‹ Prequel: Ichor and Ambrosia
Status: NaNoWriMo 2018

Born a Slave

One, Part One

The day his master returned from war was the day everything changed. Acacius watched him walk up the rolling hillside, with his troop of soldiers in tow; their captain, Alexandros, led the militia, but Heron was close behind him, with all their cohorts in procession. Each man still donned his full regalia of worn leather and painted cloth, with their shields in-hand and swords at their belts. Acacius had been tending to the sheep all day and found himself covered in blood and wool alike.

“Put the water on the fire,” Heron commanded as he arrived at their oblong farmhouse. Captain Alexandros tussled Acacius’ hair as he passed, but Heron paid the boy no mind. “My men and I have had a long journey.”

Acacius dropped his shears and went to grab a jug of water. Heron kissed his wife, Myrrhine, as he passed through the doorway, and all the men gathered around the hearth to warm themselves from their long walk. Even inside, their breath seemed to come alive in a gray haze from their lungs. Acacius put the water to boil, while Myrrhine began preparing to cook the stew. Then Acacius set about cleaning his master’s sword and shield in the corner, as the men sat in their circle and shared their stories. This was always the way when Heron returned: once every few seasons, Captain Alexandros would call him to battle, and when he would return, he and his troop would gather around the fire and talk about the months prior which they’d spent in foreign lands. Acacius was not allowed to speak - that would earn him a whipping, Heron assured, so instead he sat in the corner and began polishing Heron’s sword. It was a long kopis with a fine curve, thin toward the base but wider before it came to its tip. The hilt was decorated with an intricate carving of fish scales in bronze, chipped and dented with age. Heron often said that his own father had used this sword, and it had always brought him luck. The shield, on the other hand, had once bore the likeness of Athena on the goatskin cover, but after many years of age and battle, the skin had torn away, only to reveal a plain wood edifice with its own scars.

Acacius sharpened the sword and moved on to scrubbing the shield clean, before he oiled the wood. While he worked, he listened to the conversation carried on by the troop.

“Those Spartans fight like dogs,” Captain Alexandros took a swig from his wineskin and spat on the ground. “Good riddance, to the lot of ‘em.”

“Even their women can take down any man of the land,” Heron said. “I watched one of our men—a boy, in truth—hacked down by a brute with a pike.”

Another soldier, Aristokles, chimed in then, saying, “Aye. They have some other ways about them, they do. I hear they leave their weak children in the wilderness.”

“Right off the mountainside, they throw them.”

“They say there’s a pile of bones where they rid them. From all the children they deem unworthy.”

“No wonder nobody has defeated them in a hundred-fucking-years.” Heron spat his wine on the floor and his men followed suit.

The men then fell into a discussion about Athenian women—how they were smart, and their men talented. And then they went on to speak of the mountains and the sea alike, and all the sights they saw along their travels. Acacius finished his task, and went to help Myrrhine prepare the stew. Once it was done, they all ate their fill; the soldiers ate by the fire, while Myrrhine ate disjointed from the group. Acacius was the last to take a bowl, only of what remained after everyone else had picked all they could. He took his serving into the cold, cramped closet where his bed lay. There, he sat and ate his dinner.

Acacius wondered when he might get to go out and see the world. At only nine years old, the furthest Acacius had been from home was to the seaside town of Kamares. There, he would watch the ships come and go and the foreigners walk the docks as they haggled with the merchants in their stalls. He wondered if he ever would be able to do such a thing—to board a ship and leave Sifnos, to go someplace else, to barter with foreigners and see the town. But Heron had told him, only soldiers would ever do such things, and Acacius was no soldier.

It was still early in the evening when Heron’s troop took their leave and Captain Alexandros led them away from the farm, to return to their homes in Kamares and Vathi and Appolonia.

“The sheep still need sheering,” Heron told Acacius once they’d gone.

“I’m helping Myrrhine,” Acacius replied as he scoured the cooking pot. His voice was soft as to not offend.

“The sheep need sheering before sundown. After that, I need you to cart it to the tailor in Kamares.”

“This late?” Acacius shot a glance out the window. Although it was not winter yet, the chill was deep tonight and the wind blew hard on the walls of the house.

“If we want them to have a healthy coat come winter, it must be done tonight,” Heron pressed. “I will not hear more of it. Do as I say.”

Hiding his frustration, Acacius grabbed his shears and walked out the door and into the hard wind. All the sheep were huddled together in their pen, looking like dandelions caught in a bush of briars. As he had earlier, Acacius took each sheep, one by one, and shaved their wool. Once the sheep was nude, he would pile the wool in a cart for later and proceed on to the next sheep. He did this repeatedly, one by one, until the wind got too strong to bear. The chill stung his eyes and cut his cheeks like knives. With tears clouding his vision, his hand slipped as he pushed the shear up a sheep’s back, and it cut deep into its flesh.

The gray wool ran red with dark blood and the animal let out a bleat like Acacius had never heard. Minutes passed like a flash as Heron was outside, his stomps seeming to shake the earth. With a whip in hand, he lashed at Acacius, the leather biting the boy’s skin like a snake with each thrust.

“What have you done?” Heron was yelling but Acacius could barely hear. Blood covered his hands and she sheep lay in the grass, kicking and screaming, trying to find even ground on its weak hooves.

Acacius felt the whip cut into his arms as he shielded his face. “It was an accident!” he shouted, himself on the ground now. “I didn’t mean to!” Acacius tried to hold his hands out as if that would stop the whip, but on a third strike it came down and around his hands, catching him on the bridge of his nose. It felt as if he went blind in one eye as his own blood began to pour down his face and soak his ratted shirt, mingling with that of the sheep.

Heron’s voice was as thunderous as Zeus’ in that moment: “Do you know how much a sheep cost?” He threw the whip in the dirt and stood over the boy now. “I can’t ever hope to buy that back!”

Myrrhine came to push Heron back. “He’s bleeding, he’s bleeding!”

Acacius wiped his blood away from his face and looked at his master through the red in his eyes. “It was an accident,” he murmured.

The sheep had stopped moving by now. Acacius saw nothing in its lifeless body just feet from where he lay in the grass.

Myrrhine leaned over Acacius and pulled him to his feet. “You will need that cleaned,” she said. They left the sheep dead in the grass as she took him to the house.