He curled his lip and wrinkled his nose. I felt a flash of hope.
“I wish no sons from you, Rufus. Zeus knows they would all be born into slavery and marked by your accursed red hair.” He gave my long locks a sharp tug. I winced.
I have never been gifted in theatrical arts. When he pushed me further against the column, I forgot all my plans to distract him and screamed.
“Don’t touch me!” I shrieked and flailed with all my meager strength against his smooth muscular arms. My ploy to deter him had failed, but I would not go silently. He would beat me no matter what I did. So I screamed, as if the hound of Hades, Cerberus, was nipping at my throat.
I screamed high and loud, and prayed that someone would come.
His hand bound my wrists. Birds twittered in alarm and took flight, roused from their nested slumber. The Swine sought to quiet me. He clamped his hand over my mouth. I shook my head and bit at him like a rabid dog.
Oh yes, I thought. I may be a dog of another coat, but this bitch will not go down without a fight. I growled in fury, and prepared to strike, as I had that Greek long ago in the midnight forest. I shouted like Boreas, God of Thunder, and….
Then, Young Iadmon drew his fist back and struck me, as if I were a man.
The blow stunned me and I fell to the limestone pavers, like my basket a few moments before, with the same muffled thud.
I tasted blood and spat. Moonlight gleamed on a bit of pearl in the bloody spew.
My tooth.
My head and jaw raged in pain. I reeled from the blow, dizzy and unable to gain my feet, and without even the sense to crawl away. I cried out as my tongue probed the tender spot on the side of my mouth, where a tooth used to be. Young Iadmon struck me again. I rolled and used the nearby column to drag myself to my feet.
The Swine pounced on me. I toppled over backwards. My elbows hit the stones. I tried to knee him, but he twisted away and struck me again. My head rebounded off the pavers and the night went completely black, save for the lights whirling behind my eyes. I felt his hands tugging at my chiton, rucking it up above my hips. Then my legs were pried apart.
“I will have you,” he claimed.
“No-o,” I slurred. I could not open my left eye. My ears felt thick and stuffed with wool.
He crushed me with his weight. I felt a piercing pain between my legs. I could not breathe, I could not scream. The whole of his body invaded me in a way I never thought to be broached. Again and again, he thrust inside me. Each motion struck lightning pain through my legs and back.
I sobbed. I cursed. I cried words that even I did not understand. I beat at him with my fists until he wrapped his hands around my throat and began to squeeze, gently at first, but more and more until I thought I would die. I prayed for it.
Dionysus, I pleaded. If it be your will. Let this end. Let me come home.
I saw the face of my mother and father in the darkness fogging my vision.
“Mother,” I whispered and reached to her.
A thousand needles pricked my flesh. My parents smiled at me. I ceased to feel the raw thrusting pressure between my legs. I smiled back to them. My father stretched out his strong hands to me. I ceased to feel anything at all.
“Doricha,” he whispered. But my mother shook her head.
“No, Doricha.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “No.”
Tears leaked from my eyes and the world rushed back to me with the mighty roar of a familiar voice.
“Doricha! No!”
I turned my head and saw a pair of sandaled feet running towards me on the pavers. The Swine still hovered over me, his eyes shining like pools of ebon blood in the moonlight. He groaned and convulsed between my legs, oblivious to all. His fingers dug into my shoulders.
“Doricha!” It was Aesop.
He hefted a limestone paver. Our eyes locked, his expression dark and terrible.
Then, he brought the stone down on top of Young Iadmon’s head.
The Swine groaned and slumped to the side, withdrawing himself from my body as he went. I winced as his member trailed warm fluids across my thigh.
Aesop stared down at me. His face was crumpled. I had never seen such fear, such grief, etched in the fine lines surrounding his eyes. His hands twitched as if he wished to pick me up off the cold, pitted courtyard. A sudden breeze blew the scent of parsley and blood to my nostrils.
“It is over,” I said. My voice sounded strange and far away.
Aesop looked at the unmoving body of young Iadmon and back at me. “Not yet, Little Flower.” He turned and shouted over his shoulder for help. There was a sound of sandals slapping on the cobbles.
And overhead, somewhere unseen, a bird cried three times and flew away into the night.
Chapter Eleven
I was tended by the same healer who’d come before.
The old man clucked his tongue at me, but said nothing. When he finished, I saw Aesop pay him far more than his time was worth, no doubt to keep his mouth sealed.
My bruises faded after a few weeks. I was sore and felt chilled for days. Kailoise gave me a union of herbs, oil, and wine to leech the ill humors from my body, but it did me little good. My breasts were so sore and tender, I wondered if The Swine had bitten them. Even the soft wool of my chiton was nigh unbearable.
The Swine lived. They told me how the slaves carted his unconscious body to the temple hospital, the asklepeia, named for Asclepius, their god of healing. Iadmon’s face had turned as grey as Aesop’s eyes when they reported the night’s disturbance. He did not seem surprised, though. And this time, he did not visit me.
After the fifth week, I found myself dizzy and off balance, while going about my duties. I thought perhaps the rape had addled my brain. But, on the third morning of vomiting my morning broth, Aesop told me the news.
I was with child.
The punishment of the gods could be no worse!
How well I remembered my joy at my brother’s impending birth, and the pain and death of my mother. Despair and fear gripped me tighter than The Swine’s claws had held me against my will to bear his seed.
I avoided the courtyard. I could not stand to see the spot where I’d been taken. The very sight of the colonnade made me sick, though it could have been the accursed child within me. The household tolerated my restless, sleepless nights of wandering and my days of frantic activity. I could not bear to be alone, yet I could not stand the company of anyone, save Aesop.
He, alone, attended to my wretchedness.
I prayed for death in the days and nights that followed. A servant was sent to watch over me during the night hours when I was wont to wander off into the shadows. Even Aesop could not comfort me.
He did his best. He spoke of duty and accepting one’s fate in life. He spoke of far off lands and even posed riddles which I never bothered to answer. I could not fathom my own lot in life, what did I care about another man’s fate?
In three month’s time, my belly began to round ever so slightly despite my inability to keep anything down. The chills in my body continued to plague me. My cheeks and forehead flamed. Smudges lined my eyes and made me look a harpy. When I went to gather the water, I tossed the bucket in at my reflection. The other slaves began to whisper and draw symbols in the air when I passed. How much I hated them for their hostility and their fear. How much I understood it.
I hated myself.
“You should pray to Hera, mother of the gods, to give you a fine son,” one of the women advised me, after the umpteenth time of sicking up my meal. A fine son? This cursed creature would be the epitome of his father. What would any goddess find blessed about it?
My own lovely red-gold hair grew listless and fell out in hanks when they bathed me. I had no desire to bathe myself. I had no desire to do anything other than weep and vomit, or so it seemed.
I paced the halls in a filthy chiton with the hetaera’s peplos wrapped around me. It was the only thing that brought me any measure of comfort. I lost myself in dream
s of the past where my mother stroked my hair and told me that one day the world would know my name.
At times, I swore she spoke to me.
Another month passed and I grew weaker. The babe seemed to feed off my infirmity and drew strength from every tear I shed. Strange rapid flutters, like butterfly wings in my abdomen, kept me awake at night, and then ceased, which was worse still.
My body was not my own. I housed a child of hate and revulsion. I was convinced it would bear the same brutality as its father. What would he do to me when the child was born? I longed to be rid of it, to return to my former self. My only salvation was the knowledge that I would not need to raise the child, myself, for it would be sold or cast off as soon as it quit my womb.
Perhaps then, I thought, I could convince Iadmon to send me home. Surely there was someone back in Perperek who would take me in, wretched and cursed as I was.
One day, as I tended to Iadmon’s grooming, I thought to ask him. Instead, he shared news that his son would recover, but had lost the use of his right arm. I thought of the blows that hand had struck against me and could not muster compassion for him. When my master saw my frigid demeanor, he sent me from the room, and so I could not beg my freedom, after all.
I went to my alcove, heedless of the work still to be done. After I allowed Kailoise to brush out my hair, I curled up in the peplos. Later, Aesop visited, and tried to comfort me with another story, but I closed my eyes and he went away. I offered a prayer to the gods that I might never wake.
Dionysus, hear my plea, I began. Then I realized with cold clarity, that my lord was not master here in Abdera. The Greeks had their own gods. Perhaps my assault was simply their will.
I dredged up memories of attending the family religious ceremonies and slave gossip, culling faceless names to my lips. Then, I slipped onto my knees on the cold floor, ignoring the bite of the stone into my knees and prayed.
Great Zeus, I began. For I would not pray to Hera, the mother goddess! Hear me Poseidon or Aphrodite. Show mercy! Show mercy….
I prayed until my head ached and my throat was dry. I prayed until my knees were stiff and my back cramped from touching my forehead to the stones. Then I crept back onto my cot, feeling somewhat better, and slept.
That night, I dreamed.
*** ***
I stood on the rocky beach of a barren black sea. Three birds circled and veered before a setting sun turned their feathers to rose-gold--an owl, a sparrow, and a gull. They cried as the wind blew my red-gold hair into a tangled web. I did not recognize this place, but I felt certain if I turned away I would find the house of Iadmon behind me.
How I wished to be free. Free of my life in Abdera, and yes, free of the child in my womb.
“Whom will you choose?” cried the wind. Choose.
I shaded my eyes with my hand and stared up at the blazing sky. I don’t know why the voice did not startle me.
“Choose,” the wind commanded me.
Three birds etched in silhouette against the sky. Three, an ill-luck number. I fixed my eyes to one of them, the smallest, and pointed a finger at its rose-gold plumage. Perhaps the smallest of the three would take pity on me.
The other two cried once and veered away on the wind.
The smallest, the sparrow, swooped low over me.
“How will you pay, Little Flower?” This time a woman’s voice echoed over the crash and thunder of the churning waves. Foam danced on the tide and beckoned me deeper into the cold, dark sea.
I stretched my hands out over the agate waters. A shining pearl glimmered in my palm.
The sparrow called once overhead.
Then, it was not a pearl, but my lost tooth knocked free during the attack. I let it slip from my hand into the agate waters and tasted salt on my lips.
“It is done,” said the voice. I thought I saw a woman striding across the sea. Her lips were curved in a sly smile. She wore a girdle of bright gold that matched her hair and carried a small bronze mirror. Her eyes were as blue as the sea and she wore a pearl circlet over her unbound hair. A sparrow perched upon her finger.
“You chose well, Beauty. Only I would show compassion.”
Her words rang in my ears like a hundred brass bells, yet her lips did not move.
She pointed her mirror at me. I felt my insides twist as if I needed desperately to void my bowels. I shifted, and crouched on the rocky beach, pulling the peplos tighter around my shoulders. The pain in my gut grew. I rocked back and forth on my heels.
The woman knelt gracefully on the waves and the sparrow lifted from her finger, and flew away. She cupped a hand to the water below her.
Taking the salt water into her mouth, she stood and spat it at me. The water trickled over my face and body like warm rain. Droplets dribbled between my eyes and down my neck. I bowed my head and let the water drip off my nose and chin.
“It is done,” the woman repeated.
And the sea she spat became a flood that washed me away from Abdera.
*** ***
When I woke with a start, it was not yet morning.
My stomach still churned and twisted. When I stood on trembling legs, the pain was worse. My skin felt prickly and I burned and froze by turns. Something was not right.
I stumbled into the hall, and tripped over the slave sent to watch me for the evening. He blinked sleepily and rubbed his foot before standing.
“Where is Aesop?” I asked. Another pain. I grimaced and pressed my hand to my stomach. To my great relief my monitor hurried down the hall, his chiton flapping behind him.
In minutes, Aesop arrived. I was shaking and I felt something wet and warm trickling down the inside of my thigh. It reminded me of the rain from my dream. Aesop frowned at me and ordered the slave to get the Kailoise and the healer. Then he gripped my arm and led me back into my chamber.
“What have you done, Doricha?” he said. “What have you done?” His face was ashen.
“I did nothing. It was a dream,” I cried. “Only a dream.”
Aesop shook his head and helped me back onto my cot. “This is not a dream.”
He stayed with me. That is something I shall never forget, whatever else happened later. Aesop stayed.
He bathed my forehead, held my hand when the pain became unbearable, and suffered my tears. But he turned his head when the female slaves came and sopped the blood from between my legs.
In time, the healer arrived with a pair of women. They peeped under the thin linen sheet and shook their heads. The pair whispered something to the healer, who left the room. When he had gone, they glared at Aesop. I suppose they blamed him for my condition.
“I will fetch her some wine,” Aesop mumbled. He left then in haste.
The women carried a brass chamber pot to my bedside. They bade me rise, telling me to squat as if I needed to void my bowels. The cramps were so bad, I thought I would vomit, but I didn’t. I hiked up my stained chiton. My head swam. I forced my shaking legs to support me and squatted over the pot.
As soon as I was in place, I felt a warm rush of clotted blood exit my body. Blood splashed up over the sides of the pot and onto my calves.
“What is happening to me?” I moaned as another swell of pain overtook me.
“Hush, girl.” They forced me into a deeper crouch. “It’s only the babe you lose.”
I’d never been so grateful to be ill.
When I finished releasing the spawn of hatred from my womb, they cleaned and changed me into fresh clothing. My cot was stripped while I sat idly on a stool, my hands folded over the subsiding cramps in my abdomen.
“It was a girl, most likely. The gods do not look favorably on a girl child. Rest now,” ordered one of the women. “You should be well enough for mild tasks by the morrow.” They helped me to lie back on the cot.
“And do not trouble yourself,” said the other, covering me with a fresh linen. “You are young still and will bear many sons. Keep to yourself for a few weeks. You don’t want to fill your womb unti
l you’ve healed.”
I covered my eyes with my arm, to shut out the sight of them. If they thought to bring me comfort with their words, they were mistaken. I was glad to be rid of it.
“Take away the pot away,” I said. “I do not grieve. I never wish to bear a child.”
The women were silent as they left my chamber. A sudden breeze sifted into my window, bringing the scent of salt water. I lifted my arm off my head and stared at the moon sinking in a cold, dark sky.
“It is done, Little Flower.” I heard the golden woman’s voice in my head. A sparrow trilled outside my window, unusual after dark. “But how you will pay.”
*** ***
I was assigned menial tasks, to prevent more bleeding. Even a slave may not stop laboring for her keep, not mater the cause. Kailoise more than made up for my lack of industry. She tended me as well as any mother, and scolded those she deemed unfit. By three week’s time, a slave came to fetch me away from my simple chores. As he led me to the chamber, I heard Aesop’s voice rebound off the stone walls.
“And what should I have done? Left her to be murdered by your son? Master, surely you know I struck him for his own good as much as for the well-being of your slave!”
“He was simply asserting his male dominance.” It was Iadmon, my master. He sounded annoyed. I heard the clank of brass on crockery. “It happens often enough in every house and brothel in Greece.”
“There are laws against such, as you well know.” There was a pregnant pause. “You are still a visitor to these lands, master. I know not what the Abderans would do, if the truth was known about the hetaerae.”
“Yes, yes. You have always been a faithful servant of my interests, Aesop.”.Iadmon sighed. “But there has been much talk about you, of late. Talk of the strength of your words. Of the degree of freedoms I afford you. You face a greater danger than my son ever will. I do not know if I can protect you from them, if they come for you. You are a slave and forbidden to strike any man.” Iadmon sounded weary and old. “If they know of him, they know of you and your actions, as well.”
I glanced at the slave who accompanied me. He tipped his chin at me and left but I did not go into the chamber. Instead, I lingered in the corridor with my hand pressed against the cool stone wall for support.
HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods Page 13