She stood up and walked over to the Phrygian’s side. “The villa is big,” she commented. “It seems like it’s full of little passages, secret compartments, tunnels...”

“The palace in Gordion is a lot like that. It doesn’t have large gardens like these, but it has a number of large courtyards, and then a maze of chambers and passages connecting them,” Phobos wistfully commented. “As a young boy, I’d often escape from my lessons and go wandering. It felt like stepping into an unknown world.”

The topic animated Ophelia. “I loved exploring back at home,” she said. “The city I lived in, London, was full of little great secrets. You could get in all these abandoned places, discover the other side of the streets you walked every day. It made me feel at home, when I didn’t feel like I belonged.”

“Do you miss it?”

“London?” Ophelia cocked her head. “I miss some of the comforts of the life I had there… but I’d rather not go back. It didn’t want me there.”

“What about your friends? Your family?”

“I have none,” Ophelia smiled meekly. “I’m not that brave, you know?” she referenced an earlier conversation. “I just don’t have anything to lose.”

“I…” Phobos looked down, something haunting the back of his mind. When he spoke again, it was a doubtful whisper, as if he was afraid he’d admit something shameful. “Sometimes I wish I was someone else. Perhaps, if I’d been born a page boy, I wouldn’t have had to leave my country; I wouldn’t have made an enemy of my brother. And it’s not just him… there were people I considered family, friends, mentors who turned their backs on me when I protested the Elysian invasion. They said I was playing with fire, they told me I was endangering them. They said I was a madman. I… had to choose duty over them, choose the honour I’ve been taught to uphold. And the only reason for that was that I was a prince… perhaps, if I’d been a scribe or a blacksmith’s son, I could’ve chosen them instead.”

“If you… if you were to win the war, what would happen to them?”

Phobos closed his eyes. “Execution.”

“Can’t you imprison them?”

“Treason can only be paid one way. Although the same would be said for me; should I be apprehended, it’s my brother who will have to behead me to quench the Elysian’s thirst for blood.”

It made sense to think that it was the weight of his responsibilities that had frozen every fibre in the prince’s body with tension; even when casually sharing a peaceful moment, one could not shake off the sensation that something always had Phobos on edge.

Ophelia remembered her conversation with Hyperion, and decided to extend an offer. “Would you like me to help you?”

Phobos shot her a confused look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have these… strange abilities. I’m sure they’d be useful if you wanted to take the throne back by force.”

Something glassed over his eyes for a second before he looked away. Ophelia thought it looked like annoyance.

“If it were something that could be achieved by battles alone, I would’ve stormed in already. But even if I did, I have no allies outside of my own kingdom. The Elysians control the nations friendly to us, and everyone else just doesn’t see the point in supporting us at the moment. I could very well take the throne, and have to deal with a siege or a blockade.”

He turned to her, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I’d be no king if I let you fight my battles for me. You should enjoy peace, find your place here. Be happy. I’d not forgive myself if I were to drag you into this mess.”

Ophelia’s eyes turned sharp. “If I were a man, would your answer be different?”

Phobos’ eyes flickered again with that annoyance she’d seen earlier. Clearly, she’d hit the nail on the head. The prince sighed, and taking her by surprise, enveloped her in a hug.

“We are what we are,” he said, his head resting on top of hers. “And just like I can’t be a blacksmith’s son and act like one, I can’t have you do the duties of a man.”

“Have it your way, then,” Ophelia said bitterly, squirming away from his embrace. “Keep this delusion to yourself. If we are what we are, then it should bear remembering that I’m no Phrygian woman, but a Byzantine one.”

She turned away and went looking for the attendants. A silent Phobos followed her around as they sat down for dinner. It began as a tense affair, but comment by comment they wandered away from their argument, and let the matter rest. Ophelia put her annoyance somewhere in the back of her mind; more than anything, she was upset that Hyperion was right. Phobos was too set in his own ways; if she were to follow him, she knew that she’d have to fight for every right to do what she wanted to do. He was familiarly old-fashioned, and she had never had to deal with that sort of rigidity before. It had been long gone by the time she was born.

The next few days were spent as if nothing had happened; together they explored the villa in Hyperion’s absence, wandering about the buildings where they were permitted to wander, and enjoying the lush gardens the master of the house was so keen on. In the timeless, relaxed atmosphere it was easy to leave the real world behind the walls that surrounded the complex, and so they let themselves be carried away. They would take turns teaching each other games they’d played as children, using the gardens as a backdrop for different iterations of hide-and-seek and tag. When the servants around the property were properly coaxed, they’d join in (which allowed Ophelia to learn that world’s version of cops and robbers, something they called pigs and priests).

In her world, Ophelia thought, Phobos would be very much like the stock jock character of every high-school drama. He was athletic, but given his military training he was also good at forming and leading teams. When one of the servants proposed to play a ball game that apparently was very popular in that region, he quickly picked up the rules. He was competitive, more so than her, who just enjoyed the feeling of being part of a team. Those differences became more evident as the afternoon wore on; after her team’s fifth loss, he came up to her with a strange expression in his face.

“You seem to be really enjoying losing. Why is that?”

“Oh, I’m just enjoying the game, that’s all. Win or lose, it’s fun to play with so many people.”

That seemed like a foreign concept to him; he seemed ready to argue against it, but some of Ophelia’s team mates appeared to bring her some water. They were all very excited to talk to her: “it’s fun playing with you, even if this is the first time you’ve played this. You seem to be enjoying it so much, it makes me enjoy it as well!”

The games led to a particularly friendly atmosphere, which culminated in a peregrination to the servants’ quarters for food. It hadn’t been expected; for the servants themselves, used to the strict rules of a house where the absent master ran a tight ship through discipline, guests were to be served, not approached like equals. Even if there was no enmity between classes, they still existed: and those the master considered guests were not servants, and could not mingle with them.

But Ophelia’s friendliness and Phobos’ enthusiasm had put any concerns about propriety away for the moment. The latter was keen for a momentary respite from the weight on his shoulders, and the former wanted to experience what she’d never had. It felt almost dream-like to her, the eternal foreigner, to have one of those nights she’d only seen in movies, where she was part of something and laughed along strangers who looked at her like one of their own.

It also hadn’t escaped the servants’ notice that she had a gift with languages. They all brought forth different folk who spoke one tongue or another, and watched amazed as she was able to respond to all, engaging them in conversation like they were back in their own native lands. “You must be blessed,” said an old lady to her, “that you can speak to everyone as if you were their blood. You were meant to have a place anywhere in this world.”

As the moon began its descent, the merriness was slowly replaced by fatigue. As the mood died down and everyone migrated to their resting places, Ophelia found herself following Phobos back to the guest’s quarters. As they walked through a row of columns, the lush garden revealed itself to be particularly eerie at that time of the night. With no wind to tickle its leaves or cicadas to play their buzzing songs, it felt almost like it was holding its breath.

Phobos stopped behind her. Ophelia turned around, but she could not see much of his face. “Aristides should be back tomorrow,” he said. “Its my time to continue my journey, and meet with my people.”

She knew why everything was so silent then; it was time for them to say their goodbyes. “I don’t know what awaits me; I’ll either walk into glory or death. Either way, it’ll be a bloody, fiery path. I know what I said the other day hurt you… but it’s better if you hate me for it than if you end up trampled in the war path.”

Ophelia’s expression softened. “Even if we don’t see eye to eye, I won’t hate you,” she said. “You’re right that it’s not my fight to fight; but it could’ve been, if you wanted me to. That’s all.”

He took a step towards her, and she almost skipped a breath at how close they were. “You shouldn’t be so ready to follow someone into hell like this,” he said bitterly. “If you do this with a man, it could be misunderstood.”

“A man should not be so naive to think that everything a woman does is without desire,” she looked up. She could’ve sparked thunder from her hands and the result would’ve been the same: Phobos trembled, and almost fell back. In case he hadn’t got the hint, she reached out: a single hand looking for a cheek to rest on.

Feverish hands grabbed her shoulders, and she was pressed against the man’s body with a sense of urgency that made something spark inside of her. “I can’t be a Phrygian wife,” she murmured against his chest; “all I can give you is the little I know from my own world. But if you want to do good by me and pay me back, say goodbye to me like this.”

She felt two hands search for her face, and then the prince’s lips were on hers. It was a foreign sensation, one that she almost observed like a stranger forced to watch a movie of their own life: she’d given up on the idea that she would ever find companionship, but now that it was happening she felt strangely numb to it. Her body was in autopilot, enjoying the physical sensation but not feeling anything beyond that.

He pushed her against the nearest pillar, his mouth leaving a trace of kisses around her throat. She felt hands roaming around her legs, parting the fine cotton away from the skin with a delicacy that felt reverent, and very strange coming from a warrior like him. She could feel the texture of his callouses scratching the soft surface of her belly, and his heavy breathing ignited a desire for abandon that she had never felt before.

“If I say goodbye to you like this,” Phobos said, his low, husky voice against her ear. “Do not blame me when another man’s greetings make you yearn for this moment again.”

Ophelia laughed at the cheek, and let herself be carried away to his chambers. “I thought my request would disappoint you,” she said as she was being lowered onto his bed. He took his outer robe off, showing her the extent of the artwork that adorned his skin.

“Just because I don’t visit brothels doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it,” he answered. “I’m only disappointed it’s only now I get to do this...”

The night grew old before it was able to see them softly entwined around each other, asleep. By the time Ophelia awoke, the sun was already midway through the sky, and she was alone in the chambers.

“The guest left before the morning bell rang,” said one of the attendants, as she made her way back to the room she was supposed to be staying in. In her hands she carried a small wax tablet that had been left next to where the water jugs were; it had taken her some effort but she’d finally deciphered the elegant Akkadian, which read “I’ll look forward to the next time we say goodbye”.

Hyperion was either none the wiser as to what had transpired or chose not to comment on it. She had a full day to put her thoughts in order before the merchant called her for dinner the next evening, and they finally discussed the details of her employment. She couldn’t quite say that she felt like a schoolgirl yearning for her crush every time her eyes fell onto the tablet she kept next to her bed, but that her and Phobos had at one point been one filled her with a sense of contentment. It was almost like a rite of passage, something that now tied her to that world.

She now felt a sense of confidence in her own path; she was convinced that she could walk the actual roads under her feet, that they weren’t just the empty illusions of a dream. She had touched something real – Phobos’ passion- and now she was one of them, away from Byzantium.

-

“Why are they being like this?” murmured Hyperion in frustration one day, resting his face on the scrolls he’d been brought by Ulyx, his Arqan accountant. “Why is it that they retroactively want to apply this tax?”

“They most likely want to target the tin and lead merchants, since they’re all from Axum,” Eon replied. “After the queen decided to tax the Free Cities, they want to get some revenge.”

“But this affects all the products made of tin and lead as well…!”

It had been two weeks since Phobos’ departure, and Ophelia had slowly got used to the easy routine in Hyperion’s house. She was first and foremost a translator, but she carried out her duties the way that the Chaldean merchant instructed: with a dash of cunning, and in a way that wouldn’t make it immediately obvious how useful she was.

She also had begun to see another side to the man: although normally composed, he was also capable of anger and frustration, and it manifested in the most curious of ways. His beautiful features would turn almost dejected, closer to disappointment than anything else: the result was not intimidating or worrying, just incredibly cute.

“The delegate from the Council is here, master,” an attendant announced. Hyperion sighed, and made a gesture towards Ophelia. “He’ll enter through the western garden.”

“Who am I?”

“Hmm he doesn’t quite like us, so maybe pretend you’re an Arqa native who doesn’t like working here.”