Lyn    

“We are going to the market,” Lyn announced to Antipater.

The old man responded with a singularly skeptical lift of his left brow — a gesture Lyn secretly envied for its finesse.

"Yes, yes," Lyn added with a touch of irritation. "You’ve always wanted me to appear respectable. Well, we're heading to negotiations, aren't we? And yes, you're coming too, my decrepit, senile friend. I need appropriate attire."

"You already have access to the entire wardrobe of the previous Archon of This World," Antipater replied, his tone sharp. "It has all been tailored to your measurements. You would know this if you had bothered to dress properly even once."

"But the issue isn't the measurements, fool. I'm not him, and I need to look as convincing as possible. My appearance could determine the fate of Bizanth, in case that hasn't dawned on you."

The old man hesitated, mulling over the matter.

"Write down your specifications for the fabric and sketch the design you want. It will be delivered to you today and sewn within days," Antipater finally relented. Then, after a pause, he added, "Provided, of course, it is not something offensive to the eyes of decent folk or the dignity of the state."

It was, Lyn thought, not a bad idea at all — to commission the Archon’s tailors to make him an outfit so indecent it would make the brothels of Mistress Ilithyia blush. Though stealing inspiration from a doddering old man lacked a certain elegance.

"I need the finest silk, from Suzhou, in the Empire of Chin," Lyn said. "And I need to see it with my own eyes. If you bring me a rag that makes me look like a pale rat, I’ll send you back to the market again and again. And you know how much a bolt of such silk costs, don’t you?"

Antipater chewed on his lip thoughtfully. 

"I’ll have to discuss this with the Council," he grumbled at last.

Since agreeing to attend negotiations with Arya, Lyn had indeed been granted more freedom — or rather, the appearance of freedom, as one Council member had pointed out. But even this was not a bad start. 

They passed bolts of fabric from Suzhou and Luoyang, flowing whites, silvers, and blacks as deep as the sins of the Great City; silks the color of sky, faded winter grass, or the pale green of budding spring leaves. Lyn rejected them all. He was waiting.

Or not so much waiting for something specific, as hoping. Hoping that the Archon of This World’s grand appearance at the market would attract enough gawkers to ensure that word reached the right people quickly.

Perhaps a message would find its way to him.

Indeed, when their procession — consisting of Lyn, Antipater, and five burly attendants tasked with holding a parasol over the Archon, carrying future purchases, as well as guarding Lyn and at the same time making sure he didn’t escape (though their primary purpose was to reinforce the image that no noble figure could appear in public with fewer than half a dozen slaves) — got caught in a throng of Mongols, a wiry boy a few years younger than Lyn jabbed him in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

"Ah, forgive me, noble lord," the boy rasped without meeting Lyn’s eyes. "Don’t be angry with your humble servant — tomorrow is my thirteenth birthday."

It could have been a coincidence, but as the boy spat out the line, he shot Lyn a quick, piercing glance — had he caught the meaning? — and, not showing the slightest surprise that the “noble lord” bears on his forehead the sign of the Archon of This World, disappeared through the crowd of Mongols with the agility of a fox.

Lyn’s heart pounded in his chest. Thirteenth birthday? He could only hope he’d understood correctly.

A few more stalls of fabric later, Lyn stopped in front of a cascade of crimson silk, pure and vibrant, a hue brimming with life. It was a red without the gaudy hints of pink or orange that plagued most marketplace offerings.

A few more stalls of fabric later, Lyn stopped in front of a cascade of scarlet silk, pure and noble, a hue brimming with life. It was a red without the gaudy hints of pink or orange that plagued most marketplace offerings.

It was, without doubt, a color that would make him look very much like a pale rat. But perhaps that was interesting in its own way.

There are two kinds of blood: one that flows slowly, dark and viscous, and another that bursts bright and pulsing from the body. If Empress Valeria's imperial purple had reminded him of the former, this scarlet silk perfectly mirrored the latter.

“I’ll take this one,” Lyn declared to Antipater. “And tomorrow, I want to spend the entire day day in the baths.” 

Oddly enough, the baths elicited fewer objections from Antipater. Perhaps he was relieved that his charge hadn’t tried to flee during their trip to the fabric market — or that Lyn had recently cut back on his drinking.

When Lyn specified that he wished to visit not just any baths, but the scandalous Xenon Thermae, where men and women bathed together, the old man’s lips twisted into a sneer of contempt. Even so, he said nothing, clearly expecting no better from a "saint from a brothel."

The Church had long waged war against such depravity, imposing separate bathing days for men and women in public baths. This had done nothing to curb impropriety — quite the opposite. What had once been places of leisurely indulgence, where people gathered for company, drinks, philosophical debates, or casual games of dice, had become sites of swift, singularly focused encounters.

Yet Xenon, whoever he was, seemed to wield enough influence to keep the Church’s scrutiny at bay. Ironically, the Xenon Thermae were now less debauched than most other baths in the city. Lyn’s foster mother, Mistress Ilithyia, had always insisted that the place retained some semblance of the noble spirit of "old Hellas."

***

His thirteenth birthday. 

It was on Lyn’s thirteenth birthday that he first set foot in Xenon’s baths.

Not long before, he had nearly quarreled with Ilithyia after questioning why she did what she did for a living. In Lyn’s opinion, a woman of her intelligence, education, and background —his adoptive mother— could surely find something more worthwhile than running lupanaria. Ilithyia hadn’t argued but had instead brought him here, to these baths.

Xenon's thermae were two stories tall: the pools on the ground floor were cold, while the water carried upward through pipes to the second floor emerged hot. Most visitors gathered upstairs, where the air was dim and rich with the bittersweet tang of herbs. Even through the rising steam, the place revealed itself as the work of a wealthy patron. The walls and vaulted ceilings were adorned with intricate mosaics, and statues of forbidden gods stood everywhere: Hermes in his winged sandals, wise Athena with her spear and helmet, Artemis with her bow, radiant Apollo smiling serenely. Even at thirteen, Lyn understood that these statues alone could get the bathhouse’s owner imprisoned.

"Did you know that these statues used to be painted?" Ilithyia asked him. "Now all that’s left of them are pale ghosts — just like the gods themselves. But once, they were vibrant with life and power."

She rinsed her long black hair with an herbal infusion, then passed the jug to Lyn. He began pouring the fragrant liquid over his head as Ilithyia continued:

"See how nearly all the gods are nude? In those days, no one found it shameful. The human body was revered as the pinnacle of art. They worshipped beauty and love."

A slave girl in a white chiton appeared and began drying Ilithyia’s hair and body. Eliphia moved with confidence, utterly unashamed of her nakedness, as though she herself were one of the statues of the ancient gods she spoke of.

"The hetaerae of those days were nothing like today’s whores, sprawled on filthy mattresses under sweaty, impotent men," Ilithyia said. "They were some of the most educated women of their time, versed in philosophy and the arts, poets in their own right, dancers, and musicians. They inspired sculptors and poets alike. And they didn’t always trade their bodies — they offered joy, solace, wise conversation. And beauty, of course... Life itself was a celebration of beauty and poetry in those days."

The slave girl draped a cloak over Ilithyia’s shoulders. Lyn noticed several men in the bath averting their eyes as the heavy, full breasts, flat belly and round hips disappeared beneath the fabric, their regret obvious. His adoptive mother always drew stares, though she seemed entirely uninterested in pleasing anyone. Unlike most women in the Great City, who protected their skin from the sun, painted their eyes and lips, gilded their hair with henna or lightened it with lemon juice — some even wore wigs — Ilithyia stood tall and statuesque, tanned and raven-haired, with no patience for artifice. She wore almost no jewelry and dressed simply, though always in fine fabrics that accentuated her natural grandeur.

"But when new gods replace the old," Ilithyia continued, "the old are always recast as embodiments of evil. This has happened before."

"I read about it in Heraclitus of Alexandria," Lyn replied. "Long ago, before the forbidden gods, people prayed to the Mother Goddess, who had three faces — wisdom, beauty, and fertility. Later, her image was distorted into something entirely opposite — she became Hecate, goddess of death, destruction, and madness."

Ilithyia nodded: 

“One must trample the old into the dirt to establish the new. People don’t know how to do otherwise... But gods are not just an abstraction. We find gods within ourselves. Gods are the whole way of life. In the old days, people were different... They had not yet lost half of themselves, had not cut off the connection with their heart and spirit.” 

"Mother, such beliefs..." Lyn muttered nervously, glancing around.

"Calm yourself. Churchmen don’t frequent these thermae. And I haven’t said anything forbidden. I’ve only spoken of the heart — of how people now rely solely on reason. They’ve grown small and calculating, creating a god who tallies sins and virtues like a merchant at the market. And instead of a world of true spirituality, they’ve made one where everything is bought and sold. There are no real thinkers or poets left. Look around you, Lyn, at the city we live in! They call it the Great City, the Eternal City, the heart of a vast empire. It holds more wealth, more opulent palaces, more treasures from across the world than anywhere else. Caravans arrive here from Chin, from the northern lands of Sigtuna and Aldeigja... And yet, how few theaters, libraries, or scholarly gatherings remain — places where people might freely share their ideas. And even those ideas are gone. The main entertainment is the hippodrome, where animals and slaves are slaughtered — and even that has somehow displeased the church lately. All the beauty and wisdom lie in the past, in the crumbling ruins of Athens, in Alexandria now overrun by Arabiyan invaders. And what surrounds us? Vulgarity and stupidity, oppressors and the oppressed… A tyrant, fawning bureaucrats, bloated churchmen. And even the oppressors are oppressed — there’s not one truly free soul in this empire. Everyone is enslaved: by cowardice, by greed, or by cruelty. Was it for these wretches, these dregs of humanity, that the poets, artists, and sculptors of old labored? Was it for them that the great philosophers gathered golden wisdom, piece by piece?"

Lyn listened in silence, absorbing Ilithyia's words. He had known of her views before, but he hadn’t realized — or hadn’t wanted to realize — how deeply she believed them. And she was right, he thought: vulgarity and stupidity, a world of merchants and slaves, a world worth nothing... And yet, he didn’t quite believe in the glorious ancient world she described either.

What he feared most was where she was leading. Ilithyia hadn’t brought him here, hadn’t said all this, for no reason.

"...We live in a warped reflection of the true world, the world as it should be," Ilithyia said, her voice heavy with sorrow. "We live in Hades, Lyn, without ever having died. The Great City — bah! Gather everyone this city has shackled, set them free, and they’d tear this city to the ground..."

Lyn’s fingers dug into the edge of the pool so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Mother... Tell me... Are you one of them? One of those…?” he said, almost in a whisper. “No, don't tell me. I don't want to know.”

“And if I said yes? What would you do? Kill me?” Ilithyia’s gaze was playful, challenging. She always looked at him that way, and Lyn often couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“How could you say that... Never!”

Ilithyia laughed softly. 

“What a joy! I'll remember this.” 

“I’ll never kill anyone. Even though I... I...” He helplessly touched his long bangs that stuck to his forehead, covering the sign of the Archon. “Not anyone… not ever.”