Page 20 of Odette's Vow

My solitude felt short-lived, even though hours must have passed, when the boar entered the tent again. He glanced at the unprepared food on the pallet between us.

“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to play these rebellion games of yours anymore,” he murmured. “Are you really back to being silent and stubborn? Does your fire diminish so quickly?”

His words hung heavily between us, a challenge that demanded a response.

“No, you said no more surprises.” My voice was dull, even to my own ears.

Odysseus frowned as he pulled his armour off. “I said I liked spirit and wit, but you must know, Odette, that even I cannot suffer insubordination forever. If you complete your duties willingly, life here could be amenable at the very least.”

I don’t care.

He sighed as if he’d heard my thought. I watched him wash swiftly, as if he hadn’t much time, before he threw a tunic and cloak on. “Come with me.” He took two strides towards me, yanking me up from under my armpits and dragging me towards the tent opening.

“Where are we going?” I asked him the moment we were outside.

Soldiers bustled past us, hurrying quickly towards the centre of the camps, in good humour, laughing and jostling with one another. Some spear-wives and bed-slaves followed behind more demurely, their heads bowed. I looked around for Τ?ιλορ?α or the new acquaintance I met today, Shamera. One of them would have told me what was going on, but I didn’t see either of them.

“Keep walking,” Odysseus muttered in my ear, pushing me forward with his palm on my lower back.

Eventually, we arrived at the very dais Odysseus and I had first touched.

Again, the rug, woven with rich reds and golds, lay across the grass and sand. At each corner of the square rug stood a column where the tent was strung with rope, fire torches adorning eachpoint. The throne was still there, King Agamemnon still seated on it, his red-face more beetroot this time.

The only difference was that this time, a new group of girls huddled on the dais. The soldiers, just as they had when I’d been standing in the same place, laughed and jeered, hollered and pointed. I could hear the ones on either side of me debate who was prettier, who looked like they would spread their legs the soonest, who would take the longest to break in. I wanted to throw them an evil glare, but Odysseus chose that moment to curve his hand around my hip and flush my back against his chest.

The body heat was alarming.

“Do I need to choose another, Odette?” he murmured, his words a cruel taunt as he used his other hand to keep my chin in place so that I could not look away from the scene in front of me. “Someone less … useless?”

I flinched at his words, the sting of his contempt roaring against every instinct in me to just do as he said, to be a good girl, to go along with his wants and needs. The dark voice in my head whispered that it could be worse, that itwouldbe worse if he traded me in for another woman and I was handed off to someone else. The voice equally deflated me back into that pit of despair, the thread of my vow thinning in my mind as I fought internally to find my footing.

A part of mewasgrateful for Odysseus’ patience with me, that he had spared me a fate that awaited so many others in my position. I had seen the spear-wives and bed-slaves who sported black and blue skin daily. I still heard the screams that woke me from my slumbers. But that knowledge offered little solace when I knew that his patience could wear thin at any moment. That the only way to maintain my position was to go back to a way of being I had sworn I would no longer participate in. It was a bitter reminder of my own worthlessness, as a woman and a slave.

“I do not want to have to make this unpleasant between us. You must shake this persistent despair you seem to be cloaking yourself in or I will be forced to intervene,” he continued murmuring against the shell of my ear.

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

I felt the length of him begin to harden against me after the words had fallen from my lips. It was clearly something neither of us wanted to acknowledge because he moved to create an inch of space between us.

Instead of speaking, we both continued to watch the new arrivals on the dais, clustered together in a group, their faces drawn and pale. Some clung to each other for support, as our group had done, and the realisation hit me that I had not searched for the familiar faces of my village ever since I arrived. Too caught up in my own despair.

The thought eradicated what little good was left in my soul.

I could remember being one of those on the dais, fingers intertwined in a desperate bid for comfort amidst unfamiliar surroundings. Their attire bore the unmistakable signs of their newfound status as slaves, the once vibrant colours of their garments already faded with dust from their journey. Tattered shawls draped over weary shoulders, their edges frayed and worn from a day or more spent on the road, and I wondered which village they’d come from.

Each of their faces held a tale of loss and displacement. Others wore expressions of resignation, their eyes dulled. I wondered what mine looked like. But my thoughts were interrupted by what appeared to be a skirmish happening at the centre of the dais. The tension rippled out across the crowd until I felt even Odysseus’ muscles tense. He pushed us closer to the dais, soldiers turning to berate us until they saw who stood behind me. Then, they shifted like wind through tall grass, untilwe were standing at one side of the rug, watching what had caused the ruckus.

In the centre of it all stood Achilles and Agamemnon. The two could not be more different. The king was a pig of a man, his skin weathered and worn from sun and wine, his face framed by the weight that bore countless burdens and yet more indulgences, and draped in robes of richly embroidered fabric. He seemed to have an air of authority about him that demanded attention but not reverence, though I suspected he thought they were the same thing. Achilles, tall and lean, stood toe-to-toe against him. But where Agamemnon was stout, Achilles was broad-shouldered, sculpted with sinewy muscle and sun-kissed skin that stretched taut over chiselled features. His jawline was sharp, his hair a thick mane of gold that cascaded to his shoulders and kissed the golden armour, which was weaved with intricate designs of mythic beasts and still spattered with the blood of the men he had killed today.

“You have no right to claim her as your prize!” he thundered at Agamemnon. “She is not yours to take.”

But Agamemnon, his face contorted with rage, refused to back down. “She is mine by right of conquest,” he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “I will not be swayed by your petty protests.”

On the dais, a beautiful woman stood between them. Her form was slender and elegant, her chestnut hair flowing in soft waves around her shoulders, accentuating the delicate lines of her face and the flawless porcelain of her skin. High cheekbones and a sculpted nose gave her a regal air, but I suspected it was her fuller figure that had the two men fighting. I noticed her eyes flickered between the two, while her hands trembled at her sides.

“Why her?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper against the backdrop of their argument, but Odysseus heard it.

“Briseis is a princess of Lyrnessus. Achilles believes she belongs to him, given that he is the one that captured her, but Agamemnon refuses to relinquish his claim.”

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