Athenian Slave (Book 2)

Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Irritation. It was all he felt. Irritation at the frilly clothes he had to wear. The silky material soft against his skin, which irritated him all the more, for it was not what he was used to wearing and not what he wanted to be in at that moment, prancing around like a peacock, trying to show his worth by how he stands and what he wears upon his frame. Irritated by the company he had to keep, the stuffy, heated room, filled with sweaty over ripe bodies, with vapid conversation and deathly glares. It was worse than stepping out to battle. At least then you knew who your enemy was and how to defeat them. Here, he did not know the rules, or even who he was fighting against, or why.

He was also irritated, because Charmion was on the opposite side of the room to him, acting the slave he logically knew she still was. He had not formally freed her. Or even told her she was free. But his ire was raised by the reminder of his failings at this point over his inaction over the last few months. He had been so absorbed in himself, and how she had beat the darkness into a corner of his mind, which he could not ignore, but could at least live by moving around it. Yet here he was, finally heading towards a sound mind, and the reason for such was across the room, ignored by most, and scorned by others, as she served those she herself deemed above her. It sickened him, and he wished he had had the presence of mind enough to have dealt with this before he was stuck in a mire, surrounded by those he did not know or respect, his eyes never straying far from the vision of submissiveness that flitted unseen and unheard between his ‘distinguished guests’.

When a gap appeared in the greetings and small talk of those around him, he took the opportunity to look once more for the female of his desire, spotting her he started to head in her direction, only to be waylaid in the process. The squat elderly male before him, smiled upon him with a mouth which contained only half of its teeth. From the lines upon his face, and the grey, thin hair upon the males head, he had to say this male was lucky enough to have reached his sixtieth summer. What he saw next almost made him choke upon the rich wine he had just taken a sip from. As the male introduced himself, he turned slightly to include the tall, statuesque woman beside him. “Alexios, we had all wondered at how long you could hide away here and not see to social niceties.” The male was making jest out of the situation, but a real tone of condemnation underlay the light words. It was more likely that his neighbours had wished to be the first to see what he had in his villa. What riches he possessed compared to them, allowing them to decide whether or not he was worthy enough of their attention.

“I am Pamphilos,” with a wave of his hand at the golden skinned brunette beside him, the woman gave a sinful smile, only for him to be distracted by the movement of her hands, as they cupped and rubbed at the pronounced bump at her stomach. Making it obvious as to her condition. “And this is Tryphosa, my wife.” This was the point he almost spat his sip of wine of wine over the couple before him. He knew of the marriage ways of his people. Understood the norm of the male marrying a much younger female. But the majority of males of marriageable age had gaps between them and the suitable female no larger than that of him and Charmion. He knew larger gaps occurred, but what he saw before him flashed images in his mind that caused his stomach to turn.