It is the very earliest part of the morning in Athens. The sky is a dark, purplish hue, and the men are abed. This is not their time; their time is out in the bright sun where they can be on display for all to see. No, this time is for the women of Athens, slave-girl and aristocratic wife alike. They come to congregate around the wells, to whisper, giggle and gossip about the things their menfolk have done. To tell ghoulish tales of this long, drawn out war, and to ask after the babies who will grow up knowing nothing but the taste of fire and sword.

And here, we shall learn of the young boy Jongdae. Here, Aphrodite can lay the first seeds of dissent.

“Have you heard about Jongdae?” They twitter, much like the birds who will be waking the privileged men from their slumber. “They say he is the most beautiful boy in Athens – Adonis, alive again!” It’s all hype – but it is this exaggeration that makes it all so exciting, and heats the blood. The women do not know whether or not to be jealous of this gorgeous young man, the strange man-child who has captured the attentions of the rich, the influential.

Some of them, no doubt, are resigned to months of being ignored as their husbands chase after this new toy.

“Have you seen him?” They ask, intrigued, oh-so-curious. “Is he like Apollo in the flesh?” They wonder out loud, all the while staring out at their glittering, glittering city, full to the brim with representations of that which Athens loves most – her young men.

You cannot pass through the Agora without seeing a kouros everywhere you turn, a sparkling bronze idea of perfection. Blank eyes, glass-inlaid will stare back at them, painted irises will pretend to be alive. These are the crème-de-la-crème. The boys who will fight for Athens and bring back victory for demos-kratia, the people. And in all honesty, these are the men the women see the most. The dead ones. Not the ones who work out in the gymnasium, cocky and full of laughter – no, they are not there in the daylight to see them. They are sequestered away in their homes, weaving the robes that adorn the men who stride so confidently across the stoa and into the acropolis.

Perhaps they will choose a favourite statue, and decide that this is the stone form of Jongdae. It will probably be the most any of them ever see of him. He is not real to them; he is but a name, a name they cannot put to a face because they will never see him. All they will know of him is his kleos – his reputation.

“Who are his parents?” One woman asks. She is the richest among the unruly rabble of women this morning. To her, this is an important point. If he is low-born, then she can still have her sense of superiority. The women take what they can get. So often rendered redundant as their men run off into the arms of barbarian es or oil-slicked young men, they have only their rights as mothers and potential mothers to cling onto.

The rest of the women are silent. None of them know, not yet. But they promise to come the next morning with this special nugget of information. One of them has a husband who spends much time in the gymnasium, another who wanders the Agora. One way or another, they will find out.

They always do. They pride themselves on being as knowledgeable as they can be. Sooner or later, it will be useful.

Quite how it will become useful is not clear yet. But then, it is early days.