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

by Suzanne Tyrpak

She replaced the pyxis and reached for the next: a favorite useful for inducing sleep. The lid opened easily. A strong odor met her nostrils. Many found the scent repugnant, but she found the smell of valerian woodsy and not unpleasant. The dried flowers tasted bitter, but when she made her tinctures she masked the taste with honey.

  A creak startled her, and she nearly dropped the jar. Quickly, she replaced it and scrambled from the stool. Opening the door, she held the lamp and peered at the ladder.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  “Your son.”

  “Diodorus,” she said, attempting a light-hearted tone. “If you want wine, why not send a servant?”

  “It’s not wine I seek.”

  The ladder groaned under his weight as he descended. “Better have this ladder repaired,” he said. “One of these days, a rung is going to snap.”

  “I plan to build a stairway.”

  “You’d better wait on that expense.”

  “You sound like Agathon.”

  Melaina glanced toward her workroom. She needed no probing eyes, especially eyes as sharp as her son’s. Shutting the door behind her, she held the lamp high so light fell onto Diodorus.

  “For the gods’ sake, lower the lamp, Mother. You’re blinding me.”

  His expression appeared ominous.

  Forcing a smile, Melaina said, “What’s so urgent?”

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “Just puttering with my herbs.”

  “At this hour?” Diodorus grabbed the lamp from Melaina’s hand, moved past her, and kicked open the door of her workroom.

  “No need to be rough.”

  Lamp light swung through the dark, casting shadows. Diodorus stood before the shelves, staring at the jars of herbs.

  “I can guess what you’ve been up to.” He turned to face Melaina, his teeth clenched, the square of his jaw accentuated by his trimmed beard. Everyday, he looked more like his father.

  Melaina backed away from him, away from the lamp’s glare, slipping through the doorway into the cellar. Groping the wall, she bumped into an amphora of olive oil. The urn teetered. Golden liquid gushed onto the dirt floor.

  Diodorus followed her, the lamp steady in his hand.

  Shielding her eyes, Melaina laughed nervously.

  “Clumsy me.” Avoiding the oily puddle, she started toward the ladder. “I’ll call for Therapon to clean this mess.”

  Diodorus caught her wrist. “What are you concocting, Mother?”

  “Let go of me.”

  “Not until you answer a few questions.” He forced Melaina back into her workroom, pushing her against the battered table. “You drugged Hestia and locked her in a chest.”

  “She’s a liar.”

  “Therapon told me. Luckily, he found her.”

  So that was how the girl escaped—that old goat of a slave. The table’s edge pressed into Melaina’s back. Diodorus towered over her, waiting for a response.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said. He didn’t budge. She ran her tongue over her lips, noticing that they were dry. Choosing her words, she said, “As Despoina of the house, it’s my duty to discipline the servants as I see fit.”

  “So you locked her in a cedar chest? That’s unacceptable.”

  “She’s a thief.”

  “Tell me about this ring, Mother.” Diodorus reached for Melaina’s hand. “It doesn’t agree with you. See how it’s turned your finger black?”

  “Perhaps the metal’s cheap.”

  “Why did you take it from the girl?”

  “It’s she who took the ring. You question my word over a slave’s? You may be Master of this house, but I will always be your mother.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Listen to your mother’s wisdom. Your feelings for Hestia are all the more reason to remove her from this house. If that girl remains here, both of you will be destroyed.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I only want what’s best for you.”

  Melaina touched his face—the curve of his cheekbone, so like his father’s—and traced her fingertips over the roughness of his beard. Pulling his face down to hers, she kissed his lips.

  Diodorus wiped his mouth.

  He moved around the battered table. Melaina felt as if an ocean lay between them. From her island, she watched her son drift out to sea. Without her guidance, he would soon be lost.

  “I hardly know you anymore,” she said.

  “I’ve grown up.” Her knives, lined neatly on the table, glistened in the lamplight. Diodorus picked up a machaira, a slender blade used for sacrifice, and turned it in his hand. “I am Master of this house and I say Hestia remains.”

  “Careful or you’ll cut yourself.”

  “Don’t change the subject, Mother.”

  “Nothing binds like blood.”

  He jabbed the machaira into the table. It stood between them like a warning.

  Melaina reached for it. The mother-of-pearl handle fit neatly in her fist. The knife was her favorite, the one she’d used to gather herbs for Agathon’s anointing. She ran her forefinger along the honed blade and felt no pain.

  Her son’s hand closed over hers and blood dripped onto the table. She released the knife and it clattered to the floor.

  “Why would Hestia claim that ring belonged to her mother?” Diodorus asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  The intertwining snakes glinted on Melaina’s finger. She longed to scream, Because Hestia is Agathon’s bastard! But that would only bind her son tighter to the girl.

  Instead, she said, “I saved that girl’s life, brought her into the house when she was a baby, coddled her, raised her beyond her station, and thievery is my repayment. By all rights, I should exile her to the mills, let her grind wheat day and night and wear her fingers down to stubs. But, showing clemency—”

  “You drugged Hestia and locked her in a box. When she escaped, you stoned her. A young woman who’s served you all her life. My father favored her. Perhaps he did give her that ring. Perhaps you’re jealous.”

  “Jealous of a thief? A slave who doesn’t know her place?” Melaina gazed steadily at her son until she saw his resolve falter. Then she softened her tone. “Why concern yourself with petty household disputes, especially at this hour? We’ll discuss this in the morning.” She touched his beard. “So like your father.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “What is it you want to know?” Melaina’s heart jumped to her throat. She wondered how much he knew, how much he had guessed.

  “You seem nervous, Mother.”

  “Do I?” She brushed away a strand of hair and noticed her forehead felt damp. Perspiration soaked the back of her chiton.

  “Tell me about my father’s debts.”

  Melaina released her breath, unaware that she’d been holding it. So, Lycurgus had played his part, and their little drama was developing according to the script. “What debts?”

  “Lycurgus claims we owe him a considerable sum.”

  “How much?”

  “Five talents.”

  “How can that be possible?” Fanning her face with her hand, Melaina slumped against the wall; a bit overdone, perhaps, but her son’s concerned expression told her the charade was convincing. “Of course,” she added, her voice breathless, “Agathon indulged in philanthropy to a fault, and I suppose Lycurgus might have bailed him out.”

  “I’m sorry to upset you, Mother.”

  “What are we to do?” Clutching her chest, she twisted her robe. “Surely Lycurgus will help.”

  “He wants me to work for him.”

  “Work for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And will you?”

  “It seems I have no choice.”

  Melaina wanted to laugh, wanted to clap her hands with delight, but she furrowed her brow and showed concern. “What kind of work?”

  “I’m not sure, exactly, but it involves travel.”

 
“Will you leave Athens?”

  “I must.”

  Melaina squeezed her eyes, attempting to force a few tears. Unsuccessful, she covered her face and made a sobbing noise. “You’re leaving me?”

  “Please, don’t cry.”

  Diodorus held Melaina, and she sank into his strength. Her son, her beautiful boy—what she wouldn’t do for him.

  Hiding her triumph, she drew away from Diodorus and held him at arm’s length. “I will be brave, and so must you. Leave Athens if you must. I won’t stand in your way. You are Master of the House of Agathon.”

  “Yes, Mother. Remember that.”

  His tone gave her pause.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Slaves must be disciplined like wayward children.” Lycurgus wiped grease from his hands using a linen cloth and dipped his fingers into a bowl of rose-scented water.

  Using a piece of pita, Diodorus scooped up another chunk of lamb. Cooked to perfection, delicately spiced with rosemary, garlic, and an herb he couldn’t name, it was the most delicious meat he’d ever tasted. But everything in the andron exceeded his expectations. Silk rugs from Persia were strewn across the mosaic floor—an intricate pattern of black-and-white pebbles which must have cost a fortune—and nine couches lined the raised perimeter. Low tables sat before each couch, and carved sculptures stood in every corner. Diodorus recognized the work of Phidias, the artist who’d designed the new Parthenon. Oil lamps glowed throughout the room, casting light on the red-plastered walls. Lycurgus lay on a couch adjacent to the couch of Diodorus. Shadows flickered across his face, making his expression difficult to read.

  Diodorus didn’t want to offend his host, but he felt the need to speak. “Aren’t slaves human beings? Don’t they have hearts and minds?”

  Lycurgus appeared amused. “So, you disagree with my statement?”

  Measuring his words, Diodorus lifted his wine bowl and downed a gulp. Truthfully, the statement angered him. He found Lycurgus irritating. The man’s self-assurance bordered on hubris. Lowering the bowl, Diodorus did his best to disguise his loathing. “Socrates suggests that slavery be abolished. He cites the practice as an outrage.”

  “Socrates is the son of a mason and a midwife, practically a slave himself. Without slaves, who would build our roads, till the fields? The institution of slavery is the foundation of civilization.”

  Lycurgus snapped his fingers, and a servant whisked away the platter of lamb. Meanwhile, another brought a bowl of fruit and nuts.

  Lycurgus smiled, long teeth filling his mouth. The wine, lightly watered and consequently strong, had begun to affect Diodorus. It was easy for him to imagine Lycurgus pouncing on his prey, sinking fangs into its neck. His name meant wolf and it suited him.

  “Care for a pear?” Lycurgus asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “More oysters?”

  “You are a most solicitous host, but I have had enough.” Diodorus had eaten his fill of minted oysters, mullet baked with rosemary and lemon, asparagus in dilled yogurt sauce. The delicacies Lycurgus offered seemed endless.

  Diodorus raised his wine bowl. Liquid ran down his throat, loosening his tongue. Lowering the bowl, he said, “Not all slaves are base in nature. For example, there’s a slave girl in my household whose wit and courage rivals any citizen’s.”

  Lycurgus snorted. “The wine is speaking now, my boy. Or maybe it’s your cock.”

  “This girl is different. Never have I met a woman so intelligent, so well read, so—”

  “Beautiful?” Lycurgus bit into a pear. “You, my friend, are the victim of Eros, god of lust.”

  “Not lust, a higher love.”

  “Agape?” Lycurgus leaned back on his couch, regarding Diodorus. “A girl possessing the charms you describe should be shared. What is the name of this treasure? I may want to lease her for my next symposium. Or state your price and I may buy her.”

  “She’s not for sale,” Diodorus said, the hairs on his neck prickling.

  “Pity.” Lycurgus pursed his lips. “Is this the girl who caused a scene at Agathon’s funeral?”

  “She had just cause.”

  “Slaves have no just cause for anything.” Lycurgus sniffed, haughtily. “You’re far too lenient, my boy. Unruliness should never be tolerated in a servant. This is what comes from being a member of the Democratic party, rather than a Conservative. You should reconsider.”

  “My father was a Democrat.”

  “Never mind about politics. On one thing we agree, my boy.” Lycurgus winked at Diodorus. “I like fire in a woman. Fire in a woman’s cunt warms even the coldest cock.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, then carefully folded it. “That girl is damaged goods. She limps. Still, I’ll pay a good price for her.”

  “As I said, she’s not for sale.”

  Diodorus stood. He couldn’t bear to spend another moment with the man. He took a step toward the exit, but the floor seemed unreliable.

  “Sit down,” Lycurgus said. It was a command, not a request. “We have business to discuss.”

  Diodorus sat. “What is your business, exactly? My father spoke only of his building plans. I’m interested in supplying housing to those in need. I believe even slaves should have—”

  “Trade.”

  “What kind of trade?”

  “Imports and exports.”

  A servant offered Diodorus a platter of cakes, oozing with cream and honey, but he pushed it away.

  Lycurgus snapped his fingers at a youth, no more than twelve years old. Pitcher in hand, the boy refilled the bowls with wine of the finest quality imported from Lesbos.

  “I say treat slaves like children. They must learn to obey.” Lycurgus smacked the slave boy’s buttocks and smiled lasciviously. “On a rump fine as this, I never spare the rod.”

  Diodorus gulped his wine, welcoming its strength. His tongue felt thick and heavy. “Socrates claims slavery robs a man of his greatest asset—freedom.”

  “What rot. How many slaves do you keep in your household? Ten?”

  “Twelve, I believe, including the stable boy.”

  “You couldn’t do without them, and we’re not even discussing the slaves that work your land. My boy, you’re a hypocrite.” Lycurgus laughed, his eyes glinting like a predator’s. “Freedom is for citizens.”

  “Please, tell me more about your business.” Diodorus noticed that his speech sounded slurred.

  “I trade souls.”

  “S-souls?”

  “I rescue the dead and offer them new life.”

  “Are you a priest?”

  “A priest!” Lycurgus laughed delightedly. “I suppose, in a way, I am.”

  “I thought you dealt in imports.”

  Lycurgus reached for a fig. “I import labor for the mines.”

  “The silver mines?”

  “Your father and I got into the business years ago, before the Persian invasion. We contract mines from the state, oversee their operation, supply slaves for labor. We export silver to Athens and beyond. Our silver allows Athens to mint coins—the most trusted coinage in the world. So, you see, the business provides a tremendous service.”

  Diodorus felt sick to his stomach. He’d heard about the silver mines, heard about the slaves who crawled through dark tunnels and never made it out—backbreaking work, with no reward except the prize of early death.

  He took another sip of wine, but now it tasted sour. “I’ve heard that many people die working the mines.”

  “That’s why we depend on slaves, those unsuited to any other work. At least we offer them means to eat. All labor is hard. Farming, building roads, do you think any of that work is easy?” Lycurgus bit into the fig, juice running down his chin. He dabbed his beard with a napkin. “New markets are opening and business is exploding. I can’t keep up with the demand. I need a man to oversee the operation. That’s where you come in.”

  “I want no part of the slave trade,” Diodorus said. “Bad enough we make slaves of those defeat
ed in battle.”

  “Nonsense. You’re doing these slaves a service. They’re outcasts. No one else will buy them.”

  “What’s worse than loss of freedom?”

  “Hunger. Plague. Is death not worse than slavery? What good is freedom, if your family must eat dung? You’re a fool, my boy, too influenced by Socrates. We’re all slaves to someone.” Lycurgus pointed his finger at Diodorus. “And, until you pay your father’s debt, you’re slave to me.”

  The statement felt like a punch. Diodorus tried to rise. Unable to trust his legs, he sat back down.

  “Relax,” Lycurgus said. “I won’t make you crawl around the silver mines. You’ll be my right-hand man, and the work will provide you with more lucre than you can imagine. There’s trouble in the mines right now, and I need someone to set things straight.” Lycurgus snapped his fingers at a servant. “Fetch Galenos, and tell him to bring the papers.” He turned back to Diodorus. “You depart tomorrow. I’ve made all the arrangements.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “There’s no time to waste. I have an oxcart carrying supplies to Piraeus in the morning. I’ll send the driver by your house first thing. My ship sails in the morning, and I want you to be on it.”

  More wine was poured. Lycurgus spoke about the business, outlining travel arrangements and work to be performed. Words swirled around Diodorus, but he felt unable to take them in, unable to concentrate on what the man said.

  After a time, the curtain opened and the steward entered, the slave called Galenos. Diodorus had seen him before, a man not easily forgotten—his eyebrows painted in an expression of surprise, his robe bright yellow. His milky skin appeared never to see the sun, and his muscles appeared slack. Everything about him seemed effeminate.

  “My prize from Samos,” Lycurgus said. “Galenos thinks himself above Athenians, don’t you?”

  The man said nothing, but handed Lycurgus a scroll.

  “A pen and ink?”

  “Yes, Master.” The slave’s voice sounded higher than most men’s. Diodorus surmised that Galenos had been captured in battle and made a eunuch. With a flourish, the slave set an inkpot and stylus on the table.

  Lycurgus dipped the stylus into the soot mixed with water. Using bold strokes, he signed the papyrus and handed the pen to Diodorus. “Galenos will serve as witness to our signatures.”