Chapter 48
“You don’t have to do this.”
Melanthius ignored me as he ripped two strips of fabric from his tunic and began winding them around his knuckles. His face was set with a grim determination; it lined his forehead, bracketed his downturned mouth, making him look so much older than our thirty-three summers.
He glanced over my head, and I turned to see Eurymachus clapping another slave on the back. I recognized the man as Philoetius, the palace cowherd, though I hadn’t ever shared more than a few words with him. He was shorter than Melanthius but far stockier, with thick-set limbs.
“Melanthius?”
I searched his face, looking for the brother I had sat with outside Laertes’s cottage, the one who had spoken such sweet, honest words.
“Why are you doing this?” I breathed.
“They won’t respect me if I don’t,” he muttered.
I reached for his arm. “Men like that will never respect you.”
His eyes blazed, then hardened, shoulders straightening.
The sound of smashing wood and snapping strings pulled my focus away.
Across the room, a suitor was gleefully bashing the bard’s lyre against a pillar.
He then thrust the mangled instrument back into Phemius’s tearful face, his cruel laughter ringing louder as he watched the bard flee from the room.
When I turned back to Melanthius, he was already walking away, heading into the makeshift ring the suitors had formed using tables and their bodies.
Whoops and cheers ricocheted off the walls as Melanthius and Philoetius began circling each other. At his table, Eurymachus was collecting the bets his companions piled before him.
Fury blinded all other senses as I stormed forward, slamming a hand over the silver scattered before Eurymachus.
“Stop this,” I snarled. “Penelope would not approve.”
Eurymachus’s eyes traveled leisurely from my hand, up my arm, lingering at my breasts, before finally settling on my face.
“Speak that way to me again, and I’ll have you whipped,” he said mildly. “Now sit.”
“I do not answer to you.”
Eurymachus seemed unfazed as he picked up a silver piece, twirling it between his fingers.
“Obey me, slave, or I’ll make this a fight to the death.”
He held my gaze with such calm, empty cruelty, born from a lifetime of entitlement. I knew he would do it. He would have my brother killed simply to prove his power over me. That was how little our lives meant to him.
Rage scorched through my veins.
“You harm one of Penelope’s slaves, and you break the laws of xenia,” I warned.
Eurymachus made an exaggerated point of looking at where my brother and Philoetius were still sizing each other up. Then he looked down at where he sat.
“Am I fighting?” he asked, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “No. Of course not. I would not debase myself in such a way. These slaves are fighting each other.”
“Because you are telling them to.”
“Semantics, my dear. Do you know what that word means? I know it’s probably a tricky one for you.” He smiled, admiring my wrath as if it were a pretty trinket he wanted to collect. “Let’s try a simpler word, shall we? One I know you can understand—sit.”
I held his gaze, refusing to move.
Eurymachus regarded the meat knife before him. “Perhaps I will have them fight with knives. What do you think, Antinous?”
“Knives. Definitely.” Antinous licked his lips.
Eurymachus raised a brow at me. “What’s it to be?”
I inhaled slowly, ignoring the crush of defeat as I moved to sit down.
“Ah, ah, ah, not there.” He patted his thighs. “Your seat is right here, sweetheart.”
My pride tasted horribly bitter as I swallowed it down and forced myself to sit in Eurymachus’s lap. He threw an arm around my waist, pulling me roughly against him. I felt his grin curl against my neck, his wine-stained breath hot in my ear.
“Good girl,” he purred. “Now let us enjoy the show.”
Eurymachus lifted a hand, signaling for the fight to begin. My insides hollowed out as I watched Melanthius and the cowherd advance on each other.
I did not even know if Melanthius knew how to fight, other than the scraps he had gotten into as a boy. Philoetius looked like he could have been a boxer, his fists large, arms strong.
I knew it was futile to implore the gods for aid, yet I found myself uttering a foolish, desperate prayer anyway.
Melanthius made the first move, and I felt my stomach swoop with the motion of his fist as he flung out a wild jab. Philoetius dodged effortlessly, then swung a punch of his own, connecting with Melanthius’s stomach. My brother doubled over, gasping for breath.
“Seems I bet on the right horse,” Eurymachus chuckled against my skin.
I felt sick to my core as I watched Melanthius straighten and raise his fists. Philoetius muttered something too low to hear. Whatever he said had Melanthius lunging for him, but the cowherd was quick on his feet, sidestepping my brother’s attack with ease, using Melanthius’s momentum against him.
I muffled a cry as Melanthius stumbled sideways, catching himself on the edge of a table. Laughter rippled around the room, and I knew the sound of it wounded my brother more than any strike ever could.
He scanned his audience, that sea of cold, ruthless amusement, and I willed him to look at me, to hear my silent plea: Stop this. Yield.
Instead, my brother launched himself at his opponent with a mighty roar. This time, Philoetius landed a fist on Melanthius’s jaw, sending him crashing to the ground.
The suitors roared as Melanthius lay sprawled at their feet, blood gushing from his nose, pooling across the stone floor. He lay still for a long moment, burning in his humiliation. I tried to run to him, but Eurymachus’s arm was a vise around my waist.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Stop this,” I gasped. “Please.”
He gave a low hum against my neck. “And what will I get in return if I do?”
“What do you want?”
His fingers traced shamelessly over my thighs. “You know what I want.”
Sickness roiled in my gut. Could I really do it? Could I give that part of myself to Eurymachus? No, I would not, could not…but neither could I continue watching my brother’s body and soul being beaten down before my very eyes.
Before I could reply, Melanthius got to his feet again, swaying slightly.
This time, Philoetius did not even give him the opportunity to attack.
Instead, he barreled into Melanthius, knocking him to the ground once again.
The crowd’s bloodthirsty cheers seemed to fuel the cowherd, and he threw himself on top of Melanthius.
Pinned to the ground, my brother was helpless as Philoetius pummeled his face, fist after fist, and I felt each brutal hit as if I were striking my own heart.
“Stop!” I screamed, the plea engulfed by the crowd.
“Say it,” Eurymachus hissed in my ear. “Say I can have you.”
Again and again, those fists pounded into Melanthius, turning his face into a bloodied, broken pulp.
“Say it.”
“Yes.” I choked on the word.
“Yes what?”
“You can have me.”
Eurymachus’s chuckle skittered down my spine as he raised a hand.
“Enough!” he called out, his voice cutting cleanly through the clamor.
There was a ripple of annoyance from the suitors as Philoetius halted his onslaught. The cowherd then pushed himself off my brother and rose.
“You are victorious, my friend!” Eurymachus told him. “Congratulations. You fought well.”
“Thank you, sir.” Philoetius bowed, his bloodied fists dripping onto the floor.
I swallowed back a sob of relief as I watched Melanthius stagger to his feet, using one of the long tables to heave himself upward.
“Brother,” I whispered.
Across the room, his gaze found mine, and I swear, in that exact moment, I saw the flimsy remnants of my brother’s spirit breaking, a red mist creeping over his eyes.
Melanthius flung himself forward, and I screamed as I watched him bury a knife in Philoetius’s shoulder, narrowly missing his neck. The cowherd howled in agony, but the suitors drowned out his pain with violent cheers as Melanthius tackled him to the ground.
“Make it stop!” I cried.
Eurymachus gave a shrug. “Seems they don’t want to.”
“Maybe it will be a fight to the death after all.” Antinous grinned.
I could do nothing but watch as my brother grappled with his opponent until he was sitting atop him.
He began beating him then, slamming his fists into Philoetius’s face just as the cowherd had done to him moments before.
Each wet thud made my insides roil, bile coating the back of my throat.
At first, Philoetius struggled against the attack, but after a time, he grew horribly limp.
Still Melanthius struck him. Over and over.
He looked nothing like the brother I knew. He was a creature crawled from Tartarus itself, his broken face swelling into something monstrous, covered in blood that was only partially his own.
“He’s going to kill him,” I breathed before turning to Eurymachus, my voice growing frantic. “You must stop this. He’s going to kill him.”
The realization caught in Eurymachus’s face, and his smug smile faded as he signaled to someone.
A moment later, five suitors were rushing forward, pulling my brother off the seemingly lifeless man.
Melanthius thrashed like a frenzied beast, snapping his teeth, mouth foaming, blood dripping down his face, his hands, his neck…
“Well, well, well,” Eurymachus announced. “It seems we have a new victor!”
The sound of applause seemed to settle the wildness in Melanthius. He grew still, panting hard as he took in the sea of approval crashing around him.
“Come, take your seat, slave. You’ve earned it!” Eurymachus called.
Tentatively, Melanthius approached the table. He smiled as he sat, his teeth shining a deathly white against all that blood. Eurymachus then passed him a cup of wine, and my brother took a long, deep drink. Around him, the suitors began slapping his shoulders and ruffling his hair.
“Shall we go to my chamber now or later?” Eurymachus purred into my ear.