The boy in question – the near-adult at the centre of our story – is, at this moment in time, sat in the gymnasium. He has slogged through his workout – the muscles that Athens demands have been maintained. He catches his breath slowly as he sits on the steps, watching as the men he calls his friends scrape oil off their backs. They are cheerful; laughing. He has always been quieter than the rest, but today he dares not say anything.

Because today, Aphrodite stands in the corner of the room, a smirk on her face and her arms folded under ample s. He has no doubt that if the others could see her, their jaws would drop. For him, however, this is a regular occurrence. He has long been used to her appearance, and no longer believes (as he did when he was a child) that her beautiful visage belies a kind heart. He’s not that naïve.

He wishes she would disappear. He knows her presence can mean nothing good for him. Not when she’s smirking.

It irks him. He’s not overly modest, but he doesn’t want to begin the process of oiling himself up and scraping the dirt off while she watches. She’ll only leer at him suggestively, laugh when he catches himself with the scraper because he’s distracted. Once, she put her hand on his shoulder, giggling when he jumped five feet in the air in surprise.

A boy of his own age, one he is fairly close to, smiles at him. “Want me to scrape your back?” He offers. Jongdae nods, handing his scraper over to Kritias. He watches Aphrodite in the corner of his eye, shoulders tightening as her gaze follows the rippling back muscles of Sehun. He does not want her to corrupt his friends.

She waves at him, perfect lips stretching into a grin. Kritias, if he could see it, would call it a ‘-eating grin.’ It’s an apt title. Jongdae likes the idea. It’s wonderfully hubristic, is it not – the idea of the all-powerful gods being forced to be lower even than slaves?

Yes, Jongdae thinks. He would love that.

***

Aphrodite follows him, even as he leaves the gymnasium, out onto the winding grassy pathway. His lip curls in anger. All he wanted to do was rest for a little while with some relaxing conversation, joke, laugh. The philosopher Socrates is here today – Jongdae wants to see what is so fascinating about this satyr-sophist, what makes his words so compelling.

But she’s going to ruin that. Of course she is. She loves ruining other people’s fun.

The banks of the River Ilissos are used to the presence of so many young boys and the old philosopher. Socrates loves to get the young to think, to question everything they see around them. He wants them to question their beliefs, the way they live their lives. It’s his calling. And they – the young boys – are enthralled by the idea. It’s empowering, perhaps. They cannot fight – not yet, at least – and they can’t vote, up on the Pynx. Those things are still barred to them, even if only for a short while. And for the slightly older amongst them, the taste of democracy is still sweet, exciting.

Of course, some whisper that the old philosopher is senile and just wishes to lie amongst all of the pretty young boys in the sun. Jongdae has heard that opinion more than once. And yet, his friends deny this. They say he is enlightening, intriguing. Not as erudite, perhaps, as the men who call themselves orators, but all the more interesting for it.

And Jongdae – exhausted by the never-ending parade of gods in his life – wants to make sense of the world. He wants to see what can make life worthwhile. According to Socrates’ starry-eyed followers, their teacher can give him that.

So Jongdae settles down on the grassy banks, knees drawn up under his chin. He deliberately looks anywhere but Aphrodite, and waits for the philosopher to speak. At the moment, he is listening cheerfully as a man recounts the events of a night of drinking. There are a few guffaws and snorts, and the man is clapped on the back once or twice. He speaks of a courtesan from Boetia reverentially, and several of his companions chime in with compliments for her.

They are human, after all. Obsessed with the messy, dirty, delights of the body. Jongdae does not blame them. He would enjoy those kinds of things himself, if he were not so afraid of Eros’ arrows.

The words become a steady hum of conversation in the background. Jongdae lets his gaze wander, a little dazed after his workout. Last he checked, Aphrodite was behind him. There is nothing to fear from scanning the small crowd of Socrates’ admirers.

His eyes rest on one boy, not much older than himself, who sits near the back. Like Jongdae, he rests his chin on his knees, and nervously scans the crowd. He looks as if he feels he shouldn’t be here. Jongdae sympathises. He has felt the same sense of not belonging many times.

He’s good looking, he notices hazily. But then again, a lot of the boys of Athens are attractive. It’s what they’re bred for, really. This boy has distinctive eyes, however. They are almost perfect semi-circles, dark and – Jongdae guesses – penetrating. They’re the kind of eyes Jongdae would like to have. He thinks that if this boy were to glare, he’d look frightening.

Jongdae would like to be able to glare frighteningly. As it is, he looks too sweet to ever do such a thing.

He sighs.

Aphrodite watches him, her grin widening. Some days, everything is just so easy. She almost wants to thank Jongdae. He has just done her work for her, by noticing this attractive young man. He couldn’t have made a better choice. The boy isn’t even a full Athenian citizen – he’s only half. And even better is the fact that he’s a e.

She covers to hide her sniggers.

***

Yixing’s eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings. He is ever cautious; he needs to be, because a lot of his time is spent running away. He doesn’t think anyone will tell him to off today, but you can never be sure.

He’d really rather not be beaten for coming to listen to the philosopher. That would be too pathetic, even for him.

He sat apart from the others deliberately. Anything to keep attention away from him. He has even discarded the bright red cloak that signifies his profession. He snorts. Can one call being a for hire a profession? It’s the only one he’s got, after all. There’s not much else he’s good for. Besides, he was blessed with an attractive face. Why not use it?

It’s not exactly nice to spend his time with his mouth wrapped around some aging general’s , but you do what you need to eat. He is not one of Athens’ beloved boy-citizens. He’s the son of a slave and an aristocrat; he wasn’t guaranteed an illustrious future as spear-fodder from the moment of his birth. No. He leaves that to the arrogant, gleaming men who surround him on the grass.

It’s funny. He’s pretty sure he recognises the woman that one of the men is currently talking about. He wants to laugh. He knows she’s not really from Boetia. She just started telling people that to make her seem exotic. Yixing has never bothered with such trickery; he knows he is not exotic, so why should he pretend to be so?

are ten-a-penny in this city. If he goes around with delusions of grandeur, his customers will turn to more affordable alternatives. All Yixing has are skills of a ual nature – why play that up? They’ll pay for it anyway.

He wonders if his father realises he has an illegitimate son who is one of the most prolific of the city. He doubts it. From the tales his mother told him, his father spread it around. Maybe it’s in his blood, then, though where he got his preference for men, he’s not sure.

When is that stupidly rich boor going to stop talking? If he had the prestige that would allow him to do so, he would interrupt the stupid idiot and tell him to stop delaying what they’re really here for. Yixing wants to hear the philosopher’s wisdom, not the self-indulged monologue of a little rich boy with too much free time on his hands.

This city is nothing if not a contradiction. They speak of democracy – a voice for all – but they lie. It’s democracy for the chosen few; freedom of speech only for the male citizens above a certain age. Besides, most are only heard if they have the money; the money to buy the honeyed speeches of the merchant-orators who make persuasive words their livelihood.

Yixing is nothing in this imperialist state. He’s a cheap and that’s all he’ll ever be.

He can’t pretend that he does not dream of a higher status, however. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t dream of something more.

***

Jongdae thinks it is high time someone told that talkative idiot to shut up. He can feel the passive-aggressive resentment of this man rising. Some were interested in his exploits at the beginning of his speech, but now it is starting to grate. People who love the sound of their own voice irritate Jongdae; mostly because it is a trait of the gods. It’s also partially because he isn’t much of a speaker himself, and he has never understood people who are.

He rests his chin on his knees, glaring daggers at the man. When he scans the crowd again, he can see that the boy he noticed before has a similar expression of annoyance. Jongdae catches his attention, rolling his eyes in shared sympathy. The boy raises an eyebrow lazily.

Aphrodite sees her chance.

A quick snap of her fingers is enough to call Eros to her; her darling, darling boy is always ready to do his mother's bidding. Kept forever at the age at which boys are still their mother's creatures, he is her best gift. Her consolation prize, as it were. Perhaps this is why she has never admitted who his father is.

She must have some secrets, after all.

“Mama?” His angelic face veils a cunning heart. “You called?”

She smiles, reaching out to cradle his face with gentle fingers. “You know what to do, my darling,” she tells him. He grins back, reaching for an arrow. It gleams in his small hand, and as he notches it, she nods.

Her son's aim is always perfect.

The law that prevented those who were only half Athenian from being citizens was relatively new at this point in time.