I first met my Spartan liege at the point of a sharpened stick.

The gods would have seen fit for me to die for my foolishness—the moon was new, it was autumn, and the time for the Krypteia was upon us. Though a mighty king would slay a wolf to prove his worth as a warrior, others seeking to leave the agoge as a Spartan man hunted helot serfs caught outside at night. After a day bringing water from the well to the helots preparing the wheat fields for the harvest, an idle afternoon's nap led me to my plight. I awoke, alone, outside, in darkness. The Krypteia! Given the tales from the head house-servant Euthymios, children did not fear the monsters or beasts in the nights the moon did not come. We feared the Spartans.

I feared I would not see my eleventh year of life, for no helot would not open his door and the master's house seemed too far for me to make it undetected. My face was wet from tears, and terror gripped my throat so that I could not cry or scream. But I could not simply accept my fate. My mother bade me be strong and survive when our Persian owner sold me to Greek traders. My choices were few—run for the servants' gate of the master's house or hide amongst the bronzed blades of wheat. Hiding was of no use; if the Spartans of the Krypteia did not end me, the nocturnal predators with more than two legs would.

The only choice I had was to run to the gates. I could squeeze through like I did before. A beating from Euthymios waited within the walls of the slave quarters. "Never let night fall upon you away from the house, Melanthia," he had admonished, "for your life depends upon it." Had I listened to the old helot I would not have had to run at full speed, for dear life, depending on my feet's memory of the path ahead, praying to the gods that even the Spartans would spare a silly child. Darkness surrounded me, lay before me, followed me.

Light peered through the wooden gates of the servants' entrance, and I had two steps of shadow before I reached it. I only made one step, for the bare iron arm of the monster I feared clasped me to him and placed a stake at my back. I did not see him, or hear him—he appeared from nowhere. He had to hunch down to grab me and as he did, I felt his breath on the top of my head. I could hear his heartbeat between my shoulder blades, and the sweat from his bare chest moistened my chiton. I did what any child would do when in the presence of a bogeyman. I found my voice and sobbed loudly, "P-please—"

"Your silence or your death!" the Spartan hissed, covering my mouth, dragging me back with him into the darkness, settling on an alcove. I could never forget his scent—masculine, bestial, and I had but that and his voice to recognize him at the time.

I bit my bottom lip until it bled, and I was shaking. He had pierced my flesh, but I dare not make a sound, for he had given me an opportunity to live. However, I thought he would suffocate me, his hold tightening when he breathed.

The Spartan whispered anew, lowering his hand. "Child, your death brings me no honor. The gods do not favor offering them foolish helot whelps."

I broke my silence to make what seemed to be a pointless distinction at the time in weak, sniveling gasps. "I-I. Am not. A h-helot." I tried to stop the tears.

"And you are not a Spartan," my captor retorted.

I continued with more resolve. "I am not even Greek. My collar," I added, as the young man removed the stick and used his hand to feel the leather band around my neck, with the metal nameplate. "I belong to Aristodemus."

The young warrior loosened his grip after what seemed forever, but still pressed me to him. "My father," he said more to himself. The master did speak of his son in the agoge, but the boy was gone before I was given to Aristodemus as a war prize. He sighed, disappointed I was not older, a boy, or a helot. "Too costly to waste—slave."

I knew from that moment the master's son would spare me. I began to relax my muscles and deepen my breathing, still feeling the sharp pain of the wound at my side. With a feeble but even voice I made another plea: "Then, will you not release me, Spartan?"

I felt the staccato movement of exhaling, when one laughs without making a sound. He dropped his arm, yet took my upper arm to jerk me around to face him. His face was obscured above the mouth, but I could see even teeth through a thin half-smile. He leaned his bare head forward into the light. "You certainly are not Greek." I could see his whole face. I could see his large nose and his eyes, the color of them I could not discern. I could, however, see the intensity, and it chilled me. "You are meant to be used." He released my arm, and I scurried and squeezed myself to safety.

Euthymios stood at the entrance to the servants' apartments, rod in hand. Though he would beat me, I ran to him, put my arms around his waist, and wept in his chest. Euthymios was not a cruel man. He was as close to a father as I would be afforded, tempering discipline with care.

He placed one hand on my head. "You are safe, the gods be praised." He saw blood at my lower back. His voice was tinged with pity, but still firm. "I see they did not spare your skin. Your terror and this wound will instill more obedience than any beating I could give, Melanthia."

Euthymios personally cleaned my wound and I cried out in pain through a stick in my mouth so as not to wake the others. He told me in a low voice how he searched for me until sunset, and he did not alert the master. "I will say you fell into a bush and was poked by a branch. He may wish I beat you still." He took the stick from my mouth and wrapped the bandage around me. "As to what really happened, I do not wish to know. You experienced the Krypteia and you will keep it secret, a fair price for your life. Never speak of it. Do you understand, child?"

"Yes, Euthymios." I placed myself chest down on my pallet. "I have a question. The master's son—what is he called?"

The helot furrowed his brow, creating more wrinkles and something akin to acknowledgement showed in his eyes before he spoke evenly. "His name is Dilios." He rose and before he left for his room, he said, "Be a child as much as you can, and do not think any more on this. Rest."

I stared at the ceiling in silent gratitude and in fear the Spartan would enter my dreams. But I was not prepared for what was to pass.