“What’s your name?” Theseus asked, keeping his voice gentle.
The slave looked confused. “My name, my king?”
“Yes. Everyone has one.”
The slave hesitated. “Iphitrion, my king. But you may call me what you wish.”
Pirithous approached him. “Iphitrion is a proud name,” he said. Theseus could tell his friend shared in his discomfort.
“How many years have you, Iphitrion?” Theseus asked.
“Eighteen, my king.”
“The same as me. We would be equals, but for a simple twist of fate that neither of us could control.”
“I…I do not know how you wish me to respond, my king.” Iphitrion looked at Theseus with wide eyes, as if worried he had misspoken.
“You mustn’t fear me,” Theseus said. “I do not mean to trap you.”
“Are you hungry?” Pirithous asked.
Iphitrion flicked his eyes over to a tray of frui
