Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (Agathon's Daughter)

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  Melaina counted on her son’s disinterest in financial matters. With any luck, Diodorus would leave management of the property to Lycurgus, Agathon’s business partner who had been appointed Kurios, protector of the family. Diodorus needed guidance.

  Melaina gave her face a final splash.

  Now that Agathon was on the road to Hades, she vowed to put an end to her son’s foolish pursuits. She planned to push him into politics. But for now, it would be best to entice Diodorus out of Athens. Not forever, just for one year.

  One year would give her time.

  She clapped her hands, and a slave parted the curtains—a new girl, dark skinned with strange markings on her face, waves of dots across her forehead and cheeks, the result of scarification. No Athenian woman would mark her face in such a barbaric way. Melaina could not recall the girl’s name.

  “Come here.”

  The slave mumbled something in a foreign language.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, Despoina.”

  “Don’t stand there, gaping. Fetch my chiton, the black one.”

  The girl looked at her blankly, as if she didn’t understand. Melaina pointed to her cedar chest, one of several that stood against the wall. The girl moved lethargically. With maddening sluggishness, she opened the chest’s lid and pulled out one carefully folded tunic after another. Melaina guessed the girl came from some backwater in Africa. One of Agathon’s strays. The house was full of untrained slaves that no one else would put up with.

  Melaina sighed. “Do I need to find the chiton myself?”

  “Is this what you want, Despoina?” The girl dragged a large rectangle of cloth from the chest and brought it to Melaina.

  “Custom demands a widow’s clothes be drab, but black is not my color.” Melaina fingered the finely woven wool. “Makes my complexion appear sallow.”

  “Yes, Despoina.”

  “You don’t have to agree with me.”

  “No, Despoina.”

  Melaina rolled her eyes. Yes, no. Could the girl say nothing else? “What’s your name?”

  “They call me Calonice.”

  “Calonice, a good Greek name.”

  “My Igbo name is Adisa. It means one who sees clearly.”

  “Fascinating. Be careful how you drape the cloth.” Sucking in her stomach, and holding out her arms, Melaina readied herself to be dressed. Unlike her last maid, who’d had years of practice—and had, inconveniently, died—this girl was obviously a novice. Standing on her toes, the girl attempted to drape the cloth.

  “Not like that.” Melaina caught the wool at each shoulder so it could be pinned in place. “Don’t use those brooches. Fetch the others, the gold set with sapphires.”

  The girl gazed at her, like a sheep.

  “Blue stones.” Melaina nodded toward her jewelry box.

  “The brooch the rich man gave to you?”

  Melaina’s eyes shot to the slave. “Who told you that?”

  “No one, Despoina.” The girl busied herself with the bronze box.

  No one. There were no secrets in a house full of servants. “And fetch the matching earrings.”

  Mumbling to herself the girl fastened the brooches at Melaina’s shoulders as Melaina slipped the heavy earrings through her earlobes. Intricately wrought and exquisitely designed, the brooch and earrings far exceeded any gift of Agathon’s.

  The brooch jabbed her shoulder.

  “Clumsy girl!”

  “Forgive me, Despoina.”

  Melaina slapped the slave. “Get out!”

  The girl rubbed her cheek. If it were possible, her eyes grew darker. Muttering something that sounded like a curse, she left the room.

  Relieved to see her go, Melaina rubbed her shoulder. She inspected the deep scratch where the heavy pin had gouged her and wondered if the wound had been intentional.

  Feeling the beginning of a headache, she massaged her temples.

  Soon Agathon’s sisters would arrive, interfering women twenty years her senior. Sometimes she felt so alone. She had no one to confide in, no one she could trust. Locked away, within her house, like all proper Athenian matrons—forbidden to go out, unless under a man’s protection, not even to the marketplace—she sometimes wondered if a slave’s life might offer more freedom.

  There must be some escape.

  She thought of Lycurgus. He’d chosen to remain single, not because he didn’t care for women—the gods knew that was not an issue—but for other reasons.

  Using a length of silk cord, she girded the long tunic at her waist, allowing the excess fabric to form an overdress, the latest fashion. The chiton fell to the floor in graceful folds, showing her body to its best advantage. Of course, Lycurgus would attend Agathon’s funeral. In many ways he was the opposite of Agathon, brilliant with a dangerous reputation, a statesman with his choice of women. Melaina prayed he would find Agathon’s wealth an aphrodisiac.

  Besides her dead husband’s money, what did she have to offer?

  She reached for her bronze mirror. The handle had been cast in the form of Aphrodite, goddess of love. Such a fickle deity. Melaina squeezed the handle till it cut into her palm. These days, she preferred Athena, goddess of strategy. Or even better, Hecate, goddess of the moon and magic. She admired Hecate’s elusiveness.

  Holding the polished bronze to her face, she pursed her lips, then parted them. Receding gums, but pumice mixed with vinegar kept her teeth passable. She smiled at her reflection. Agathon had been a popular member of the council, known for his philanthropy. His funeral would bring a throng and, naturally, all eyes would dwell on the bereft widow. But she had no intention of remaining a widow for long. She picked a bit of barley from between her teeth.

  She glanced toward the window, a small square in the white plaster. A shade tree blocked the sun, but warm air crept through the open shutters. Already half the morning gone, and so much to do.

  She opened another cedar chest and selected an indigo himation. The color negated the drabness of the black chiton and brought out the luster of her hair. She wrapped the shawl over her left shoulder, bringing the end around her back and across the front of her body, before draping the tail over her left arm.

  Despite the expectations of society, she would ignore the custom of shearing her hair. The dark tresses, highlighted with henna, remained one of her best features. Solemn faced, as the occasion merited, she left her chamber and sedately descended the steps leading to the women’s courtyard. Agathon would have made do with a ladder, but she had insisted he build a stairway. He’d been tight about important things, while lavishing on foolish projects—housing for paupers, public assistance for invalids and indigents—a waste of money.

  Of course, no one in Athens valued the opinion of a woman. Unless she was a courtesan. Melaina couldn’t understand how the opinions of hetaerae were respected while those of obedient wives were not. Sometimes, she wished she were a Spartan, though she’d never give voice to such a blasphemous idea. Spartan women were educated, almost as well as men. More importantly, they were permitted to own property, and, while their husbands were off fighting, the women controlled the purse strings. Here in Athens respectable women were close to prisoners.

  Melaina walked through the colonnaded women’s courtyard, past the kitchen where slaves prepared a midday meal. The smell of lentils and onions, mingled with the scent of bread, wafted through the door, then drifted toward the courtyard’s open sky. She glanced at the kitchen’s adjoining bath, empty at this hour, and continued walking past the altar dedicated to Hestia, goddess of the hearth.

  Anger caught her step, and she nearly tripped—ridiculous that a slave should share the name of a goddess, a name assigned by Agathon, of course. As soon as possible, Melaina swore she would change Hestia’s name to something more appropriate, Ptolemais, for example, a name which meant warlike and rude. Smirking at her jest, she entered the men’s courtyard.

  An offering of myrrh smoldered on the altar of Zeus, the
scent smoky and resinous. Melaina peeked into the andron, a room forbidden to proper women such as she, where men gathered for symposiums—discussions of politics and philosophy fueled by large quantities of wine. She thought she might find Diodorus lounging on one of the couches that lined the perimeter, but the room was empty. She wondered where her son might be. Often in the mornings he used the men’s courtyard as a gymnasium, but today there was no sign of him.

  Two slaves, on their knees, worked their way along the colonnade, scrubbing the mosaic floor. Melaina approached them, and the men quickly stood, the youngest nearly knocking over a leather bucket of water.

  “You missed that corner,” Melaina said.

  The young slave, a boy of about fourteen, kept his gaze focused on the floor. The older glanced to where Melaina pointed and started toward it with the bucket.

  “Wait,” Melaina said. “Have you seen my son?”

  “The Master went out early, Despoina.”

  Hearing the slave refer to Diodorus as Master threw Melaina off. “My son,” she said, taking a moment to recover, “the Master went out where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He wore a hat and boots,” the younger slave said.

  “Boots?”

  “Yes, Despoina.”

  “Get back to work,” her tone sounded sharper than intended.

  So, instead of offering her support, Diodorus had gone out, in boots, of all things—probably traipsing through the countryside, instead of honoring his mother.

  Had a son ever been so selfish?

  His place was here, with her. The guests would be arriving and she needed him.

  Wringing her hands, Melaina wandered the perimeter of the courtyard. Sunlight played across the paving stones, and the walls offered protection from the wind. Now that Agathon was gone, she saw no reason why the courtyard couldn’t be put to better use than as a gymnasium and place for men to congregate. She imagined tearing up the slabs of stone to create a protected garden for her herbs.

  But first she had to bury Agathon.

  Doctor Baraz had been summoned in the middle of the night, waking Melaina from slumber. No wonder she felt a bit tired this morning; she hated having her sleep interrupted. The doctor had declared the cause of death was hemorrhage. Too late for bloodletting, Melaina thought, unless posthumous leeching might benefit Agathon in the afterlife. Like most Athenians, Melaina didn’t care for Persians on principle—after all, they’d nearly destroyed the city—but she had to admit they excelled as physicians. Doctor Baraz had taught her many things about remedies and herbs. Best of all, he refrained from asking too many questions.

  Agathon’s corpse had been removed to a curtained antechamber adjacent to the entrance of the house. He rested on a bier, draped with a checkered cloth, his feet facing the door to allow his soul a swift departure. His head had been encircled with crimson anemones. According to legend, when Adonis—the mortal youth adored by Aphrodite—was slain by a wild boar, the bereft goddess sprinkled nectar on her lover’s lifeless body and windflowers sprang from his blood.

  Melaina stared uneasily at the remains of her husband. The dead don’t speak, she assured herself. If Agathon had guessed her secret, it no longer mattered. She slipped a coin into his mouth, payment for Charon, and placed a coin on each eye. Securing a strip of linen under his chin, she tied it tight, so his jaw would remain shut.

  The task of preparing the corpse fell to her. Agathon’s sisters would have helped, but Melaina couldn’t tolerate their meddling, their endless chatter. She preferred to work in solitude before they arrived. She washed the corpse with seawater, humming as she worked, her thoughts turned to a brighter future. Now that Agathon was gone she had full reign over the house, the storeroom and the wine cellar. As soon as custom allowed, she would speak to Diodorus, encourage him to hold a lavish symposium. Her heart quickened at the thought of her son entertaining the leading citizens of Athens. A nod from Pericles could ensure his future in politics. The idea of Pericles visiting her house, drinking at her table, set Melaina’s heart racing. She reminded herself that the house belonged to Diodorus, and women weren’t invited to symposiums. Not respectable women.

  She gave Agathon’s leg a final swipe with a damp cloth. Servants would dress him in funeral robes and crown him with a gold diadem. But first she must anoint his body to ensure that his soul departed.

  Collecting her basket, she walked through the recessed entryway where slaves were sweeping the mosaic floor and hanging wreaths of myrtle over the lintels. Athena peered down from the frescoed ceiling: independent, strong, sprung full-grown from the head of Zeus, a battle-cry upon her lips. Melaina reminded herself to offer a substantial sacrifice to Athena—a goddess worthy of devotion—in honor of her husband’s death, and as insurance for her own future.

  “Good morning, Despoina.”

  She nodded at Therapon, an old fool of a slave.

  He lifted the front door’s iron bolt, his arms quivering, as if the bolt’s weight were too much for him. Melaina breathed in the crisp air of early spring. She descended the steps that led to the narrow street, busy at this hour with workmen pushing carts and pedestrians on their way to the agora. Turning away from the street, she walked to the back of the house.

  Agathon’s dogs, whining for their Master, waited by the stables. Not sleek hounds a person might take pride in, but strays and mongrels like the rest of Agathon’s household. Beyond the stable the terrain became arid hills and scrub. Kicking away the dogs, Melaina entered her garden. Not a patch of kitchen herbs like the one maintained in the courtyard, not a plot of vegetables useful for cooking, but a deciare measuring ten by ten meters, and brimming with medicinal herbs and flowers. The sun peeked over the terracotta rooftop, warming her back, burning off the morning dew, and releasing the pungent scent of rosemary. With satisfaction, Melaina regarded the array of plants she’d coaxed from the rocky soil. Although her garden wouldn’t reach its full glory for a month or two, last night’s downpour had done her plants a lot of good. She checked the rain barrels, glad to note the replenished supply of water.

  Using a finely honed knife, she cut fragrant sprigs of thyme for purification, lavender for protection. Herbs used in ritual had to be treated with deference. She knelt beside a bushy row of yellow flowers and set her basket on the paving stones. Artemisia, named for the goddess of the moon, would allow Agathon’s soul safe passage to the underworld. She cut handfuls of the yellow blooms and set them in her basket.

  Groaning as she stood, these days her bones ached in the mornings.

  Ignoring the keening dogs, she re-entered the house.

  Her son’s house, not Agathon’s.

  She removed her muddy sandals, handed them to Therapon, and padded across the entryway’s mosaic—an intricate design of red, yellow, blue, and white stones, depicting an array of sea creatures—one of the finest in Athens. Her heart swelled with pride. Diodorus was now Master of the House of Agathon. His fortune, and hers, shone brighter than a comet.

  Spots danced before Melaina’s eyes as she slipped through the curtains and stepped into the annex. Compared to the courtyard, the workroom seemed dark. She considered calling a slave to bring an oil lamp, but decided against it. She preferred no interference. No well-meant mumblings of condolence, no reflections on the swiftness of her husband’s death.

  No unwanted observations.

  Setting her basket on a table, she glanced at her husband’s corpse. His eyes flashed and her heart jumped. Pressing a hand against her chest, she told herself it was nothing, just the play of light on the coins.

  Again, she wondered if he’d guessed her secret.

  Using a pestle, she mashed the greenish-yellow artemisia flowers against the mortar’s rough stone, releasing their unpleasant odor. But the smell didn’t bother her.

  Herbs were reliable, unlike people. People could be unpredictable.

  She thought of Hestia. Thanks to Agathon, the girl didn’t know her place.


  Melaina dipped her finger into the flower paste and brought it to her lips. She recoiled at its bitterness, recoiled at the memory of her marriage. She had come to Agathon at age fourteen—the usual age. He was twenty years her senior, a hero returned from the wars. She’d known nothing of the world and even less of men. She had tried to be a good wife, tried to please him. She ran an efficient household, kept the larders well stocked. But they’d had little in common. More often than not, he found reason to travel far from home. Like Jason had done to Medea, Agathon had strayed, leaving Melaina for another woman. But what recourse did she have? A woman’s word held little weight against a man’s.

  Small wonder she had come to rely on another. At first, Lycurgus had sent messengers, offering in Agathon’s absence to be of service regarding financial matters. Initially, Melaina refused his help. But Agathon’s departures grew more frequent, and the bills kept mounting. Weeks turned into months. Meanwhile, Lycurgus remained persistent—and delightfully charming. Though a woman of her stature was forbidden male visitors, it was deemed acceptable for her to meet with her Kurios. A woman could engage in no transactions involving property valued over a week’s supply of barley. Someone had to pay the bills, see to business in her husband’s absence.

  Naturally, she’d come to rely on Lycurgus. And, like a Spartan wife, unable to conceive with her own husband, she’d bedded her husband’s closest friend.

  Having been away for six months, Agathon returned to find Melaina four months gone with child. Of course, she’d claimed the child was his, padding her belly to appear further along and avoiding his caresses. Agathon never questioned his paternity. Diodorus arrived two months later than expected, and Melaina paid the midwife well to claim his birth an anomaly.

  She might have spared herself the trouble, spared herself the expense of bribery, because Agathon hardly noticed her. He spent his time lost in ideas, constantly scribbling and reading or giving money to the poor. Yet, sometimes she sensed he’d guessed the truth. Sometimes she caught him staring at the boy—wondering, perhaps, at his sculpted nose and high forehead, so different than his own. But if Agathon suspected the child wasn’t his, he remained silent. After all, Melaina had produced the mandatory heir, leaving her husband free to roam. And roam he did. After the boy’s birth, claiming to have business in the north, Agathon embarked on yet another extended journey.