Erastus had checked her face for any marks the instant he woke her from her dreamless slumber. A storm raged behind her eyes. The world span, and the odour of sweat and wine hung from her father like a thick fog. It threatened to make Andromeda retch.

“Good,” Erastus said with a smile, brushing thin locks of hair away from her face. “Not a scratch on you, but you look like shit. And reek of it, too. You must bathe immediately.”

“I feel worse than I look,” Andromeda muttered, trying to settle her aching stomach.

“I don't care how you feel. So long as you look the part and keep smiling, all will be fine.” Her father called a pair of slaves in. Slender, pale girls they were, and they marched her off to the bath house to clean up.

Andromeda demanded a cup of water as they walked the marble tiled halls. When they got to the baths on the lower levels, one of the slave girls approached with a cup and a flagon of water. She snatched the cup from the girl and gulped the water, soothing her dry throat.

Then her stomach twisted, and an awful nausea overcame her. Andromeda retched up a watery brown cocktail of last night's ale, right by the slaves’ feet on the stone slabs.

“Clean that up,” she commanded the slaves, saving herself the embarrassment. The two girls rushed around for towels and a mop. They were quite sweet, Andromeda thought, in their little white tunics and small brown collars. They’re like little puppies.

Steam rose from the cracks between the stone slabs of the palace bath house. Carved into the floor was a still pool of clear, hot water. The steam rising as though a dragon slept beneath the pool. Andromeda stripped out of her robes, letting them slip off her body, and slowly descended the stone steps, allowing the water to envelop her slowly. The heat stung her skin initially, but she soon settled.

It hurt worse on the reddish scratch marks around her legs and body from where she had struggled on the floor last night, and her throat at times stung, as though her father’s fingers once again clasped tight around her neck.

She submerged herself into the pool now, pinching her nose and dunking her head beneath the water, letting the heat wash over her. That and the steam did wonders for her headache. She leaned back against the pool wall and let her legs float around the water, sighing deeply to soothe herself.

When the slaves finished cleaning up Andromeda’s mess on the floor, they left and returned with scented oils and pumice. The girls scrubbed her clean, ridding her of the grime and shame left over from last night.

“Now get out,” she said when the slaves had washed most of her. Andromeda wanted to be alone for a moment before she had to face her future husband. A grey dread clouded her mind. How far would they take her away? Would she ever see this place again, or would her new palace be a place she could call home?

I’ve never called anywhere home. Pyrridon was as close to a home as she could get. It was nice here—the Araetian people were a pleasant, sophisticated sort. A city of learned men and warriors alike. And excellent lovers. The first home she remembered had been in Yarikhad when she was very young. It was never a hard life, not back then, for her father Erastus had fled Orisium with a chest of gold, some jewels, and valuable royal heirlooms that fetched a very high price.

Their house in Yarikhad boasted a pleasant view of the great ring harbour from which ships streamed on a daily basis. She liked daydreaming about where they were going, and if some had been going to Orisium, this fabled place that was her true home. On the window in her bedchamber were pots of queer plants that sat gaped open like a hippo’s jaw, with teeth around their lips, and clamped shut whenever an unsuspecting insect landed inside them. And outside, lush green ivy coated half of the house like natural paint.

They were banished from the ivy house, still when she was very young, and from then had to leave Yarikhad. Father mustn't have had much money by that point, because they never had as nice a house again. Even when they went to the city of Menedemia to hide themselves—that was in a far more humble dwelling, and the streets always stunk of shit, and were noisy with shouting and raging from dawn till dusk. Father always insisted that the new Orisian Republic would never allow those of royal blood to live, and the pleb Vero would stop at nothing until all the descendants of the great king Orisean’s line were dead.

From Menedemia, they travelled across the Chenean to Araetia, touring the many city-states, but interest in Orisian royalty had faded by then, after so many years. Until recently, when the Tyrant of Pyrridon offered to host them in his palace.

The sudden, renewed interest in her family put her on edge a little. She had known for years now that no gift ever came for free, and random acts of generosity or charity from a stranger were a thing of fairy tales. And yet she now lived in a palace, not having to want for anything. Andromeda couldn’t help but feel that she was a pawn in a larger game, being moved around by unseen hands.

After she was done bathing, the slaves led her back to her apartments and dressed her in a black peplos, with cloth of gold woven in the form of floral patterns, as though a web of golden ivy consumed the robes. The garment was fastened at the shoulder with a golden phoenix pin, the symbol of the Kingdom of Orisium.

As the slaves brushed her hair and rubbed scented oils across her neck and behind her ears, the door to her apartments opened. The low chatter across the hall got louder, and in marched her father with the Tyrant of Pyrridon, Demetrius the Second.

“Ah, there she is!” the tyrant said, looking her up and down in her new garments. “My dear, there are no words to describe your beauty.” He embraced her warmly. The tyrant wore a purple knee-length chiton lined with white patterns on the borders. It left his right shoulder and breast exposed, and from the other shoulder hung a white cloak. Demetrius was a well-built man, looking every bit like a monarch. A bushy mane of greying brown hair covered his head and jaw, almost hiding his lips completely.

“You honour me, your highness.” Andromeda bowed her head. The tyrant had all the charm and fatherly love her father lacked. She often thought that's what a father should be like.

Demetrius smiled. “I’m sure Shah Anaecius will rank you among the highest of his wives!”

The thought sent a shudder through her. Being bound to a man she did not know, nor had any desire to be with, and then sharing the pleasure with his other wives! Mayhaps I’ll find friends among them… Andromeda thought on a lighter note.

Erastus rushed up behind the tyrant, inspecting his daughter closely. “Are you sure he will take her like this?” He touched his finger to her chin, pushing her head up. “Keep your neck straight! Bare your chest! He must see you as a woman, not a child.” Then he turned to Demetrius. “Unless that would be to the shah’s taste? Would it?”

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Demetrius waved the notion off. “Nonsense. Andromeda will inspire masterful poetry that will be recited for generations.”

“But what if he chooses her as one of his lower concubines?” Erastus said, his hand shaking. “I will not have my daughter chosen as a whore.”

“Fear not, Erastus. The shah would not dishonour the true king of Orisium in such a way. He is not so foolish.” The tyrant looked around, fanning his chiton. “Would you join me for some refreshment in the gardens? Such a fine day should not be wasted away speaking of politics in the princess's bedchamber.”

“Yes… yes.” Erastus nodded. “Seeing her under the sunlight might make her prettier. A fine notion.”

Andromeda scowled and followed the men out. Hector, with his palace guards, escorted them to the gardens.

A small stream flowed from a pipe in one end of the garden, slicing across the grounds until it fed into a pond, and flowed off toward the other end of the garden. In it swam fish of white and black along with spotted green ones, and a long black eel.

The slaves brought out a tray with a bottle of wine and several goblets. The headache from the morning still lingered in her head, but she took a glass anyway. As did her father and Demetrius. “As I was saying,” the tyrant said. “The shah will take her as one of his wives, not a concubine. Women of political significance are always held in high esteem.”

“But he marries them all the same, does he not?” Erastus said.

The tyrant raised a brow. “There is a ceremony for each wife or concubine he takes, though they vary. Oh, I don’t know, Erastus. You know how these westerners are. The desert sun bakes their heads a little too much, I think.” Then he started laughing, covering his mouth so as to not spit out any wine. “A convenient custom nonetheless, don’t you think? As many brides as you want. Marry a princess for every kingdom, and you could conquer the known world within a generation!”

“Or it would tear itself apart every generation,” Erastus scoffed, gulping down his wine and bidding the slaves to refill his cup.

“Indeed…” Demetrius said. “Like the empire of the Chosen One, Menedemus. A son of Pyrridon himself. It seems we frequently forget the mistakes of our forefathers.”

“Be that as it may, the shah rules a gargantuan realm, and has an army of a thousand tribes. I care not for his ambitions or grand plans, as long as he sends his slaves to march with me to Orisium,” Erastus said. “When does he arrive? I grow tired of this waiting.”

“Patience, my king. Patience. The gods favour those who wait.” Demetrius smiled.

#

Twilight descended over Pyrridon, painting the sky a lush lilac. The warm climate permitted the gathering feast for the Anaecid shah to be held in the open air east wing of the tyrant’s palace.

Tables laid out. Fresh honey roasted boar laid on wide silver dishes, stuffed with apples in their mouths to be picked at by any guests. Grapes, dates, plums, and roasted apples glazed with honey and cinnamon. The food here could probably feed the city for a day. Acrobats performed on a raised platform for the diners to watch, balancing atop one another while they stretched their bodies to their limits. A man played a flute at the corner of the hall. The court pyromancer put on a dazzling spectacle of fire tricks at the center of the grounds using special powders, sending sparks and wisps of fire flying from his sleeves of red and blue and purple, bleaching the air with his extravagant flames. Andromeda would have been more impressed if the magic was real, like the fables she’d heard as a child of the ancient world, where dragons flew in the sky, phoenixes nested in the mountains, and sorcerers wielded great power.

“Have some wine, dear,” Erastus said, huddled up beside her, waving a goblet in her face. “You cheer up when you’re drunk. It’ll help wipe that fucking glum look off your face.”

“I’d sooner drink it to numb me to your presence,” Andromeda spat, snatching the goblet and drinking.

Her father scoffed. “Whatever works for you, as long as you impress the shah.” He looked around, and then grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face the other side of the wing. “There! There, do you see him?”

She saw hundreds of people. It seemed the shah had arrived with half of his court, and truly, one thousand tribes must have made up his empire, for it looked like the representatives of every corner of the world feasted in Pyrridon tonight. Men wearing grand red robes that looked like dresses, their wives in colours and jewels just as extravagant, others in pointed hats lined with fur, others had faces studded and pierced with golden ornaments and chains. The wife of Demetrius, Lysandra, and her daughters. An older, humbler man among the crowd, with a grey beard and a head wrapped up in beige cloth, caught her eye too. His robes were in the Yariki fashion, she recalled from her youth. I should speak to that one.

“There.” Erastus pointed through the crowd.

The shah was a tall, bald man with olive skin. His face painted to give it a golden aura, and black eyeshadow gave his crimson eyes an almond appearance—a rare sight, she thought. They shone red like a pair of rubies. His long beard was wiry and black. A gold and green tunic sat beneath his long purple overcoat that went down to his feet, and the man twinkled with all the gold chains and rings on him.

“It’s said he keeps a harem of two hundred women,” Erastus said with a sly grin, then chuckled. “Two hundred… surely not. How would you find the time to do anything else? And the children… If the man is potent, he could spawn an entire army of his own blood!”

Andromeda said nothing, only drinking more wine hoping the night would pass away into the deepest recesses of her memory.

“Of course,” her father continued. “The most noble of his wives are held in higher esteem. It’s quite amusing how it works. These westerners arrange their wives with almost military-esque organisation.”

The thought made her stomach curdle. ‘Spawning’ the shah’s ‘soldiers.’ Tolerating two hundred other women who all bed her husband. It was too much. The way the shah looked, talked, and laughed. He didn’t even seem human.

A ball crawled up her throat. “Father… I-I don’t want him. I don’t want this.”

Erastus’s face contorted into a vile grimace. “I care not what you want. This is your duty to your family, your heritage, and Orisium!” He clutched her wrist, tight.

“May the gods sink Orisium to the underworld!” she hissed, venom on her tongue. Where that powerful will to resist came from she didn’t know. “I don’t want to be that man’s whore.”

Her father dragged her out of the open air, past the columns that lined the hall, and shoved her against a wall, out of sight from the guests. She tried to squirm away, but the wine had not dulled him and made him clumsy like it did last night. Now he was stronger. His rage more terrifying. Suddenly her will to resist was vanquished, and she regretted opening her mouth at all.

“I could care less what you want. You will be that man’s whore, because that’s exactly what you are. A whore.” Erastus looked around, careful not to be too loud. “You have no problem fucking filthy plebeians when you roam the lower city, but a man who is practically a god is suddenly beneath you? I think not. Had we been in the Orisian court, I’d have had you scourged.”

“I hate you!” she spat, tears welling in her eyes.

He shook her on the spot, rattling her head. “Calm yourself immediately. Calm yourself! Understand this, if you ruin this betrothal for us, then I will have nothing left in this world, do you understand? And gods help you when you rouse the fury of a man who has nothing left to lose. Because at that point, losing your teeth or a beating would be the least of your worries.” He fumbled the knife on his belt.

For the first time in a very long time, Andromeda was terrified of her father. There was no mercy or regret in those cold grey eyes. She nodded, sniffling. “I-I understand.”

“Good.” Erastus dragged her out of the shade, wiping her tears away. “Hide away your sorrows. It’s time to meet the shah.”