Dance of Life
by Jen
Is that how Father died, he wonders, with green pus leaking from his swollen body as the maggots feasted on his flesh? The healers say maggots are a good sign in putrid flesh because they clean out the rottenness, but Iphicles has yet to hear an injured man who watches Thanatos' creatures plundering his body say the same thing.War was never supposed to be like this. The stories they tell in the taverns don't mention the stench, the slipperiness under your feet as you obey your officer's orders and wonder if it's the mud or somebody's guts you're slipping on, and there's not even the merest hint about the mind-numbing terror that consumes you until it becomes your whole world. He's never really been afraid of death; he knows that, unlike Hercules, he'll die someday, but not today. Never today.
Iphicles has never known true fear before, but now it never leaves him. Unlike his friends Timaeus and Agis, neither of whom survived that first attack over a lifetime ago. Or was it only yesterday. He can't tell any longer. All he knows is the fear that coils tight in his guts.
And with the armies withdrawn, waiting for a new day until it all begins again, Iphicles finds himself sitting by a campfire with some of the other men, pretending he's one of them but all the time watching the sky for the first sign of light in the east. The men he's with are talking loudly, laughing to drown out the screams of the wounded and dying from the healers' field, and some of them are screwing, but none of them are shaking the way Iphicles knows he is. Even if his balls weren't shrivelled with fear, he couldn't screw because then they'd feel him shaking and they'd know, all these real mercenaries and soldiers: they'd know that he's a stupid boy who isn't worthy of being Amphytrion's son, who didn't so much leave home as run away, and who doesn't know anything except that he doesn't want to die.
The noise drops suddenly, and he looks up to find Pericles standing there, looking over the bodies huddled by the fire that gives light but no warmth. There's no move to scramble to attention - what's the point in worrying about protocol when tomorrow you'll be dead - but Pericles doesn't object. Instead the serpent in Iphicles' belly slithers more furiously than before as the green eyes rest on his face in the firelight and he realises it's too late to shuffle back into the shadows and pretend he's not really there. It's an art he perfected through all those years at home, when Hercules was the son of Zeus, and Iphicles wasn't really there, just waiting in the background for something to happen that never did.
"You." The movement of the head is like the sweep of the Thebans' swords - confident and deadly. "Now."
His body knows a general's order even if his brain is still frozen by fear, and he scrambles to his feet and follows Pericles, leaving his sword and paltry pieces of body armour by the fire. They won't be touched, not with all the bodies to loot that bear much better quality stuff. Mutters start behind him, and he thinks he hears one of them calling him a lucky bastard, but that can't be right, so he stops trying to hear what's being said and instead concentrates on the aristocratic line of the back he's following. It's said around the fires that Pericles is a by-blow of a Roman noble, and he certainly looks just like they say Caesar looks, with a face so cold and perfect that it could be chiselled from marble, but Iphicles doesn't believe it. If it were true, Pericles wouldn't be one of the most important men in Athens but would have been disowned, along with his mother. That's what Father's family did to Mother and him and Hercules, after all. And, as Mother said, they were generous to let them live.
They've reached Pericles' tent, and Iphicles stands uncertainly just inside the entrance, awed at the size.
Pericles' eyes flicker over him and Iphicles can see disgust in them at the dirty soldier invading his space, but the only thing he says is "Wash."
There's another gesture like the one that sliced Timaeus' head from his body, and Iphicles sees that there's an ornamented bowl set out on the small desk. He moves towards it and see that it's filled with water. For an instant he wonders where such a showy bowl has come from in the midst of the mud and the fighting, and then he remembers the baggage train that was almost the size of the army as they marched, and he's heard enough about Pericles to know that he won't have moved without all his comforts. Just like he won't be facing any fighting tomorrow, but will be behind the supply lines watching, basking in the glory reflected by the blood that's spilled. And all the time he's thinking this, Iphicles is throwing water over his face, rubbing it into skin that's so very tired of the sweat of fear which is the only constant as the spring storms visit and leave again, and rinsing his hands until the filth slowly swirls away into the water.
Iphicles isn't stupid. He knows what Pericles wants him for, and though it isn't what he wants, it's a compliment that he's been chosen out of all of them. He doesn't mind, not really, hoping that it will stop him thinking. His clothes obey Pericles' gesture and fall heavily to the ground when loosened, and then he stands, waiting for orders, and trying not to think about tomorrow.Pericles is sitting on the side of his cot and is looking at Iphicles but there's no sign whether he's pleased or not by what he sees. The sweep of his hand beckons him forward, and he kneels obediently between the spread knees. Even then all he can taste is death and hopelessness, though he's obedient and does his best. Maybe for once his best is good enough, because Pericles doesn't come in his mouth but pulls out and leaves his release in glistening trails over Iphicles' face and for a moment Iphicles knows how it feels to bask in reflected glory, knows himself beautiful because of the look on Pericles' face as he stares down at him. When the fingers move along his lips and the thumb pushes between them, he sucks hungrily and is rewarded by a low laugh.
"You're too good to waste as fodder for Ares," he says, and Iphicles stops sucking, shocked at the heresy and waiting for the lightning bolt to strike.
But it doesn't, so he starts sucking again, trying to please, and Pericles laughs again. "You're made for Dionysus," he says.
Iphicles doesn't care what he's saying, as long as he's touching him and talking about something that isn't tomorrow. He doesn't care even when he's made to stand up and hands run over him, their skin smooth and cool, just as Iphicles has run his hands over horses he's pretended he can afford to buy. He doesn't care that a finger presses inside his mouth to check he has all his teeth. He only starts to care when that same finger pushes inside his ass. He cries out with shock but spreads his thighs obediently as ordered, and then he cries out with something more than shock, shuddering as he rocks backwards against the hardness that probes inside him.
It doesn't go on long enough, and he's only half-hard when Pericles stops touching him and washes his hands in the bowl of grimy water with an expression of distaste.
"You're going to die tomorrow," he says, as he wipes his long fingers carefully on a piece of cotton that looks soft and clean.
Iphicles says nothing.
Pericles watches him for a moment, letting the cotton drop, seeming not to care that it falls to the floor of the tent where it will be trampled into the dirt.
Iphicles says nothing.
"See Cleon," Pericles says, as though continuing a conversation that Iphicles didn't know was going on, "and tell him you're to be housed in Athens until this nonsense is over with. Tell him I want you trained."
Like all good soldiers, Iphicles knows when he's dismissed. He doesn't know whether to bow or salute, so instead he bobs his head in a way that reminds him of the chickens that Mother used to keep, and he leaves to find Cleon. He forgets about the cum drying on his face, because nothing matters any more except the fact he's going to live.
He's never been inside a house like this one before. He's not even sure it should be called a house because it's more like he imagines a palace would be. The room he's been given to himself is larger than the one he and Hercules shared, and the bathing room is larger than their whole house was. It's taken him days to get used to walking carelessly over the intricate mosaic floors, and he still can't stop gaping at the detail and colours of the friezes that adorn the walls. The pillars of marble seem to go up for ever until they brush the sky – or rather, the artist's impression of the sky that forms the ceiling of the hallway – and at the top of each pillar he can just see the natural beauty of vines captured in marble.
He never knew that such magnificence existed away from the temples he'd visited: Ares', to promise he'd dedicate his life to the god if the god would only make him into a warrior as worthy as his father had been; Aphrodite's, hoping for something that he will never have; and even Zeus', just to see what Hercules' supposed father looks like. Sometimes something tugs at the back of his mind as he walks through the hallway, because the friezes there show the gods in all their beauty and power and he sees the rage in Ares' face, the inhuman beauty and cruelty, and he shivers with something that might be fear. He knows Ares didn't keep his part of the bargain, but there's something in Ares' face that makes him think Ares won't see it like that if he notices that Iphicles has deserted him.
So he tends not to look at those friezes and instead spends his spare time wandering around the rooms where he's told the symposia are held, where the wall-paintings are of Dionysus and satyrs, of carnality and excess. There's not been much spare time, though, not even enough to leave the house and explore the city. He's trained as hard as he did for being a soldier, and it's not much different, the balance and the rhythm and the concentration on making your movements precise but all the time knowing what's going on around you. And the old man who trains him is like every sarge he's ever heard of – making him do it again and again until he gets it right, forcing his body into the right position with a long supple stick that stings like a son of a bitch, and making him work hour after hour until he's doing it in his dreams.
The old man doesn't talk to him outside the room where he trains, and he's glad. The women in the kitchens tried talking to him when he first came, but he wouldn't tell them anything and now they leave him alone when he goes there for his food. He doesn't want to talk to them because telling them something might lead him to telling them too much, and he's afraid they won't understand that he left the fighting because he was ordered to. He knows that there were lots of soldiers and that one less wouldn't make any difference. He knows that he was ordered to come here by Pericles and one of the first things you learn as a soldier is that you always - always - obey an order. But if he learned one thing from growing up with Hercules as a brother it was that Hercules could twist the simplest of things around until he made what was obvious and right sound dishonest and wrong, and he thinks the women might do the same.
He doesn't know if he's any good at what he's being trained for – the old man's expression never changes – but he's glad when he hears the gossip in the kitchens that Pericles is returning. Even with the training making him tired, his mind sometimes works too fast for him to sleep properly at night and he wonders if this is how his life will be from now on, because even though he's surrounded by people he's on his own again. But when you've got no money you've got no choices, and so he stays and jerks himself off to sleep at night and in the day he does what the old man tells him, and wonders if the old man really eats lemons for breakfast because there's no other way to explain how his face stays like that.
When Pericles comes back he brings with him more members of his household and his personal guard of six soldiers, and the women in the kitchen giggle and scold and listen open-mouthed to the tales the soldiers tell of the fighting, and Iphicles stays quiet in his corner and eats his food. One of the guards gestured at him the first time and asked a question that Iphicles couldn't quite hear, and the woman who makes the bread said he was Pericles' flute-girl. They all laughed but left him alone after that. Part of Iphicles is glad that they don't come and talk to him about the battles, and part of Iphicles wishes that he could talk to them, but he doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing.
He doesn't see Pericles for a few days, but then the old man tells him to be ready to dance. Pericles is hosting a feast to celebrate the victory over Thebes, and Iphicles will be required. The old man oversees his preparations, making sure he bathes thoroughly, and that his hair is brushed until it gleams in the same way as the scented oil smoothed over his skin. The old man's expression gets even tighter as he paints Iphicles' nipples and lips with red dye, and draws soft black around his eyes, before dressing him in one of the chitons that he had had made for Iphicles when he first started training.
When all the preparations are finished, Iphicles looks in the mirror but doesn't recognise the exotic creature that stares back at him with lewd eyes and full red lips, who has sheer material clinging to his darkened nipples before it falls to end high on his thighs. Excitement and nervousness suddenly stir in his belly and heat his cock. He's relieved when the old man does his lemon-sucking face next to the wanton image in the mirror because his cock collapses in fright and he doesn't have to worry about it pushing against the chiton so that everyone can see.
The guards in the hallway stare at him but he tries to ignore them. He forgets them completely when the old man opens the door for him to slip through then closes it behind him, and for an instant he wishes the old man were still with him. The room is warm – too warm. It smells of food and wine, and is filled with the sound of the lyre and aulos played by two men who are gently moving in time with the delicate sounds they create. Their movements mirror the three girls who dance in the middle of the room, where their feet move gracefully over the sea serpents and the nereids sporting together in the blue tiled water.
The room doesn't look the same as it did all those times when he practised in here: the friezes are alive in the lamplight so that Dionysus' wine spills from his drinking horn in brilliant splashes of ruby, dribbling onto the smooth back of the young boy who's kneeling on all fours beside him, and the satyr's cock that plunders the ass the boy's so eagerly offering seems to pulse with life and need. The vines twisting around the Maenads are as avaricious as the god and his followers, whose hands are always clutching for more flesh, or wine, or both. And the figures around the room on the couches should seem chaste and proper compared to the abandoned couplings on the walls, but Iphicles sees the same greed in the sprawl of their limbs as they lie upon their couches, the same focus on the young slave boys with their pitchers of wine and on the dancers as they entwine. The heat in the room grows and he looks up to find Pericles' gaze upon him.
His eyes are flat and unblinking as they travel over Iphicles. Iphicles is transfixed by the gaze, though he feels his body responding, his weight shifting slightly to his left hip and his shoulders drawing back to display himself the better for his master. But it isn't until Pericles looks away that Iphicles can breathe again, and now his breathing is coming fast. Too fast for a dancer who needs the rhythm of his heart to guide the movements of his body.
"Breathe deeply," the old man told him at the start of every session. He used to mimic the words in his head after the first hundred or so times, and wonder if the old man thought he was really that stupid.
"Breathe," the old man would instruct him. "In. Out. In. Out.", as though Iphicles was too stupid to remember how to breathe on his own. But now the rhythm is coming back with the words, and he can feel his body relaxing again. He watches the girls dance and moves slightly on the spot to keep his muscles warmed and ready so that he can show Pericles how good he can be.
The men on the couches eye the girls even while they're talking to their neighbours, and Iphicles watches the girls move towards the couches with invitation in the sway of their bodies but dance out of reach after the merest of touches. He sees how the men respond, laughing, cajoling or insulting. He sees too that none of the dancers approach Pericles but that Pericles watches his guests, and it reminds him of a snake keeping an eye on a group of nestlings to ensure that none escape until it is suppertime. Finally the music ceases, and the girls are still. Voices raise in competition to invite the girls to share couches, but Pericles claps his hands, once, sharply, and all is quiet. His gesture sends the girls from the room, and there's a hint of disappointment in the air, until Iphicles moves forward. Then the conversations resume, as Pericles' guests seem to realise that the entertainment isn't yet over, and the slave boys move smoothly with their pitchers and the musicians begin to play. So Iphicles breathes. In. Out. And then he dances.
The old man taught him a little of the dances for two or more, the dances that tell the stories of the gods, but told Iphicles that he was to dance alone. Iphicles has never danced with anybody else, though with a longing he couldn't explain he wanted a partner so he could dance the one about Zeus' seduction of Europa. But now he's dancing on his own, he wants it to stay this way forever: he wants the attention, the comments, the slight smile on Pericles' lips, all to be for him. The aulos' liquid notes spiral higher and he rides them all the way until he's dancing on Mount Olympus, the notes and the rhythm completing him before he lets them spill from his body, and they fill the room. And the heat rises, and the wine flows, and Iphicles dances.
It seems only moments later that the music slows, and quietly dies to silence. Iphicles know it is more than moments, because his chiton clings even more closely to his body and his limbs now gleam with sweat as well as oil, but it disappoints him that it is over so soon. Disappointment is replaced by elation as a small gesture from Pericles has a slave bring him a shallow cup of wine, and when he drinks it he feels warmth in his belly from more than the wine. He looks at Pericles as he gives the cup back to the boy, and his head makes the chicken movement he can't seem to stop himself doing in Pericles' presence. The musicians begin to play again, and this time Iphicles smiles as he dances.
The faces that watch him are filled with heat, the eyes with need, and the knowledge of the power he holds over these men is more intoxicating than the wine he tasted. He dances closer, exulting in the way they grasp for him, and sometimes he stays close long enough for a hand to run up his thigh, or reach beneath his chiton to caress his ass. But one man lunges for him too quickly, taking him off-balance, and the room whirls briefly until he finds himself held by strong arms with his back against the prickle of a garland worn over a warm chest, legs that have opened to hold him, and hands that plunder. He could fight, but somehow he thinks that breaking the nose of one of the guests wouldn't go down too well, so he glances at Pericles to know what to do next, and, seeing the satisfaction on Pericles' face, knows that fighting isn't an option.
So amidst the taunting calls of encouragement that fill the room, Iphicles allows himself to be arranged and doesn't protest when the man beneath him frees his cock and slides it between Iphicles' wet thighs. Sweat and oil mix, allowing it to slide easily, and then the man moves him slightly and his hard cock pushes tight against Iphicles' balls, and Iphicles forgets the lessons of dance and starts to breathe too quickly. His cock's getting hard and his chiton's ridden up and he can feel the big cock that's pushing between his thighs, and he looks down and sees its head all dark and purple and hungry. He moans as he's pushed and pulled so that it slides and presses and slides and presses. The man's hand moves up under his chiton, stroking the flat plane of his belly before moving up to squeeze his tits one after the other and he's moving himself against the cock now, moaning as the men are laughing. The man beneath him doesn't laugh. He grunts once, twice, and then his cum covers Iphicles' thighs.
Iphicles lies there for an instant, desperate, but there's no relief to be found as he's pushed from the couch and the man adjusts his clothing. The musicians play, and Iphicles dances. But now he needs release, so he doesn't move backwards when the man on the next couch grabs for him. Instead he rubs against the seeking hands, leaning to let his tits be sucked and bitten, before bending to the revealed cock with a willingness that seems to cause more laughter around the room.
He's still hard afterwards, and there's a wet spot on the filmy material where his cock's pressed against it, matching the wet spots where the man sucked on his tits, but he can't do anything because Pericles is clapping for silence again. The laughter and the loud instructions cease for a moment.
Pericles raises his cup of wine, then pours the contents onto the floor beside him. "Athena!"
The guests copy him, even the one Iphicles just sucked off picking up his cup long enough to do so.
The slaves tread on noiseless feet to refill the cups, and then retreat to the ornate krater to replenish their pitchers. After draining a deep draught from his cup, Pericles again turns his cup so that the remaining contents fall to the floor in a crimson stream.
"Ares!"
"Ares!" The guests' voices are louder this time, perhaps acknowledging the victory the god has brought them.Again the slaves fill the cups, and Iphicles watches as Pericles' expression changes and he puts his cup down and rises to his feet. His head moves slightly, and Iphicles realises there's an order there that's directed at him, but he doesn't know what it is. He doesn't know what it is even when Pericles circles him, but he stands motionless as Pericles moves up behind him, close enough for him to feel the breath against his hair, yet not touching.
"Agathon," Pericles says. "May I borrow the knife you have with you?" Although it's a question, the hand that's held out at the same time makes it clear that there's no doubt about the answer.
The older man who Pericles is speaking to sits up straight and fiddles with something inside his tunic, his overlarge belly wobbling obscenely as he does so. Iphicles doesn't know if it's this that causes the look on his face when he gets to his feet and passes the short knife he's recovered from within his clothing to Pericles, but he looks angry.Iphicles feels Pericles move even closer behind him and the blood seems to thunder as it runs through his body. It stops and all is silence as he feels the blade of the knife pressed against his neck. For an instant he thinks wildly about the human sacrifices to the gods that the old stories tell, and the blood leaps and thuds in his veins until he can't see clearly, but then the blade lowers, and Pericles is pulling it through the material of Iphicles' tunic as easily as a heated knife moves through soft cheese. Pericles hands back the knife, although its return doesn't seem to placate Agathon, and opens the material either side of the long cut to display Iphicles' body to his guests, slowly revealing it all as he pulls off the chiton entirely.
Shame heats his cheeks as he stands naked before them, his cock still betraying its need, and his humiliation deepens as he hears Pericles' low-voiced command against his ear.
"Lie down."
The tiles are cool against his damp back. He's scared, as well as ashamed, but something makes him glance up and he finds that Pericles' eyes are on him, and at the approval he sees in them, he relaxes again. Breathe in. He watches as one of the slaves brings Pericles the decorated libation cup. Breathe out. And then he's not breathing at all because there's liquid cascading over his face and he has to swallow or he'll choke. The stream moves further down his body as Pericles empties the deep cup, saving the last of the ruby wine to pour over his cock. The wine is warm, caressing him as a lover would, and as he sees Pericles' eyes concentrate on him, Iphicles' cock grows harder and he opens his thighs until the last drops of wine mix with the seed drying on his skin.
"Dionysus!"
With that, Pericles is offering the cup to Agathon. A peace offering, perhaps. The man, who had returned to his comfortable couch, struggles to his feet again and takes the refilled cup, before making his own offering. And now that the shock is over, Iphicles enjoys the wine raining down on him, splashing so that he closes his eyes but licks his lips to pick up any last remnants as his body luxuriates in the silken embrace. And as each of the guests comes forward to make his offering to Dionysus, Iphicles' limbs spread wantonly beneath the intoxicating caress.
By the end he's writhing under the touch, needing every last drop to slide against his skin, against his cock that's so hot and needs more than the light caresses, needs only a firm hand to bring him off. When his hand moves to ease his pain, Pericles' sandal descends firmly upon his wrist, and he knows all he can do is lie there and let his hips buck upwards into the curtain of wine that falls around his desperate cock.
The last guest makes his offering, the name of Dionysus ringing clearly through the room as he does so, and all is quiet for a moment. Pericles breaks the silence.
"Gentlemen, I believe our offering needs one finishing touch."
And from the laughter that follows, it appears that the guests know what he means. Iphicles doesn't, not until one of the guests stands astride him and Iphicles stares in shock as the man jerks off over him, closing his eyes just in time as the first cum hits his face. And some of the other guests do the same, until the crimson of his body is garlanded with white strings over his chest, his thighs. He sobs as heat splatters onto his cock, but however freely he offers up his body, there's no relief for him.
Afterwards, they leave him lying there. He knows he should be ashamed because he's lying on his back with his hard cock arched high above his belly, one knee bent to display himself fully, and wine's wet on his body, staining the floor around him, but he loves it, loves the hotness in the eyes that watch him and want him.
The wine flows and the girls start to dance, though he didn't notice when they came back into the room, and the guests sing and talk and drink, and the slave boys pour the wine and sometimes do more for the men whose eyes devour Iphicles.
Iphicles looks up to find one of the slaves crouching next to him, and he gets awkwardly to his feet, the wine pulling at his skin now that it's drying. The boy leads him to Pericles, where he's gifted with a garland around his neck, and dismissed.
Iphicles finds himself standing outside the room, shivering slightly in the coolness after the moist heat, and the silence is loud, broken only by the very faint sounds through the heavy doors behind him. He's aware suddenly that he's naked, that his skin is painted in wine, and that the air around him is stained with its heavy scent. Awkwardly he pulls off the garland and folds it so he can hold it in front of him as he begins the walk back to his room. He doesn't get far before he hears laughter, and realises that the guards who watched him earlier are still there. He walks a little faster, but there's the sound of footsteps along the hallway, sandals slapping heavily on the marble, and a voice behind him.
"Hey, flute girl."
A rush of anger replaces the awkwardness. He knows things this ignorant soldier will never know: what it's like to captivate his audience, to have them begging for his touch. He swings round and snarls "Fuck you."
The guard smiles – a knowing smirk that Iphicles longs to wipe from his face – and moves in on him. His hand reaches out to tilt Iphicles' chin in a casual gesture of ownership. "No, fuck you," he says.
And while Iphicles wants - really wants - to make some cutting remark about originality and stupid peasant soldiers, the possessive touch against his face reminds him of other things he wants even more. He forgets the stink of his body as he steps forward, forgets the garland that he drops to the floor as his hands blindly reach, cupping through the guard's tunic the hardness he feels there, and encouraging it to full growth. He drops to his knees, taking the cock into his mouth, generous and wet, needing it ready for what he's been waiting for all night. And then he's facing the wall, the soldier's breathing fast and heavy in his ear as he moves close behind Iphicles, and his cock pushes into him. It's been too long since Iphicles has done this, it hurts, but the guard doesn't stop the pressure of his hips, just pushes and grunts and slides until he's all the way in and Iphicles can't breathe with the pain and the need. His ass has never been opened this wide by a cock this big, and he can't stop himself pushing back, needing even more, needing to be fucked. And he gets his wish; he braces himself against the wall, pushing back, and he's panting with it, making sounds every time the guard thrusts deep into him, flesh slapping as he rides Iphicles hard.
But it's still not enough, and Iphicles' hand finds his cock and works it until his breathing's so fast it's echoing round the hallway and it sounds as though the hall is filled with people rutting and fucking, just like the friezes in the room where he was. At the memory his eyes snap open and he sees the frieze he's braced against and sees Ares' beautiful cruel face and as the soldier thrusts deep inside him he's coming and he doesn't think he'll ever be able to stop. He hardly notices when the soldier comes, because he's concentrating too hard on still breathing. And when the guard bids him good night and slaps him on the ass, his legs still wobble, and he isn't even sure he can remember where his room is. He looks back down the hallway once, and sees the guards laughing and making obscene gestures, but doesn't look at the frieze where Ares is victorious, where Pericles' garland lies forgotten on the marble floor, and Iphicles' libation is a damp patch on the wall.
Pericles entertains almost every night. He sends for different musicians sometimes, for different girls often, but Iphicles is there every night. Sometimes he just helps serve the wine. Sometimes he dances and the guests talk and he leaves again. Sometimes he dances and the guests drink, and he lets them touch him. Sometimes he even kneels over them on their couches and dances for them until he's pulled down and opened up with a hard cock.
He likes dancing best; when he dances he knows that they all watch him, that they want him. He's never danced for the guards, but they want him too. And he wants them; after the warmth and the flowers and the wine, he needs the closeness, the smell of honest sweat and roughness of hands that work for a living moving over him, holding him and fucking him. And he never tires of the way they all want him; he knows the power he holds over the guards, and the guests, and that even Pericles' eyes sometimes follow him.
Sometimes he wonders how it would have been if he had been a good soldier. But he knows that he's good at serving Dionysus, much better than he ever was at serving Ares, so he thinks that this way, both the gods got a bargain.
When he dances, he doesn't have to think at all. So he goes back to the room where the men lie on the couches and watch him, night after night. And night after night, Iphicles dances.
End
