Chapter 37
The emissaries from Sidon swept in just before dusk, their cloaks the color of storm clouds, their skin pale as shrouds, with silver dusted across their cheekbones and along their arms. They carried gifts wrapped in dark blue paper, a tribute summoned by the king himself.
Menelaus had demanded it, had called upon his vassals to honor not only Sparta’s crown, but its queen. His queen.
Sidon was the empire of obsidian ships, where Selene’s moon magic had once ruled before Menelaus had cast her out. Even here, far from their coasts, the air seemed to chill around them, as if they carried their night with them.
Their leader, a tall man with black braids and a face chiseled with the precision of a master’s hand, wore a robe embroidered with phases of the moon.
His eyes, silver gray and merciless, swept across the room like a predator scenting the air.
I felt them pass over me once, measured and assessing, before sliding away.
I sat to the right of the king, as tradition dictated, dressed in a sheer white gown that hid little.
My skin was still painted, though tonight would be the last of it; a month had passed, and with it the rituals that marked me as a bride were at their end.
Relief unfurled quietly in my chest at the thought.
Menelaus’s fingers drummed against the arm of his throne, his impatience barely concealed.
I had heard him earlier as he’d conferred with Achilles, complaining how Sidon had grown careless, how they were not showing him the deference he expected.
Not enough respect for their god, he’d growled, the words sharp with offense.
Tribute, he’d decided, and forcing them to endure the long journey from Sidon to Sparta, would remind them who ruled them.
My skin prickled under every gaze, especially our guests. They didn’t speak much, these men from Sidon. But they watched. And they noticed everything.
Other high-ranking nobles filled the room: bronze-cuffed warlords speaking too loudly, foreign merchants hoping to trade secrets for land. I spotted the High Priestess seated near the hearth, her crimson robes glowing in the firelight, her eyes hooded beneath a heavy gold circlet.
Seeing her made my stomach knot. Her vision had been all wrong. I wasn’t going to be the ruin of Sparta.
Sparta was going to be the ruin of me.
Menelaus drained his goblet. He slammed the cup down hard enough on the arm of his throne to make a passing servant stumble, then thrust it out again.
“More,” he barked. He was in a foul temper tonight, every motion abrupt, every breath furious.
Despite the fact that I’d heard his hunt had been successful this morning, whatever meeting he’d had with Achilles earlier—about those same “disturbances in the East” he’d referenced last night—had soured him long before the emissaries arrived.
Now the Sidonian’s cool composure only provoked it. His gaze kept cutting toward them, jaw set as if their restraint were a personal affront, another slight layered atop the last.
I’d tried to listen to his conversation with Achilles this time, to catch more than the scraps they allowed in front of me, but Menelaus’s questions had been intentionally vague, half-formed things wrapped in careful phrasing.
Almost as though he didn’t want anyone else in the room to understand what he was really asking.
And Achilles … He’d been even vaguer.
Their exchange had felt like two men circling the edges of a secret they refused to name.
Seated on his throne hours later with a scowl across his face, Menelaus looked like a man denied a kill, his frustrations simmering beneath the weight of his crimson robes.
Not an ideal mood for a banquet.
I signaled for the wine steward and the boy darted forward with a fresh jug, his hands trembling. Menelaus seized it, pouring until the wine spilled over the rim.
“Play louder!” he growled at the musicians. “Or I’ll have your fingers fed to the dogs.”
The notes wavered, shrill and desperate.
The Sidonian emissary stepped in front of our thrones, bowing low. Menelaus answered by leaning forward and striking him between the shoulders, an openhanded blow meant to pass for camaraderie, delivered with the weight of command. The crack of it rang through the hall.
I winced at the sound. The emissary lurched half a step, his goblet jolting in his grasp. Wine spilled free, darkening the silver dust on his sleeve and splashing against the stone at his feet.
Menelaus laughed. “Careful,” he taunted, his eyes gleaming as the room stilled. “Sidon prides itself on grace, does it not?”
The emissary froze, then dipped his head again, deeper this time. “My fault, my king,” he said quickly in a tight voice. “I beg your pardon.”
Menelaus waved a hand as if dismissing the matter, though his cruel smile lingered. “You should not forget yourself,” he said. “It is poor form to spill in the presence of one’s god.”
The emissary straightened slowly, his expression shuttered.
“You come bearing silver and silks,” Menelaus continued, leaning back on his throne, “yet you still manage to offend.” His gaze swept the Sidonians. “Remember where you stand. And who you stand before.”
A ripple passed through the hall; the courtiers leaned back, careful to look impressed rather than uneasy. This was a lesson, and they knew it.
My fingers curled tight in my lap. Heat prickled down my arms as I watched. I’d never seen Menelaus like this with visitors to the court. He must have been far more offended by their lack of piety than I’d thought.
I had planned this feast for the Sidonians, a careful offering of welcome, a chance to introduce them to their queen. Menelaus was shredding it piece by piece, turning the feast into spectacle, and my duty into mockery.
“My queen,” Menelaus said suddenly as if he had read my thoughts. He lifted his goblet and flicked his hand toward me. “A fitting sight for Sparta, is she not?”
Every head turned. Their eyes weighed on me, and my fingers tightened around the stem of my untouched wine goblet as I pasted a smile on my lips like his words didn’t make me at all uneasy.
“She was purer than snow when she arrived,” he went on, his grin splitting wide. “And just as cold. Weren’t you, my beauty?”
Heat flamed across my cheeks as I leaned toward him. “I think that’s enough wine, my king,” I whispered. He scoffed, the sound loud enough to cut through the room. His eyes glittered with a menace I hadn’t seen directed at me before, and a pulse of worry slid through my stomach.
The emissaries said nothing. One tilted his head though, studying me as though I were some artifact drawn from the deep.
Menelaus leaned forward. “But not cold for long. You should’ve seen her face that first night, pale as moonwashed alabaster. But silent? No. Not our glorious, perfect, Spartan bride. She cried out sweet as a mourning dove.”
A shift went through the gathered nobles, uneasy glances darting between them, wine paused halfway to lips as laughter died in throats.
They were nervous now. All of them. Watching their god-king toy with his queen like a cat with a pinned bird, unsure whether to laugh, to flee, or to pretend they’d heard nothing at all.
Menelaus lifted his goblet higher. The Sidonians sat still, silent, their silver eyes weighing and measuring.
Menelaus bent toward them conspiratorially. “There isn’t a finer cunt in all the world,” he declared, laughter booming from his chest, “nor one that sings quite like my queen’s.”
The words hit me like a slap.
“What are you doing?” I spat before I could stop myself, the question tearing free.
Menelaus turned his head and my stomach lurched. The look he gave me was not surprise. Not even irritation. It was cool. Assessing. Almost indulgent. As if he’d been waiting to see whether I would remember myself or forget my place.
For a heartbeat, I wondered if this was the point. If the Sidonians were only half the audience. If the lesson tonight was also meant for me. I sat back on my seat, trying to not look as nervous as I felt.
Dancers moved between the tables now, barefoot women with bells at their ankles and golden veils hiding their faces. One of the merchants slipped a gold coin into a dancer’s belt as she passed, and another guest howled in laughter as a roast pig was dropped to the floor by a stumbling servant.
Menelaus’s hand shot out and his fingers clamped around my arm like a shackle.
The grip was rough and possessive, dragging the silk tight over the tender bloom of last night’s bruises.
Pain flared, and I leaned toward him quickly, desperate to soothe whatever fury I had stumbled into.
“My king,” I whispered, keeping my voice soft and steady and queenlike. “If I’ve upset you—”
He didn’t let me finish. “On your knees,” he growled, the words meant to sound intimate, meant for me, but pitched just loud enough for the Sidonians to hear. His gaze gleamed with vicious delight, as if daring anyone in the hall to intervene.
As if daring me.
My breath snagged in my throat painfully as I forced sound past my lips. “Menelaus. No,” I growled. The single syllable scraped out, thin and furious.
My refusal only made him laugh. He yanked hard, and I dropped to the floor before I could brace myself.
My knees slammed into the stone, pain exploding upward and stealing my breath.
Scattered gasps flared around us. Several Sidonians leaned forward, intrigued, as if this humiliation were a form of entertainment.
Menelaus bent low, his thumb dragging across my cheek in a mockery of tenderness. His smile was warm enough to fool the room, but his whisper slid sharp into my ear.
“You embarrassed me last night,” he murmured. “So why shouldn’t you be embarrassed tonight? You certainly wanted to use that cunt then.”