be together at last. But something in both of us seemed drawn closer that an erastes and his eromenos should be, even though I had heard of this forbidden notion. Duty was duty. The teacher was the taker; the student the receiver. There should be no pleasure. Just an honour to submit to your master, and let him use you for his needs.
My mouth twitched in remembering our first coupling, when we let the desire we both seemed to feel unleash, and he took me, right there in the olive grove, and sealed our union before it had been officially granted. Since that claiming of my virginity, I have wanted nothing else but this man.
Last night he delivered a poem, which was his right to lay claim. I memorized every line, every word, because I knew the deeper meaning now:
O Lysander, your limbs are not shaped by mortal hands,
But by the swift-flowing Eurotas itself,
Which polishes the pebbles to a gleam
And carves the reeds to straightness.
When you run, you scatter the morning mist
That clings to Taygetus' flanks;
Dust from the dromos rises like a prayer
To honor your fleeting feet.
I have seen the fierce wolf-cub on the mountain,
Its eyes still soft, its paws already vast.
I see that same fire, boy, behind your eyes—
A promise of the coming storm.
Do not grant your favors lightly, like a summer rain,
But hold fast like the oak on the rocky slope.
For my love is not a hunger for sweet fruit,
But a whetstone for the blade.
Tomorrow, when you stand oiled and gleaming in the sand,
And the sun makes a bronze god of you,
Remember it is my gaze that warms your skin,
And my shame if you should falter.
So strive, Lysander. Let them see the virtue
My eyes alone have witnessed in your soul.
Win, and the crown of wild olive is yours;
But your true prize is the honor you bestow on me.
And now I am ready to be his true prize, here today, in the dust of the arena with the sun beating down on my barely covered body.
My eyes flicked up to the line of older men, standing in a row, each one’s eyes seemed to be fixed on me as I stood glistening in the sun’s light, wearing only my simple cloth covering what the imagination tried to picture. Little did they know I was already chosen, to a man who promised to not only train my body and expand my mind, but who had already stolen my heart as well.
To my left down the line of men stood Pallas, a comrade of my father’s, and my beloved’s previous erastes. His body was a chronicle of past wars, a fortress of weathered oak and silvered scars. His shoulders were a massive example of power, his chest a broad, thick shield matted with coarse grey hair. He stood with the immovable gravity of a man who had never yielded in his 50 years on this earth, his gaze a cool, tactical assessment of my physical worth. A previous mentor to the most successful soldier of his decade – the man to be my erastes – Pallas was on the hunt for a replacement, to further his stature and produce another fine specimen for the Spartan army.
Beside Pallas was Damian, a predator in his prime only 10 years my senior. His physique was a dramatic anatomy chart of ambition—bulging, oil-sheened pectorals, a sharply chiseled abdomen, and biceps that swelled like knotted rope. A dark pelt of hair covered his torso, leading the eye down to his powerful, heavily-veined thighs. His very posture was a claim, his eyes devouring me as a prize to be won that made my stomach churn uneasily.
Then there was Kassander, equal to Damian’s age, a man whose beauty was almost poetic. His body was a symphony of harmonious proportions—sleek, defined muscles layered over a tall, graceful frame. His skin was smooth and unmarred, his features sharp, his every movement possessing an effortless, almost arrogant elegance. He watched me with the appraising eye of a collector, seeking the finest piece for his gallery, having just been released by his own erastes and ready to claim someone now as his eromenos.
And next to him, Brasidas, a wall of a man at almost 40 years of age, built not for speed but for sheer, unyielding force. His neck was as thick as my thigh, his chest a single, solid plate of muscle. His arms were heavy, tree-like limbs, and a dense, curly beard covered a jaw that looked hewn from stone. He was silent, his sheer physical mass a statement in itself, his small, keen eyes judging my durability. My family was no stranger to Brasidas, his presence still felt by all of my family despite his absence for these last few years, but still looking every bit a prime contender in any war. He eyed me like he already owned me.
But my world, my breath, my very pulse, narrowed to the one who stood apart at the end of the line, the man who used to be Pallas’ student, the greatest soldier of his generation, the man who had come to me with poems and demands to my father, the man I now met in secret, who had claimed my body and stolen my very heart already despite the laws.
Theron.
He was not a statue of perfection like Kassander, nor a monument of brute force like Brasidas. His was the functional, terrifying strength of the true hoplite. His shoulders were a seamless, powerful curve from neck to arm, sculpted by the aspis. His back was a complex landscape of interlocking muscle, capable of driving the phalanx. A light sweat highlighted the dense, rugged planes of his chest and the hard, corded ridges of his stomach. His legs were foundational pillars. At 30 years of age, he was in his prime, his body was a weapon, a tool, a testament. And his dark, unwavering eyes were not on my body, but fixed on my own, seeing past the flesh everyone else coveted and he had already claimed, reading the restless, brilliant, un-Spartan mind within. The others saw a vessel for their legacy, a trophy for their pride, a beautiful object to complete their collection. They offered a transaction—my beauty for their patronage.
But Theron… Theron offered a question. Will you be mine? And my soul screamed the answer.
It was not the chaste, virtuous bond of erastes and eromenos that Sparta wanted. We discovered we wanted more: a complete surrender to our needs. As his eromenos, I wanted to give him more than my duty; I wanted to give him my soul. I wanted his disciplined hands not just to train my body, but to unravel the very core of me. I wanted the weight of him to be the anchor for my restless spirit. I didn't want to be just his student: I wanted to be his sanctuary, his secret, his equal in a truth that defied all of Sparta's lies. To give him not just my body, but every hidden, desperate part of my soul, and in return, to be consumed by the fierce, silent fire of his.
I had been watching Theron for years. As I grew, he watched me in return, seeming to pick up on the brilliance of my mind that went beyond the status of my family. And my father knew that Theron choosing me would reestablish the pride of our family, since Alexandros was lost to us….
The first competition began. The dust of the dromos is hot in my lungs, a gritty taste that mixes with the iron of my own blood. I am all motion, a machine of flesh and will, each footfall a drumbeat against the hard-packed earth. But my mind is a separate thing, a bird soaring above the track. I feel the weight of their gazes—Pallas’s cool, analytical stare, Damian’s possessive, hungry one. They are patrons at a market, and I am the livestock on display. I push harder, my muscles screaming, not for victory’s hollow crown, but for a different prize entirely. My eyes scan the blur of faces at the turn, seeking one silhouette—the one that towers, calm and immovable as Taygetus itself. Let him be watching. Let Theron see past the sweat and the strain. Let him see the fire in me that has nothing to do with this race, and everything to do with the strength to endure it. For him, I would run until my heart burst, if only to earn that slow, considered nod of his.
After winning, my eyes lock on Theron’s at last, and I see a glimpse of a glint in his eye, and a twinge of a smile on his full lips. The rest all wanted to possess the perfect eromenos. I saw the singular question in Theron's gaze: He wondered if I was worth the beautiful, dangerous ruin a mind like mine could bring now that he had already claimed my body. And the desperate, hopeful answer rose from the depths of my being, a truth more sacred than any vow to the state: Take me. I am yours. Completely.
Theron didn’t move; he didn’t circle like the others. He stood apart, still as a deep pool, and his gaze…not on my physique or my technique, but on my face. And as I looked back into his golden flecked green eyes that even from this distance I could see clearly, I saw mirrored in his pupils the same look I was giving in return.
I broke the gaze, seeing the hulking Brasidas gaping at me, his full lips apart, as if recognition of what I was looking at had suddenly grasped him. I watched his mouth close, his jaw clenched so tight he looked angry. And then I watched his eyes narrow as he looked along my sightline to Theron, who still had the same damnable look I possessed moments earlier. A look that could bring shame to any house in Sparta if they only knew.
Brasidas turned back to me, with his hands curled into fists as the wrestling matches began. As sand floated through the humid air, I realized I had made a rival to my suitor unwillingly. Theron was oblivious to his gaze, which was a stark contrast to a possible declaration of war I was about to witness, as I easily maneuvered my opponent, winning the match in the fastest time with ease of grace.
It was in the silence after the last match that I felt the weight of Brasidas’ gaze. It was different from the others. Theron’s gaze was a question, a steady, burning curiosity about our potential future. Damian’s was a hunger. Pallas’s, a calculation.
But Brasidas’s… his felt like a verdict.
Men had encircled us, moving up to their prey quickly, attempting to ensnare their favourites. This was the final day, the final competitions on display, the moment of truth at the subsequent banquet. I turned, and he was there, closer than I had realized. A mountain of scarred muscle and silent fury, his shadow swallowing me whole. The air grew cold.
“You move like him,” Brasidas said, his voice a low rumble like stones grinding deep in the earth. “You have his grace.”
My blood went still. Him. He never said the name. He didn’t have to. The ghost of Alexandros, my perfect, dead brother, stood between us.
“But you lack his heart,” Brasidas continued, his eyes, like chips of flint, boring into me. “His was a Spartan heart. A warrior’s heart. Yours… yours is that of a scribe, trapped in a hoplite’s body.”
The insult was meant to wound, but it was the truth in it that stung. He saw me. He saw the part of me that recoiled from the mindless crush of the phalanx, the part that craved the elegance of a strategy.
“I am not my brother,” I said, the words tasting like defiance as my eyes searched for the one I wanted.
“No,” he agreed, and the word was heavy with contempt as he followed my wandering gaze to Theron. “You are his echo. A flawed one. One I must fix. Because his echoes belong to me.”
The claim landed not as a proposition, but as a final sentence. This was not about mentorship. This was about ownership. It was about a debt I had never incurred, owed to a man whose failure I had become.
My eyes had flickered, against my will, towards Theron. He was watching us, his sculpted body tense, a silent storm gathering in his eyes. He too saw the trap closing.
Brasidas’s gaze followed mine again, and a cruel, understanding smile touched his lips. “He cannot have you,” he said, his voice dropping so only I could hear. “He sees a spark he mistakes for a flame. He would let you burn unchecked. I…” He leaned in, his breath hot on my face. “I will beat that spark out on the anvil until only hardened steel remains. I will make you into what you should be to honour your brother, and who HE was meant to be. It is my right. It is my duty. I will not let another member of your family down!”
And in that moment, I understood the terrible truth. This was not a choice between suitors. It was a choice between two futures.
Theron offered me a world where my mind was a weapon to be wielded, and our partnership could be explored in pleasured bliss. He saw the fox and valued its cunning. He saw the desire buried within my body that he needed to claim again and again. And in the secret confines of our approved union, where it would be my DUTY to submit to him, we could shed the shame and be free.
But Brasidas… Brasidas offered only a forge. He saw the fox and vowed to hammer it into a wolf, to destroy every part of me that was not a perfect, mindless copy of the brother I could never be. He would expect me to submit and do my duty, but not for pleasure. He was to dominate and give, to penetrate and own. He didn’t want me. He wanted the ghost of my brother that he had lost, and he would break me to fit its shape. His desire for me was a perverse form of grief, a violent act of mourning.
The reality overwhelmed me in that moment as I understood what was transpiring. Instead of being revered and treasured by Theron as his chose eromenos, I was to be used and violated by Brasidas as my erastes, as if some debt needed to be paid.
I looked from his face, etched with bitter resolve, to Theron’s, alight with a forbidden, hopeful fire. I was a prize in a war I never asked to fight, a stand-in for a ghost, and the only path to my own heart seemed to lead through the ruin of a man still haunted by my brother’s memory.
Brasidas saw the understanding in my eyes. He gave a final, grim nod.
“The debt will be paid,” he said. Then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone, the weight of a dead man’s legacy and a living man’s obsession crushing me into the dust.
The war was over before the fight had even begun.
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