Destroyer of Cities

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Stratokles the Athenian sat on an iron stool in his mistress’s receiving chamber, and crossed his legs comfortably.

‘Interesting times, Despoina,’ he said.

She was reading through her correspondence — he’d already read it, of course — and making notes. ‘Demetrios has taken Athens!’ she said. She snapped her fingers at a maid for more milk, and tapped her fingers impatiently until the maid had warmed the milk in a silver cup, mixed in honey and transferred the contents to a second cup, before presenting it with averted eyes.

Quietly, firmly, she spoke to her slave. ‘Listen, girl. I expect you to have this ready-mixed. Understand? Don’t wait for me to demand it. How long have you been with me?’ Amastris of Heraklea snapped her index finger against the maid’s forehead and the girl cried out. Then Amastris turned back to her Athenian. ‘Does this change your views on Antigonus One-Eye?’

Stratokles shrugged, wondering idly if, by comforting the slave-girl after his interview with her mistress, he might put himself between her legs. He allowed himself to catch her eyes, and she hesitated before looking away. Interesting. Slaves were always so lonely.

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