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 Autonoë looked unsure whether to be amused or afraid.
My gaze met Penelope’s, and I realized she was fighting a smile.
“Do yousee!” Eurycleia shrieked.
“She is jesting,” Penelope clarified. “Thracians have a great senseof 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 ismyduty 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.
Autonoë hiccuped a laugh, covering her mouth quickly.
“So youdospeak 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 yourrealname? 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.
