My father did not have the fortune of sons, and so my seven sisters and I were made useful to him. During our childhood, from the gray mornings, through the blue days, and to the black nights, we were set to crafting the tools of war: burning our hair and tunics heating the forges, rubbing our fingers raw and calloused on the sharpening block, hefting the iron hammers to the anvil for our father's use, piercing our skin with the needles and knives as we sewed the plates to leather armor. In some ways, we were better than sons, for our fingers were nimble despite their abuse and could attach detail to our work that made other smiths in the land envious of our father.
But since I did not have the fortune of an ugly face, I was made of even further use when my malnourished frame gained the appearance of a woman's.
"Syntyche," my mother said angrily, grabbing hold of my arm as I began to cry once again. "Women do not have the luxury of a lifelong home. They leave their parents and make a home wherever they must. Such is the world. Now quiet your tears, they ruin your face."
"Mother, please!" I begged, tugging on her hand. "Tell father... I have and I always will work as a slave for him! Please, don't send me away! I'll marry whomever he chooses! Just don't send me away!" I would've fallen to my knees if I didn't know she would continue to drag me after her.
"Your father has already chosen this for you, Syntyche!" Mother hissed, winding her hand tighter around my arm so that it pinched. "He'd be here himself if he didn't have to pick up the slack you'll be leaving. Now, hush! Dry your eyes!" She brought her brown, calloused hand to my face and wiped at it carelessly, bruising my cheeks as I sniffed and hiccuped miserably.
The slave market was held only once a year. My mother and I had had to travel through the night to make it to the city this day and she would return without me tonight, taking my price with her as dowery for my eldest sister. Her husband would be taking my place in the forges.
The resentment soured in my soul. There were men in our village who'd marry me without a dowery; they'd said as much to me as I pleasured them with my mouth and hands, seeking for extra coin for my father's purse. I needn't be sent away, to a foreign land, far from any place I've ever loved. I could gather a husband for the forges without loosing any of my sisters! The angry fire in my belly turned to more tears as we walked the crowded streets.
A dirty man with missing teeth and discordantly rich robes welcomed us to the market, bidding my mother to name her goods so that he could offer a price. My mother tried to ignore him, pushing past him with her stocky, stout frame, but he grabbed my other arm, forcing us to stop.
"This is a lovely piece of flesh, woman," he told my mother, running a greasy hand over my twisted, plaited hair. His breath stunk of spirits. "She would make a fine addition to my house of girls. I wouldn't want you to be cheated of a worthy price, that of which I can offer."
"My prettiest girl is worth more than you can afford, brothel merchant," my mother snarled, yanking me painfully out of his grip and leading me away.
Was that to be my fate? Was I to be made useful to many men and yet no single man would remember me, to be made a mother of bastards and thrown out when age turned my gifts to naught?
Mother suddenly stopped us, pulling my face up to look in her suddenly tearful, dull brown eyes. "You will be treated well, daughter, for the price you will gather. That, I assure you. If you work as you have for your father and I, do as your told, and take care of that pretty face and body, you will do well. You are a good girl, my Syntyche. It is a pity you were not my son, for I will miss you." With that, she snatched up my hand and led me away.
My mother knew of a famous merchant, who traveled and often sold to the kings of Greece and their men. Only the best of slaves were considered by him and my mother was convinced he would want me for his stock.
She found his train of tents in the center of the market, abuzz with activity and people and livestock.
"State your reasons for being here, woman," one guard asked lazily.
"I'm seeking to sell," my mother said clearly, gesturing to me. "On behalf of my husband."
The guard looked at me, seeming to judge my worth by one quick glance down my body. "Ask for Preitus, inside the first tent."
"I thank you, good sir," mother answered, walking me passed him.
Preitus was small and fat, shorter than even my mother. His robes were so brightly colored and they smelled of clean, wheaten flowers while he smelled of sweat and rotting food. The combination was nauseating to a girl who was accustomed to the uninhibited smell of a man from the forges or the fields. He sat at a table littered with skins and scrolls, holding a stick that left stains wherever he put it to a surface. It took a moment of watching him before I realized that he was writing words, something so completely foreign to my home life that I felt my future leaving my comprehension.
When he'd finished with a previous man, his servant waved my mother forward.
"What is it you wish?" Preitus asked, looking on my mother with hooded, heavy eyes.
My mother was intimidated, but she hid it well. "My prettiest daughter, my lord, to be of use to the men you sell to."
Preitus sighed, standing with a slight groan and walking to stand before me. My mother fell back as he reached out to lift my hair from my face and my lips from my teeth. "A very fine face..." he muttered, pulling my arms out to inspect my hands. "A little wild, I'd think..."
"She is a hard worker, my lord," my mother interrupted.
"Be still, woman," Preitus said, not ungently. "Allow me to finish." He began to pull at my clothing and I shied away from his soft, flabby hands, but he did not stop until I was standing naked before him, with my hands in his so I could not shield myself from his calculating, soulless eyes.
"Young," he appraised. "How old are you, child?"
I was shaking, unable to open my mouth.
"This is her fifteenth summer, my lord," my mother answered for me.
"And has a man taken you yet?"
I looked up at him, shocked, and began to shake my head.
Preitus nodded and released my hands, turning back to his table of scrolls. He sat again with an airy huff, then began writing as he looked me over once more, "You may dress yourself."
I bent and hurriedly pulled my tunic up around my body, still trembling uncontrollably.
"You, woman," he gestured to my mother, waving her over to stand beside me again. "Does this girl have a father?"
"She does, my lord," my mother nodded. "Euraclidas is his name."
"Why does he not present himself today?"
"He is but a poor smith, my lord, with no sons and no money to hire," my mother explained. "I am here in his stead so that he does not suffer delays."
Preitus didn't react other than to write more in his scroll.
"She has experience in the forge, my lord," my mother said, "and much knowledge in the ways of smithing, though she be but a girl."
Preitus's eyebrows did raise up his forehead, but he just continued to write for what seemed a lifetime while I refastened my tunic with shaking hands.
"I do believe I could find a profit for her," he finally said, sealing my fate.