Chapter 10
Helen’s suitors arrived the following day.
Callias and I were stationed in the entertaining hall, the largest room of the palace, reserved for Sparta’s major functions.
Giant pillars carried lofty ceilings, like Atlas bearing the skies.
Along the walls, vivid frescoes depicted famous scenes from mythology, still smelling of fresh paint from the retouches Tyndareus had recently commissioned.
Beneath our feet, intricate mosaics adorned the floor.
I knew every fleck of stone had been scrubbed clean by exhausted slaves, just like every other inch of the palace.
Painstaking hours of endless work so that entitled men could scuff their sandals, spill their wine, and congratulate one another on their own greatness.
I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch as I swallowed my frustration, watching more men funnel into the room, glowing like young gods who believed the world was theirs and theirs alone.
A dais was positioned at the far end of the space, framed by the courtyard the room spilled into.
Here, Tyndareus sat upon his throne, flanked by his sons.
Every new arrival approached the king first, making their formal introduction and offering generous favors.
These gifts became more extravagant as the day wore on—weapons, pottery, clothing, jewelry, gold, livestock.
One suitor even brought slaves, ten beautiful girls with flaxen hair.
Tyndareus seemed delighted at first, but as time passed and his treasuries swelled to near bursting, the king grew withdrawn, as if a great cloud had descended over him.
I watched from the sidelines as the men interacted with one another.
They were like birds in mating season, puffed up and proud, circling slowly as they offered empty platitudes, all the while quietly assessing their competition.
Though the atmosphere was celebratory, there was an undeniable thread of tension woven beneath, like a bowstring pulling dangerously tauter with every new arrival.
Each time someone entered, I found my eyes darting to the doorway to see if it was her. But Penelope did not come. She was, no doubt, in the women’s quarters with Helen. Two beautiful prizes kept safely locked away.
What did I care where she was anyway? I had nothing to say to Penelope. And once she was married and shipped off to some distant palace, I would never have to see her again.
My thoughts were disrupted as the largest man I had ever seen cut across the room.
He looked like a weapon given life, melded from fire and iron and rage.
I watched his hulking shoulders rise and fall in rhythm with his confident strides.
Rather than weaving around the crowds, the giant sliced directly through them, forcing men to move out of his thundering path.
Every inch of his body was corded with thick, sculpted muscle.
The various pools of conversation dried up in the man’s wake, the room growing so quiet I could hear his announcement clearly.
“I am Ajax, prince of Salamis, son of Telamon. I come as your humble guest, King Tyndareus, seeking the hand of your famed daughter, Helen of Sparta.” His voice reminded me of thunder over mountains, a thick rumble caught between craggy peaks.
I spared a glance at Callias, who was gaping at Ajax with unbridled awe.
“He’s even bigger than in the stories,” he murmured beside me.
“Ajax the Great.” I scoffed at the name. “I do not see what is so great about him.”
“Are we looking at the same man? He looks like a literal god.”
“Yes, he looks as if he could crush my head like a grape. How fantastic,” I muttered. “And people would give Ajax’s toenail more respect than they would ever show either of us.”
Callias sniggered at that. I had not meant it as a joke.
Chatter started up again as Ajax moved away from the dais. Already, more suitors were arriving, taking their place before the king.
“Do you think there are more than Tyndareus expected?” Callias asked quietly.
“Far more. Do you see his face? He looks worried.”
“Worried? He’ll be the richest man in Greece by the time Helen is wed. Do you see all the gifts they are bringing him?”
“Men only give gifts when they expect something in return. And every man in this room wants the same thing, but only one will get it,” I murmured, recalling Penelope’s words from the day before.
I hated how her voice clung to my mind so easily.
“I doubt most of the men in this room have ever been denied anything in their entire lives.”
Callias’s face tightened as he regarded the room with a newfound wariness. “They are guests. The laws of xenia demand they treat their host with respect.”
“And what if they feel they have been slighted by their host? Will they believe those laws still apply? There’s enough entitlement in here to rival the halls of Olympus.”
Callias considered this, teeth pressing into his soft lower lip. “Do you think Tyndareus has a plan to keep the peace?”
I flickered my eyes to the king, watching his face slowly darken.
“I hope so.”
***
After an elaborate display of sacrifices to the gods, the feasting began.
I felt like Sisyphus trapped in the Underworld, but instead of repeatedly pushing a rock up that cursed hill, my torture was continually replenishing wine cups that never seemed to remain full.
My feet were aching and blistered after hours spent flitting up and down the long tables, trying to dodge the groping hands that became bolder with every pass.
As I leaned over to refill Castor’s cup, the tall suitor beside him shamelessly reached out to squeeze my breasts.
I waited for Castor to chastise the man, for the prince was usually territorial with his “favorites,” but he was far more preoccupied with the flaxen-haired slave sitting in his lap, one of the ten gifted by a suitor. His shiny new toy.
Swallowing my irritation, I moved on to the next empty cup, the next pair of brazen hands and wine-glazed eyes. One suitor improvised a phallus with a leg of chicken and tried to make me eat it off his crotch while the others erupted into riotous laughter.
Were these really Greece’s greatest heroes, chosen by the gods? If so, I questioned the Olympians’ taste, for all I could see was a horde of sweaty, drunken pigs making fools of themselves. The only talent these “heroes” had was glutting themselves on the fruits of others’ labor.
It would have been laughable if it had not been so depressing.
I was grateful when the wine finally ran out, allowing me a brief escape. I took a detour through the courtyard on the way to the storerooms, savoring the fresh air and enviable stillness.
The courtyard was vast, situated at the very heart of the palace and kept impeccably tidy by the tireless work of my father and the other gardeners.
I paused, gazing at the flower beds. Something ugly twisted inside me, knowing my father’s hands had tended to these buds, helped them flourish.
I stamped on a rose, grinding the petals to dust beneath my heel.
My gaze then lifted to watch the last rays of sunlight stretching overhead, like clawed fingers refusing to let go of the day, leaving deep purple and rose bruises across the sky.
I wondered, as I often did, if my mother was looking up at the sky too.
Was she watching this same sunset? Was she thinking of me as she did?
I closed my eyes, imagining I could hear her on the whispering breeze, that voice I was so terrified of one day forgetting.
Be brave, my heart.
“Slave.” The word cleaved through my thoughts like a rusted blade.
I turned to find a suitor standing over me.
He was not the tallest nor the largest man, but there was a brutality to his appearance that demanded reverence, a rawness that made my stomach clench. He was like a natural element hacked from the earth, untamed by the wealth and luxury his status afforded him.
I bowed stiffly. “May I help you, sir?”
“I tire of the celebrations. Take me to my chamber.”
“I…do not know where your chamber is, sir.”
His thick brows knitted together, hanging over his eyes like twin thunderclouds.
“You do not know the king of Mycenae?” he asked.
Agamemnon. I knew of him of course. Not just because he was the king Clytemnestra had been sent off to marry but because everyone knew of the House of Atreus, rumored to be cursed by the gods.
“Take me to my room.”
“I do not know which room is yours,” I repeated, my voice a little more hesitant.
“Are all Spartan slaves blundering idiots?”
I bristled beneath the question but remained silent.
“Let me make this simple for you. Escort me to the grandest guest room in this palace. Is that truly so difficult, girl?”
I nodded, anger souring my stomach. “This way, sir.”
I led Agamemnon through the passageway that led to the guest wing. As the sound of the revelry faded behind us, I became aware of his eyes on me. Gripping my empty wine jug tighter, I tried to ignore the nagging unease expanding inside my chest.
“You’re dressed well for a slave. Let me guess—you are one of the princes’ personal flock,” Agamemnon mused aloud as we walked. The evening shadows seemed to be pressing in closer with every step. “They always said Tyndareus’s sons had good taste in whores.”
My jaw tightened, but I let his words graze me, keeping my focus ahead. Agamemnon smacked his lips and chuckled as if tasting my discomfort.
“This is your room, sir.” I motioned to the first door we reached.
Agamemnon kept his heavy gaze on me. His face looked as if it had been carved into rock instead of flesh.
“Show me inside.”
“I am not permitted to enter the guest chambers. Master’s orders,” I lied.
“I do not care.”
I forced my lips to curl into the lazy, intimate smile I had seen Callias flash countless times before.
“I still have work to do,” I murmured huskily, brushing his arm. “But perhaps if you settle in, I can visit you later when I am done.”