Life in Lord Kratos' villa was a study in contrasts. The work in the gardens, under the sun of Chalcidice, was physically lighter than in the mine, but demanded an attention to detail that was mentally exhausting.
Hermes spent his days pruning roses, cleaning fountains, and pulling weeds with robotic precision. The repetitive labor was a kind of dark meditation, a way to silence the ghosts of his past and the latent rage simmering beneath his skin. In that silence, he almost found peace.
He saw his companions from a distance. Theseus spent most of his time in the medical wing, a small, airy building at the back of the property, near the family's house. On the rare occasions Hermes saw him slowly walking through a courtyard, he noticed the change. Color was returning to his face, his cough was less frequent. Regular meals and the remedies of a slave-doctor were working.
Hope had become a real flame in Theseus' eyes—a flame fueled by the reverence he now felt for the "benevolent" Young Lord.
Agouri was a blur of energy. As the heir's personal attendant, he was always impeccably dressed, running through the corridors on errands, his face shining with pride and excitement.
"He asked me to read to him today!" Agouri whispered to Hermes one afternoon, finding him near the fountains. "A scroll about the Persian Wars! He said my voice is strong. And Theseus ate a full meal today! The Young Lord personally asked about him! Isn't that wonderful, Hermes?"
Hermes only stared at him, his expression empty. Agouri's naïve joy was like salt in his wounds. He didn't see the Young Lord's kindness—he saw only a spider's web, and they were dancing in it, convinced they were guests of honor. He walked away from the boy, seeking the silence of his tasks.
While filling a water jug in the servants' kitchen—a noisy, steamy place—he overheard two older women whispering as they peeled vegetables.
"The Lady is admiring her 'roses' again," one murmured, with a mocking smile that didn't reach her tired eyes, glancing out a window that faced the gardens.
The other woman let out a low, humorless laugh. "The 'white angel.' He thinks he's special. They all do, at first."
"I remember the last one," the first continued, her voice now a conspiratorial whisper. "The flute player from Phrygia. Beautiful hands he had. The Lady adored him. For an entire summer."
"A summer? The sculptor from Samos lasted only until the first winter moon," the second countered, in the tone of someone winning a bet. "The Lady said his chisel had become 'uninspired.' The Lord found some 'inspiration' for him at the bottom of the mine's pit."
The two exchanged a knowing look, a spark of dark pleasure on their faces. The first woman sighed, the sound falsely pious.
"We'll see how long this one lasts."
Hermes stood still for a moment, water overflowing from his jug. The words hung in the air, not as a mere memory, but as a sentence. He shut off the spout and walked away, the sound of their whispers fading behind him.
The hollow peace Hermes had built was broken, as he knew it would be.
......
Lady Kratos began making the gardens her preferred promenade. At first, they were "casual" encounters. She would watch him work from a distance, then approach under the pretext of admiring a flower.
"It takes delicate hands not to harm something so beautiful," she said one day, her perfectly manicured hand hovering near a gardenia Hermes had just cleaned. Her fingers then moved, brushing the back of his hand. The touch was as light as a moth's wing, yet Hermes recoiled as if burned.
He said nothing, simply returning to his work. His silence, his refusal to acknowledge her game, seemed to intrigue her—and subtly irritate her.
The situation escalated. One night, Philo summoned him. The Lady needed help moving a heavy cedar chest in her chambers. Hermes' stomach tightened. He knew it had nothing to do with a chest.
Her chambers were a sanctuary of luxury and perfume. Silks and velvets covered every surface, and the air was thick with the scent of myrrh and exotic oils. She awaited him, dressed in a fine silk tunic that barely concealed the curves of her body. She dismissed the other servants with a wave, leaving them alone.
"The chest," she said, pointing. "There."
Hermes moved the object with ease, the strength of a mine slave still present beneath his clean tunic. He placed it where she indicated and turned to leave.
"Wait." Her voice stopped him. "A job well done deserves a reward. Have a drink of wine with me."
On a nearby table, a wine amphora and two silver cups awaited. It was a staged scene.
"I don't drink, my Lady," he replied, his voice hoarse from disuse.
She laughed, a low, throaty sound. "A slave with preferences? How fascinating." She stepped closer, the fabric of her tunic rustling. "An intelligent slave, Hermes, learns to please his masters. He discovers that obedience can be very… rewarding. Better positions, better food, protection…" She stopped right in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body. "A foolish slave, on the other hand… learns what happens to beautiful things that serve no purpose. They break."
The threat hung in the air, sharp and clear. Hermes met her gaze, and for a moment, the divine fury he kept chained shone in his eyes. He said nothing. He simply gave a rigid bow and moved toward the door. His silent refusal was a greater insult than any word.
"Stop."
Her voice now carried no seduction. It was cold as the marble beneath his feet. He stopped with his hand on the door, his back to her.
"You are proud. But not unreachable." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was sweet poison. "You seem to care about your friends from the mine. The sick boy and his loud brother. What a pity."
Hermes stiffened.
"The health of one, the privileged position of the other… everything here is so… fragile." He could feel her smile in her words. "It all depends on my husband's goodwill, on my son's amusement. And on mine. And my goodwill… you seem determined to waste."
She let him absorb that. The trap was set.
"Return to your quarters, white angel. Think about my offer. Think about the purpose of a beautiful thing. And think about your friends."
He opened the door and left without looking back. The villa's immaculate corridors, bathed in the soft light of oil lamps, seemed to close in on him, suffocating. In the distance, he heard Agouri's carefree laughter coming from the Young Lord's wing—a sound that now rang like the clink of a chain. The image of Theseus, with a trace of health on his face, invaded his mind, the final link in the leash the Lady had just fastened around his neck.
She didn't just want his body; she wanted his soul. She wanted to break the spirit she saw in his eyes, wanted to see him bow. He, the Messenger of the Gods, the Traveler, was cornered.