Hephaistion’s age-mates spoke of desire like a
fever, or bemoaned the bee-sting darts of Eros’s arrows. But
longing wasn’t a bee sting for Hephaistion. It was Kharybdis, a
vortex with teeth, eating him alive. Or it roared at him like the
lions he’d heard the Persian kings fought, insistent and
reverberating. It called him to follow down subterranean
passageways, craving actions not approved of for well-bred boys.
He wanted things he shouldn’t want.
Like being fucked.
He’d told Alexandros why. It was a peculiar, inverted power: to
contain, to hold, to embrace. It had woken something in him he
could barely articulate. Yet that wasn’t the way he was supposed
to see it. He still wrestled with the variance. He wanted to
believe it resolved in his own mind, but it hadn’t been.
To add insult to injury, he fantasized about other activities he
shouldn’t crave and didn’t dare confess to Alexandros, whose
notion of love was all light and affection. Hephaistion basked in
that. The way his friend would smile at him—just him—fired his
soul, and when Alexandros threw a casual arm around his waist, as
if it was the most natural thing in the world, his blood sang.
When Alexandros kissed the nape of his neck, it resonated down his
spine like a small hammer to a bronze cauldron. Bing, bing, bing.
Pure. Pristine.
Yet what it stirred in Hephaistion wasn’t pristine, even while it
was soul-deep and talon-sunk and heavy in his groin. All his
daydreams involved Alexandros. His heart was constant, and
Alexandros owned it. Yet his emotions were primal, not polite and
genteel.
Ever since their conversation of two nights before, following his
competition in the Hetairadeia, he’d been mulling over sex and
love and the things he shouldn’t need, but did. Yet it wasn’t
purely philosophical. Pragmatic concerns worried him too: the
details they hadn’t known in Agriana, and hadn’t known they hadn’t
known until it had come down to it. Pictures on pottery weren’t
sufficient pedagogy. Unfortunately, Hephaistion had aged out of
the cohort he could ask such things of without shame, as it would
be obvious why he was asking. If not for himself, then for
Alexandros. At twenty-two and almost twenty, they both were too
old to be playing such a role, as least by common wisdom.
The afternoon following the strike force’s dawn parade at Dion,
Hephaistion blundered into somebody who might be able to help him.
Thettalos of Athenai.
He was astonished to see the actor in Makedonia after the shame
Philippos had inflicted on him earlier that spring. Spotting him
at a stall in the agorá, haggling with a merchant
over a hat, Hephaistion called out, “Thettalos!” as much in
surprise as to get his attention.
Turning, the actor raised both hands in theatric astonishment and
said something to the merchant before crossing to greet
Hephaistion. “Khairē, young Amyntoros! Congratulations on
your finish in Single Combat.”
“I didn’t win.”
“You showed yourself quite well, nonetheless.” If not as tall as
Hephaistion, Thettalos was still above average, but with a reedy
body and a head that somehow seemed too large for him. That slight
build worked well under the bulky robes and padding needed for
tragedy. Just now, his full mouth was pulled into a grin. “I
assume our handsome prince showered you with lauds and…other
prizes?”
“You’re shameless.”
Thettalos fluttered fingers. “Of course I am. Everybody loves me
for it.”
The assertion made Hephaistion laugh, because it was true.
Thettalos got away with saying all manner of outrageous things
simply because he was Thettalos, and people expected it. Yet his
outrageousness was rarely cruel, and Hephaistion appreciated his
honesty. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you here at all,
considering.” Hephaistion raised an eyebrow.
Thettalos shot him a side glance and indicated that they should
walk. “You’re a horseman, young Amyntoros. What is the saying?
When you fall off a horse…”
“…get back on it. Yes.”
“In truth, the king invited me.”
That stopped Hephaistion in his tracks. “He did?”
Pausing a few steps past him, Thettalos glanced back, grinning.
“He knows he reached too far, yet his message was for his son, not
me. He asked me to this Hetairideia, to perform at his
supper party tonight.” The royal symposion to honor the
officers leading the strike force. It was a singular honor for the
acting troupe.
“What are you performing?”
“The Bakkhai.”
Hephaistion snorted. “Did you choose that, or did the king?”
“I chose it.”
“And I assume you’ll take the god’s mask, not Pentheus’s?”
“Naturally.” Thettalos’s grin reminded Hephaistion a little of the
leering expression most often carved on Dionysos’s visage for that
play.
“You’d better hope Philippos has a good sense of humor.”
“Oh, he does, young Amyntoros. He most certainly does.”
“My name is Hephaistion, you know.”
“I’m well aware.” He started walking again. “Yet if I call you by
name, I might be tempted to poach on royal property.”
Not sure how to take that, and nervous, Hephaistion laughed.
“You really are most exquisite,” Thettalos continued, “but not my
boy to claim.”
Boy. Eromenos. Beloved.
The penetrated one.
Halting, Hephaistion jerked his head about to stare at Thettalos.
Could he somehow tell? Or had he just assumed that
Alexandros’s royal status would trump Hephaistion’s greater age?
And how did Hephaistion feel about that? If he’d talked himself
around to personal acceptance, Thettalos’s supposition still made
him flinch.
They walked in silence for several paces. Despite being so late in
the day, merchants remained at their stands as the agorá
burbled with festival tourists out hunting for trinkets or
remembrances before departing the city on the morrow. Thettalos
didn’t prompt Hephaistion, merely waited like a consummate hunter.
As much as he talked, silence didn’t seem to trouble him. Finally,
Hephaistion asked, “Why do you assume I’m his boy?”
“Aren’t you? He’s prince.”
And how did Hephaistion answer? It was the sort of query that
damned a man if he agreed, and damned him if he didn’t.
Thettalos let him sweat over it for another twenty paces before
saying, “You do realize I’d hardly look down on you for it.
Alexandros pursues, always has, from the time he could toddle. It
doesn’t matter if you’re older; he’s the scion of a king. And what
are we, you and I, beside that sort of radiance?”
If poetic, it was also true.
Thettalos wasn’t finished. “The sun, however, needs the blue bowl
of heaven to set it off. You are the bowl. Bowls are important or
supper spills.”
Hephaistion grinned. “Now you’re flattering me. And mixing your
metaphors.”
“Metaphors…pff. I’m telling you an important truth. ‘Boy’ is not
such a good term for the likes of us, eh, Hephaistion?”
Hephaistion glanced over at the straightforward use of his name.
“Neither is kinaidos.” He sneered at the ugly term.
Dancing boy. Effete. One who couldn’t control himself sexually.
The one who got fucked.
“Does that term alarm you? It doesn’t alarm me. I refuse to let
it. Men call me what they will, but none can match me onstage. I
am the best. They all acclaim me after a performance, so what do I
care of their opinions otherwise?”
His arrogance was as perfect as Alexandros’s, and as honest.
“Find what you excel at,” he went on. “Take pride in it, and don’t
let anyone spit on you if you don’t fit neatly into their
small-minded ideas of who or what a man should be.” He paused in
word and stride, looking off towards the upper town. “I wish
someone had told me that twenty years ago.”
“Thank you,” Hephaistion replied.
Thettalos looked back at him, grinning. “But of course.”
And that easily, Hephaistion relaxed, feeling accepted for the
first time. Even Alexandros didn’t truly understand, not at a deep
level. Hephaistion still needed to explain to him.
Justify. He didn’t need to explain anything to Thettalos.
“Can I ask you some questions?” He blurted it out before he lost
his nerve.
One of Thettalos’s fine brows lifted, then was joined by the
other. “Let me guess: these might be…uncomfortable questions?”
Hephaistion could feel the blood suffuse his cheeks.
In answer, Thettalos’s grin bloomed. “I love naughty
questions, young man. Ask away.”
“They’re not naughty. Just…practical.”
Thettalos only chuckled. “You are too sweet, and too naïve. I’m
teasing. Come.” Hand on Hephaistion’s upper arm, he steered him
over to an unoccupied wooden bench wedged between two open-air
stalls. The roar of the crowd would cover anything they said.
Now that it had come to it, Hephaistion wasn’t sure how to begin.
Perhaps guessing as much Thettalos nudged his foot. “Blunt is
best, you know. I swear by Zeus’s cock, I won’t so much as whisper
a word about this.”
Zeus’s cock. Thettalos would make such a vow. Hephaistion snorted.
“We tried him going inside me, but it didn’t work very well. I
don’t think we knew what we were doing.”
Thettalos didn’t answer for a long moment and Hephaistion
suspected that he’d surprised the actor. Yet hadn’t Thettalos
guessed him to be the receptive one?
Apparently, that wasn’t the surprise. “But didn’t you fuck him
when you were younger?”
The frankness stiffened Hephaistion’s spine. “He’s prince.
As you pointed out earlier.”
Thettalos fluttered fingers. “You’re telling me you’ve never gone
at it in the arse, you or him, until recently? Truly never?”
Thettalos seemed to be struggling to hide his astonishment, and
Hephaistion was sure his own face was scarlet, given how he was
sweating. Why did Thettalos find it so odd? And how did he reply?
“There were other things to do. That was enough.”
“Purists, the both of you! As bad as Platon. But I’m glad you’ve
outgrown it. So, in order to help, I need to know what went wrong,
and not because I’m a noisy nit—although I am.” He grinned. “But I
really can’t help you without some specifics.”
So, after a pause and some throat clearing, Hephaistion related in
general terms the problems in Agriana. Thettalos listened with
surprising patience and offered not a single jest, although he
easily could have. His quiet attention and a few judicious
inquiries made it easier for Hephaistion to be honest.
When he was done, Thettalos straightened and held up fingers,
counting off. “I have three important pieces of advice, young
Amyntoros. First, there is no such thing as too much oil. Second,
slow. Slower than what you think is slow, at least in the
beginning. Last, for this, spontaneity isn’t good, even if
spontaneity is how the first time usually happens.” He lowered his
hand. “This sort of sex requires preparation for it to be sublime.
And it can be sublime. You’ll see. Follow me.” He stood and headed
off, Hephaistion scrambling after and wondering where they were
going.
They wound up at a stall selling wineskins, which baffled
Hephaistion. Thettalos purchased a small one, which he handed over
as they walked away. “What does wine have to do with it?”
Hephaistion asked.
“Wine? Oa! Please don’t put wine in your arse, young man.
I doubt you’d like it much.”
“In my—”
“You fill that with water and some perfumed oil. That’s
why the spigot and the fact you can squeeze it. No more than an
hour or so before you plan to engage, you squirt the water in your
rectum and clean yourself out. Not poetic, no, not something bards
sing of, but perfectly practical, which is what you said you
wanted to know. Otherwise things after can be…stinky when you’re
shoving bolts. Even if you shat recently.” His eyebrows went up,
as if asking a question.
Hephaistion could feel his face aflame. “It was, a bit.” At the
time, they’d both been overwhelmed with other emotions, but odor
was hard to ignore.
“Cleanliness is divine, the Pythagoreans taught. Use the
waterskin. Now, a few other things you might need, but which won’t
be in the agorá. Are you up to a bit of slumming, my
aristocratic fellow?”
“I suppose?”
“Come along then.” And Thettalos led Hephaistion out into the
alleys around the market where perfume shops, barbers, tabernas,
and the occasional brothel could be found, a few with what
amounted to specialty stores. As boys, the Pages had joked about
going into them, daring each other. But when they had, they
weren’t experienced enough to know what they sought.
Thettalos was no ignorant youth. He swept into one that reeked of
acrid-sweet incense, demanding to look at their dildoes for men.
Hephaistion was mortified, but also insanely curious. While they
waited, he ran his gaze over the various goods for sale, all
apparently intended for sex. Aside from dildoes, there were linen
ties, duck-feather teasers, what looked like a leather riding
crop, and little brass rings in various sizes but all too small to
be bracelets. Of the latter, one was even decorated by a pair of
griffin heads with glass eyes. He almost asked Thettalos what on
earth it was used for, but the shop owner was back with a tray of
items. “All imported from Miletos!” He set the tray on a table and
cast a sidewise glance towards Hephaistion. “Would you both like a
room to try out your purchase?”
“Oh, he’s not mine,” Thettalos said with a flick of the hand but
not looking up from the collection. “He’s quite spoken for. And
please tell me these haven’t been tried out previously?”
“Of course not!” The owner affected horror.
“Wash it with vinegar in any case.” Thettalos spoke over his
shoulder. The shop owner struggled to appear unoffended as
Thettalos studied the leather phalloi on the little table. They
ranged in size and color, but didn’t look like the dildoes
elsewhere in the shop. These were shorter, curved, with a waist at
the bottom above a bronze disk with a leather tie. The actor
selected two—one a shocking bright red—and looked up. “How much?”
“I can pay,” Hephaistion said, but Thettalos waved him silent and
haggled over the price.
“We’ll need a bag of some sort,” he told the owner, who supplied
one made from cheap sackcloth for an extra three obols. This
relieved Hephaistion enormously; he could have explained away the
wineskin but not dildoes.
Outside, Thettalos handed over the bag.
“I’m not some widow. I don’t need a leathery slider,” he
protested.
Thettalos smiled with none of his usual impudence. “Those are not
meant for a woman. They’ll find that little spot inside your
arse.”
“Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do? And I hardly need two!”
Thettalos laughed. “Yes, you do. They’re not the same size. Men,
no less than women, have to grow used to it. Sex is hardly
pleasant at first for a young girl.”
“It isn’t? I thought women liked it.”
Thettalos pressed the back of one hand to his forehead. “Oimoi!”
Then he dropped the hand. “The body, whether a woman’s or a man’s,
has to adjust. That takes practice.” He pointed to the bag in
Hephaistion’s hands. “Before the two of you try again together,
teach your body at your own pace. Nobody to watch; nobody to
please. Smaller, then larger. That’s why two. Lots of oil. Lots
of oil. The curve should face your belly to hit that special spot.
It’ll take a bit for you to learn what your body likes, but once
you’ve spilt that way, you’ll never go back.” He winked, then
sobered.
“Being fucked shouldn’t hurt, Hephaistion. If it hurts,
something’s wrong. Once you’re ready to try again, talk to
him. Tell him when to go slow, or to stop altogether. Talking can
be difficult when you’re young and insecure, but it’s essential.”
Given the fire in his neck and ears, Hephaistion knew he was
blushing hard again, but appreciated Thettalos’s frankness. Oddly,
it felt less abrasive than if he’d been oblique. “Thank you. I
wasn’t aware of any of these things.”
“Of course you weren’t, because—oa!—young girls are taught
more of what to expect on their wedding night than boys who take a
lover, because they’re not supposed to allow such things even
while everybody does.” He eyed Hephaistion sidewise. “Well,
everybody but young idealistic fools who’ve had their heads
stuffed full of Platon. So, boys suffer in silence until they suss
out the details on their own, if they do.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. And I’m glad to share what I learned the hard way—the very
hard and thick way—so you don’t have to.”
Predictably, Hephaistion blushed again, but suspected Thettalos
said such things to make him feel less foolish. “I don’t think
it’s quite as bad in Makedonia,” he said. “I’m just old for it.”
“And that’s another problem. You’re not ‘old’ for it. You are who
you are, as is Alexandros. Convention isn’t reality, you know.”
“Thank you,” Hephaistion said again.
“My pleasure, young Amyntoros.” Thettalos sketched a perfect,
Asian bow. “And if you need further practical assistance, you know
whom to ask.”
“I’ll remember that.”
(Why this was cut:Despite some serious moments, this scene’s
overall tone is humorous, showing the normally self-possessed
Hephaistion to be naïve regarding some matters. Yet at this
point in the novel, as we barrel towards Philippos’s death, that
felt out-of-tune. Yet it’s a vital conversation for
Hephaistion’s later development in the series, and Thettalos
will become a recurring character. “Gnosis” means knowledge,
sometimes of an esoteric or mysteric nature.)