Leonidas sighed as he hefted his pack. The noonday sun seared the back of his neck as he trudged wearily home. As a soldier, one would assume he'd be used to the constant marching, but marching towards something was very different from marching away from it. Ever since he was a boy, he had always loved the thrill: the fire coursing through his veins when he marched towards battle. There was an ancient magic there, perhaps older than the gods themselves, the sensation of testing one's might against one's fellow man was something he simply could not describe.
Leonidas simply lived for the battle, for the fight. He lived for the moment he stared down his opponent on the battlefield and charged, heedless of death's hazy presence, of the danger he faced. He had enrolled as a hoplite as soon as he was allowed, the never-ending war against Sparta requiring a constant stream of young lives to feed the machine. Those in his platoon called him το δόρυ του Άρεως, "The Spear of Ares," and though they were brothers-in-arms, they knew well to stay out of his way when the heat of battle consumed him.
So yes, walking towards battle, he did eagerly, walking back was another matter. His lochos had fought well at Sphacteria, some of the best men he had known. Many Spartan hoplites had been captured or killed for the glory of the empire, and he knew he would return home a hero to be celebrated. But what was there to return to? His ailing mother had died during his last expedition, and his father on the field of battle when he was but a mere boy. Over the years, many of his friends and comrades-in-arms had begun to fade away, and few of his current compatriots were originally from Athens like him. And so he trudged back alone, resigned to the cheers from strangers he would receive at the inn, the empty praise of unfamiliar faces.
"What a dour man you have become," he thought as he passed through the city walls, the guards falling over themselves to let the Son of War return.
He plastered on a smile as he waved and nodded to those who noticed his arrival. Passersby and market-goers alike stopped to cheer or clap him on the back, praising the victory that the messengers had relayed the days before. As he walked past a brothel, the young women flocked to him, leaning forward suggestively as they eyed his well-muscled frame. Even in his stupor, he noticed one of them wrinkle her nose slightly as she approached, quick to mask it as she looked up at his face.
"Such professionalism," he thought as he politely waved them off. They had been beautiful women, all right, but lately, he had no taste for such delights of the flesh. It had been some time since he had lain with a woman, and he found that such urges didn't besiege him as they did in his youth. Perhaps they hadn't been sated by the lust of war instead?
"Gods, do I need a bath," he thought, looking down at the dirt coating his greaves. He recalled the wrinkled nose of the prostitute and smiled slightly. The thought of a pleasant soak and some good conversation at the local bathhouse lifted his spirits, and he altered his path to take him to one of the only spots in his city that still brought him joy.
The bathhouse was held in a large complex that also housed a gymnasium and a palaestra. The former provided areas for debate and a small library, but the latter was generally reserved for physical exercise such as wrestling and boxing. Between the two was the bathhouse, a space for like-minded men to gather after training and allow the sweet waters within to soothe them. He had spent many an afternoon with comrades, honing their skills and then discussing military strategy and philosophy as they bathed together afterward, the bond of their brotherhood strengthened as they shared in both the life of body and mind.
As he approached, he noticed a strange absence in the building, an eerie quiet that sat discordantly with his memories of fond and jovial chatter in these stone halls. He approached the clerk at the front door whose name he had forgotten and did not care to remember.
"Hail and well met, soldier. The bathhouse has been cleared since the most recent platoon just left. You should see some of the regulars here in the evening hours, but you have the place to yourself for now," the clerk said, barely looking up.
"Perhaps this is for the best," Leonidas thought as he brushed past him. A quiet afternoon would do good for his soul and would leave him ready for the empty chatter of the evening.
"Lysander!" called the clerk, still too engrossed in his scribblings to look up. "Attend to the soldier, will you? Give him a hero's welcome and all that."
Leonidas turned to see a figure he had not noticed leaning against a pillar. His breath caught slightly as he beheld a boy of such immaculate beauty that he felt the weariness of his journey begin to lift like a dove from a branch.
---
Lysander was a boy of 18 years. A man, though none who saw him would have thought to use that term. Instead of growing out of his boyish softness into the hard, firm lines of manhood, Lysander had grown only more delicate. His porcelain skin shone like polished marble, untouched by the brush of a painter. His brown curls framed a delicate face with plump lips and large, doe-like brown eyes. The slender grace of his body was so effeminate as to be shocking, each curve of his delicate limbs flowing like water. Barely having grown any taller since puberty, his slight frame only complemented his effeminate beauty. So demure was he that one hesitated to breathe too hard in his direction lest they shatter the fine lines of his body.
Lysander had come to accept his fate. He did not resent his physical form; he knew it to be a blessing, though he did not always feel it to be so. Never did he feel more small and delicate than when standing next to a colossus of a man like the one he now beheld. Seeming to be composed entirely of muscle, grime, and scars, the soldier in front of him looked as if he had stepped straight off the field of battle and into the bathhouse.
"I suppose he has," Lysander thought to himself as he hastened towards him, recalling the news of their victory in Sphacteria.
As he drew closer, he truly beheld the body of the man in front of him. It was as if he had been crafted by Ares himself to fight on the field of battle. Every inch of his body thrummed with power, a quiet, subtle strength that suffused his taut muscles and broad shoulders. His chiton, while loose-fitting, managed to strain against the muscles of his chest. Lysander found his gaze lingering over the man's arms. The throbbing bulge of his biceps shone like bronze in the noonday sun.
With a start, he realized he had been staring and snapped his head up, having to crane his neck to meet the eyes of this beast of a man who towered in front of him.
"P-p-please, sir, this way," he managed to choke out, desperately trying to fight down the blush that spread across his cheeks.
---
