Virtuous Sons: A Greco-Roman Cultivation Epic by Y.B. Striker

Author:Y.B. Striker [Striker, Y.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Timeless Wind Publishing LLC
Published: 2022-10-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty-Seven

THE SON OF ROME

I woke up and immediately regretted it.

Remnants of the funeral drums echoed behind my eyes, an unbearable throbbing that turned my stomach. My body ached down to the marrow of my bones, and my mouth was drier than a day at the Senate. I shifted, grunting. Even the soft brush of silk sheets was intolerable. I cracked an eye open.

Luxury. It was a sparsely decorated room, but what was there was of undeniable quality. The floor was smooth stone that reflected the light of the sun, shot through with an electric blue lapis. The walls were covered in hanging tapestries of Olympic scenes painted with the painstaking detail of an artist’s life’s work. A single ivory column, waist-high, stood central in the room with a golden cradle for torch flame perched atop it.

A dining table cut from a fine, dark wood sat off in a corner. Each of its legs had been carved in the Corinthian style, with faux vines winding up their length. Large papyrus charts blanketed the table in place of food, gleaming with recently applied ink.

Upholstered dining couches and bronze-backed chairs were scattered throughout the room, and while those that remained intact were of the utmost quality, most of them had been smashed to pieces.

There were other things, personal items and keepsakes that I couldn’t be bothered to keep my eyes open for. Satisfied that I wasn’t dead or imprisoned, I rolled over on the blessedly comfortable bed.

Into Griffon’s foot.

I shoved the filthy limb out of my face. He jerked awake, scarlet eyes snapping open.

“What—”

“Get out of my bed,” I said hoarsely. Everything, including my own voice, felt unpleasant. I needed another three days of sleep at least.

“Your bed?” Griffon repeated, incredulous. “Neither of us owns anything. It’s as much mine as it is yours.”

“I don’t care. Get out.”

“Denied.” He rolled over, using the crook of his elbow as a pillow. “Be quiet, will you? I had a long night.” I knew he was smirking as he said it. It was why he’d turned away. It was purely an attempt to get under my skin.

It worked.

Gravitas threw him from the bed, and twenty arms of pankration intent tossed me off the other side in turn. I came to my feet spitting mad, my head pounding and the taste of blood in my mouth. He rose up across the bed, looking far better rested and entirely too smug.

“I’m going to kill you,” I told him.

“You’re welcome to try.”

We both lunged for the bed.

It was Scythas’ room, as it turned out. The Hero in question returned to his room with food and drink in hand, just in time to see us shatter his bed with our wrestling. We both froze, Griffon’s hands wrapped around my throat and my own pressing a pillow down on his face. Hazel-flame eyes, flecked with golden embers, met mine. More than angry, he looked exasperated.

“We have halls for that,” he said, shaking his head and sweeping the papyrus off his dining table with one foot.

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