Chapter 10 #2
It was the kind of line that would have made Castor heat and soften, becoming easy to mold in my hands. But the king of Mycenae was not so easily manipulated. His eyes darkened, mouth twisting beneath his thick beard.
“I gave you an order, slave. Show me inside.”
I realized there was no swaying this swine of a man, and my exhaustion from the day prickled into indignation as I turned and shoved the door open.
“There. There’s the inside,” I snapped before biting out the word, “sir.”
Without warning, Agamemnon’s hand shot out and closed around my throat as he slammed me against the wall. His palm spanned the entire length of my throat, his fingers clawing up across my face, digging into my skin. My jug fell to the ground, shattering at our feet.
“What a sharp tongue you have. Perhaps we should put it to better use.”
“I serve Tyndareus, not you,” I snarled at him.
Agamemnon struck me across the face with his free hand. The impact sang through my jaw, and I tasted blood in my mouth, yet every trace of pain was incinerated by the rage surging inside me.
In that moment, it was not just Agamemnon who hit me. It was the men who had held me down as I was whipped. The men who had dragged my mother away in chains. Icarius, who had tried to bed me as a child. Castor and his vile friends, who had enjoyed my body night after night as if it were their own.
“Defy me again, slave. Go on.”
I spat at him, my blood spraying across his cheeks.
I knew this would not be worth the consequences, but at least for this fleeting moment, I could smile up at his outrage and pretend it was.
The curl of my lips was a step too far for Agamemnon. A meaty fist tangled into my hair, yanking me toward his chamber. I tripped as I struggled against him, tumbling to the ground. Shards of the broken wine jug bit into my knees, making me yelp. Agamemnon wrenched my head upward.
“Help! Help me!” I cried to the two guards patrolling the hall.
They turned and stared at me. When they noticed Agamemnon, the men visibly stiffened before bowing their heads and disappearing.
I watched them leave, that fragile thread of hope snapping inside me.
With his hand now on the back of my neck, Agamemnon hauled me to my feet, shoved me into the room, and slammed the door shut behind us.
“This could have been civilized,” he snarled as he dragged me toward the bed. “Why must slaves insist on acting like animals?”
Panic sparked in my veins, but hotter than that was the fury that coursed through me, setting my blood alight.
“Help! Help!” I screamed again. “Hel—”
“No one is helping a damn slave,” he hissed into my ear as he closed a large hand around my mouth.
I bit down. Hard. So hard my jaw spasmed with the effort.
So hard my mouth filled with blood.
Agamemnon roared, releasing me. I scrambled to get away, but his giant arm shot out, blocking my path to the door.
Then he threw me down onto the bed, his bloodied hand closing around my throat again.
I thrashed against him, kicking my legs wildly, but Agamemnon remained unfazed, pinning me down with brutal efficiency.
“I had heard this was how you take your women—screaming and injured,” I hissed as he towered over me, rage and fear making my tongue reckless. “Because nobody will fuck you willingly.”
Agamemnon only laughed at that. “Ah. So you have heard of me.”
“Yes. And you know what?” I panted. “I find it surprising how much people have to say about something so little.”
I flicked my eyes pointedly to his crotch, finding satisfaction in the ripple of fury that fractured his cold composure. Agamemnon then tightened his grip around my throat, and a horrible pressure began building inside my temples, as if my head were about to explode.
“I can see why Castor likes you,” he murmured as he calmly watched me choke. “The bold ones are always the most satisfying to break.”
As darkness began to creep in at the edges of my vision, I saw him slip a hand beneath his robes, touching himself as he watched me suffer. He slackened his hold just enough to let me take a breath before applying the pressure once again, letting me dance on the blurry fringes of consciousness.
“What’s the matter, girl? Nothing more to say?”
Every vile insult I had ever thought of clogged in my throat as I glared at him, hoping my eyes would scream the hatred I could not voice. But Agamemnon only smiled and continued working himself.
Finally, he released my neck as he positioned himself over me, and I knew that now was my only chance.
In my hand, the one I had hidden beneath the sheets, I gripped a shard of the broken wine jug tighter. I could feel its jagged edges biting into my flesh as I reaffirmed my grip, ensuring the sharpest edge was exposed.
As Agamemnon pushed my tunic up to my waist, I launched myself forward, throwing all my strength into slamming the shard into his thigh, burying it deep in his flesh. Agamemnon let out a howl of agony, and I twisted the fragment deeper, pain lancing through my palm.
The king of Mycenae reeled backward, his face riven with rage. It was the kind of rage I had only heard stories about: of soldiers gripped in the throes of bloodlust, ready to slaughter entire armies.
I ignored the fear ripping through me as I scrambled over the bed and bolted toward the door. Agamemnon threw himself in front of me, and I recoiled, narrowly missing his grasp.
A silence held its breath as we stared at each other. Blood streamed down Agamemnon’s thigh in crimson rivulets. He reached down and ripped out the shard with a grunt before tossing it across the room.
“You’ve got balls, slave, I’ll give you that,” he said, voice ragged. He tried to laugh, but the sound came out strangled. “You’ll pay for this, you know. Nobody makes a king bleed.”
A thought stole through me like an icy winter breeze… I was about to die.
As if sensing my fear, Agamemnon smiled and took a heavy step toward me. I could see his wrath coiling inside him, tighter and tighter, preparing to unleash itself.
“King Agamemnon, I have an urgent message.” A voice sounded from behind the door.
“Leave!” he barked.
“I’m told the message is urgent. It’s from King Tyndareus. He wishes to discuss Helen’s betrothal.”
This caught Agamemnon’s attention. I remained frozen, watching his fury slowly disperse as a new focus took root. He threw me a warning glare before limping toward the door. When he opened it, two gray eyes met mine.
Penelope.
But it was not the Penelope I knew. She was wearing a plain, ragged tunic and a faded scarf around her head to hide her hair. Her face was smeared with dirt, her feet clad in worn sandals. Only her eyes were the same—those bright, clever orbs that darted around the room, calmly assessing the scene.
“King Tyndareus wants you in his throne room, sir, says it’s urgent,” Penelope said in an accent that was not her own.
Agamemnon let out a rush of air through flared nostrils.
“Listen here.” He jammed a finger in Penelope’s face, seemingly oblivious to her identity. “I want this girl here punished. Do you understand me, slave?”
“This one?” Penelope nodded to me. “I don’t have control of that, sir.”
“This slave attacked me. Do you see?”
Penelope regarded his bloody thigh, brows twitching. “So you want me to tell the others you were attacked…by a slave girl?” She tilted her head. “I know it’s not my place to say, sir, but word spreads pretty fast around here.”
“What are you implying?”
“I’m an admirer of the House of Atreus is all, and I’d hate to see the chances of your brother winning Helen dashed.
” Penelope shrugged. Even her mannerisms seemed looser, more relaxed.
“But…what if I didn’t see this girl in here?
What if she was never here at all? Maybe I saw you get in a brawl with a drunken suitor, a brawl you bravely won.
A story like that would spread quick as wildfire. ”
“I would take the girl’s offer,” came another voice from the hallway, smooth as marble and lit with amusement.
I could not see the speaker, but I noted the way Penelope stiffened.
The voice continued, “If news spreads that the mighty King Agamemnon was bested by a tiny slave girl, well…maybe the fearsome House of Atreus’s reputation won’t be quite so fearsome anymore. ”
“You speak to me of reputation, Prince of Goats?” Agamemnon snapped.
“By all means, ignore my advice,” the voice replied. “I and the men of Greece will delight in this story.”
I could not see Agamemnon’s face; I could only read the tension in his back, his muscles stiffening, then releasing in a rough exhalation.
“I’ve had enough of this,” he growled. “Leave. All of you. I have far more important matters to attend to.”
Penelope beckoned me forward, and I rushed to her.
“She was never here. Do you understand?” Agamemnon barked.
“Who, sir?” Penelope smiled. “I see nobody in your room.”
The king of Mycenae grunted before slamming the door behind us.
For a moment, all I could do was stare at Penelope, my mind and body utterly numb.
Penelope opened her mouth to speak when a chuckle sounded from down the hallway.
Turning, I saw a man lounging against the stone wall.
He looked nothing like the other suitors.
Whereas they were all tall, sculpted muscle, this man was short and stocky with a thick, barrel chest. His skin was bronzed, his dark hair a little unruly as if he had just wandered in from a stroll across the fields.
He was not handsome, yet there was a confident shine to his features that some might have believed charming.
“Well, you’ve certainly made an impression.” His smile was like a cat stretching, lazy and self-assured. “Tell me, what is your name?”
I forced my hammering heart to steady itself as I glared at him.
“Melantho…sir.”
“Melantho,” the stranger repeated, turning the syllables over in his mouth as if assessing them for cracks.
“Are you all right?” Penelope whispered to me.
I balled my wounded hand into a fist, feeling a sudden rush of embarrassment as I tucked it behind my back.
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
“Come, let me escort you ladies somewhere safer,” the man interjected, motioning down the hall.
Penelope shook her head. “Thank you for the offer, but—”
“I insist.” He cut her off with a smile.
I glanced at Penelope, and she gave a sigh before setting herself between me and the stranger.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” she murmured to me.
I forced myself to match her steady pace, praying neither of them noticed how shaky my legs were, how unsteady my steps.
“Melantho?”
“I said I’m fine,” I snapped, refusing to meet her gaze.
The stranger was glancing sidelong at us, smirking. “It is good to see you again, Princess Penelope.”
“Likewise, Prince Odysseus,” she replied, dropping the accent she had used with Agamemnon.
Odysseus’s smile widened. “I must say, you’ve had quite the change of appearance since our meeting this morning.” He made a point of glancing over her attire. “Is there a new fashion in Sparta I am unaware of?”
“From what I hear, Prince Odysseus, you are no stranger to a disguise,” Penelope countered.
His eyes flashed at that, like a fish slipping the net. “Then may I ask what your purpose is?”
“I merely wished to go for a stroll, but a princess is not permitted to wander at this hour.”
“Ah yes, whereas a slave can slip by undetected.” He drew the word out, letting it curl into a chuckle. “Tell me, what secret business could a princess possibly have on a night like tonight?”
“Nothing of interest, I assure you,” Penelope said.
“If a beautiful, enigmatic princess should not interest me, then what should?”
I stifled a huff. Odysseus looked old enough to be Penelope’s father.
“I assure you, Helen is the only true beauty here,” she murmured, meek and bashful and entirely not herself.
“Beauty is subjective,” Odysseus countered, edging closer.
I had a sudden, intense desire to be anywhere but there. As we turned off down another passageway, I glanced around us, wondering if I could slip away without either of them noticing.
“I have been thinking about what you said this morning, about allowing Helen to choose her own suitor,” Odysseus continued. “I intend to discuss the idea with Tyndareus.”
“That is good news,” Penelope replied.
“Do you think he would take my counsel?”
She nodded. “But I would not give it freely. I would ask for something in return. My uncle will respect a man who knows his own value.”
Odysseus’s teeth gleamed as his smile widened. “And what, princess, do you believe I should request from him?”
“That must be your decision, Prince Odysseus,” she said carefully.
“Well, there is something in Tyndareus’s possession that I greatly desire.”
Penelope gazed up at him from beneath lowered lashes. “And what might that be?”
Odysseus leaned closer. “I would love nothing more than to discuss such a thing with you, but alas, it appears your slave’s injury needs tending to.”
Penelope whirled to look at me, that bashful poise instantly draining from her face.
“I’m fine,” I muttered, but the words were thin, my head woozy.
“Melantho,” Penelope breathed, eyes widening as she surveyed the blood spattered on the floor, trailing behind me. “Let me see.”
Reluctantly, I held my hand out, blood welling in my palm.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked quietly as Odysseus observed the wound.
“I could take you to my chamber. I have remedies there. If you would like—”
“No, thank you,” she cut across him. “We will retire now. It was a pleasure to see you again, Prince Odysseus.”
“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine.” Odysseus bowed low. “Until next time, Princess Penelope.”