Blood (Epic of the Mediterranean) [Book 1]

Chapter 31

Plays were a cultural phenomenon, more so in Macedonia if anywhere. Yet it still exhibited variations. Persian theatre had become influenced from the Greek counterpart, but still a lot extinguished. Persians rejoiced luxury and color, which reflected on their stage. Priceless costumes and vibrant props, a hall which reflected their exquisite preferences.

Greeks were different with their arts, carrying a mystifying yet subtle vibe. No blinding shimmer, but the pride of beige.

Athens was the mother to theatrical arts, and the strong upholder of its name.

"Oh you look beautiful. Your father was a fine man, and you have his face." Hettie adored her, helping her with getting ready. Naya couldn't bring herself to appreciate anything on her body. It wasn't put on by him. Her fingers traced her collar. The cut of the cloth was too deep, down to her breasts. Seductive yet elegant, dark red color making her skin look prettier. Bare, save for a few faded marks left by him. She buried her face into her palms, making Hettie grimace.

"I don't know what happened, but he seems in pain. He won't accept it. But if you are trying something out of fit or regret, you should know. Distance makes the heart grow fonder."

"I don't know."

"It is alright too."

After Asmaka got to know that Jwala had put forward everything which he didn't want to reveal, he was devastated. This was the most painful nerve inside him which no was to tackle with. But now it was right there. Naya was heartbroken. He was far too overcome with emotions to say anything as she shed tears for him. Consoling her in his arms before leaving. It was but yesterday, and they hadn't talked since then. She had avoided him and he hadn't tried confronting her either. Neither of them knew what went on with the other one. But one thing they were sure of, they were coping in silence.

Asmaka was scared at the realization that she would have to know more. And that he would have to know more about her just the same.

***

An elite theatre had arrived from Athens to Bactria. Cultural infusions were but normal and highly appreciated. The shahanshah had insisted on having them perform for this was his last day in the state. Asmaka couldn't have argued otherwise, even though his life as of now seemed to be a drama in itself.

He had sent Hettie to aid her personally, for he couldn't have anyone else do it.

The throne room was filled up, an abundant strength. Not many people, and only those who were known. This was the king of the kings sitting with them, the shahanshah of Persia. Not even a leaf was turned without prior inspection since he had arrived. Food he ate, bed he occupied, the paths he walked. Guarded by first line soldiers, capable of sacrificing themselves at any given time.

There was just one soul which mattered the most here. Naya hadn't noticed it previously, not even when she had her exchanges with him. This was the man who reigned over the might of heaven on Earth, ruler of the greatest empire there ever was, king of the kings, Artaxerxes the Second. Purest blood running in his veins, with a body and personality more than capable for the throne which he occupied. Having concubines lined up in both his capitals.

Naya walked in while the preparations were still in process. Asmaka standing near his seating, discussing with the choragus to whom the group belonged. Speaking Greek. So well-constructed and fluid, flattering to hear it in his voice.

He turned his gaze towards her, as if anticipating the arrival. Standing still, beholding her entirely, not taking away his eyes for a second. Naya looked away, her cheeks the same color as the robes she wore. No matter what she prepared to be like, everything fell apart when she met his eyes. There was no way of protecting herself from melting down.