Prince Damianos had been right to refuse him, Erasmus thought. Yet this slave had not been able to master his disappointment when the keeper told him that he would now pass into the hands of Prince Kastor. He had no right to feel disappointed at all, and yet the poisonous feeling had settled deep in his soul. Prince Damianos had not even looked at him. He had not touched him — this slave had never been the one to receive his warm smile. Erasmus should have been glad that Prince Kastor wanted him. This slave should have been glad that now he and Kallias would be together. But he could not hold back the disappointment. It felt as though everything he had strived for, everything he had trained for, had been taken away from him — and this slave did not even have the right to be upset about it. By the time Erasmus had gone far enough from the slave baths, where the keeper had caught him to deliver the news, he broke into a run. It was the only way he knew to release his anger. The sun burned the top of his head as he ran out into the courtyard. Erasmus ran straight into something and sprawled on the ground. His knees, elbows, and hips burned as his skin scraped against the flat stone. His head spun, and for a moment this slave did not understand what had happened. His chiton tore, the fibula slipped loose, and the fabric slid down from his shoulder. This slave should have pressed his forehead to the ground and apologized. Instead, he lifted his dazed gaze to see whom he had collided with. Someone stood before him. Erasmus did not recognize the man, but he looked like Apollo made flesh. The sun shone behind his head like a halo, and Erasmus had to squint to make out his face. It was beautiful and impassive, with blue eyes as cold as marble. Only then did Erasmus notice that a sheet was draped around him instead of a chiton, and that his neck and wrists bore the same slave bracelets Erasmus himself wore. Erasmus swallowed. The man held out a hand to him, bending slightly, as though being run into had not affected him in the slightest. Erasmus had heard that Prince Damianos had taken an interest in a new slave who had been sent to the palace a week ago, but he had never seen him himself. The man simply kept his hand out. At last Erasmus placed his own hand in it. His hand felt thin and light in comparison. The fair-haired man easily pulled him to his feet. Erasmus felt a sudden urge to bow, and he did — almost as deeply as he would have bowed to the Exalted. “My name is Erasmus,” he began timidly, “and this slave is very sorry for colliding with you. Might he … might he somehow make amends?” The fair-haired man looked him up and down. Erasmus caught a trace of pity in his blue eyes, though of the two of them it was the new slave who looked like the unwanted ragamuffin — without ornaments, without even a proper chiton. Yet something in the way he carried himself drew Erasmus in despite himself. It drew him almost as much as looking at Prince Damianos did, and that was another thought this slave would have to drive from his mind if he did not want to earn yet another punishment. “My name is Laurent,” the man said after a brief pause. “It’s all right. You didn’t run into me on purpose.” You couldn’t have knocked me down even if you had tried, Erasmus thought — reading it easily in the man’s posture. Laurent turned and walked toward the baths without saying goodbye, not giving Erasmus a chance to apologize again. He seemed to be in a hurry, though Erasmus found himself unable to focus on that.