Page 7 of The House of the Red Balconies

So far, Loukianos and his friends, with Hylas in their wake, had visited only three of the Jewels of Tykanos: the Sunset Palace, the largest of all the houses; the Bower of Suos, Loukianos’s favourite, where about half of the companions were boys and very young men, and the wine tasted like something that should be poured over cake; and the Amber Lily, Hylas’s least favourite, where the food was scanty and the poetry almost non-stop, which they had visited more than either of the others because one of Loukianos’s friends was in love with a woman there.

You didn’t pay for your drinks or your food at the tea houses; you just bought a stick of incense and settled in until it burned down and someone came to ask discreetly if you’d like to pay for another one. And, in fact, Hylas never paid for his own; Loukianos always paid for him, or rather added him to his tab, since the governor seemed to have an account running at all the houses they had visited. Hylas might have protested at this if he had been enjoying these evenings more. He felt guilty when he thought about all that money at the Temple of Amphiaraos, but a lifelong habit of frugality reminded him to be grateful he wasn’t having to spend whatever an evening at the tea houses cost—because the governor didn’t actually pay, he had no idea—every night of the week. And he wasn’t going to be paid three hundred nummoi every week, either; he’d realized that after the first week ended and no new bag of coins appeared. It must be a monthly salary, which was something of a relief.

The town itself was small, and all the permanent residents knew each other and were well informed on each other’s business. The fort, when fully garrisoned, housed a population larger than the town, of marines stationed on Tykanos and legionaries waiting to be sent on to other posts. The sailors themselves were another, ever-shifting population, and there were merchants who came and went regularly. And then there were people who came simply to visit, from Pheme and Boukos and Gylphos, because the tea houses of Tykanos, long a well-kept secret of the sailors and traders and marines, were beginning to be talked about in the cities. It was changing the island; everyone seemed to agree on that. Most people thought it was changing for the better.

“We used to get pirates,” Elpis said in the kitchen one morning. “I remember when we used to get pirates.”

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Dria pointed out. “It’s only two years since the Dodeki were put down.”

“Yes, but they weren’t coming as much even before that. I remember the days when somebody would spot a sail in the harbour and run through the streets yelling ‘Lock your doors!’”

A few of the people Hylas met seemed to think the change was for the worse.

“The threat of piracy was always greatly overstated,” the governor’s neighbour Timon said dismissively when someone brought it up one evening at the Amber Lily. “All kinds of ships dock in the harbour, and some of them may have been pirates in the past, but they weren’t doing any harm—they could hardly get up to much, with the naval presence on this island.”

“You liked the pirates because they were good for business,” another of the governor’s friends scoffed.

Timon didn’t try to deny it. He was a merchant whose shop specialized in selling expensive swords and armour to the marines and the soldiers at the fort. He had a contract to supply the navy with the bronze used to make the rams on warships.

“If you were to dredge up the wrecks of those Dodeki ships they sank in the harbour at Pheme, you’d find more than a few weapons from my shop—all paid for, I might add. But that’s not why I miss the pirates. The fact is, this town was livelier when it had a bit of an edge to it. Rawer. More real. Like a woman when she wants you but is also just a little afraid of you.”

“As if he has any idea what that’s like,” Loukianos whispered to Hylas.

He might not have, Hylas thought, but he liked the sound of it, and that was bad enough.

The part of the night Hylas enjoyed most was coming home. The Red Balconies would be lit up, appearing at its best, strange and off-limits and yet welcoming. He would slink in the doors, ignored by the mistress now, exchanging a courteous nod or a greeting with Ahmos, the bouncer, if he was on duty. There would be other familiar faces in the courtyard and the arcade as he passed through; he had met most of the companions during the day, in passing, and was known to them as “the aqueduct man,” so he would smile discreetly and return a wave or two.

There was Menthe, a young woman with wavy auburn hair and beautiful blue eyes; Pani, with black hair in ringlets and a Gylphian accent; and Theano, older than the others, pale-complexioned and black-haired and seemingly second in command to Mistress Aula. The kitchen day staff, who were the only ones Hylas had much conversation with, would be gone to bed long ago, in order to rise early and begin the next day’s baking.

He never exchanged smiles or greetings with Zo, although he saw him most nights. Zo seemed to have a devoted circle of admirers; Hylas spotted the same men with him more than once. Sometimes he would be with only one of them, or part of a larger group with many different companions and guests. He was always smiling when Hylas saw him at night, smiling or laughing or listening with rapt and pleasant attention to something one of his guests was saying. Hylas continued to find the whole idea of him frightening.

Zo played the flute, or some foreign instrument that resembled a flute and whose sound moved Hylas almost to tears the one time that he heard Zo playing in the courtyard. He dressed in long, enfolding robes and wore earrings and kohl around his eyes, much like the other companions. When he walked, he always leaned on someone; other times, Hylas would see him being carried by Ahmos or by one of his guests.

One night, Hylas returned home especially late from the Amber Lily, where he had listened uncomfortably to Loukianos’s friend trying to win a battle of wits against his beloved. The courtyard was mostly empty, and he had the idea of going to the kitchen to see if there were any leftovers that they might be willing to give him, as he was hungry. He returned to his room juggling a pitcher of wine and pieces of bread and cheese that had been pressed upon him by the night cook.

The door of Zo’s room opened as Hylas was trying to get his own door unlatched without setting down his burdens. A tall, dark-skinned man slipped out; Hylas recognized him as one of Zo’s regular guests. He turned in the doorway, and Hylas caught snatches of murmured speech against his will: “ … cruel that we must … ” “ … again as soon as … ” “ … exquisite … ” Gods, what was wrong with this damned door? He saw nothing of Zo except his delicate hands, which his departing lover was clasping. The latch of his door gave way finally and he all but fell inside.

Zo went upstairs himself in the morning to knock on Chrestos’s door. He was feeling good after his night with Djosi—not a given, by any means. Sometimes sex left him aching and unable to move the next day, even if it had been good in the moment. Sometimes it helped him relax, and this seemed to have been one of those times. He was debating whether Djosi would want to hear that or not—he didn’t know the man very well yet—as he climbed the stairs.

Chrestos had one of the rooms on the front of the house with a balcony, one of the famous formerly red balconies that the house was named after. The other balconies belonged to public sitting rooms and Mistress Aula’s own apartment, so it was a particular privilege for Chrestos to have one. It was on account of his loyal patron, of course.

Captain Themistokles himself answered the door when Zo knocked, looking pristine and military and not at all as if he had just rolled out of his boyfriend’s bed.

“Good morning,” he said. “Chrestos is not up yet. Would you like me to wake him?”

“No need. I just came to see if I could borrow back a razor I loaned him a while ago. It’s got a lily carved on the handle—I don’t suppose you’ve seen it?”

“Seen it—I used it this morning.” Themistokles rubbed his clean-shaven chin reflexively. “I’d no idea it was yours. Chrestos has had that for donkey’s ages.”

“Well, I don’t need it often.” Zo smiled wryly. None of the men from his homeland could grow much of a beard—and trying to follow Zashian fashions, they all tried.

“Must be nice,” Themistokles remarked. “Let me get you the razor and sharpen it for you.”

Zo lounged in the doorway while Chrestos’s patron fetched the razor and gave it a few strokes on a whetstone which he for some reason had with him. All the while Chrestos slept, or pretended to sleep; Zo could see his shape under the blankets beyond a half-drawn curtain over the sleeping alcove at the side of the room. As he was leaving, he heard Themistokles’s loud voice from the alcove: “Come on, stir yourself! We’re going shopping, I’m going to buy you a razor.”

There was no denying that Zo envied Chrestos. What would it be like to have a patron like that, so straightforwardly a part of your life that he answered your door while you were asleep and treated your things like his own? Though perhaps Themistokles thought of Chrestos’s things as his own because he paid for them. He might think of Chrestos as his property too, and that would be less pleasant. He was a good man—Zo had never heard anything to the contrary—but one still didn’t want to feel owned.

On his way down the stairs back to his room, he heard voices below. Taris was gossiping with someone in the anteroom outside Zo’s door, and Zo had a pretty good idea who it must be. Why would she have been in that corner of the house except to see him or his neighbour? He stopped on the stairs, silent out of old habit, to hear what she was saying.