Chapter 28
“You can’t have that thing as a handmaid!”
I massaged my temples as Eurycleia continued squawking, trying to dispel the headache that had taken root. It had been light outside when the old witch had come to Penelope’s quarters to lecture us. Now it was dark, and still she prattled on.
Penelope listened quietly with a level of patience I could not fathom. Beside me, the Thracian smirked as she watched the drama unfold while Eurynome stared at Penelope, likely still processing the fact that she was not a slave, as her disguise had implied, but rather the future queen.
“She is a danger to us all, mistress!” Eurycleia continued. “She could very well slit our throats in our sleep!”
“Slit throat? I would not slit throat,” the Thracian said in a thick, rumbling accent. “I would strangle. Much less messy.”
These were the first words she had spoken, and they were met with a stunned silence.
I had thought she could barely understand Greek, let alone speak it.
I watched the color slowly drain from Eurycleia’s face.
On the opposite side of the room, Hippodamia and Autonoe looked unsure whether to be amused or afraid.
My gaze met Penelope’s, and I realized she was fighting a smile.
“Do you see!” Eurycleia shrieked.
“She is jesting,” Penelope clarified. “Thracians have a great sense of humor.”
“What is this ‘jesting’?” the tattooed woman asked, scratching her head theatrically.
Penelope gave a resigned sigh, though that smile still traced her lips.
“Mistress, I must remind you, it is my duty to approve the purchase of slaves.”
“I am aware, Eurycleia. But I sent Melantho to the market because I trust her judgment above all else.”
I found my heart lifting at Penelope’s words, even though I knew they were just a ruse to cover up my insolence.
“Melantho’s judgment was to pick a savage and an old woman,” Eurycleia sneered. “I cannot condone this, mistress. We must return these slaves at once and find you better stock. Leave it with me and I can—”
“Eurycleia.” I rose from my stool by the fire, unable to hold my tongue any longer in fear I might bite it clean off. “Penelope has made her decision. Do you wish to defy the princess? No? Then I suggest you leave. It is late, and we are all tired.”
Eurycleia looked as if I had just slapped her across the face, her cheeks pink with outrage. “Do you hear the way she speaks to me, mistress?”
Penelope nodded. “Yes, I can hear Melantho perfectly fine.”
Eurycleia opened her mouth, then closed it again, flicking her gaze between Penelope and me. Pure rage burned behind those beady eyes, and I took a deep, vicious pleasure in seeing it.
“The king will hear of this,” was all she said, turning sharply on her heel, chin pointed high.
“Such big anger for such small woman,” the Thracian commented as Eurycleia stormed out the door.
Autonoe hiccuped a laugh, covering her mouth quickly.
“So you do speak Greek,” I said, folding my arms.
The Thracian grinned at me. “A little.”
“Will you tell us your name now?” Penelope asked.
“Your people call me Thratta.”
The name meant “woman from Thrace.” It was a lazy and common label given to slaves of her kind.
“And what’s your real name? Your Thracian name?” I asked.
The dark gleam in her eyes shuttered at that, and I wondered how long it had been since she was asked such a question.
“That name is mine,” she said flatly.
“Very well.” Penelope motioned to the hearth. “Thratta, Eurynome, will you take a seat?”
Eurynome looked visibly flustered by the idea. “Oh, no, I shouldn’t—”
“Please, I insist.”
The woman’s eyes shone as she quietly obeyed, setting herself down gingerly in the chair beside me. She sat rigidly, and I could tell she was afraid of sullying it with her dirty clothes. Beside her, Thratta flopped down heavily, the chair seeming to groan beneath the weight of her.
Hippodamia padded over and offered them both cups of wine. Eurynome accepted gratefully, while Thratta declined.
“Greek wine is piss,” she huffed.
I stifled a laugh as Penelope turned to Eurynome. “So you said you hail from Corinth?”
“Yes, my lady. I served my master there for many, many summers,” Eurynome said.
“What happened?” Penelope asked, shaking her head as Hippodamia offered her a cup.
“He died, taken by a sudden illness.”
I did not miss the dip of emotion in Eurynome’s voice.
“He left me to his son in his will, wanted to make sure I was cared for, but…” She paused, her thin fingers lacing together in her lap. “His son no longer saw a place for me in the household.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Penelope said, her eyes lit with genuine sympathy. “Forgive me for prying, Eurynome, but is that a Maeonian accent I hear?”
“Oh…” Eurynome’s cheeks grew flushed. “I apologize, mistress. I hadn’t realized it was still so obvious.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” Penelope insisted. “There were many slaves in my father’s household who hailed from Maeonia. I hear it is a beautiful place.”
“It is. The most beautiful,” Eurynome said softly, eyes heavy. “Though I have not been there since I was a girl. Since I was…”
She trailed off, seeming to remember herself. Yet we all knew the tale she was about to tell; it was one so many slaves shared—a child snatched from their homeland, shipped to foreign lands by greedy slavers, then sold off to the highest bidder.
At that moment, Telemachus began squealing in Autonoe’s arms. She brought him to Penelope, who shushed him with soft bouncing movements. Beside me, I noted the way Eurynome’s face transformed as she gazed at mother and son.
“A baby,” she whispered. “A true gift from the gods.”
Penelope smiled at that. “Would you like to hold him?”
Eurynome stared down at her dirty hands and ruined clothes, then shook her head.
But Penelope rose anyway and offered the whimpering Telemachus with an encouraging nod.
Eurynome took him with the quiet confidence of someone who had held countless babes in her arms. She rocked him gently, and Telemachus fell almost instantly asleep.
“He never settles that quickly. It seems you have a gift, Eurynome,” I said, and her eyes shone as they met mine.
Penelope then turned to the Thracian sprawled in her chair. “And what of you, Thratta? What is your story?”
“My story is mine,” she said. There was an edge to her voice, one that warned us not to pry further.
Sensing this, Penelope nodded and retreated from the topic. “Well, I warmly welcome you both to Ithaca and to the House of Laertes.”
“Are we really to be your handmaids, princess?” Eurynome asked.
“If you would like that?” Penelope said.
Thratta shrugged, but Eurynome’s throat bobbed as she whispered, “It would be an honor. An honor I never thought I would earn at this stage in my life. Thank you.”
Penelope’s eyes slipped to mine as she replied, “It is not I who deserves your thanks.”
***
“You’re still awake?”
I was sitting on the rug by the hearth when I heard Penelope approach.
She had just bathed, her skin scrubbed and glowing, unbound hair still damp, hanging in soft waves around her shoulders. She wore just a simple gown with no adornments, and her feet were bare as she padded toward me.
“I thought you had retired with the others,” I said.
“I cannot sleep,” she admitted.
“It’s not because you’re afraid of Thratta, too, is it? Hippodamia and Autonoe said they were going to take shifts sleeping tonight.”
Penelope smiled, shaking her head. “They are only afraid of Thracians because they have never met one.”
“So you trust her? Thratta?”
“I do,” she said, moving to sit beside me.
I noticed she had a small bowl in her hands, though my gaze was caught on those wet tendrils of hair seeping into her gown.
“Thratta told me she owed us a life debt. Such things are sacred to her people.”
For a moment, we were quiet, our silence charged with the echo of all we had exposed earlier by the harbor.
“It was brave, what you did today,” Penelope murmured. “I know it can’t have been easy for you, dealing with the slaver.”
I shifted, awkward under the weight of her praise.
“I heard you talking to Thratta earlier,” I said, keen to deflect. “How is it you can speak Thracian?”
Penelope’s smile softened. “One of my childhood handmaids was from Thrace. She taught me Thracian alongside Greek—in secret, of course. I think it was her act of rebellion, to teach me her tongue. I like to continue speaking it, to keep that rebellion alive for her.”
“I’m sure that would make her happy to know.”
Penelope tilted her head to the side, and I realized she was staring at my cheek. “Would you let me put something on that?”
I brushed my face and winced. My brother’s fury had left its mark.
“I have an ointment,” she continued, motioning to the bowl in her lap. “It will help keep the swelling down.”
“I’m fine.”
She shifted closer to me then, and I could not help but marvel at the way the fire lit her freshly bathed skin, making it glow rich and golden. There were still droplets of water caught in her hair, sparkling like tiny, dripping jewels.
“Please?”
My mouth felt dry from her sudden closeness, so all I could manage was a tight nod.
She began probing my cheek, her touch gentle and lingering.
She was sitting a little taller, so my eyeline was level with her neck, and I could do nothing but watch the shadows toying with that dip at the base of her throat.
I watched her pulse thrum just above it.
Had the beat quickened when she touched me?
She dipped her fingers into the bowl and gently rubbed the silky contents on my cheek. She was so close now, too close, seizing all my senses.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I replied a little too defensively. “Why?”
“You look…uncomfortable.” She pulled away. “Am I hurting you?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“If you want me to stop—”
“No. I like you touching me,” I blurted out. “I don’t mean… It’s not that I like it. I just… I don’t…I don’t mind it.”