The sun was setting, casting pink tendrils across the darkening sky. In the blissful balm of a late summer’s evening, guests had draped themselves across the palace grounds. Some were sprawled upon couches, the bright colours of the embroidered surfaces now paling into murky greys and browns. Others reclined on the grass itself, with the careless nonchalance of the wealthy, who will not have to scrub the stains from silk in the morning.
All were drunk from the steady flow of the finest Greek wine. They had eaten abundantly of the best of Athens’ produce, prepared by the most skilled of her cooks. Now their jewels glittered in the last ruddy rays of the fading sunlight, as their steady chatter rose to Olympus itself.
King Pandion looked out across his gathered guests and permitted himself a smile. His mood, so often grim from the heaviness of his crown, had been lifted by the luxury of the banquet and the many cups of wine that had drifted sweetly over his grape-stained lips. It had gone well, this evening of diplomacy and politics masked by feasting and decadence.
He glanced across the lawns to where his newest ally was lying full length on a couch, one leg bent up, the other lolling over the edge of the seat so that his toe grazed the grass. He looked like he might be very drunk, but something told Pandion that this boy never let his guard down, even for a moment.
It was still a little grating to the Athenian king that he, a seasoned warlord at thirty years old, was seeking the alliance of this child, Tereus, the fourteen-year-old who now ruled distant Thrace. He would have been more comfortable dealing with a regent or guardian, who would have shared his age and experience. Yet this boy-king was no puppet. Even as an adolescent, without the hint of a first beard, Tereus was a savage and bellicose ruler, who showed every sign of having inherited the skills and personality of his father, Ares. Tereus’ divine lineage was manifested in his arrogance, and he had shown no hint of deference in their dealings that day. Had Pandion been able to guarantee Athens’ victory over the ravaging forces of his Theban enemies without this ally, he would have dismissed the other king as a greedy upstart. But he was too wise a ruler to place his emotions above the safety of his kingdom.
And so, after a solid day of negotiation, Athens and Thrace now had an agreement drawn up, and Tereus would rally his troops to support Athens against Thebes, if and when the need arose. Pandion did not wholly trust Tereus, who had struck a hard bargain and might well be bought by the enemy if only they could offer a higher price. He could only hope that he had given enough. Gold, though he had pledged it in abundance, would not be sufficient, and eventually Pandion had conceded to engage his final weapon. His daughter Prokne, his only child and less than four years old, would be betrothed to Tereus. When she came of age, the Thracian king would return to claim her for his wife. Such was the price of friendship between kings.
Pandion had been trying hard not to think about his daughter. Being the father of a princess would always bring with it decisions like these. But he, for all his warrior nature and regal preoccupations, was besotted with his little girl. It was hard to imagine her in eleven or twelve years’ time, a grown woman, ready to be placed on a ship and sent away to become a queen in a foreign land. He felt a weight of sadness course over him, but he knew it would benefit nobody if he allowed remorse to enter his soul.
As he sat in the growing darkness, thinking of his child, with her golden curls and her bubbling toddler speak, his eyes were drawn to the girl’s mother, Zeuxippe, who sat on a throne not far away across the gardens. Even as the light faded, he could still make out her form, beautiful and haughty. She paid him no attention, holding court among those who sat at her feet. She always could attract a crowd.
Even as sunlight turned to moonlight, she was easy to notice: her dark nymph skin glistened with the pearlescence of her kind, as though it were brushed with the finest saline coating of the sea for which he knew she longed. Of all the nights in the palace, he knew that these were the ones she resented the least. While she had no interest whatsoever in their political significance, Pandion knew that his wife loved parties more than anything. These sorts of events, where she displayed herself in all her magnificence as queen, were the only small compensation she had for her ignominious marriage to a mortal.
It was certainly true that every eye had been drawn to her when she’d first appeared that evening, and indeed throughout the proceedings since. He contemplated her beauty from his seat in the shadows. She was certainly magnificent, and in that, at least, he’d been fortunate. Marrying for love had never been an option, and there was no love between them now, even after six years, but she served an important function in his court with her charm and famous beauty. He could not deny that he felt desire for her, since her body was lithe and alluring, and making love to her was far from a chore. She had, of course, also borne him a child, though only the one, and her a girl. Pandion longed for an heir, but their coupling was governed by his wife’s whims, and she had no wish for another pregnancy. On those rare occasions he was allowed access to her chamber, he often wondered whether she might be preventing conception with the small magic that nymphs have.
Pandion knew that he could force himself on her if he chose, and that such was his right as king and husband, but it was against his nature. He did not wish to inflict pain, nor extend the suffering he knew she endured away from her watery homeland. Nor could he bear her look of disdain to deepen further when she looked upon him. He already found it hard enough when she resonated with loathing at worst, or pity at best, as her eyes brushed over the face of her feeble husband.
The night wore on, and Pandion, who was a quiet sort, sat in the comfortable solitude that a king can only achieve at such a time. Nobody wished to approach and make casual conversation with the most powerful man present. He preferred it that way, especially after such a long day of talk. He watched Tereus and he watched Zeuxippe, and he was satisfied in his voyeurism.
As time passed, the guests started to slip away, the local lords and ladies to their homes, the visitors to their chambers in the palace. Zeuxippe was still surrounded by a band of young men and women, hanging on the fantastic stories she spun about her Nereid life, and doubtless transfixed, too, by the voluptuous lips that told them. The queen was confident in her beauty, and happy to use her desirability to her advantage. She was dressed tonight in a splendid gown – new, of course, as they seemed to be almost daily – which hugged her breasts closely, and draped luxuriantly over her limbs, while leaving a clear silhouette of the long slim legs beneath its folds. The green fabric shimmered, even in the faint moonlight, and in places it was almost sheer, revealing hints of the dark supple body beneath. Pandion knew what she could do with that body, if she chose, and those who gazed upon it imagined the same.
Pandion had seen Tereus, too, even in his youthfulness, devour Zeuxippe with his eyes when he first beheld her. He had seen the boy’s stare linger on his wife’s breasts, where they swayed above the low neckline of her dress, and slowly lower his gaze to undress her in his mind. Pandion sensed that this young man knew exactly what he was doing, as he subjected a wife to his lustful scrutiny before her husband’s very eyes. When he had finished staring, Tereus had licked his lips, and swivelled to glance at Pandion with a deliberate turn of his head. Pandion had tried to radiate confidence in his own virility, but knew that his anger had revealed itself on his face.
Tereus’ predatory looks had not been reserved for Zeuxippe, either. Pandion had watched him survey every woman who entered the party, from aristocrat to slave girl, as though ranking each in accordance with his desires. It unsettled Pandion, especially when he thought of Prokne, but he knew that many young kings would be the same, especially if a god’s fertile blood ran through their veins. He hoped that the same look had not been in his own eyes when he’d first been presented with his beautiful bride, but he could not be certain.
As the party drew to a natural end, the king looked over again at Tereus, and saw that the boy was now alone, still spread across the same expensive couch. Pandion wondered whether he should do the polite thing and go over to make conversation, but he was too tired and drunk to bother. To his relief, a moment or two later Tereus got to his feet, and Pandion concluded that he’d been right to think that the young man was not drunk at all. If he was, then he hid it well, for there was no unsteadiness to his walk as he prowled into the shadows and back towards the palace. Pandion seized the opportunity gladly, and slunk away to his bed.
Pandion had dismissed his attendants, so stripped off his own clothes and left them carelessly on the floor. It was a warm night, and the wine staved off the chill of the gentle breeze as it brushed past his naked body. He slept the deep yet restless sleep of the slightly drunk. Suddenly he awoke, and at first thought he’d been roused by his own snoring. Then he realized he was not alone. The glistening figure of Zeuxippe almost glowed through the darkness beside him. She rarely came to his bed, and her presence surprised him. She was kneeling on the mattress next to his prostrate form, her cool hands resting on the tender skin of his upper arms. He opened his eyes a little further, and looked into her calm, determined stare.
He began to speak, with the bleary tones of the half-slumbering, but she rested a slender finger on his lips and he fell silent. He merely watched as she slid her exquisite green gown over her head, revealing her tanned nakedness beneath. His breath caught in his throat, as it always did when he beheld her sleek body. You would not believe that this woman had birthed a child, for everything about her was still toned, her skin as smooth as a girl’s. She pulled him gently on to his back, and swung a long leg over him, one hand pressing palm-down on his chest.
For a horrible moment, he thought that his excess drinking might leave him flaccid and useless, but he need not have worried. A few strokes of Zeuxippe’s elegant fingers aroused him almost instantaneously. He wanted to kiss her, but she remained seated upright, her weight light on his muscular stomach. Her left hand kept him pushed away from her, while her right stretch behind her to ready him for her needs. It was clear that she had little interest in his pleasure, only her own. Nevertheless, when she slid him inside her and began to rock gently, then more and more aggressively, squeezing her knees into his sides and throwing back her head, it was still more than pleasing enough. He came inside her more quickly than either of them would have liked, but she said nothing. She merely rolled off him without a second glance, tugged her dress roughly over her, and slipped from the room. From start to finish, she hadn’t said a word. Pandion felt a deep sadness for a moment or two, then postcoital fatigue took hold, and sleep enveloped him again.
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