Seated on his throne hours later with a scowl across his face, Menelaus looked like a man denied a kill, his frustrations simmering beneath the weight of his crimson robes.
Not an ideal mood for a banquet.
I signaled for the wine steward and the boy darted forward with a fresh jug, his hands trembling. Menelaus seized it, pouring until the wine spilled over the rim.
“Play louder!” he growled at the musicians. “Or I’ll have your fingers fed to the dogs.”
The notes wavered, shrill and desperate.
The Sidonian emissary stepped in front of our thrones, bowing low. Menelaus answered by leaning forward and striking him between the shoulders, an openhanded blow meant to pass for camaraderie, delivered with the weight of command. The crack of it rang through the hall.
I winced at the sound. The emissary lurched half a step, his goblet jolting in his grasp. Wine spilled free, darkening the silver dust on his sleeve and splashing against the stone at his feet.
Menelaus laughed. “Careful,” he taunted, his eyes gleaming as the room stilled. “Sidon prides itself on grace, does it not?”
The emissary froze, then dipped his head again, deeper this time. “My fault, my king,” he said quickly in a tight voice. “I beg your pardon.”
Menelaus waved a hand as if dismissing the matter, though his cruel smile lingered. “You should not forget yourself,” he said. “It is poor form to spill in the presence of one’s god.”
The emissary straightened slowly, his expression shuttered.
“You come bearing silver and silks,” Menelaus continued, leaning back on his throne, “yet you still manage to offend.” His gaze swept the Sidonians. “Remember where you stand. And who you stand before.”
A ripple passed through the hall; the courtiers leaned back, careful to look impressed rather than uneasy. This was a lesson, and they knew it.
My fingers curled tight in my lap. Heat prickled down my arms as I watched. I’d never seen Menelaus like this with visitors to the court. He must have been far more offended by their lack of piety than I’d thought.
I had planned this feast for the Sidonians, a careful offering of welcome, a chance to introduce them to their queen. Menelaus was shredding it piece by piece, turning the feast into spectacle, and my duty into mockery.
“My queen,” Menelaus said suddenly as if he had read my thoughts. He lifted his goblet and flicked his hand toward me. “A fitting sight for Sparta, is she not?”
Every head turned. Their eyes weighed on me, and my fingers tightened around the stem of my untouched wine goblet as I pasted a smile on my lips like his words didn’t make me at all uneasy.
“She was purer than snow when she arrived,” he went on, his grin splitting wide. “And just as cold. Weren’t you, my beauty?”
Heat flamed across my cheeks as I leaned toward him. “I think that’s enough wine, my king,” I whispered. He scoffed, the sound loud enough to cut through the room. His eyes glittered with a menace I hadn’t seen directed at me before, and a pulse of worry slid through my stomach.
The emissaries said nothing. One tilted his head though, studying me as though I were some artifact drawn from the deep.
Menelaus leaned forward. “But not cold for long. You should’ve seen her face that first night, pale as moonwashed alabaster. But silent? No. Not our glorious, perfect, Spartan bride. She cried out sweet as a mourning dove.”
A shift went through the gathered nobles, uneasy glances darting between them, wine paused halfway to lips as laughter died in throats. They were nervous now. All of them. Watching their god-king toy with his queen like a cat with a pinned bird, unsure whether to laugh, to flee, or to pretend they’d heard nothing at all.
Menelaus lifted his goblet higher. The Sidonians sat still, silent, their silver eyes weighing and measuring.
Menelaus bent toward them conspiratorially. “There isn’t a finer cunt in all the world,” he declared, laughter booming from his chest, “nor one that sings quite like my queen’s.”
The words hit me like a slap.
“What are you doing?” I spat before I could stop myself, the question tearing free.
Menelaus turned his head and my stomach lurched. The look he gave me was not surprise. Not even irritation. It was cool. Assessing. Almost indulgent. As if he’d been waiting to see whether I would remember myself or forget my place.
For a heartbeat, I wondered if this was the point. If the Sidonians were only half the audience. If the lesson tonight was also meant for me. I sat back on my seat, trying to not look as nervous as I felt.
Dancers moved between the tables now, barefoot women with bells at their ankles and golden veils hiding their faces. One of the merchants slipped a gold coin into a dancer’s belt as she passed, and another guest howled in laughter as a roast pig was dropped to the floor by a stumbling servant.
Menelaus’s hand shot out and his fingers clamped around my arm like a shackle. The grip was rough and possessive, dragging the silk tight over the tender bloom of last night’s bruises. Pain flared, and I leaned toward him quickly, desperate to soothe whatever fury I had stumbled into. “My king,” I whispered, keeping my voice soft and steady and queenlike. “If I’ve upset you—”
