Chapter One

                                    

                                          
THE GODS HAD LOVED ME from the moment I came into existence.
As my royal mother was giving birth, the nymphs attending to my delivery let out a surprised shriek when I got out of the bloody womb. 
They held my scarlet-stained head not in disgust, but in awe; such perfectly sculpted features in a mere newborn infant could only be the consequence of divine blessing.
"Zeus be praised!", they cried loudly. "Zeus Epidotes!"
"Zeus be praised", my mother whispered, taking me in her arms for the first time.
The love of gods was evident at first sight.
They had blessed my dark baby locks with divine luminescence, gave my golden skin an ethereal sheen, colored my eyes the rarest of amethyst shades, such an exquisite color that they said it would herefrom be named hyacinthian.
I was the third of seven siblings. We were the children of Amyclas, the King of Sparta, son of its founder Lacedaemon, who in turn was sired by Zeus and the pleiad nymph Taygete. My mother was the princess of Aeolia, daughter of Lapithes, the son of Aeolus, the ruler of the winds.
Perhaps it was due to that heritage that I had always felt a connection to the air element as I grew up. To my siblings, it was a laughable matter, for all of them only equated fire with power, and all the other elements were deemed weak and mockable by them.
They made it a point to make me insecure about all the things I liked. In the family, I was the only one blessed by the gods for my beauty. 
My siblings had mousy, sparse strands sprouting on their head, contrasted by severe sharp brows and a particular cleft in the chin, common in the Laconian valley. Even my mother, a fresh-faced, freckled woman with the blazing red hair native to her homeland, couldn't compete against father's strong seed. 
If it weren't for the obvious handiwork of gods, my velvet-black curls and refined jaw would have been proof of adultery on her part.
Perhaps due to the fact I didn't look like him, or that I had a rather delicate constitution, or that the gods had blessed me not for warriorship, but for beauty, a gift he deemed girlish and unnecessary for true men, my father never quite loved me as much as my brothers. 
Even the overfat twins, Harpalus and Hegesandre, received more of his affections. He showered them with expensive presents and even more expensive foods that they viciously devoured.
I wasn't very troubled by his lack of amiability. The so-called love of my father would only be a burden. 
I would have to fulfill his expectations of strength and endurance, excel at wrestling, attend four-hour long swordship lessons, throw spears, swim fast, race even faster, and compete constantly with my older brothers, the heirs of the house.
Needless to say, if my father had chosen to make me train with them, every bone of mine would have been crushed. Even as children, Argalus and Cynortas were huge, as if borne by titans, not mortals; their only match was the other, for any other stood no chance.
Their only skill was combat; my only skill was watching them fight. The only sport I liked watching them do was archery. I loved seeing how the bow curved slightly, how the lean muscles of their instructor flexed as he pulled the arrow and made it fly through the air; but even that pleasure of mine was quickly put to an end.
My father considered a bow to be a weapon for those weak in the body and lacking a courageous heart. He would have rather died than touched it.
It is a sport for cowards, he said. 
Fit for women and eunuchs, he said.
My sons won't waste their time on archery, he said, and said the word "archery" with immense contempt.
I secretly hoped the gods, the gods who seemed to love me so much, would make him die. Make him be killed by an archer, preferably.
Perhaps it would be Artemis, I dreamed, firing the arrow, enraged by his constant denigration of women, moved by the curses of the slave girls forcibly taken by him.
Or Apollo, it could be. He would shoot him straight in the heart, for mocking the sacred art of bow and arrow, and the blood would run red and slimy down my father's cold, defined abdomen, the lifeless squares of muscle he prided himself so much on.
And then, other days, I felt quite neutral towards the man my father was, accepting him as a necessary circumstance in my child-life. Soon, I assured myself, I would be able to get out of his grasp. 
I wasn't needed anyway. All that mattered to him were his strong sons that could continue the family line and his royal daughters he could arrange marriages for.
He didn't care for his little sickly son, no matter how beautiful his face may be.
I could go to the mountains, I dreamed. I could climb the huge Mount Taygetus and build a hut at the peak. I could feel the breeze of the wind everyday, listen to it sing through the crowns of the pine trees, build a flute to try to imitate its music myself. I would descend to the banks of the Eurotas River to collect my water, and the nymphs would greet me warmly, and give me comfort in my solitude.
I could also go to the east, to Mount Parnon, and find a refuge in one of its numerous caves. Perhaps something extraordinary would await me there, a treasure of gold and jewels left by a passer-by. I could then cross the mountain and, after a long journey and my arrival to Athens, begin to live as a merchant, aquiring great wealth by selling goods. Folk would often come to my stand at the marketplace, and I would be known as a fair-faced merchant everyone admired.
So I dreamed, yet I knew that a long time would have to pass before I could accomplish any of it. 
Right then, I was just a small, frail boy, gifted with extraordinary beauty, but devoid of any courage in his weak child-heart.
I was the child the gods had blessed just to make a fool out of him.