Chapter 8
My grief had no beginning or end.
I could not grasp its edges, could not comprehend its shape.
So it swallowed me whole.
Still, the traitorous world carried on, and I was expected to do the same. For slaves were not permitted to mourn. There was no space for our pain.
Time lost meaning, as did everything else. I floated through my existence, the days bleeding together, seasons passing like a phantom breeze.
When I turned fourteen, I was plucked from the kitchens to serve upstairs in the palace’s entertaining quarters.
Apparently, I “did not have a face for kitchen work.” Once, this would have made me feel proud.
Now, I struggled to feel much at all, other than the dull rage that lingered beneath my skin, beating like a cold, withered heart.
My new duties were simple enough. I was to be a living shadow, attentive yet invisible, waiting for the lazy swish of a hand summoning me to refill a cup or plate.
It was monotonous, hollow work, but at least it kept me away from the kitchens where my mother’s absence lingered in every corner, memories of her embedded like jagged shards.
Mercifully, I saw little of Queen Leda, and Princess Clytemnestra had already been sent off to marry the king of Mycenae.
Princess Helen was kept shut away like some precious piece of treasure, so I was left to serve the princes, Castor and Polydeuces, and the myriad noble guests constantly plaguing the palace.
Men with greasy smiles and roaming hands.
Often, when they pinched my backside or grabbed my breasts, I fantasized about tossing their wine in their arrogant faces, then slapping them for good measure.
But even just the thought of such insolence made the scars on my back ache viciously.
So I learned to swallow my rage, hating them in silence while they ground my existence down to barked commands.
“Here, slave.”
“More, slave.”
“Quick, slave.”
“Now, slave.”
And I silently obeyed, as compliant as wet, lifeless clay, forever molding myself to the will of others.
“You have to play into it, darling,” a serving boy told me one day.
His name was Callias, which meant “beautiful.” Our masters would often label us like this, using simple physical descriptors devoid of individuality.
Though this name certainly suited the boy, for he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
Deep umber skin, earthy eyes with elegantly aquiline features.
“You do know what I mean, don’t you?” he prompted, leaning closer to me with a conspiratorial wink.
I debated ignoring him, as I did whenever any of the other slaves tried talking to me.
And yet something about Callias tugged at those wilted threads of curiosity.
I think it was because he did not look like any slave I had ever known.
It was in the way he carried himself, with an air of something I hadn’t known our kind could possess—pride.
“No,” I said flatly. “I don’t.”
We were carrying our freshly filled wine jugs back to the princes’ entertaining quarters. From down the hall, I could hear the laughter of their guests, the sound clawing irritably over my skin.
“I mean this!” Callias gestured to my face with a flourish. “They want us to believe we’re powerless, but we’re not. Not you and me.”
It was mesmerizing, the way he spoke: the rich intensity of his eye contact, the fullness of his lips just inches from my own.
I shifted my wine jug, my arms already aching with the weight. “How so?”
“Because we have been gifted by Aphrodite,” Callias said.
At my puzzled expression, he let out a laugh.
It was a husky, intimate sound. “Don’t act modest, darling.
You know you’re beautiful. And our masters know it too.
They want us, but they don’t want us to know they want us.
” He strolled indolently as he spoke, as if he were not a slave at all but a free man enjoying an amble through his estate. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“I’m not sure.”
He stopped in his tracks and tugged one of my curls. “Have you not seen the way Castor looks at you?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” A dangerous smile crept across his face. “You have power here, Melantho. If you are willing to take it.”
Power. The word made something crackle through my veins.
I glanced down the hallway. “What…what kind of power?”
Callias’s smile broadened. “Smell me.”
“What?”
“Smell me. Go on.”
I blinked at him, wondering if he was mad. Still, I leaned in and inhaled the rich, floral scent of his skin.
“What do I smell like?” he prompted.
“Expensive,” I breathed. “Like…one of them.”
“Do you see? Master Castor treats me very well. I get the best food, the best wine, the best clothes. And you can have it all, too, you know. If you just play the game.”
“What game?” I drew back, suspicion edging my voice.
“Oh, it’s very simple. It’s the oldest game there is, and we are all players, whether we like it or not.
You have all the weaponry you need right here.
” He reached out to caress my cheek, and a strange heat blossomed beneath his touch, making my pulse quicken.
“You could make them beg for it with that face, you know.”
Callias winked, then pulled away from me as he continued, “Power will never be given to people like us, so we must take what morsels we can for ourselves.”
Then, without warning, he spat a glimmering glob of saliva into his wine jug. I gaped at him, utterly stunned.
“Remember, the princes’ attention is fleeting.” He smirked as he turned to walk away. “Best not waste it.”
***
After our conversation that day, I began watching Callias.
He seemed to command every space he occupied.
He did not have the domineering authority I was familiar with but rather a quiet, sensual power that pulsed around him, luring people in.
Everything was a performance, I realized.
The way he moved, the way he spoke, the way his gaze slipped and lingered, the way he threw back his head and laughed at something the princes said.
Each minute movement was part of the web he spun, trapping people’s attention in his glistening, beautiful snare.
As I studied him, I realized I wanted it—the control. I wanted to hold that cord of desire in my hands and tug at it like a leash.
So I began to mirror Callias, emulating the swish of his hips, the smokiness of his laugh, that brazen eye contact that made our masters lean a little closer. I would swirl around rooms like a warm summer breeze, lingering and sweet, learning to mask the emptiness that rattled through me.
The change was immediate. Instead of barking commands, my masters would purr.
Instead of summoning me with a click, they would gesture with a smile.
They still saw me as property of course.
I was not stupid enough to think otherwise.
But now, I was something to be coveted, and when our masters let me sit on their laps and try their wine and food, I would stare at the other, neglected slaves and feel a guilty, dizzying rush of power.
One night, Prince Castor cornered me in the hallway, his breath hot in my ear as he commanded, “My chamber. Now.”
I felt a spark of triumph, but once Castor and I were alone in his quarters, the feeling quickly withered in my stomach. Suddenly, all my flirtation felt foolish. Dangerous even.
Though Castor’s chamber was enormous, the clutter made it feel stifling.
Weapons, dirty clothes, broken sandals, and empty wine jugs lay strewn around the space.
The prince seemed unfazed by his own filth as he picked his way across the littered floor to lean against the foot of the bed, his arms braced along the frame.
He stared at me with hungry eyes. It reminded me of the way Icarius had stared at me that night, so many moons ago. Though I was less oblivious to the root of Castor’s hunger now, I still did not fully understand what lurked beyond it. I had never dared venture that far.
I forced myself to hold Castor’s gaze. He was handsome, admittedly. Golden curls, bronzed skin, a strong, masculine jaw. But his beauty reminded me of the myth of Narcissus, the kind that reeked of self-adoration.
“Take off your tunic,” he commanded.
Fear curled in my stomach. But then I thought of the women’s sleeping quarters, of that lonely patch of floor where I lay awake each night and the endless, echoing grief that awaited me there.
I knew, in that moment, I would do anything to avoid it.
Swallowing, I grabbed the hem of my tunic and pulled it over my head. My hands were shaking—with adrenaline or fear, I was not sure. I prayed Castor did not notice.
The cool night air kissed my bare skin, and I watched the prince’s eyes trace down my body, slow and starved. Nervous anticipation hummed inside me, and I welcomed the feeling. It had been so long since I had felt anything other than anger or grief.
Castor ran his tongue over his teeth.
“Has my brother had you yet?”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but Castor seemed to take my silence as answer enough.
“They say Polydeuces fucks like he boxes. All power, no skill.”
He pulled off his own tunic then, throwing it in a tangled heap alongside the rest of his discarded clothes.
Like most Spartans, the princes exercised naked, so I was hardly unfamiliar with Castor’s body.
Yet something felt different about seeing him like this, in private, with my own clothes forgotten at my feet.
“Come here,” he instructed.
I swallowed the dry lump in my throat and stepped forward. Castor grabbed my shoulders, pulling me closer. His hands roamed freely across my body, and my muscles tensed in the wake of his touch.
He moved behind me then, and I felt his fingers skimming my scars in silent question.
“I knew you were a rebellious one,” he chuckled. “I could see it in your eyes.”
Then his hand flattened against my back, pushing me down onto the bed.
A memory seized me, one that always lurked at the edges of my mind, pacing just beyond my thoughts.
My breathing grew shallow as I felt the rough table beneath me, the guards slamming my head down, holding my wrists, the crack of the whip slicing open my flesh, Penelope watching me with wide eyes…
No, no, no.
I forced the memories away, biting my lip hard enough to ground myself back in the moment. I focused on my surroundings—the soft fur against my skin, the feel of Castor’s large hands on my bare hips, the smell of stale wine in the hazy air.
I could not see what Castor was doing behind me, but I heard the rough whisper of skin against skin and then the sound of him spitting. I had the sudden realization that I did not want to be there. I did not want to be there at all.
I wanted to get away.
I wanted my mother.
Without warning, Castor kicked my legs apart, spreading me out before him. I winced, biting down harder on my lip.
Be brave, my mother whispered to me as I felt Castor’s warm thighs press against my own.
A moment later, a sharp pain jolted deep in my core, carving through me.
I stifled a yelp, tears stinging my eyes.
The fur pelts brushed against my face like a soothing caress as Castor thrust into me, once… twice…
On the third drive, a strangled whimper erupted from his throat.
It was the most pathetic sound I had ever heard.
“Fuck,” he gasped.
I felt him slide out of me, and I remained motionless on the bed, unsure what was happening.
Was it over?
Slowly, I sat up and turned to face him. As I moved, a warm, unpleasant wetness pooled between my thighs. I tried to ignore it.
“That…doesn’t normally happen,” Castor muttered.
He scratched the back of his neck, trying to feign nonchalance, but I could see the irritation etched between his eyes, bracketing his thinned lips.
“You can leave,” he said. He did not meet my gaze.
I rose on shaky legs, relief-tinged confusion washing through me. Before I could move farther, Castor’s hand shot out, grabbing my arm. I glanced up at him, but his eyes were set on the wall beyond my head.
It was then that I noticed his cheeks were stained a slight pink.
“Do not tell Polydeuces.” He made it sound like an order, but I could hear the thread of vulnerability woven into his voice.
It was not a command; it was a plea.
The prince of Sparta was pleading with me, a slave.
Because he was embarrassed. No, not just embarrassed.
He was ashamed.
A laugh bubbled inside me, but I forced myself to swallow it down as I gazed up at him, savoring every inch of his shame, mapping it in my mind so I could revisit it next time one of his kind tried to make me feel worthless.
“Of course, master.” Perhaps I was drunk on that tiny sip of power, for I added boldly, “If it pleases you, I can fetch you more wine? It is still early.”
Castor hesitated, then smiled slowly. “Make sure you get the good kind.”
I nodded, heading to retrieve my clothes.
“And get a cup for yourself,” he added as he collapsed into his bed. “There’s no joy in drinking good wine alone.”
I bowed my head, hiding a smirk. “Yes, master.”