Chapter 26
I had made a terrible mistake.
This realization settled over me as I regarded the disgust on my brother’s face.
It had been Penelope’s suggestion to invite Melanthius to her quarters. She had offered a few days after we’d heard the news of Iphigenia, and a foolish, naive part of me had thought it a good idea. Melanthius and I so rarely had the opportunity to spend time together.
But now, watching him regard Penelope’s quarters with such deep revulsion etched into his face, I understood the fatal error I had made.
“It’s good to see you,” I said.
Melanthius remained silent, scratching an invisible mark on the table.
“Would you like some wine?” I offered, motioning to the ornate jug set beside us.
He laughed, the sound sharp and unpleasant. “Look at you in your fancy clothes with your fancy wine. How high you’ve risen.”
Anger surged up my throat, coating my tongue in hot, hateful words. But I forced myself to swallow them down. I had brought my brother here to close the distance between us, not widen it.
“How have you been?” I ventured as I filled two cups, trying to steer the conversation into steadier waters.
“This what you do all day then?” Melanthius asked coldly, ignoring the cup I set down before him. “Sitting around drinking and chatting. A tough job you’ve got yourself there, sister.”
My jaw clenched. “I was simply asking you a question.”
“Well, I didn’t come here to discuss how I am.”
“Then why did you come at all?”
Instead of replying, Melanthius glanced around the room. “Where is she?”
“Penelope is visiting King Laertes in his quarters. Hippodamia and Autonoe are out.”
“So we’re alone?”
I nodded, then stiffened as Melanthius abruptly pulled his chair closer to me. “What are you—”
“I’m getting outta here, Mel.”
“What?”
“I met a sailor in town. He promised me safe passage.”
“Passage to where?”
“To the mainland.” He said this as if it were obvious. “Then I’ll find my way on from there to Sparta.”
“To Sparta?”
Melanthius nodded fervently. “To Melitta. To my child.”
A knot tied in my gut. “What have you promised the sailor?”
“Silver pieces.”
My eyes narrowed. “Do you have any?”
He shrugged. “Enough.”
“How?”
“I’ve got my ways.”
I did not like the sound of that, not one bit. But from the stiffness set into Melanthius’s jaw, I knew he would not elaborate further.
“I want you to come with me, Mel,” he said, trapping my hands and pulling them to his chest. “The boat leaves tomorrow night from the old harbor. You know the one?”
I said nothing.
“Melantho.” He squeezed my hands tighter, voice softening. “I need you to come with me. Please.”
I could not stand the feverish hope burning in his gaze. I had not seen such light in his eyes since we’d left Sparta, and a part of me ached to feed those flames, to protect them with everything I had.
But to flee Ithaca… To return to Sparta…
“This is madness,” I whispered, guilt aching between every word. “You know it is.”
Melanthius let go of me instantly, anger falling across his face, eclipsing that fragile light.
“It’s not madness. It’s a chance.”
“A chance for what? To get yourself killed?” I reached for him, but he pulled farther away. “Melanthius, please—”
“I see how it is,” he whispered, voice dangerously quiet. “So long as you’re cared for, right, Mel? So long as you’ve got the nice room, the clean clothes, the fine wine, that’s all that matters, eh? Forget the rest of us.”
My face grew hot, hands trembling into fists. “If you think for one second that I have forgotten—”
“No? Then that’s even worse. That you’d choose to stay here and serve the woman who had us caught and beaten, who had Melitta taken from me and my chi—” The word caught in his throat, choking him.
“Penelope was only trying to protect us.”
“Don’t.” He slammed the table with his fist, making me flinch. “Don’t you dare defend her.”
I hated the cold curl of fear that slithered through me. It felt so wrong to be frightened of Melanthius when once he had been my safest harbor.
“I’m not defending her,” I said carefully, forcing myself to hold his blistering glare. “But it’s not as simple as you think—”
“No, sister. It’s actually very, very simple.
” Melanthius braced his hands on the table, leering toward me.
“Penelope is one of them, and to them, we’re nothing.
We’ve always been nothing and always will be.
” My brother’s gaze dropped, noting the flush of color creeping up my neck, bleeding into my cheeks.
“Oh, Mel, don’t tell me you actually believe Penelope cares for you?
How about we count the scars on your back?
Will that remind you how she really feels? ”
“Stop it—”
“What is it with her?” he pressed, disgust curling around his lips. “What hold does she have over you?”
I looked away, shame clotting inside me as that dream flooded my mind, the same one that had been plaguing me the last few nights.
“I’m done with this conversation,” I said, rising on shaky legs.
Melanthius laughed. I remembered when his laughter had been sweet and infectious, always summoning my own. The noise that escaped him now was the withered ghost of that laugh, a cruel, dead shadow chilling the room.
“Of course, run back to your Precious Penelope. Gods forbid you spend too much time with your own kind.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Admit it, Mel.” He stood slowly, stepping toward me. His breath smelled rancid, of wine and grief. “You hate your own kind. You only care for yourself.”
“That’s not true—”
“Tell me, how many slaves would you step on to keep Penelope’s attention? You already traded Callias and Melitta. So how many more?” He pushed closer, forcing me to retreat a step. “Five? Ten? A hundred?”
“That’s enough. You need to leave.”
“Oh? You’re giving me orders now, that it? You really have been spending too long with their kind, sister.”
His fury was like a shard of glass embedded in his flesh—sharp and cold and cruel, reflecting all the ugliness I recognized inside myself.
“I said leave.” My voice quivered from the strain of reining in my temper.
“This is your problem, Mel. You think yourself so above us. You always have.” He was all around me now, swallowing up every inch of space until my back was pressed against the farthest wall.
“But guess what? You’re just as worthless as the rest of us, and no matter how much you grovel at Penelope’s pampered feet, you won’t ever change that. ”
I moved to shove him away, but Melanthius caught my wrists, yanking me against his chest so he could spit his next words directly into my face.
“Listen close, sister, ’cause it appears you’ve forgotten. You are Penelope’s slave. You are a thing, an object, just like the rest of us, and you’ll never be anything more to her. You are nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing.”
His eyes were manic, but amid that frenzy, I saw something caught there, vulnerable and delicate, beating like the wings of a bird in a raging tempest.
“Is that what you see yourself as, Melanthius?” I asked.
His lips curled into a snarl, but he remained silent.
“Because it’s not true. You are not nothing. Not to me.”
“Don’t give me your pity—”
“It’s not pity. You are not—”
“I said don’t!”
I did not see his hand until it struck, the impact singing along my cheekbone. But it was not pain that shot through me. It was rage.
Melanthius’s face was suddenly bloodless, eyes wide.
“Melantho…” he spluttered. “I didn’t mean… I…”
“Get out.”
“Sister—”
“Get out!” I screamed, so loud it made my cheek throb.
Melanthius flinched, stumbling back a step.
Then he turned and fled.
***
Penelope’s quarters were mercifully quiet when I returned.
I had spent the afternoon walking the hills of Ithaca, chased by my brother’s vile words.
It was dark now, a stillness falling over the palace as night settled in. I was grateful for the solitude as I cut across the room to where the wine had been left out. I poured myself a drink and drained it quickly, then another.
Setting the cup down, I covered my face with my hands, feeling the heat radiate from my swollen left cheek. I pressed harder, wanting to feel the sting of Melanthius’s strike once again, wanting it to hurt.
You only care about yourself.
“How did it go with your brother?”
I glanced over my shoulder and found Hippodamia watching me from the hearth, her brows pressed together in concern.
I said nothing, turning back to refill my wine.
“Melantho? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine—”
“Well, apologies—we can’t all be perfect, happy handmaids like you—but some of us have shit to deal with.” The words were like poison leaking from an infected wound. I couldn’t have stopped them even if I had tried.
Hippodamia huffed a quiet, humorless laugh but said nothing.
I sighed, setting the wine jug down.
“I… It’s been a long day,” I murmured, rubbing my chest with the heel of my palm, trying to dispel the guilt that had settled there. “I want to be alone.”
I hoped Hippodamia would take the invitation to leave, but then I heard her bare feet padding over the floor and felt her draw up beside me. She picked up the jug of wine.
“Did you know I was born in a brothel in Athens?” She spoke as she filled a cup for herself.
“My mother worked there. My father…well, he was only around long enough to get what he paid for. My mother died in childbirth, and I was left to grow up there alone, forced to work as soon as my body had developed enough to…satisfy the customers. I was only six when I had my first client.” She smiled at me as she brought the wine to her lips and took a sip.
“I have stories darker than Nyx herself.”
“I…I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
She shook her head. “No. Don’t give me your sympathy.
I don’t need it. You know why? Because I decided long ago that my past would not define me.
I decided that every day, I would wake up and I would choose happiness.
We don’t have much choice in this life, Melantho, but we have choice over that.
To not let them break us. That is my rebellion.
It may seem small and insignificant to some, but it is the reason I am still here today. ”
I stared at her for a long moment, mesmerized by her quiet, beautiful strength.
“How did you end up in Ithaca?” I asked.
“It turned out the brothel manager was a terrible businessman. Gambled away all his earnings. He had to sell all his whores to pay back his debts. I was carted around to a few port towns and was finally bought by King Laertes.” Hippodamia sipped her wine, watching me over the rim of the cup.
I sensed she was debating her next words carefully.
“You can choose it, too, you know. To be happy.”
I glanced away. “It’s not always that simple.”
“It can be. But first you must allow yourself to be happy.”
I felt the warmth of Hippodamia’s hand on my arm. It was surprisingly reassuring.
“Whoever it is you’ve lost, don’t you think they would want you to be happy too?”
“Why are you being so nice to me?” I asked thickly.
She chuckled, her hand falling away. “Our masters prefer it if we hate one another because we’re weaker when we’re divided. Friendship can be a form of rebellion too.”
We were silent a while as I let her words sink in.
“Do you…do you see Penelope as your friend?”
Hippodamia nodded. “I do.”
“But she’s not one of us,” I bit out. “She’s one of them.”
“She belongs to Odysseus, just as we do.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I never said it was.”
“Penelope is a princess. A future queen.”
“And yet…” Hippodamia took another slow drink. “Even when she sits upon Ithaca’s throne, Penelope will still be a possession. She will still belong to a man. That is the curse all women carry. A curse that unites us.”
“So what? You think we should see Penelope as one of us, merely because she’s a woman?”
Hippodamia smiled, setting her cup down gently. “What I think, Melantho, is that we should see people in our own light rather than the light the world tries to force upon us. If Penelope does not treat me as a slave, then why should I treat her as a master?”
I blinked. How did she make it sound so simple?
“Penelope cares a great deal for you, you know,” she added.
I felt my cheeks instinctively heat. There was a flare of delight in my chest, quickly chased by a rush of shame. I pretended to find a sudden fascination in my wine.
“I’ll leave you be,” Hippodamia whispered. “Good night, Melantho.”
She squeezed my arm again before leaving, and I envied how easily she wielded such warmth.
Once alone, I felt my mother’s ghost creep into the stillness. I so rarely let myself think of her, but Hippodamia’s words had plucked these memories from their graves, splaying them out before me.
I pictured my mother’s face, how it would come alive whenever I laughed or smiled, as if my joy were the single spark that lit her own.
I pictured us in the palace kitchens, working away side by side while I moaned about petty, childish things. I heard my mother’s reply, her voice as bright and clear as the moonlight spilling through the windows.
All I want is for you to be happy, my heart.
“But what if I don’t deserve to be?” I whispered back.
I stood in my loneliness, awaiting a reply that would never come.