Chapter Text
At the height of the notorious Peloponnesian War, anything is bound to happen. Whether it be the Athenian General’s firstborn son wasting away his days with his closest comrade, uncaring of the war around them; the Spartan Prince causing disputes within the nobility of Sparta due to his desire to lead their soldiers into war; or an unforeseen romance between both parties, only ending in tragedy.
It is Athens, 431 BCE, and George, Eupatridae and firstborn of almighty Athenian General Alcibiades, is lounging on a kline in his family’s abode, alongside his friend Karl, firstborn of Pericles. Unneeding to participate in the military or fight in the war, as they were descendants of Athens’ finest warriors, they lived the ideal life of many Greeks; spending their lives sipping only the most delicious wines, while adorned in jewels and silks.
“I must say,” George begins, twisting a ripe fig between his slender fingers, “This war is so utterly foolish, and those wretched Spartan Kings are so, very brainless.” He speaks to his friend, popping the fresh fruit into his mouth, feeling it erupt in sweetness.
Karl considers this as he reaches for a cluster of grapes. “I agree. The war of 460 was solely begun because of the Spartan Kings’ selfishness, and due to the fact that Athens was slowly gaining even more power and influence. If you question me, that is not necessarily a bad thing, and Archidamus and Pausanias are merely projecting their insecurities onto us and this despairing war.”
George hastily nods, swallowing the fruit, unneeding to spit out its seed, for it was removed prior to its delivery to the two men. “They were apprehensive at the idea that Greece might begin seeing less of them, and more of Athens. Sparta, after all, has no care for its culture and people. They direct their entire attention onto military teaching, and fighting.”
“Like the Spartan Princes.” Karl immediately quips, extracting a laugh from the both of them. It was true, nonetheless. The Spartan Princes, or Sparta’s golden boys, were known for their skill in battle, for they were trained by the finest warriors from birth. Archidamus’ son being exceedingly calculating with his technique, while Pausanias' was seemingly more aggressive with his tactics.
George snorts, “If not for their beauty, they would be perceived as disturbingly arrogant.” Once more, he was correct, the Princes were often compared to the beloved Helen of Troy in terms of pleasingness, and Achilles with regard to talent. Despite having no way to physically see the men, there have been rumours and tales of it.
“Is that so?” Karl starts, tease lacing his words. “Do share, Georgie. Amongst the two, who do you believe to be more striking?” He is leaning on his palm now, elbow elevated, and resting on the wide glass table sitting in between the two upholstered klines.
George turns forward, gazing at the setting sun from in the middle of large, white pillars. “Karl, you know there are people who would not be pleased if they were to hear of such conversations. It would damage my family’s name.” It was common in Greece for many boys to wish and take each other for lovers, although a small number of people deemed it unnatural, for they were not able to have children. They claimed that those desires would fade away as they matured, but it was undeniably incorrect. An instance of this being George and Karl, no longer boys.
The men of the wealthy and renowned House of Alcmaeonidae from the deme of Scambonidae were known for taking extraordinary women as wives— whether they be beautiful or godspawn. And as George was not so keen on being a disgrace, he strived to maintain the family tradition, and to uphold their reputation (despite his distaste towards marrying a woman).
“So you admit you do deem one more captivating than the other?” Karl proceeds, a cat’s smile on his face. Throughout the period since George had confided in him to keep his sexuality predicament secret, Karl has leapt at every chance to tease him of it. He kept it confidential naturally, although it was fun to see George’s reaction. Karl confided in George as well, days after.
George lifts his goblet full of costly sweetened wine, standing from his seat to retire to his bedchambers. “It is nearly dinner. I assume I will see you then?” He pauses for Karl’s curt nod, before strolling out, sipping the alcohol.
The walls are dimly lit with terracotta lamps and torches, allowing George to distinguish the famed tapestries decorating the walls of his family’s large manor, outwardly larger than any Athenian parthenon. The scent of sandalwood and native herbs fill his senses, he assumes it was the doing of serving girls, following his mother’s orders.
He reaches the dining hall within the next few seconds, wincing at the boisterous cheers of high-ranking soldiers, the clash of goblets against one another following immediately after. He enters, finding his seat to the right of his father, and not sparing anyone a glance. He notices Karl’s shrinking form situated at his own father’s left, before his view is promptly obscured by Alcibiades and Pericles’ large and now-rising bodies.
“Warriors of Athens!” Alcibiades’ thunderous voice fills the hall, lowering the hollers into silence. He was always superior at speaking between the two generals. Pericles was more fit for hushed strategies in dingy rooms. “I believe congratulations are in order, for we, brave men of our wonderful city, have successfully invaded and conquered Megara!”
The shouts of joy resume, enliving and elating the already-joyous room. George faintly recalls this— his father, speaking to him of their plan about an invasion of Megara over a family luncheon, much to his displeasure. It would be done as Sparta prepares for war, in order for them to gain more territory. He and his mother feigned interest, of course, nodding from time to time, as they brought spiced meats to their mouths.
“Son,” George’s father begins, reeling him out of his thoughts, “What are your thoughts towards our latest victory?” George waits for the malice to appear in his voice, the mockery, for Alcibiades knew his son had absolutely no care for the war and of his doings; although there is none.
George nods politely, “I believe you and your soldiers deserve the success.” He sees his father smile, the knowledge that they cared for each other, despite their differences, evident in his mind. “I extend many congratulations to you and your men.” Alcibiades thanks him, before turning to converse with another man.
George hums to himself, lifting a priceless goblet of fresh wine to his lips. He sips, and as he does his utmost best to not eavesdrop on his father’s conversation, he cannot help but hear some certain words slip out. They speak of one of the Spartan Princes, King Archidamus’ first born. They tell tales to one another about how there is conflict within the nobility of Sparta, all caused by the Prince himself.
“He wishes to lead the Spartan forces,” A lieutenant general says with a wicked grin on his face. They all have similar assumptions— despite having knowledge of the rumours regarding the Prince’s skill, there is absolutely no possible way he is aware of how to lead an empire. The complications he must go through, and controlling each and every Spartan soldier? That was unheard of; the only known man to lead an army to victory at the age of sixteen was Achilles, and he was god born. What could Archidamus' son possibly do?
The upper-ranking Athenian men share a similar glance. Victory will come soon, they believe, and they can almost taste it.
George thinks it will be only a matter of time before a new war will occur. There have been rumours from both Athens and Sparta, regarding the return of the Delian League and the Peloponnesian League— two different alliances that can mean a larger war, and even more destruction.
He and Karl have heard that it could involve at most the entirety of Greece once more, letting them dissolve into the second greatest war of their time. The first one took place two years before the both of them were conceived and born, and from the many stories of it, a countless number of people perished.
There was one night when George overheard the whispers of his father, General Pericles, and other notable leaders in the Delian League from his place in the dark corridor. They were gathered in the war room in the dead of night, coming from the lands near and far away, to speak of their required tributes to the treasury.
“It is needed to build and maintain the naval fleet led by Athens.” A man from Aegina reminds, triggering the shouts of multiple leaders, and the small concur of Pericles and Alcibiades.
Pericles stops them all, raising a hand to silence their words, “This could mean victory over the Spartan Alliance. The treasury is controlled by the Athenian treasurers, and the ten Hellenotamiae, and we share the same knowledge of their trustworthiness. Moreover, if you do not wish to provide money, you may give ships, materials or grain.”
“Timber is especially needed, so you may supply that as well.” Alcibiades nods, and that is the last of what George hears. Overcome by bore, he sets off to do what he originally intended to, heading to another room across the manor that was filled with aged wines and fresh fruits.
He tells Karl about his discovery the next day, as they stroll through the courtyard inside the manor itself.
“If a battle larger than the first great war ensues, it is no one’s fault, but Sparta’s.” Karl says, plucking an iris out of its resting place. “Sparta wrongfully declared that Athens had broken the Thirty Year Peace a year prior to now, did they not?”
George hums, “I have no care for this war. All is Sparta’s fault.”
And despite his prejudice and hatred towards the certain city-state and the entire war, he could not help but wonder about what might happen if Archidamus does allow his son to lead the Spartan army. It would be an unexpected, but certainly entertaining turn of events, and perhaps, he may even show some interest towards the happenings around him.