The journey out of the mine was an ascent from hell to an unknown purgatory. The cargo cart that carried them rocked uncomfortably, but for Agouri and Theseus, it was like floating on a cloud. After months or years in perpetual darkness, sunlight was a forgotten god, painting the world in colors they barely remembered.
"Look, Theseus! The sea!" Agouri exclaimed, pointing with a trembling finger to the shimmering blue on the horizon. He turned to Hermes with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. "Can you believe this? Fresh air! We're going to have real beds! And the Young Lord will get a healer for you!"
Theseus, leaning against the corner of the cart, nodded, a faint but genuine smile on his pale lips. The cough still shook him, but his eyes—once clouded with despair—now held a glimmer of hope. The promise of care, the Young Lord's unexpected kindness, was a balm to his weary soul.
Hermes remained silent. He saw the same sea, the same blue sky, the same green hills of Chalcidice. But to him, the beauty was torture. Each glimpse of the world's vastness was a stab, a reminder of his lost freedom, of when he could cross such distances in the blink of an eye.
The salty breeze that lifted his companions' spirits only carried to him the echo of Seneca's words: "It's only a different cage." He looked at the hope in the boys' faces and saw only the naïveté of lambs being led to a better-decorated slaughterhouse.
After hours of travel, the villa's gates appeared. They were immense, made of dark wood reinforced with polished bronze. As they passed through, Agouri's jaw dropped. Theseus' eyes widened.
It was a paradise. A complex of white marble buildings connected by open courtyards, colonnades, and meticulously tended gardens. The soft sound of fountains filled the air, mingling with the scent of lavender and jasmine.
Colorful mosaics adorned the floors, depicting scenes of gods and heroes—an irony that burned in Hermes' chest. To him, this was no paradise. It was a vulgar, lifeless imitation of Olympus, a model built by mortals who did not understand true divinity.
They were met not by the Lord or his family, but by an older, tall, and slender man in an immaculate gray tunic, his face carved from stone. His eyes held neither cruelty nor kindness, only cold, absolute efficiency.
"I am Philo, the steward of this house," he announced, his voice as colorless as his tunic. "You have been chosen to serve. Forget the mine. Your old lives are over. Here, you will follow the rules—or you will wish for the simplicity of a whipping. Follow me."
His words poured cold water on Agouri's excitement. They were led through the dazzling courtyards to a more austere service area, though still infinitely cleaner than the mine. Their first destination was the baths.
The sensation of hot water was a shock. For Agouri and Theseus, it was an unimaginable luxury, and they laughed and played as they washed.
For Hermes, being stripped and scrubbed by other slaves was a new humiliation. His scars, once hidden beneath grime, were vividly exposed under the light.
The mark on his chest—the caduceus-shaped scar—seemed to pulse coldly when touched by water. He felt like an animal being cleaned, his history of pain catalogued by the curious and fearful eyes of the other servants.
Everything moved mechanically until one servant, an older man, approached with a sponge to wash his hair. The instant the man's hand neared his nape, Hermes recoiled sharply, almost violently, pressing his back to the cold wall of the tub.
"Don't touch my head," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. The servant froze, hand suspended midair, his face a mask of fear and confusion.
"I can do it myself," Hermes repeated firmly, taking the sponge from the man's trembling hand.
An awkward silence fell over the bathhouse. Theseus and Agouri, who had just been laughing and teasing each other, went quiet. The other servants' whispers also died.
......
After the bath, they were given simple tunics of raw linen. The clean fabric against their skin felt strange—vulnerable. Philo returned and inspected them with a critical eye.
"Your duties have been assigned." He consulted a tablet. "Theseus."
Theseus shrank under the steward's gaze.
"The Young Lord has ordered that you be taken to the medical wing. You will receive treatment for your illness." The confirmation of the promise made Theseus' face light up, and Agouri grinned openly at his brother.
"Agouri," Philo continued, "you have been assigned as the Young Lord's personal attendant. You will answer directly to him. Do not disappoint him. The consequences would be… severe."
Agouri nodded eagerly, his excitement outweighing any fear. To serve the man who had saved them? It was an honor.
"Hermes." Philo turned to him, his eyes lingering slightly longer. "You will tend the gardens of the west courtyard. Your job is to keep the place beautiful. However, the Lady has expressed interest in your… unique appearance. You will remain at her disposal. If she calls for you, at any hour, you will obey without question. Understood?"
Hermes only nodded, his stomach twisting. He was a tool for the garden—and an ornament for the Lady.
A servant led Theseus away, who looked back with gratitude and hope. Another beckoned to Agouri, who followed with a spring in his step, eager to meet his new, benevolent master.
Hermes was left with Philo, who led him in silence to the west courtyard gardens.
......
Theseus was taken far from the bustle of the service wing, down a white marble corridor that echoed with each hesitant step. The air was fresh and smelled of polished beeswax. It was the cleanest place he had ever seen in his life.
The servant stopped before a light wooden door and opened it. "The medical wing. The doctor awaits."
Theseus entered timidly. The room was small but incredibly airy, with a large window overlooking an inner garden. Sunlight bathed the space, illuminating wooden shelves lined with ceramic and glass jars, and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The scent of mint and chamomile replaced the dust and despair of the mine.
An older man, gray-haired and with hands stained by herbs, rose from a small bench. His clothes were those of a slave, but his eyes held the calm skill of a professional. He studied Theseus with a clinical yet gentle look.
"You must be Theseus. Sit here, please."
Theseus obeyed, sitting on the edge of a bed covered with clean linen. The softness of the fabric was a shock. The doctor examined him with a light touch, listening to his breathing with his ear against the boy's back and noting the pallor of his skin.
"The illness has been in your lungs a long time," the doctor said, voice low and tired. "But you are young. Strong. With the right treatment, your body can recover."
He turned to a small table, where a mortar and pestle rested. With precise movements, he ground some dark leaves and mixed them with hot liquid from a jar, creating a dark, aromatic tea.
"Drink this. All of it." He handed the cup to Theseus. Seeing hesitation in the boy's face, he added with a note of contained reverence, "It is a special order from the Young Lord. He selected these herbs himself. He said they would make you feel stronger."
Theseus took the cup in both hands, the warmth spreading into his cold fingers. He selected the herbs himself. The phrase echoed in his mind, a gesture of care so profound and unexpected it almost made him cry. He drank the bitter liquid, which to him tasted like pure hope.
"Rest now," the doctor said, indicating the bed.
Lying on that soft mattress, with the tea's warmth spreading through his body and the afternoon sun on his face, Theseus allowed himself—for the first time in years—to believe. Maybe things really would get better from here.
......
The servant guiding Agouri was an older man with stooped shoulders and a blank face. He led him through corridors that grew increasingly luxurious, their footsteps muffled by wool carpets. They stopped before a carved cedar door.
"The Young Lord's quarters," the servant whispered. "Keep your head down. Speak only when spoken to. And, for the gods' sake, do not anger him."
Agouri swallowed hard, nerves twisting his stomach, but he nodded. The servant knocked softly, and at the sound of a calm voice from within, opened the door and gestured for Agouri to enter before leaving and closing it behind him.
The room was larger than any space Agouri had ever seen. A gentle breeze from a vast balcony overlooking the sea stirred the white linen curtains. Scrolls of papyrus were stacked on low tables, a polished lyre rested in a corner, and the walls were adorned with maps of distant lands.
Near the balcony, with his back to him, stood the Young Lord. He gazed at the sea, the afternoon sunlight forming a halo around his hair. Agouri, remembering the warning, kept his head down and waited in silence, his heart pounding.
"Raise your face, boy."
The voice was calm and kind, without the commanding tone he expected. Hesitant, Agouri obeyed. The Young Lord regarded him with a gentle smile, his eyes filled with serene curiosity—not his mother's boredom or his father's hardness.
"Philo told me your name is Agouri. And that you have a… vibrant spirit." The Young Lord walked to a small table and picked a ripe fig from a silver bowl.
He approached and held the fruit out to Agouri. "I want you to be yourself. Your loyalty to your brother in the yard… such a pure and honest feeling. Something I haven't seen in a long time. I admire that."
Agouri took the fig, his trembling fingers brushing the noble's for an instant. He looked into the Young Lord's face, searching for any trace of mockery or deceit, but found nothing but apparent sincerity. This man did not see him as an "item," as his father saw Theseus. He saw him as a person.
A boy who had never had anything had just received the most precious gift: recognition.
"My lord…" he began, his voice hoarse. "I…"
"Just do your work well, Agouri. And be as loyal to me as you are to your brother. That's all I ask." The Young Lord smiled again and turned back to the sea. "Now, read to me. There's a scroll on the Persian Wars on that table. I want to hear a strong voice today."
Agouri stood still for a moment, the fig in his hand feeling like the most valuable treasure in the world. He felt like crying. Content. This wasn't a cage.
He had found a protector. A friend. With a radiant, sincere smile, he rushed to fetch the scroll, eager to serve, to please, to prove that the good man's trust would not be in vain.
......
The garden was breathtaking. Roses, lilies, and hibiscus grew in abundance, arranged in geometric patterns around a marble fountain depicting dancing nymphs. The work would be tedious but peaceful.
For a moment, alone among the flowers beneath the blue sky, Hermes felt the knot in his chest loosen—slightly.
The feeling didn't last.
The rustle of silk announced her arrival. Lady Kratos walked through the garden, her steps silent on the stone path. She did not look at him directly, preferring to admire a red rose.
"Beauty demands constant care," she said, her voice musical but with steel beneath. "Every petal, every leaf, must be perfect. The smallest imperfection ruins the whole."
At last, she turned, her blue eyes appraising him from head to toe, lingering on his white hair and face. Hermes stood still, head bowed as Philo had instructed.
"So, this is the white angel my dirty mines were hiding." She stepped closer, stopping only a few feet away. Her presence was overwhelming, laden with expensive perfume and the weight of absolute authority. "Raise your face, boy."
The command filled the silent garden like a sovereign decree, heavy in the air.
Slowly, Hermes lifted his gaze, his eyes meeting hers. He showed no fear, no defiance—only a deep emptiness.
An enigmatic smile touched the Lady's lips. "We'll see if you're as good at obeying as you are at being… decorative."
She turned and left with the same silent grace, leaving him alone with the scent of her passage and the sound of the fountain.