"My poor, dear boy," Ilithyia murmured. She lowered her voice despite her earlier claim that no churchman dared visit these baths. "I’ll be honest: I’d be happy to be one of them. But to become a shifter isn’t as simple as removing your chrismon. It takes a lifetime of learning, starting in childhood. Otherwise, it’s suicide. I’m just an ordinary woman. But can’t I dream? Dream that the wheel will turn, that the world will return to what it was. Everything changes, everything passes... As for your mark — I used to think it was some monstrous mistake, Lyn. Now I think it’s your trial. One thing I’m certain of: you cannot be a tool of this false, cruel God or this cursed nation. Fate brought us together for a reason. You and I are so alike. You could have been my own son. You think as I do; you share my dreams. You’re me, in miniature. Perhaps one day, you’ll achieve the goals I don’t have the strength to accomplish myself."

“I’d like nothing more than to make you proud,” Lyn said fervently. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you. I don’t know what’s expected of me, but I’m ready... No matter what...” 

Ilithyia’s eyes narrowed in amusement as she gently traced her finger from the bridge of his nose to its tip.

"Ready for what, my dear? You look pale as death. Did you think I brought you here to meet with conspirators and revolutionaries? Oh no." (Lyn flinched with relief — he had thought exactly that for a moment.) "I simply wanted you to glimpse, in these baths, a shadow of the world I dream of. To feel it for yourself... You asked me why I keep brothels, didn’t you? Well, here’s why," Ilithyia said. "The church fights against everything that remains of the old ways — against femininity, against wisdom, beauty, any joy in life. What they can’t destroy, they pervert. And physical love, once sacred, is now something base and shameful, reduced to what you find in a brothel. Yet places like my lupanaria — or these baths — are among the last where one can still feel a breath of that other world, the world of the ancient gods. The memory of feeling is stronger than anything else. Here, a person can feel free, like the gods of old — be Apollo, Heracles, or Ganymede."

Lyn nodded hesitantly but couldn’t fully agree. Perhaps the hetaerae of antiquity did inspire sculptors and poets, but in this distorted, broken world of theirs, one of Ilithyia’s own girls had hanged herself in the stables just a few days ago. Lyn couldn’t reconcile the contradiction; though he didn’t entirely understand why it unsettled him so much, he could feel its sharp edges. After all, he was only twelve — no, thirteen years old now. Or maybe he simply didn’t want to understand.

Ilithyia’s sharp eyes studied Lyn, her gaze sweeping him from head to toe.

"My dear, you’re nearly taller than I am already. You’re very handsome — you know that, don’t you? You’re not a child anymore. The maids have shown me your soiled sheets..."

"Mother, please, let’s not—" Lyn flushed scarlet, but Ilithyia silenced him with a raised hand.

"I know you’ve never lain with any of the slaves in our establishments, and I fully understand your distaste. But perhaps here, in these thermae, where everything is done willingly between free people, you’ll find yourself more inclined? I’ve noticed that girl often looks your way. And that man over there."

Lyn glanced at the girl Ilithyia meant. To call her a "girl" felt generous — her bold demeanor spoke otherwise. She wasn’t even wrapped in a bath cloak, unlike most of the visitors. Her hair was dyed a garish, unnatural red. Too much, far too loud. Then he stole a look at the man. He was well-built, with fine features, golden skin, and light brown curls that fell in waves over his shoulders. Attractive, to say the least. But Lyn disliked the way the man looked at him — with a lazy, self-assured hunger, like a gourmand inspecting a new dessert.

Lyn sighed.

"I don’t know, mother. I’m not feeling it. But it’s not as if I look down on physical love. Maybe next time. Or maybe I’m just too dull for your world of ancient gods..."

Deep down, Lyn knew Ilithyia was partly right: he was no longer a child, and he did want… something. But what exactly? If only it were so simple: one trip to a bathhouse or brothel, and you’d come out utterly transformed, renewed, and, of course, completely grown up, with all your internal contradictions neatly resolved. Naturally, all these conversations, these baths, these half-draped bodies warmed by steam — they stirred him. How could they not? But Lyn had been surrounded by bodies all his life. Too many bodies. And he’d long since realized that neither women nor slender boys like himself, nor even athletic men, held his interest… not in and of themselves.

Maybe he just had peculiar, complicated tastes? After all, Ilithyia’s establishments catered to patrons with every conceivable preference — from innocent games, like harnessing a girl as if she were a pony, to far more intricate indulgences involving whips or body-stretching hooks. But no, probably not. After hours spent checking and rechecking sums, tracking services and visits, all of it had lost its luster. It wasn’t exciting anymore; it was downright repellent.

After that conversation, Lyn visited Xenon’s baths a few more times — alone — but never acted on any of the opportunities around him. Something was missing. Something important. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that one’s first experience had to be extraordinary and love to the grave. But neither did he think it should be entirely trivial. It was a threshold, and Lyn didn’t want to cross it with just anyone. That was all. He sensed he risked losing more than he’d gain.

...And then the bird came, and Lyn appeared before the Red Emperor’s eyes, and there was no more time for exploring his own desires.

...Emperor Valerius was saying something about martial honor. About duty to the nation, heroism, loyalty to the crown.

Lyn couldn’t quite understand how anyone could take it seriously. If he were braver, he might have laughed in the Red Emperor’s face.

The monologue was abruptly interrupted when one of the Emperor’s advisors approached and whispered something in his ear.

“A brothel?” the Emperor repeated, then burst out laughing, slapping his thigh for emphasis. “And here I was, rambling on about military valor... Well, that simplifies things, boy. Just tell me what you want, and it’s yours. Your seat on the Council is already yours by right.”

And for a moment, Lyn genuinely considered the offer, but he couldn’t think of anything he wanted in exchange for killing a bunch of people. A bigger, prettier house than the one he and Ilithyia and the rest of the household lived in now? Sure, he dreamed of a house with a garden by the sea, preferably south of the aqueduct — land that was oh-so-expensive. And a library in that house. Books weren’t cheap either. Ilithyia would love a large library, and Lyn would, too. And, of course, they’d need something to live on if he could convince Ilithyia to sell her damned brothels.

But when he became a notary — and he fully intended to study criminal law — they’d have all of that anyway: the house, the garden. He was smart enough, and they’d scrape together the enrollment fee. Trading death for a library seemed absurd. And for anything grander… well, he just couldn’t imagine it. Palatial mansions? Gold-plated chariots with magnificent horses? A horde of servants? He must be a really dull person.

It wasn’t as though Lyn loved people — if anything, it was the opposite — but something about the math didn’t add up. Even knowing that saying “no” here might mean he wouldn’t leave this room alive didn’t help at all...  

*** 

Several years had passed, but the thermae of Xenon hadn’t changed. Steam still rose from the hot water pouring through elegant pipes shaped like dolphins and tritons. The statues of forbidden gods still gleamed pale in the dim light. Men and women still exchanged furtive glances.

Lyn arrived in a palanquin with no identifying markers. His childhood fringe was long gone, and before entering the baths, he wrapped his head in a scarf, hiding his forehead. Back at thirteen, no one had recognized Lyn’s face. Now, in Bizanth, he was well known — but perhaps in the dim light and the thick mist, no one would look too closely. Antipater hadn’t followed him into the baths but seemed pleased with Lyn’s attempt at anonymity: at least the Archon had the sense to visit such an ungodly and sinful place without drawing attention. (As if people didn’t gossip enough about Lyn already.) Or perhaps Antipater thought that his ward was finally showing some sense.

Or was he? Maybe Lyn had caught a glimpse of meaning in this whole diplomatic charade, which was why he hadn’t resisted the Council’s plans. For the first time in a long while, he had a chance to do something good.

He spent hours steaming on the second floor, swimming in the cold pools on the first, and lying on soft cushions while a servant massaged his back with warm stones. Just as he began to think the visit was pointless, a dark-haired woman sat beside him on the marble edge of a pool.

He’d imagined this meeting so many times, yet now he didn’t know what to say.

“Hello... mother,” he finally managed.

“That’s better,” Ilithyia replied, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement. “When I saw all those ‘my dear friend and mentor’ nonsense in your letters, I was beside myself.” 

His adoptive mother had changed as little as the baths of Xenon. Ilithyia must have been in her forties by now, but her figure, wrapped in a bathrobe, had lost none of its youthful grace. A few silver strands in her black hair only added to her elegance.

“So my letters reached you?” Lyn asked hesitantly.

“They did, but what good were they?” Ilithyia replied with a faint smile. “You wrote nothing but ‘I’m fine.’ But what really happened to you, my dear? It must have been hard on you, wasn’t it?”