The enormous hall was packed with drunk men, warriors for the most, as they greedily helped themselves to the feast.
Eight wide pillars, four on each side, were spaced equally, which held the large squared banquet hall, adorned by red velvet curtains. Even though the hall of Cyprus' royal palace was decorated magnificently, with the howling warriors, it resembled a ravenous fest in Hades.
"Cyprus royal king has been crowned! Now enjoy till you can't enjoy anymore, mates!" someone hollered, and the hall erupted into excited howls.
The only women present there were slaves. Some perched on their masters' laps, feeding them wine or fruits, laughing seductively. Others in a heated make-out session. While the more scared ones sat by their feet, afraid to even look up without their master's permission.
The new King was crowned with the holy wreath, which was meshed with gold string and victory flowers. He was merely eighteen but had defeated men twice his age in the one-on-one combat organised by the previous king of Cyprus. He was growing old and having no heir to take over, announced to crown his ablest warrior as the next king.
It was the young warrior's skill to use a sword as fast as a lightning bolt that made it almost impossible to defeat him. Besides his precise moves, he was awfully clever. It seemed as if he could sense his opponent's attack way before they landed it on him.
"Impressive swordsmanship you exhibited, Menelaus," a warrior thumped his shoulder as the new king stopped staring momentarily at the rowdy celebration to glance aside.
"I prefer to be called Julian."
The warrior smiled smugly. "Well, well, dropping the name your father gave you, huh?"
Julian leaned forward to rest his arms on the table, sipping on his wine. "Old man's addicted to the Iliad. Not me."
The warriors yelped in loud laughter, raising toasts to each other, emptying goblets after goblets.
"You mean he's addicted to Alexander being the hero and not his own son?" The previous warrior taunted deliberately.
Julian said nothing, casually reaching for a fig. Achilles was the hero of the mythical Trojan war and that's what Alexander was referred to.
While his own father called him Menelaus, who although was a king and had won the Trojan War, he was left in the background as everyone hailed Achilles.
'No one could be greater than Alexander', that's what his father liked to believe in. Being a nobleman in Phillips' court could do that to anyone, he thought, indifferent.
"Mate, who the fuck would want to be named Menelaus?" Another warrior, Jakov, shot back. "Although he won the war and all, his wife Helen literally fled away with that little boy Paris." He barked a laugh. "Our Menelaus won't want that, would he?" He snickered at Julian.
"Whatever interpretation floats your boat." Julian cracked his fingers, going back to stare at the celebrations.
For someone who had just been crowned and should be the centre of attention of the extravaganza, celebrating the hardest, he was rather uninterested, sitting with his comrades at the feast table. While dances and music went on in the centre of the hall.
"Zadrov, is he even showing up today?" He asked, irritated. "I can't tolerate this fucking celebration anymore."
The warrior Zadrov guffawed, looking around to find the drunk warriors and slaves getting on each other.
"Quite literally." He whistled. "But why can't you wait? Want your own 'fucking celebration' in your room?" He smirked.
The new King glared, standing up. "Unlike some, I need to start with the governance of my empire, sharp in the morning. Tell Atticus that his drunk ass was saved from being slain by me tonight."
For him, celebrations like these weren't joy, but pure chaos. He wished he could go straight to his room and sleep after the old king was done crowning him, but no. The other warriors had to drag him to this Hades' fest, which was to be followed by a customary battle with the 'so-called one of the best warriors' of Greece.
"I agree. Go rest, Julian," Jakov nodded from across the feast table. "That wound needs rest as well."
Julian briefly glanced down at the deep cut over his heart. That one was from the last match he fought before he was declared as King. It was bandaged and still under healing.
"My Kingggg, here you are!" A slurred voice appeared as someone banged his goblet on the feast table.
"Ready for the ritualistic battle of great mennnn?!" The commander General Atticus was a fierce man, way older than the eighteen-year-old King, but right now he looked so drunk that he'd fall into a heap if he even tried holding his sword.
Anger flared within Julian as his fists clenched, teeth gritting. They'd really sent a drunk for him to fight the customary battle on the night of the crowning ceremony. Were they making a joke out of him?
"Do I look like a jester to you, Atticus?!" He wielded his sword, mad beyond measure.
"No, no!" the drunkard shrieked, "You are greatttt, greater than Alex hander hahaha!" He grabbed a nearby glass of water from the table, chugging it at one go. "Not me, but my nephew would be fighting you." He grinned, wiping at his mouth. "Thought an equal to you would make a good match, unlike an old hag like myself."
"Lead the way," he said as the commander jogged away.
"Julian, mate, your wound is still healing, you-" Zadrov started but was cut off.
"So?" the king implored. "We were made to practice harder when wounded." he rolled his eyes. "This is nothing." He called out for a servant who soon came rushing by with his armour and shield. A warrior fighting in a war didn't sit back to get small wounds treated. He claimed that fighting while wounded was the biggest skill of a warrior.
The nephew was none other than the ruler of the Eastern province of Athens, General Dareios. Right now, he was busy making out with two of his slaves as a third one sat by his feet, massaging his leg.
"Should I send two more women to please you, General?" Julian mocked. "Seems like kissing all of them in one go is the only fight you're interested in tonight."
Dareios broke out of his lust-filled fog, glancing up at the towering King. He'd thought of him as a mere boy when his uncle had informed that an eighteen-year-old was crowned the King.
But right now, he was taken aback by the fully grown man standing before him.
Nevertheless, he stood up with a grin, yanking his leg out of the slave's hand, who was messaging. His boot hit her face in the process, but she didn't dare make a sound, quietly placing her hands back over her lap, eyes lowered to the ground.
"I'd very much like the offer, Your Honour," He smirked. "Maybe as my prize when I defeat you?" He taunted, moving his straggly black hair out of his eyes.
"Sure," The King nodded, removing his holy crown to wear the battle helmet.
Dareios sneered to himself, seeing the King so cool. "My apologies. I kept you waiting." He gave a curt bow out of formality before ordering a servant for his armour.
The mess of drunk warriors and slaves was shifted to the adjacent sides of the hall, making ample space for the duel. Both warriors, Kings in their own right, started the match with a thunderous clash of their swords.
The crowds cheered, some for Julian, some for Dareios, as the two young warriors fought as if in a battle. The new King knew that the bastard Atticus had informed his nephew about the wound over his heart because that was the only place the fool was aiming for.
Julian grinned, not doubting that Dareios wanted to kill him right now. After all, he would be hailed for the kill and blessed for getting rid of a weak King.
Cyprus had started this bloody ritual as a means of a last test to be passed by the new King.
Julian deliberately loosened his defence for a moment and, as calculated, Dareios went for the wound. And in that haste to finish him, the General didn't pay heed to the almost invisible force that threw his shield to the ground.
His eyes widened behind his helmet. The new King was too damn fast. While the brief moment of the General's shock was enough for Julian to dismantle his sword and a harsh thrust of his shield sent the General flying to the ground.
The dead silent hall now erupted in a wild cry as chants of 'Julian Menelaus I Romanowski of Cyprus' echoed around. Some warriors had even placed bets as the winners roared like anything.
The victorious king squared his shoulders, cracking his neck as he walked up to the fallen warrior. He threw his own shield and sword to the ground as he gave a hand for the General to stand.
"My bad. I thought you were wounded." Dareios chuckled nervously as he stood up with the help. "I was-"
"Going easy on me because I was wounded?" Julian raised a brow. "Shall we have another match with your full potential, Master of the Eastern province of Athens?"
Dareios' face flushed with the hidden insult, but he had to look generous. The King appeared too cool that his own temper right now would make him look like a ruler with anger issues.
"A single combat was enough of a privilege for me, Your Honour." He laughed, walking with him shoulder to shoulder. They sat across from each other on the special throne as two of his previous slaves began giggling when he placed his arms on the armrest. Eagerly, they began massaging them.
"Since I'm not getting anything now," Dareios gave a fake sigh, "I wanted to give you something."
Julian crossed his arms, reclining against the throne. Bored. "Do you really think I'd want something from you when I've acquired all these riches?" His light brown eyes looked amusedly around the royal palace.
Dareios gritted a smile, controlling himself from giving in to anger. "Ah, when you put it that way." He snickered. "Just a small gift, Your Honour. Otherwise, I'll always feel indebted for duelling with you."
When the King said nothing, he patted the head of his third slave, who was sitting quietly by his feet. The hit from the boot earlier had left a red bruise over her pale cheek.
"I'd like to give my beloved slave to you." He weaved a hand through her silken hair, grinning. "I can't assure she's pure and virgin in all aspects, but she's beautiful and very obedient." He wrapped a hand around her throat, tilting her face up to his as she struggled to breathe with the increasing pressure on her neck. "Aren't you my submissive little slave?" He whispered in her ear.
Julian watched on with a stoic expression. He had seen countless slaves all his life, the unluckiest souls who wished they had been born as insects and critters instead of in the body of a slave.
The idea of tearing someone of their freedom repulsed him, but he couldn't help it. Slaves were needed to help the society work efficiently, as the wise men of his times said.
"You're damaging my gift there, General." He tched, seeing the slave almost losing consciousness. Dareios left her neck as she covered her mouth to avoid coughing from the prolonged hold. She heaved, gulping down her aching throat to avoid the cough. Even a slight noise from her without her master's permission would surely lead to a brutal punishment.
"So you've accepted my gift?" Dareios leered. He wanted to get rid of the weakening slave anyway, as she was of no use to him now. He could barely go on with her for an entire night because she became unconscious in the first half itself.
Julian shrugged. Though he had seen slaves, he never had one, neither were they present in his mother's house where he lived. Now the thought of having a slave all of a sudden made him sick.
The General laughed, gripping the slave's hair to look into her terrified eyes. "Please your new master well." He gritted out, and she weakly nodded, hoping he would loosen his grip on her. Her scalp burned as he roughly shoved her at the feet of her new master.
Julian glanced down at the redhead trembling near his feet. Slaves were the last thing he wanted, as he did not know what to do with them. He might look like a brutal warrior, but torturing slaves for minor mistakes wasn't something he did.
He clapped, ordering a servant to escort the slave out of the hall. After making sure that Dareios hadn't given her with ulterior motives, he thought of providing her a decent work in the palace. Poor woman could at least live peacefully for the rest of her life.
The nightly celebration wasn't coming to an end, so he left after a few more talks with the warrior General. Taking a quick bath, he walked toward his room, stretching his arms to get rid of the fatigue at last, when he spotted that slave standing with her head lowered, beside his bed.
He groaned inwardly, massaging his temples. It was beyond him how the royalty had time to entertain themselves with slaves when he didn't even get a moment's rest.
The slave shrunk more if it was possible as he entered his room. Though he'd ordered the servants to have her fed and rested because she was anything but skin and bones, those fools obviously didn't take a clue that he had no intention of bedding her.
She, on the other hand, was ransacking her head at what mistake she committed that the King just stared at her. Maybe he was mad because she didn't welcome him? With shaking legs, she knelt on the ground. "W- Welcome, master..." she squeaked out. She was trembling so hard, fearing that anytime he would wield out his whip on her.
Her voice was so soft that he almost didn't hear it. Again, he was becoming sick by the presence of someone who didn't even have minimum rights to her life. It angered him how weak and helpless they were made.
"You can stand." He ushered, going to his study table to sort out some scrolls. "Have you eaten something?"
"No, master." She mumbled.
He whirled around, furious. "I had clearly instructed the servants, and they didn't give you anything?!"
She flinched at his voice, heart ready to burst out of her chest. "I- I'm n- not... I'm not allowed to... to eat b- before my master..." she stuttered.
Julian sighed roughly. "I've already eaten."
The slave gulped, not knowing whether she was allowed to speak or not. After getting no more response from him, she spoke in a small voice. "I- I'm only allowed to eat the... the leftovers of my m- masters meals."
The young king felt downright nauseous, a sense of shock going through him. He knew slaves had to go through the hard way, but he'd never heard of their personal experiences.
"And if you master finished all his food. What would you eat?" He questioned, weaving a hand through his wet black hair, exhausted.
Silence overtook her. She would always pray that her master left even a little something from his meal for her to eat. Whenever he did, she would thank the Gods for listening to her prayer. Even the other slaves would envy her that she got the royal food of her master and not the bland ones for the slaves. But they weren't aware of the number of times the Gods didn't answer her prayer.
"Nothing, master." She replied.
The more she talked, the more he got depressed. "Sit on the bed." He ordered her and went straight out of the room to knock some sense into the servants to bring her food whenever she wanted it.
The poor woman hesitated at the King's command, staring at his bed in dread. The only place for a slave was on the ground, or near her master's feet, not on this soft bed. Her heart hammered wildly, but she had no other choice than to comply. She knew when it was the only time she was allowed on the bed. And it would always end in unbearable pain.
Julian returned with some bread and broth but was dumbfounded by what he saw.
Devoid of her clothes, she sat on his bed in only the flimsy linen undergarment that came till her knees. The fire torch cast a halo over her as she stared absently at the ground. Noticing his feet coming into her view, she sat straighter.
With her heart thudding, she began to lower the strap of her dress from her shoulder, hands cold and trembling.
"What are you doing?!" He exclaimed, placing the food on the side table to look at her, horrified. Was this slave out of her senses?
She was taken aback as much as he was. "I-" she didn't know what to reply. The only time she was allowed on the bed was to please her master. That's what her previous masters demanded. "I can... p- please you, master..." her lips quivered when she saw the furious look on his face.
Had she done something wrong? She did not know, and it was always difficult adjusting to the needs of a new master. Just a few days of punishment for doing everything wrong until she could finally blend in with his needs, she thought, preparing herself for the onslaught of pain.
His eyes moved over her skin, not a single spot which he didn't find scarred. The slender length of her neck, her arms, even her legs as the scars disappeared into her thighs. Her eyes were sunken, a dull green as they awaited her doom. She was no older than him, her frail frame undernourished. Her red hair was open, a tousled mess over her shoulders.
She was far more damaged and abused than he'd thought.
A lump formed in his throat as he walked to his closet to fetch his rich fur mantle and an ointment. The slave sat frozen in her spot as her master wrapped the royal fur mantle over her shoulders, covering her body.
Never in her life had she felt such softness brace her skin that tears pooled her eyes. But she didn't dare cry.
Because crying was a daring act. Defying one's master. And whenever she dared cry, she was made to cry until she couldn't cry anymore.
Until the dried tears trapped her soul in her numbed body.
She felt the bed dip as Julian settled beside her, taking the ointment to apply on the bruise of her face. But the burn didn't make her flinch. She sat dazed at the King who had defeated her previous master. Who appeared more brutal than him.
When he was done, he cleaned his hands to bring the food to her lap. She tried holding the bowl, but he knew it would all spill with the way her hands shook. So he did the only thing he could.
Gently, he rested her back against his chest and dipped the bread into the rich broth, bringing it to her mouth.
He didn't know how it came over him. He was exhausted from the constant duels since morning and the mad celebrations at night, but he still wanted to help this poor soul.
Because, maybe, he had never seen the plight of a slave so closely in his life. And he never wanted to see it again.
Gradually, his arms engulfing her trembling frame stabilised her, and she took in small bites, trying her hardest not to cry as the warmth of her new master surrounded her. The warmth of the fur mantle and the food. It was her first complete meal in years.
She hiccupped, dreading if it was all a dream which she'd wake up to. Back on the hard, cold ground, she slept on.
But instead, she found the rim of a glass pressed to her lips as Julian urged her to drink some water, thinking food to be stuck in her throat that she'd stopped eating.
He rubbed her arms to warm her, continuing to feed the bread when he felt a deep engraving on her arm.
The slave mark.
Carved out on her skin until it was deeply embedded in her very arm. So deep that he could feel the uneven skin.
"What's your name?" He asked softly, wanting nothing but for her to be at peace after all she went through.
"S- Slave." She uttered. After all, there wasn't any name given to them. She was born to slave parents and was sold the moment she came into this world, to be groomed into a future slave.
"There must be something. Try remembering," The King's voice was impossibly gentle as her eyes closed at the feel of his fingers soothing her scalp. The same spot that her previous master had yanked harshly.
Everything became so tranquil for a while that she tried recalling her name. When she was young, she remembered being taken care of by another slave woman who had named her.
'Little girl, you like to believe in God even when they bring such misery to you?' She remembered the woman's mocking words.
'Do you know about Medusa? A beautiful priestess. Despite refusing to be with men and worshipping Athena, she was made into this horrible creature with snakes for hair by Athena herself?' The words and their horror were clear in her head.
'You are just like Medusa, my dear. Wait until the Gods betray you just like they did to her.' The slave woman had cried as she had named the little girl.
"Medisa." She spoke her name for the first time, looking sadly into the light brown eyes of the King of Cyprus.