I knew he was right; of course I did. Sold slaves never returned. But hope was a stubborn, foolish thing, and I could not shake the feeling that leaving Sparta meant leaving behind that tiny scrap I had left, the thread that had been holding together all those broken pieces, letting me cling to the possibility that I might one day see my mother again.
“We’ll never see any of them again,” Melanthius whispered.
I felt the guilt weigh heavier inside me, that familiar exhaustion rising to greet it. I wanted to lie down and sleep. To disappear. To be anywhere but in my own head.
“At least we have each other,” I murmured, reaching for Melanthius.
He said nothing as he walked ahead, leaving my outstretched hand to hang limply in the air.
It was a full day’s sail to Ithaca.
Though I wanted nothing more than to gaze upon those dancing tides, we were placed in the cargo hold alongside the other “commodities,” wedged into damp shadows that tilted and groaned, making the world feel untethered and my stomach roil.
Many threw up, my brother included. When I tried to help Melanthius, he just stared at me with those dead eyes, bile drying on his chin. He did not bother wiping it off.
I gave up trying to comfort him after a time and stared into the swaying darkness, the vomit-stained air burning in my nostrils. Iwondered where Penelope was. Likely being pampered above deck, enjoying the fresh, salty breeze on a cushioned throne beside her husband. The thought made the anger thicken inside me as the waves carried us away.
***
My first impression of Ithaca was that it looked deeply unwelcoming.
The island was made up of giant, rugged mountains that clutched at the sea like fists, terse tufts of greenery sprouting between their thick knuckles.
Whereas Sparta was flat and green and flush with life, it felt as if Ithaca were purposefully trying torepelvisitors, the harsh landscape growing steep and crooked to ward off any who wished to claim her as their home. Though it seemed few had dared to, save for the flocks of animals that trundled over the hills like passing clouds.Prince of Goats—that was what Agamemnon had called Odysseus.
As we disembarked from the ship, it took a moment for the ground to steady beneath me. Around us, waves lapped at the jagged, bald shoreline, dipped plum-red in the evening light. Gratefully, I drew in a lungful of fresh air, though the stench of bile still lingered in my nose.
Scanning the harbor, I noted that the men of Ithaca appeared just as weathered as their land. Though I was surprised to see how warmly they greeted Odysseus, as if he were an old friend, clasping hands and slapping shoulders. Farther up the shoreline, I glimpsed small, ramshackle houses gathered in tight clumps. Wasthisthe kingdom of Ithaca?
We were quickly sorted into carts, then lugged up a narrow road beaten into the hillside. The bumpy, twisting path seemed to revive everyone’s nausea, and I had to keep my eyes set on the horizon to stop my stomach from emptying itself onto the overcrowded floor.
Gradually, Ithaca’s palace came into view. It was a strange, rambling structure built into the side of a large hill, towering floors clambering up the cliff edge, connected by sheer stairs left exposed to theelements. It looked as if the palace had once been decorated with bright splashes of red and blue and green, though the paint had mostly been stripped away now, feasted on by salt-toothed winds, leaving cold marble beneath, white as bone.
Once we had climbed out of the carts, we were led up those steep stairs cut into the rock. Up and up we went, past the lower levels of the palace, where I assumed the slaves resided, climbing higher and higher until the steps opened out into a large courtyard, hugged on all sides by towering colonnades. This was where the largest portion of the palace had been built, sprawling over the flattened hilltop and boasting uninterrupted views of the entire island.
I took a moment to catch my breath; the stairs had been arduous on my broken body. With my hands braced on my thighs, my gaze drifted over Ithaca, the ragged, sparse hills spilling outward in all directions, framed by glittering waves.
Melanthius appeared beside me, eyes glazed.
“What do you make of it?” I murmured.
He shrugged. “All prisons are the same.”
19
The eyes of Ithaca were upon us.
We were kneeling in the palace courtyard while Odysseus welcomed us into his home. Beside me, the other Spartan slaves kept their eyes set on our new master, but I met our audience’s shameless curiosity with a glare.
Odysseus stood in front of a towering oak tree as he droned on and on. It became quickly apparent that the prince of Ithaca loved the sound of his own voice. Strangely enough, everyone else seemed to love it too; even his slaves listened animatedly as he listed off the importance of duty and respect and loyalty. It was an effort not to roll my eyes.
All I wanted was to be left alone and sleep.
Still, Odysseus blathered on.
“I am delighted to welcome you all into my home,” he said, taking the time to make eye contact with all ten of us as he spoke. “The slaves beneath my roof are not merely workers, they are family, and I wish to welcome you as part of that family.”
When his eyes landed on mine, I felt myself hardening beneath his warmth. I did not trust it. Did not trusthim. This whole benevolent master act felt too rehearsed, the sentiments hollow on his tongue. I glanced at the slaves beside me. Was anyone buying it?
