I was stabbed. My hands and legs were tied to a pile meant for punishing wives. My long robe torn, hair loose, every inch of my body screamed, but the pain slowly drained away as I watched my husband's eyes—cold, furious—while he held the weapon in his hands.
He was a general, just returned from war, raging with jealousy. We had waited for him, offering food and drink, but he hadn't even asked. He punished us all—my friends, my sisters-in-law, and me. One by one, soldiers dragged them away; I knew what he would do.
In times like this, wives were property. Houses were our cages, outings rare. The emperor had decreed women's etiquette: we should be shy, silent, and learn from a single book about how to behave. I had been a sold wife, the main one—but not for long. Now, he was killing me with his own hands.
While I was dying, my whole life swirled in my mind. Faces, voices, rules I had never dared to break, and moments of secret joy—all rushed past me like waves I could not hold.
I was born to a house where silence was taught before words. My mother moved quietly through the rooms, obedient to my father's every command, her hands always busy, her eyes always lowered. I watched her as a child, learning that a woman's life was measured in service, in submission, in the careful weighing of every gesture.
My father, like all men of Athens, demanded respect and order. To step out of line was to risk shame—not just for oneself, but for the entire household. I learned young to smile politely, to keep my thoughts hidden, to be small in a world that measured women only by their obedience.
I watched the women of the house as I grew, their hands always busy, their faces calm, their eyes lowered as they moved through kitchens and courtyards. They harvested olives from the gnarled trees, plucked figs from the sun-warmed branches, and churned milk into cheese. Loaves of bread rose and browned in the ovens, while they tended the children, cleaned the vessels, and prayed silently to Hera, Athena, and Demeter.
I tried to imitate them, to learn patience and quiet obedience, but a spark of curiosity stirred in me. I watched my father and the men leave for war, or drink and joke in the towns, their lives vast and open while ours were measured by the turning of a wheel or the kneading of dough. Even the gods seemed to favor their freedom, while I remained a shadow among women, learning the rules I could never break.
I had grown into a classic middle-class Athenian family, where comfort came from obedience and reputation, and where every choice seemed guided by unseen hands—both human and divine. While I was growing up, I often heard my mother praying to the gods, her voice soft and urgent, asking Hera, Athena, and Demeter to grant her wish: that I be married to a wealthy, respected husband.
And, in their strange, distant way, the gods answered. I was married as she had prayed—but at what price? I did not yet know then the depths of jealousy, rage, or cruelty a man could carry, nor the sharp edges of a life bought and sold. All I knew was that the comfort my mother had prayed for had come with chains I could not see, and a destiny I could not yet escape.
I first saw him on the day of our betrothal. The ceremony was simple, by the small household altar, but my heart thudded with a mixture of fear and curiosity. He was a general now returned from war, tall, commanding, with eyes that seemed to measure everything—and everyone—around him. My mother's prayers had brought him to me, but even then, I sensed a storm behind his gaze.
In the weeks that followed, I watched him carefully, learning his moods and habits. He drank at feasts, visited the town markets, and laughed with soldiers as if the world belonged only to men. My days were filled with weaving, preparing meals, tending the household, and performing the small duties expected of a wife. I tried to be calm and obedient, like the other women, but a quiet tension always lingered when he was near.
The first hint of his jealousy came over something trivial—a glance from another man in the market, a joke that lingered too long with a servant. He would frown, stare a moment too long, and then vanish into his chambers. The fear I felt was subtle at first, a tremor in the pit of my stomach, but it grew as the days passed.
I told myself that this was marriage, that men were prone to anger and suspicion. But deep down, a small, insistent voice whispered that the gods had answered my mother's prayers at a price far heavier than she—or I—could have imagined.
I had prepared everything for his return—food, wine, and a few friends, invited to celebrate his safe return from war. But he burst in with his soldiers, eyes burning with fury.
"How dare you celebrate while I was at war!" he shouted. "How dare you laugh near other men—even if they were my guests!"
The soldiers moved around us like predators. With a sharp signal from him, one by one, they dragged my friends and family outside. I was left standing in front of him, in the clean, beautiful attire I had chosen to welcome him, hoping for joy.
He grasped my chin roughly. "You cheated on me."
"No!" I gasped. "I did not!"
But reason could not reach him. He pulled me into the house and slammed the door. "Stay here," he commanded. And for three nights, no one came. Silence. Hunger. Fear.
When the doors finally opened again, he was there, soldiers flanking him like vultures. "Grab her," he demanded. "Punishment for a disobedient, unfaithful wife."
They dragged me to a wooden pole and tied me fast. My heart pounded. Pain flared in my limbs. My long robe, once chosen for celebration, hung torn and ruined. I was completely at his mercy.
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. His voice was a hiss of rage. "Admit it and die."
"I did nothing!" I cried, my voice breaking. His hand came down hard—once, twice—striking me across the face, across the body, each blow blurring the world until it tilted and went dark.
A splash of icy water dragged me back. I coughed, shivering, the ropes biting into my skin. He leaned in, his breath cold against my ear. "Do you know what I did to your friends?"
I raised my eyes to his, trembling. I knew. Even before he spoke, I knew no one was alive.
His gaze burned with a fury I could not comprehend—no warmth, no pity, no trace of the man I had once tried to welcome home. And then, sudden and searing, a pain like fire burst in my stomach. I gasped, looking down. The blade was there, glinting, wet with my blood.
As I sagged against the ropes, life slipping from me with each drop, he did not move. He only stared—cold, jealous, raging—with no tinge of love in his eyes.
What is money? What is marriage, if there is no love? The thought flickered through me like a final prayer as the darkness closed in.