Page 16 of Odette's Vow

I’d had enough. The irritation that had been stretching from hours into days began to harden into something else – something slower, heavier. I had let it sink in, gnawing at me, until now begrudging acceptance took root. This wasn’t, as I’d first believed, a goddess inhabiting a mortal form. It couldn’t be.Even Artemis would not have allowed herself to fall into such a grotesque state. No goddess would.

That thought alone made my chest tighten, and the fact that I now had to accept it fanned the flames of my frustration.

And then the deeper sting followed – a bitter acknowledgment that I had allowed a mere slave to speak to me with such audacity, to challenge me. The truth of her actions, of mine, settled uncomfortably in my bones and crawled under my skin like a slow poison.

How had I been so blind?

Storming out of the tent, I grabbed the two largest buckets I could find and filled them with cold water before marching back inside. She had not moved when I returned and, as had become her custom, didn’t even shift to acknowledge my presence.

So I placed one bucket down and hurled the other over her.

There was a banshee-like shriek, her body instinctively recoiling from its position and into a protective crouch, huddled into the corner of the tent, facing me. Her skin was smeared with grime, her eyes defiant. Then, her survival instincts kicked in. With a snarl she lunged at me, her hands clawing, driven by a raw desperation like a cornered animal.

I shoved the second bucket of water into her outstretched arms with enough force to her chest that she physically stopped in her tracks, winded. “You’ll clean yourself, or by Hades, I’ll drag you to the river and hold you under until the mud dissolves.”

She spat a curse at me, something in that pig-language derivative of Greek that farmers used around the provincial parts, but her voice was hoarse, her energy sapped. She’d also decided not to eat these past days.

I crouched down, tossing her the rough cloth and bathing salts. “Scrub yourself clean,” I ordered. “Unless you prefer I do it for you?” I eyed her body deliberately.

Her response was a venomous glare, but she took up the cloth and the bathing salts, slowly beginning to rub them into her skin. Each motion was stilted, a silent ‘aπ?λοιο’?1, but at least she was washing.

I continued watching her, my expression deliberately blank. When she reached the parts not for my eyes, she stopped scrubbing. I debated for a moment planting my feet more firmly and insisting she finish the wash in front of me so that at least I knew it was done, but she equally stared me down.

“Do not make me drag you kicking and screaming into the river.” I pointed a finger at her. I surveyed Odette a moment longer, something in me stirring her spirit. It was a wisp of a thing, a flame on the precipice of extinguishing itself. But, it was there, fighting the complexities that came with the cruel hand the Fates had dealt.

I wondered if she realised that we both wallowed in the same predicament. That I also wished to not be here, in a war that had made me a dull blade. That if it were up to me, and not the societal expectations burdened upon me, I would rather see her walk free. But that was not the way of things.

The irony of war: it strips us all of our humanity in the end, no matter the role we play.

It was admiration, I realised, that stirred in my gut as Odette stared me down. I longed to have that fire, that spirit instilled in me, so that I might have turned a goddess down on that Ithican shore all those years ago.

When I returned,freshly washed from the ocean, I carried two bowls of goat stew that I had picked up at the feeding fires. Upon entering the tent, I sniffed the air first. Satisfied the smell wasbeginning to dissipate, I surveyed Odette next. Her hair, which had clung to her face in greasy matted strands, had now been brushed through. Her skin gleamed, like sunlight striking the surface of sand. I nodded in pleasure then held the bowls up.

“You will also eat tonight. This is not a crypt. I will not sleep in the same room as a corpse.”

I placed the two bowls down on the same table we had dined at with Diomedes and sat, watching and waiting for her to decide if she was going to join me. The offer of force-feeding her was on the tip of my tongue, when she warily got up from her spot and dragged herself to the table.

As we ate in silence, I noticed the rough cloth I had thrown at her had been rung out and was hanging on one of the tent poles. The scrub jar was empty, which meant at some point Odette had gotten up and used more of the salts to wash herself more thoroughly.Good.

It was then that I noticed she was wearing one of my chitons. Too big for her, she had used a torn strip of fabric as a zoster?2 to secure it around her waist. The fabric fell in waves past it, as if that had been a purposeful design. It emphasised her thin waist, her wider hips. I had to force myself to look away.

It had been so long since I had truly looked at a woman. There were other spear-wives and bed-slaves around, but they scurried past, their heads down, trying not to attract attention. Beyond them serving food or providing necessities that kept the camp running, I’d had no cause to acknowledge them, to watch them, as I watched Odette now – with her delicate wrist holding the wooden spoon to her lips, her breath rippling over the stew, the small swell of her breasts as she took another breath …

Shaking my head clear of those thoughts, I addressed her. “We will need to find you some more clothing. You can wash that ratty one tomorrow, but it looks like it isn’t going to last long.You will need to speak to the women, organise an exchange of services to get them to make you something.”

She glanced up at me, and I could have sworn her eyes were calling me stupid for pointing out the obvious. I willed her to say something, anything, as she had on those first nights here. But she turned her focus back to her bowl and didn’t speak.

When I returned from battle the following day, she was up, dressed, and the tent had been tidied. Standing in the doorway of the tent, I surveyed Odette, assessing. “You’re up.”

Without a word, she pointed to the jug of water and the bowl of coarse sand she had freshly filled. There was also a small amphorae of olive oil, warm to my touch when I reached out for it. I laughed heartily, appreciating her efforts to maintain a semblance of civility in such a barbaric environment. The oil would warm and soothe my muscles after the cold water washed away the grime of the day.

“What is amusing?” she frowned.

“You, Odette, exist in extremes. And this—” I gestured to the collection in front of me, “is really rather excellent.”

She crinkled her nose and I could not tell if it was a reaction to the compliment or because now she could distinguish between a clean scent and the one I had returned with. “I am aware I smell like a dead Trojan. Or several.”

“I will wait outside.” Odette bowed her head, making for the opening.

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