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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I kept struggling and screaming all the way across the camps of the various kings that separated your ships from Agamemnon's. The heralds were increasingly flustered and short-breathed from having to drag me, but they showed remarkable restraint. I half expected them to threaten or even hit me if I didn't become more docile, but all they ever did was tug more impatiently at my wrists. It was obvious they didn't approve of what their own king was doing and felt rather ill at ease with the whole situation.

The same applied to many of the men in the camps we crossed. They'd look away uncomfortably or gaze at me with a look of pity on their faces. Some, however, stared in open curiosity, unashamedly checking out the woman two of their main leaders were now fighting over.

By the time we got to Agamemnon's tent, I was a shambles: my braid was undone and matted strands of hair stuck to my sweaty face, my clothes were a dishevelled mess and my voice had given out completely. The heralds weren't looking much better and they breathed an obvious sigh of relief when they finally delivered me into the hands of the high-king's guards.

Your tent was comfortable, spacious enough and well-built, as the Achaeans would put it, but the only true luxury it had was the alcove that served as a private bedchamber for you. In comparison, Agamemnon's looked almost like a palace: it was huge, with a proper hall that could sit at least all the Achaean kings as guests, and a few separate rooms, including one for the women that made up his personal harem. It was imposing and clearly meant to impress. But I was too wrapped up in my own desperate struggle for it to have its full effect on me.

The guards proved less considerate than the heralds. They grabbed me unceremoniously under both arms and carried me into the king's hall, dropping me like some kind of unwelcome burden at the feet of the dais where Agamemnon's chair – or rather, throne – was perched.

I quickly pushed myself back up on my feet, looked up at my new master and promptly spit on the dais in front of him.

And I was instantly gripped by the most paralyzing fear I had ever experienced. What on earth had possessed me to do such a thing? Mighty Olympus, I knew how dangerous a man Agamemnon was! I also knew he wasn't the least bit interested in me. He'd only demanded me to put you in your place. To humiliate you. He wouldn't hesitate to kill me without a second thought if I dared challenge him in any way. After all, in his eyes I was nothing but a slave with no rights whatsoever.

He was looking down at me, his eyes cold and unblinking. He stood up slowly, walked calmly and deliberately across the dais, stopped in front of me, raised his hand and struck me hard across the face.

The blow sent my head jerking back and I tasted blood on my lips. He paused there for a moment, eyeing me dispassionately, then he turned back to his throne, his steps as calm and measured as before. He sat down, let another long pause drag by, then spoke:

"If your former lover neglected to teach you manners", he said, enunciating every word, "rest assured I will fix that." The total lack of emotion in his actions and the equally emotionless monotone of his speech made them even more threatening. There was a reason Agamemnon had risen to the place of high-king of such an unruly people as the Achaean tribes, and that wasn't leniency toward displays of disrespect from inferiors. If you were dangerous and ruthless on the battlefield, he was dangerous and ruthless altogether.

He pointed at a golden jar. "Pour me some wine", he ordered in the same cold voice. I did as I was told, handed him the goblet and went to stand in my previous spot at the foot of the dais.

He took a sip from the goblet I'd filled and nodded.

"That's better." He drank a little more, then looked down at me again. "Go wash yourself, put on clothes befitting your station," he gestured dismissively at my Achaean outfit, "make yourself presentable and tell your overseer I want you waiting at the tables tonight. The sooner you learn to know your place and to keep to it, the better you'll fare in my house. Understood?" I nodded wordlessly. "UNDERSTOOD?", he bellowed.

"Perfectly, sir", I croaked.

"Good." He nodded again, then dismissed me with a wave of his hand and turned back to the men sitting to the side of the dais.

One of the guards grabbed my arm and I followed him out of the high-king's hall.

The women's quarters were buzzing with activity. There was row upon row of looms being worked by women of all ages, pretty and plain alike. They all turned to look at me, some critically, some warily, some appraisingly, some – to my surprise – with envy, but each and every one of them with undisguised curiosity. I stopped at the doorway, feeling terribly self-conscious.

An older woman, with broad hips and a stout build, walked over to me.

"You're the girl sent by the son of Peleus, right?"

Before I had even time to finish thinking that I needed to be careful, words were already pouring from my lips:

"The son of Peleus didn't send me. The king had me brought here by force."

You could have heard a pin drop. For a moment, it seemed none of the women was even breathing. Then there were a couple of strident chuckles. The overseer frowned.

"Get back to work!", she barked. All heads turned obediently back to the looms. The overseer focused back on me. "You had better watch your tongue, girl. That kind of attitude is only going to cause you grief." She shrugged. "Anyway, that's beside the point. The only thing that matters, is that you belong to the son of Atreus now." She pointed at a chest in a corner of the room. "You'll find working clothes in there. Clean yourself up, change, then take your place at the loom. You do know how to weave, right?"

I nodded. "Yes, I do. But the king said he wished for me to wait at the table tonight."

"Alright", the overseer replied. "But you'll still have time to get some work done before that. Ah, after you change, bring me those clothes you have on now. We'll have them washed and returned to the son of Peleus. They look pretty rich, don't they? Don't want him to say you stole them."

I looked up at her, shocked: "He'd never say that. He gave them to me."

The woman shrugged again. "Maybe. But now he'll probably want them back. That's gold thread on that veil, isn't it? That's too valuable for a slave girl."

I pressed my lips together hard, making an enormous effort not to cry. The married woman's veil you had given me, in all its symbolic significance. It meant nothing now. If there was any symbolism left in it at all, it was the palpable token of my broken dreams.

The overseer was right: it was best to just send it back to you.

o – o - o

I tugged at the hem of the tunic I'd been issued for the umpteenth time. It was a standard female slave dress, which fell only just below the knees. Those kind of clothes were designed to allow the freedom of movement necessary to work in them, but I felt extremely uncomfortable. I had never walked around with my legs exposed, even if only partly.

It hadn't been so bad while I'd remained among women, working away at the dull brown fabric for cloaks at the loom I'd been assigned, but now that I had to go back and forth serving food and wine to Agamemnon and his male guests, it made me feel naked.

The fact that all of those men knew who I was, and that I had actually entertained some of them as hostess at your table, made things even worse. Of course, that was exactly Agamemnon's intention: to show me off in front of his vassal kings as a living proof of the kind of power he wielded over even the strongest of them.

Odysseus wasn't there – he was off to deliver the girl Chryseis back to her father – but there was old Nestor with his son, your friend Antilocus, who was too embarrassed to even look at me, Ajax, looking as uncomfortable as Antilocus, Diomedes, Idomeneus, the other Ajax, known as "the lesser", and, of course, Menelaus, among a few others.

Supper had been going on for quite a while. There was no lack of food and wine, but the atmosphere was clearly not as merry as Agamemnon would wish. Most of the guests looked tense and distracted and, although the conversation flowed easily enough, the voices were subdued.

I was standing in the shadows by the wall, trying to go as unnoticed as possible, when Agamemnon summoned me with a gesture. I automatically picked up the wine jar and walked over to him.

He let me fill his cup, then reached out and put his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. I went instantly rigid, but he ignored it.

"Pretty, isn't she?", he commented, to no one in particular. There was a sudden silence, all eyes trained on him and me. "Whatever his flaws, can't say Achilles has bad taste." He laughed.

I swallowed in a dry throat, my mind racing. How could I possibly extricate myself from that situation? But I was too terrified to think properly. The only thing that was becoming clearer and clearer in my mind, was that I wouldn't let him, I couldn't let him. Whatever it takes, whatever you need to do, just stay alive, Patroclus had said. But there was a limit to what I was able to do and I had just found it. If I had feared rape when I had first followed you to your camp, all those years ago, back then it had been just fear of a possibility. Now it was real, immediate. A certainty.

I couldn't take it. I just couldn't. If Agamemnon tried to touch me, I knew without a doubt that I would fight him. Every hair in my body was standing on end, revulsion coursing through me like a raging stream. I would fight him and then he would be furious and…

Agamemnon pulled me in – and I jerked away.

The silence in the room became thicker, heavier, almost like a physical presence.

Agamemnon frowned. "I warned you this afternoon", he said in a low voice, but in the same cold, menacing tone he had used before. "I tolerate no cheek from my slaves." He squeezed my waist painfully for a moment, then let go. "See if my good friends' cups need a refill as well", he ordered, louder now.

I scurried away as fast as I could.

Back in the shadows by the wall, I looked around desperately. Was there any way I could escape? But even if there was, where could I escape to? No-one would help me, that was for sure. None of those men would risk incurring in Agamemnon's wrath; if they hadn't done it for you, they surely wouldn't do it for me either. I might run back to your camp and I knew you wouldn't kick me out – but then Agamemnon would fall on you with the full power of his huge army to back him.

I had nowhere to go.

Not long after, the guests started taking their leave. Soon, the only one left was Menelaus, along with a couple of Agamemnon's closest courtiers.

Agamemnon beckoned me over. I hesitated, he frowned.

"Bring me wine, wench! Now!"

I obeyed, dragging my feet. "Hera help me, Hera help me, sweet Hera, please help me", I prayed silently.

I poured him the wine and, like the first time, he put his arm around my waist.

"You are a pretty thing", he said, in a sickly sweet voice that chilled my blood. "I can see how you turned Achilles' head. And I know he's young and good-looking too, so I can see how he might have turned your head as well. But if you please me, you'll find you have more to gain by being with me than with him. I can give you things he can't even dream of." He gave me what he obviously believed was a charming smile and tightened his arm around me.

"Please… Sir… I… just… please…" I couldn't string two words together. I was recoiling in front of him, arching my back, trying to put as much space between me and him as I possibly could, but his arm on my waist didn't let me budge. He was strong.

My eyes darted around anxiously. Something, I needed something to defend myself with. Perhaps the jar would be heavy enough?

It was hopeless. No jar, no chair, nothing I could use would stop him. Unless I got my hands on a real weapon… and then he'd probably just wrench it from me and kill me with it. He was a trained warrior after all. There was no way I could defeat him.

Still, I would fight. It might be a lost battle even before it started, but I had rather go down fighting that submit. Even if it meant I wouldn't survive that night.

I pushed at his arm. His eyes narrowed dangerously. He raised his free hand and I turned away instinctively.

Then a voice cut through the rising tension:

"That is not right, brother."