“I hope so.”
***
After an elaborate display of sacrifices to the gods, the feasting began.
I felt like Sisyphus trapped in the Underworld, but instead of repeatedly pushing a rock up that cursed hill, my torture wascontinually replenishing wine cups that never seemed to remain full. My feet were aching and blistered after hours spent flitting up and down the long tables, trying to dodge the groping hands that became bolder with every pass.
As I leaned over to refill Castor’s cup, the tall suitor beside him shamelessly reached out to squeeze my breasts. I waited for Castor to chastise the man, for the prince was usually territorial with his “favorites,” but he was far more preoccupied with the flaxen-haired slave sitting in his lap, one of the ten gifted by a suitor. His shiny new toy.
Swallowing my irritation, I moved on to the next empty cup, the next pair of brazen hands and wine-glazed eyes. One suitor improvised a phallus with a leg of chicken and tried to make me eat it off his crotch while the others erupted into riotous laughter.
Were these really Greece’s greatest heroes, chosen by the gods? If so, I questioned the Olympians’ taste, for all I could see was a horde of sweaty, drunken pigs making fools of themselves. The only talent these “heroes” had was glutting themselves on the fruits of others’ labor.
It would have been laughable if it had not been so depressing.
I was grateful when the wine finally ran out, allowing me a brief escape. I took a detour through the courtyard on the way to the storerooms, savoring the fresh air and enviable stillness.
The courtyard was vast, situated at the very heart of the palace and kept impeccably tidy by the tireless work of my father and the other gardeners. I paused, gazing at the flower beds. Something ugly twisted inside me, knowing my father’s hands had tended to these buds, helped them flourish. I stamped on a rose, grinding the petals to dust beneath my heel.
My gaze then lifted to watch the last rays of sunlight stretching overhead, like clawed fingers refusing to let go of the day, leaving deep purple and rose bruises across the sky. I wondered, as I often did, if my mother was looking up at the sky too. Was she watching this same sunset? Was she thinking of me as she did? I closed my eyes, imaginingI could hear her on the whispering breeze, that voice I was so terrified of one day forgetting.
Be brave, my heart.
“Slave.” The word cleaved through my thoughts like a rusted blade.
I turned to find a suitor standing over me.
He was not the tallest nor the largest man, but there was a brutality to his appearance that demanded reverence, a rawness that made my stomach clench. He was like a natural element hacked from the earth, untamed by the wealth and luxury his status afforded him.
I bowed stiffly. “May I help you, sir?”
“I tire of the celebrations. Take me to my chamber.”
“I…do not know where your chamber is, sir.”
His thick brows knitted together, hanging over his eyes like twin thunderclouds.
“You do not know the king of Mycenae?” he asked.
Agamemnon. I knew of him of course. Not just because he was the king Clytemnestra had been sent off to marry but becauseeveryoneknew of the House of Atreus, rumored to be cursed by the gods.
“Take me to my room.”
“I do not know which room is yours,” I repeated, my voice a little more hesitant.
“AreallSpartan slaves blundering idiots?”
I bristled beneath the question but remained silent.
“Let me make this simple for you. Escort me to the grandest guest room in this palace. Is that truly so difficult, girl?”
I nodded, anger souring my stomach. “This way, sir.”
I led Agamemnon through the passageway that led to the guest wing. As the sound of the revelry faded behind us, I became aware of his eyes on me. Gripping my empty wine jug tighter, I tried to ignore the nagging unease expanding inside my chest.
“You’re dressed well for a slave. Let me guess—you are one of the princes’ personal flock,” Agamemnon mused aloud as we walked. The evening shadows seemed to be pressing in closer with every step.“They always said Tyndareus’s sons had good taste in whores.”
My jaw tightened, but I let his words graze me, keeping my focus ahead. Agamemnon smacked his lips and chuckled as if tasting my discomfort.
