“Come get your livestock! Pigs! Goats! Slaves!” A voice sounded in the distance, shattering our companionable silence.
On the docks, I could see the slaver leading a procession of people behind him. Their necks were chained together, and the sound of those metal shackles clanged through my bones, making my blood turn cold.
“Melantho?” Penelope was watching me. “Are you all right?”
My voice trembled as I asked, “Will you come with me?”
She nodded. “Always.”
***
We made our way back through the market, pushing into the swelling crowds as we followed the slaver’s shouts.
The owner of the voice was a short, rotund man, his fleshy face dominated by a bulbous, sunburned nose. He was an ugly thing, but uglier still were the words that lifted from his thin, chapped lips.
“Come, come! Take a look at the livestock! The finest you’ll find in Ithaca!”
He stood beside three pens. One was being filled with pigs, the second goats, and the third was where he deposited the slaves.
They looked less than human—covered in filth, their clothes ragged, hair matted.
There were six of them altogether, two of whom were women. Neither was my mother.
One was older, hair silvered and shoulders hunched with age, though she was trying to hold herself proudly. The other was the tallest woman I had ever seen. Her head was shaved, and her muscular body was covered in intricate ink markings.
A finely dressed man approached the slaver. He was old, though Ihad seen far older men sail with Odysseus. I wondered what ailment this one had lied about to escape the war.
“Why is she stained?” he asked, pointing at the large woman.
“It’s a Thracian thing. They call ’em tattoos,” the slaver said, voice as greasy as his grin. “You won’t find a stronger slave than a Thracian slave, I can assure you. Even the women are tough.”
I stared at the Thracian, and she met my gaze. Her eyes were the color of wet stone—dark and gleaming. There was something about her, something sharp and alive and dangerous. I half expected her to rip off those metal chains with her teeth.
The interested buyer entered the pen and grabbed one of the male slaves by the jaw, turning his face this way and that. He then barked a command, and the slave opened his mouth so he could examine the inside. The slave’s eyes were eerily dead, as if he were just an animated corpse. A body without a soul.
I remembered when Leda had looked at my mother just like that, like a creature, not a human. I stared at the gathered crowds as they pointed and murmured. Was this what my mother had been forced to endure? Having her humanity stripped from her as she was paraded before strangers?
My fury was so loud I could feel it thumping in my head. I wanted to cry, to scream, to claw the slaver’s soulless eyes out…
But then a hand slipped into mine, cool and firm. Penelope’s.
She was staring at me, eyes filled with a silent question:Are you all right?
Nodding, I curled my fingers around hers and felt a surprising burst of reassurance from her touch.
I can do this. I have to.
Letting go of Penelope’s hand, I strode forward.
“Can I help you?” the slaver asked.
I stared at the man, my hatred so visceral I couldtasteit pooling on my tongue.
“How much can I get for this?”
I handed over the two pouches of silver and watched him theatrically weigh each in his hands.
“Depends. Each slave ’as their own price. But you should know, I don’t sell cheap. Mine isgood-qualitystock.”
