Living Flesh

Branded as living flesh a ruler’s concubine steals a night of ravishment with a stranger

One afternoon, I slipped away from the women's quarters and lost myself in the narrow, sunless alleys of the city, fully covered beneath a coarse cotton cloth. The air hung heavy with the residue of too many lives, beasts and humans alike, pressed together. Dusk was falling. The alleys narrowed, the walls leaned in, and then I saw him watching me from the far edge.

The space between us shrank until the pull was so strong I could almost feel his breath scorching my lips. The tattoo on my forehead left no room for misunderstanding. He knew the risk. If anyone found him with me, one of Authen’s women, he'd be a dead man.

And then Eros intervened, no doubt; gold sand rose from nowhere into the filth-slick streets and hid us from the eyes of the people; his hands on my waist, my back against the wall, the grit of it getting everywhere it shouldn't, and Gods, what ravishment.

So I stand before you now, accountable, yes, but also beyond reproach. The ancient Aphrodisian law protects me. I gave myself. He gambled and lost.

His body rots inside a cage of iron, strung up high beyond the walls of the acropolis. They say a ruler's justice must be seen. Let them look in plain light. Let them see what happens to those who would steal living flesh from their master's possession. He brands what he owns. The one who hangs in that cage taught me the difference between being owned and choosing to belong.

I am waiting for the night he finally asks my service and requests to know why I preferred that man to him. I will tell him. And I will be next in that cage.