Jenny reflected on how she had come to be here.
The old priest, whose name was Kyrillos, had taken an interest in her soon after she was born. (In this life, she now understood, she was called Euanthe.) Euanthe had been discovered as an infant, wailing and kicking in the low, filthy shed where her helot family lived. The rest of her family had died of some horrific disease, but Euanthe had survived, though cranky and hungry.
This apparent immunity to disease brought the attention of the priest Kyrillos, who had taken her for healthy slave-breeding stock. Soon he recognized her true nature. He entrusted her care with the priestesses of Aphrodite Areia, who served the warlike side of the love goddess, the sometimes consort of the war god Ares, and the most beloved goddess in Sparta.
The priest himself provided much of her education. His main interest was in testing her abilities, helping her to control them and discover what they could do. They tried her magical infection on animals, and later he procured criminals and undesirables whom Sparta had sentenced to death. By experimenting, they learned a great deal, though the experiments themselves were nightmarish events.
He taught her that she had been cursed by the goddess, that Euanthe or her family must have done something to displease the goddess, and consequently she needed to spend her life in service to the goddess (and, by extension, the priest Kyrillos himself) until she regained the goddess’s favor and the curse was lifted.
And, she now understood, he had also been preparing her for this, intending to use her as a weapon on behalf of Sparta.
According to the story that the slave merchant had told the wealthy Athenian, the girls spoke no Greek at all. This freed Euanthe and the other girls from any need to craft and maintain careful lies.
The magnificent house was high upon a hill, much of it built from marble, painted bright blues and greens. The slave merchant led them on foot into the grand courtyard, and she gaped up at the second-floor galleries, on their thick marble columns.
Euanthe trembled. She did not know the other two girls, though she understood they might have been prostitutes. They seemed to know each other, and they wanted nothing to do with Euanthe. They stayed close together, even holding hands, and spoke only by whispering in each others’ ears.
The slave merchant presented them to the withered old slave who administered the wealthy household. He looked the three girls over and paid the merchant a few silver coins.
Euanthe and the other girls were sent into a side gallery, in which women were crammed together, weaving. The three new girls were put to work.
Soon, the lady of the house entered. She was a few years older than Euanthe, her golden hair coiled into fine braids and set atop her head with jeweled pins and clips.
A pretty servant girl trailed behind her like a dog.
“These are the new ones?” The lady of the house looked over the three girls with her disturbing gray eyes, and then she addressed the eldest of the slave women. “Do they work hard?”
“They need training,” the woman said. “Lots of training. And they only speak their barbarian tongue.”
The lady touched the shoulder of one of the girls who had accompanied Euanthe. The girl’s face lit up with a smile, as if she suddenly adored the gray-eyed Athenian lady.
“We shall break them in,” the lady said. “My husband, at least, will have great enjoyment of them.” She looked at Jenny/Euanthe, then leaned in for a closer look, her eyes narrowing. “What is your name?”
Euanthe said nothing, pretending not to understand.
“I don’t like the look of this one,” the lady said.
“Shall we dispose of her?” the lady’s servant asked.
“No, no, she’s already paid for.” The gray-eyed lady turned to leave, with her servant again at her heels. “At least they aren’t ugly. Ugly slaves are unacceptable in a fine household.”
“Yes, my lady,” her servant agreed.
Euanthe set her fingers to the hard work of weaving. The elder slave women slapped her each time she made an error.
Chapter Twenty
Tommy waited in the parking lot of Esmeralda’s apartment complex and watched her door as the sun rose behind him. He sat on his stolen bike, wearing gloves and a long-sleeve shirt though the weather was very warm, almost hot. He didn’t want to risk touching her and making her afraid of him.
Her apartment complex was ugly, built of concrete and cinderblocks, with wrecked car husks occupying a few of the parking spots. The outer walls, the dumpster, and the stop signs were all sprayed with gang tags.
Never mind the blue sky and the palm trees from the movies, Tommy thought, this city was crap. It was like Panama City Beach or some low-rent tourist trap like that, only stretched out for mile after mile and then slathered in smog.