𝓕𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓼, 𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓜𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓼

𝘖𝘯𝘦- 𝘈𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘢

 I never thought I would have much agency in how my life went. I was born the youngest child and only daughter of an Athenian politician called Evander and his wife, Melora. My mother had survived through birthing my six older brothers, but she passed away giving birth to me. Father was always distant with me growing up, and on some level I think he blamed me for her death.

When I was young, I'd played with my brothers a lot. We'd wrestle or race each other barefoot, and I remember wishing so that I'd been born in Sparta, where that kind of thing was acceptable. As it was though, any time that my father caught me tussling with my brothers, he'd just look me up and down, cluck his tongue, and just send me off for the maids to clean. I got along great with the maids, since they were the only other women in the household, but I wasn't allowed to actually be friends with any of them. They weren't even permitted to tell me their names.

As my father aged, he started to prime my brothers to follow his footsteps and go into politics. But I was left alone. Since I was the only girl, there wasn't much I could do for my father's reputation. Well, there was one thing- I could always get married. When my father married my mother, she'd been sixteen years old, and he had been thirty or so years her senior. They'd been married for about thirteen or so years before her death. I expected similar, to be wed at around fourteen or fifteen to a man in his thirties. But little did I know just how drastic the difference would be.

I was only twelve years old, not even having bled for the first time, when my father called me into the main room of our house. I came running up to him in bare feet- of course they were bare. I was a child, and I found sandals restricting, so I always ran everywhere in bare feet. My father and the servants always scolded me for it, saying that I would turn the soles of my feet permanently black with dirt. When I came into the room, my father was sitting in his high-backed chair, his face stern. Another man stood next to him. The man looked vaguely familiar, I thought I might have seen him at banquets my father had hosted in the past. He was tall with a weathered, tan face and dark curly hair and beard.

"Acantha," my father said. "You remember Leonidas, my colleague." I looked up at the man, finally placing his face. He didn't utter a word, instead choosing to acknowledge me with a silent nod. I could feel his dark, hawklike eyes panning over my body. It made me feel uncomfortable to say the least.

"I do," I said. "But what does a visit from a colleague have to do with me?"

"Because Leonidas," my father said, "is not here on political business, but other business that we have discussed extensively. I called you here, Acantha, to tell you that in a month's time, you will wed Leonidas."

A violent shudder ran through my body and I felt as if I would vomit in my own mouth. Leonidas looked to be about my father's age, which meant he had to be at least fifty, at least four times my age if not five or six. My father explained that he'd been married twice before, but both of his wives had passed away from illness without bearing him any children. Leonidas, like all men, desired sons, and he hoped that, once I began to bleed, I would give them to him. I hated the idea of carrying a child and giving birth, loathed it with my entire being. I was too small and slight to accommodate a baby.

Leonidas stood and walked closer to me.

"Don't be afraid," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Your father assures me this will be an excellent match. I will do my duty as your husband if you'll do yours as my wife."

"But I don't want to marry you," I said. I was still a child- innocent and naive. I spoke my mind. It didn't matter to me that talking back to my future husband was a grievous mistake. Leonidas threw back his head and laughed.

"Poor, sweet, girl," he said. "You know well that it isn't the fashion for women to pick their husbands. My wife passed away a few months ago- we'd been married for sixteen years, but not a single child, let alone a son- and last night at a banquet I talked to your father and our colleagues about how I was in the market for a new bride. Your father volunteered you instantly. 'My only daughter is coming up on a marriageable age,' he said. 'You should wed her'." I bit my lip. It wasn't unheard of for a girl to marry at twelve, but it certainly wasn't common.