Page 12 of Odette's Vow

Good.Maybe I could poke one of them out.

His hold on my arms tightened. “You will be obedient, Odette,” he warned. “Or there will be consequences.”

And then it bubbled out of me, a laugh I could not stop, as if it were a fountain sprung to life out of devastation. The sound was hollow and bitter to my ears as it echoed in the tight space between us.

“I have been nothingbutobedient!” I bit back. “To you today, to my husband before, and to my father before him. And where has it gotten me? Here. You don’t get to lecture me on obedience and consequences. Men like you know nothing of either.”

His gaze bore into mine, assessing, calculating. But I refused to cower under his scrutiny.

“You do not want to believe me? Fine.” I continued, defiance fueling my words. “But there is nothing you can say and nothing you can do to hurt me further. Do you not see? It has all been taken from me. So, go ahead. Believe me. Or do not. Punish me if you must. I. Do. Not. Care.”

On the final word, I wrenched myself free from his grasp. He stood there still assessing me, but he didn’t make a move to grab me again, or to shake a confession out of me I would not give. Maybe something I’d said had finally convinced him to believe me. I knew I should not have made such an angry outburst – it was not what Trojan women did – but I had never been good at keeping my opinions to myself, even at the best of times.

We regarded each other, predator and prey. When it became evident that this was as close to a truce as we would come, I turned my back on him, retreating to the pathetic sanctuary of my pallet bed. I did not undress. I simply lifted one of the thin, worn blankets, its threadbare fabric offering little protection against the chill that seeped in from the night, tucked it around my body as if it were a cocoon, and crossed my arms, scowling at the edge of the tent that was inches from my nose.

I heard him potter around the tent for a little, gathering the plates when that should have been my job. I wondered why he would do such a thing, but before I could look, he had put out the oil lamp.

And in the dark, I waited for the nightmares to take me.

When morning came,he was already gone.

My sleep had been fitful at best, Hypnos and Morpheus dragging me down into the depths of my own personal hell, Alcander and Lykas’ faces almost close enough to touch, onlyto disappear into a cold wisp when I reached out. Realising I was in the depths of a nightmare, I would try to drag myself to consciousness. Then my mind would remind me of what awaited me when I woke: a boar of a man who threatened me because he was threatenedbyme, and would undoubtedly find a way to make that my fault, then either sell me off or beat me. So the nightmares called me back – an insanity I would rather swim in forever than wake.

But Eos refused to be denied. Her saffron robes and rosy complexion painted the light against the tent canvas and then over my eyelids, forcing them to flutter open, despite my resistance.

Once I’d roused, it took all of a moment to realise the space surrounding me was vacant. As if Odysseus’ presence was larger than his physical form, the space felt like a ghost of itself without him in it. With a heavy sigh, I pushed myself upright, the blankets tangled around me. There was the worn, threadbare one closest to my skin, cocooned around my shoulders as I’d twisted and turned. But another had fallen to my waist as I’d sat up, pooling on my lap, the weight of it surprising me. I stared at the burnt-red blanket in confusion. There was only one explanation as to how it had got there, and the thought made me shudder.

To have the boar that close, while I had been asleep and vulnerable; that I hadn’t awoken when he had been mere centimetres from me … No, I did not want to think about that.

My attention fell upon his armour sitting against the leather chest that held all manner of spoils he had already collected from the war. It was scuffed and stained with Trojan blood. Beside it, a bowl of paste sat on the chest, a clear indication of his expectation that I would polish the armor while he was away, just as any dutiful spear-wife would.

You will be obedient, Odette.

Rising, I walked over to the silent reminder of the duties expected of me. I sniffed the mixture and almost gagged at the pungent fumes of vinegar and lead that assaulted my nose. I’d be smelling that for days now. I regarded the dull metal of the armour. My hand itched to pick up the cloth beside it and get to work, the compulsion coming from something long-drilled into me.

What was the point in being shackled by the demands and roles men sought to impose on me now?

That feeling settled over my skin again, the one I’d felt as I knelt in the dirt staring into Alcander’s eyes as the light was beaten out of them. No external force could harm me; nothing could penetrate me. That sensation had faltered over the past two days with all that had happened, but in my current solitude, it returned. So, with silent resolve, I slipped from the tent.

My footsteps carried through the camp, on and on and on. Empty tents as far as I could see flapped gently in the morning breeze, while flies buzzed around the morning crusts of stale bread and rinds of fatty meats haphazardly eaten and discarded on plates and cups left scattered around. The grime and filth, the relentless sand, and the lingering stench of the men, even in their absence, left me desperate to find a place to bathe. If only I could escape this labyrinth of a camp.

I stepped carefully around a precariously balanced pile of dishes, wondering when they would finally be cleaned. Just then, a woman emerged from the nearest tent and started to tidy up. She looked older than her years, her green chiton highlighting the rosiness of her plump cheeks and her oiled black hair pulled back into a sleek bun. It wasn’t until I noticed the faint, knowing glimmer in her eyes and a small, enigmatic smile that I realised she was watching me.

“Ah, k?ρη?1. New here, are we?”

“Yes,” I replied, stepping forward with my chin raised in defiant indignation. That tone, the way she spoke, as if I were a child to be taught the ways of the war classroom.

“What’s your name?”

“Οdette.”

The woman nodded. “Pretty name for a duckling like you, with a swan neck like that. Come, I will show you around.”

The woman, whose name I learned was Τ?ιλορ?α?2, showed me where slopping buckets of water were gathered, near the tents closest to the ocean. There, the fires were perpetually tended, and the water was boiled and then cooled. We then walked along the sandy banks toward the western forest, where the waters thinned and the reeds grew denser. Here, Τ?ιλορ?α explained, the women spun the finest threads. If I encountered anything beyond my skill to mend, I was to seek their help. I pondered what thread could repair a cracked heart and a broken mind, but I did not say such a thing.

Instead, we continued on and Τ?ιλορ?α introduced me to those who skinned the best rabbits. That was who to get your rabbit from if you wanted to cook a private meal for your soldier, Τ?ιλορ?α told me with a wink. Then she took me back the way we had come, to the best tents for morning fruits and cheeses, closer to Agamemnon’s quarters. Finally, she led me to the central storage for the finest wine in the camp. As we came full circle, I noticed even at this early hour, women were already on their knees in the dias, breastplates between their thighs as they polished the plates and armour.

Τ?ιλορ?α cocked her head, watching me. “Would you like to go and grab yours and join the circle?”

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