Pallakae

Prologue

His breath was stuttering and loud in his ears, shrouding the voices of the men around him, as he stared unseeing at the sand between his feet. Unfallen tears grasped the ends of his eyelashes, while the fallen ones traced his beaten face and fell in front of his bound hands, mixing with the sand at his feet. His breathing becoming more ragged as his mind whirled, grasping at ideas of what would come of him.

Patroclus had never been more scared; he was more terrified than the time he accidentally broke one of his mother's vases, even more than all the times when he was in the presence of his father.

In all of his nine years of living, Patroclus had never prayed to the gods to end him so vigorously, or for them to save him. But alas, his prayers went unanswered as they usually did.

"-he's a pretty thing, bet we could get a decent amount from the brothel."

Patroclus came back to himself with a flinch at the last word, gasps escaping from him quickly as fear and dread seemed to reach its peak inside of him; however, his gaze stayed on the sand that was under his tan, bloody, feet.

The men that surround him were slave traders, ones that his father sold him to — they were all large as a boar, and twice as mean. Plus, their mingling smells were making Patroclus more sick than what he already was.

One might be wondering as to why young Patroclus was sold to such ruthless, and disgusting, men. But the reasoning is not that simple.

One of the main reasons is that his father harbored no love for his only child, and found him to be a weak, and pathetic thing.

Another, is perhaps due to the accidental death of one of his friends — Clysonymus. The two got into a heated argument while playing with dice a few moons ago, and with the argument, shoving ensured. And with a hard pushed shove, Clysonymus's head hit a rock, splitting open like a nut shell.

The parents of the noble son demanded for action to be taken against their prince, and Patroclus's father had many choices that he could have chose to choose from — execution, banishment.

But instead, he was sold to men that mainly dealt with sex trafficking. Perhaps his father didn't realize whom exactly he sold him to? It was most likely a mistake, as his father probably meant to sell him to traders that deal with domestic servants instead?

"You know that they don't accept tykes under twelve years."

Patroclus was shaking fervently, his knees bucking against one another at every other thump of his heart. His hands in their rope binding were turning a scratchy shade of red, as the bindings twisted and moved against his scrawny wrists.

"What about Pagasae? I heard King Deimos is in need of a new pallakae(1). Everyone knows that that man believes that the younger they are, the better." Raucous laughter followed from his derisive statement.

Patroclus twist and turned his wrist more, rubbing them more raw and making them start to bleed. But he didn't mind much, as it aided with his worsening anxiety.

Patroclus didn't understand what exactly a pallakae does, but from the way that the men spoke, he figured it wouldn't bode well for him.

"New one?! What happened to his last!?"

At the loud exclamation, Patroclus looked up at the talking men, startled. For the first time he took the people around him in. The last one that spoke had dirty dark, curling hair, with eyes darker than the hair on top of his head — a large, jagged scar also resided on his face, going from the tip of his hairline, down his left eye, ending above his lip.

The man that he was talking to seemed to be the exact opposite of his companion. He was not as broad, yet he was taller. His hair was a dark auburn shade that reached above his scrawny shoulders. His eyes were a deep brown, different from his friend who had eyes like a black abyss.

A man directly across from Patroclus was leaning against a cart full of other harlots. This one seemed to be a twin of the first, he seemed to only be missing the scar. However, the dark, stony look that stayed on young Patroclus made up for a scary disfigurement. He was the next one to speak.

His voice was rough and rugging, a deep guttural sound that sent shivers down Patroclus's back: "Does it matter? Before we go there, we have to go to Phthia first — Lord Croesus is wanting more sluts to entertain himself with." His dark beady eyes seemed to bare into his soul as the man smirked at him.

"Who knows? Maybe we can find someone to buy the bitch there."

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1) pallakae - ancient greek for concubine