Chapter Text
In his painting of the courtyard at night, the artist had neglected to include the spray of red over the tulips. Of course, their proud heads were shrouded by shadows, changing directions whichever way the breeze nudged them. Earlier on, he had peered over the balustrade, wondering why the two janissaries had been summoned to the inner court, the moonlight wrapping around their black and silent figures.
But the night was young, the women merry - a courtesan from the Cilician embassy had taken her place among them, fingers plucking the lute and sending notes of longing into the perfumed air. A nightingale hopped onto the balustrade, paced a step or two, and was startled into flight by a sudden round of applause.
The artist breathed in the scent of his oils. And in a sudden stroke of whimsy, dipped his brush into the black paint - capturing the two figures now making their way across the courtyard - to be immortalised on canvas.
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The master of the janissaries had not been pleased to be awakened from his after-dinner nap, not even when the person in question was a lovely servant girl of the harem - clutching anxiously at her clay water jug, staring at him with doe eyes.
That evening, Patroclus had been put in charge of distributing the new shipment of gunpowder, and was in the middle of his duties when he spotted the girl wandering into the barracks alone.
“Lost, little kitten?” one of the men called, and the others laughed at her.
But Patroclus noticed the red stains on the hem of her skirt, the bloody footprints she left on the immaculate tile. He took her by the sleeve without touching her, and bade her tell him what happened.
The girl, looking shell-shocked, could barely get a word out. “I was sent to speak to Master Idomeneus,” she said. “If - if he will help us.” And promptly burst into tears.
Patroclus had never known what to do with himself among the weeping. “Here,” he said, rummaging through his pocket and handing her a kerchief. “Pull yourself together!” He thought twice when she only sniffled harder. “Well … I mean … take a moment.” He cleared his throat, addressing her in a gentler tone. “You mustn't let him see you cry.” He patted her sleeve, again without touching her skin, as all men in the corps had been taught. “Master Idomeneus is not a patient man. I will take you to him, but only when you have thought carefully of what you want to say.”
The girl nodded, blowing her nose into the kerchief - which was now ruined, to his dismay. He brought her to the hearth a moment later, where the master lay with his head on the table, snoring loud enough that the wood seemed to tremble.
It was said that Idomeneus, in his youth, had been a pretty courtier with kohl-lined eyes and languid limbs. But that was what they said about all Cretan boys, who were brought to Troy by the droves to guard the inner court. Idomeneus, by some miracle, had escaped the life of a eunuch - and was now one of the most irascible, bloodthirsty men Patroclus knew. He was also a genius. And a madman. A genius and a madman whom Patroclus trusted with his life.
“Get me more wine!” he snapped, upon seeing the girl when he awoke.
“Elder Brother,” Patroclus said, softly, because the girl stood frozen and made no sign of speaking. “This is a servant from the harem, come to summon you.”
“ Summon me?” Idomeneus sat up, rubbing at his bloodshot eyes. “Who dares to summon me? Those spiteful courtiers, unable to settle their petty quarrels by themselves?”
“My lord, there is a body,” the girl got out, bowing her head.
Patroclus frowned. It did not matter that she had addressed him incorrectly, and would have been reprimanded if they were anywhere else but the barracks.
“What did you say, girl?”
“I was told it was your duty to investigate such matters.” She had suddenly cast off her fear, and spoke steadily. Her voice was pleasant and warmly timbred, lower than most women’s.
“A body!” Idomeneus exclaimed, rising so abruptly the chair tilted over and wobbled.
Patroclus and the girl exchanged glances, unsettled by the crazed sparkle in his eyes.
“Someone has been killed!”
“Not just anyone, Master Janissary!” the girl cried. “But I must not speak of their identities outside the harem.”
“ Their identities? There are two? ”
“There is one body. The other has been … disposed of.”
“Patroclus, get my cloak,” Idomeneus ordered. “The ladies of the inner court gather in celebration of the tulip season. And how beautiful they are this year.” He took the girl’s sleeve and steered her over to the door, closing his eyes and inhaling the cool night air. “Yes, how beautiful they are.”
The girl glanced over her shoulder helplessly at Patroclus. She was dry-eyed now, and rattled enough that a stray lock had escaped her wrapped hair. It caught the firelight, gleaming as golden as a newly minted coin.
How curious. If she was a slave, she spoke the Trojan language with no accent at all - just like he did. Bought from their childhood in a fallen land. He shook off the thought.
He had been going to stay behind. But not even the janissaries were allowed into the inner court alone, and nobody else was around to accompany Idomeneus. He did not like leaving his chores half done, but he had fed the hounds, and had been about to take his own supper.
It would be the first time he entered the grounds of the harem, where the consorts of the king and princes spent their days.
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There was no sign of a second body. The servants were waist deep in the waters, where they had waded to retrieve the fallen man who floated face down in the reflecting pool. In daylight, it would be revealed that the water had turned red. The flowers were splattered with his blood.
Idomeneus had seen enough. One sweep of the scene told him all he needed to know. It was no wonder the concubine wanted this handled discreetly. He regretted ever agreeing to the favour he owed her. After all, what could she have done, having lived so long without the king’s grace?
But he was sorry when they dragged the body onto the tiles. Sorrier still when they turned it over, so he could see the pale face hidden beneath bedraggled hair. Even with lips turned grey and sealed shut, he imagined them curved upwards and laughing, laughter that had belonged to a boy he once doted on.
He sensed Patroclus stiffening behind him, catching sight of the face. “It’s -”
“Be still,” he ordered. Patroclus fell silent. “Have the prince carried into his mother’s chambers. We must examine the body before the priests arrive. And for goodness’ sake, find out what she did to his lover.”
At these words, the green-eyed servant girl started. “How -” she fixed her gaze on Idomeneus, no longer timid and clutching her water jug for comfort. “How did you know it was his lover?”
Because it was hardly news. He hadn’t been sent here to investigate a murder. He had been sent to cover up a suicide. Or rather, a pair of them. A tearful pact between a prince and the only person he had ever found peace with, a lowly servant who would be cast aside the moment he was commanded to take up his royal duties. “What did she do to the girl?” he murmured.
The servant girl hesitated. “... The eunuchs were ordered to throw the girl’s body in the river.”
“Hmph. Creative, as always.” Idomeneus stroked his chin. “And I suppose they were going to say that they caught her attacking him? That they were … too late?”
Patroclus was staring hard at the servant girl, whose features were clouded with uncertainty.
“And what else?” Idomeneus demanded. “They pried her off him, and accidentally killed her in the tumult. But the prince was already dead. Is that it? Let’s get our stories straight here.”
The servant girl swallowed. “I was only told to get you, Master Janissary. I do not know anything else.”
“Well, then. I suggest you forget what you saw here tonight. The lady demands discretion from all of us. If her son is gone, she has no others to offer the king. She must ensure that the prince does not disgrace her and bring her to ruin, not even in death.”
“They were found together,” the servant girl whispered. “The prince and the servant he loved. I heard the eunuchs talking about it. There was no murder, was there?”
Idomeneus’s eyes gleamed. “Hush, now. Tomorrow you will not remember any of this.”
The servant girl returned his gaze. “No, Master Janissary,” she replied, soberly. “I will not.”
Patroclus was glaring at the ground, as the prince’s body was covered and hauled away. Notes of music played from a nearby balcony, but no one had even noticed the body floating in the reflection pool, not until it was too late.
The next time he glanced up, the servant girl was gone.
In the morning, there would be the tolling of the bells announcing the prince’s death. And it would be ruled a crime. The prince, a helpless victim of a desperate lover who had not wanted him to leave her, to be initiated into the House of Princes and recognised as Priam’s own son.
But for now, the tulips were stained with blood. And not even their frantic decisions could erase the lie they were about to partake in.
He had never placed Idomeneus as a man who would yield to the hidden motivations of the court. This was not their world, at least, he hoped it wasn’t. He would take arrows and gunfire in exchange any day.
“Patroclus!” Idomeneus called. “You best be on your way.”
He turned and set off in the direction of the gates, only to trip and stumble over an object left astray among the tulips. He had nearly destroyed it by stepping on it. What a peculiar little thing, he thought, bending to pick it up and examine it in the moonlight.
It was a mechanical bird no larger than his palm, with a keyhole in the back where it could be wound up. The key was missing. Its eyes were made of agate, its wings encrusted with delicate carved feathers of green jasper and chalcedony.
Prince Aesacus had been a bird enthusiast, he knew. But there was no reason why he would own such a thing, when he’d had an entire aviary to himself in the harem. It was known that the king had been fond of Aesacus, even though he had been born to a lesser concubine. Once he was initiated into the House of Princes, he would enjoy the same status as any legitimate son. Indeed, they had called him prince even though he wasn’t one by right.
Patroclus glanced around, before palming the metal bird and slipping it into his pocket. He would wonder, in the coming days, at who had left it there.