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

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “I know you’re hungry.”

  In reply, the cat meowed.

  Hestia found a pot, lifted the lid and sniffed. Still fresh. She poured the yellowish liquid into a bowl, and Odysseus lapped the milk.

  She wished she could be like a cat, slipping in and out of windows, sneaking through alleyways. Instead, she felt trapped.

  Diodorus pounded on the front door, ignoring a fresh rain of protests from the neighbors. After a few minutes, a bleary eye peered through the peephole. The metal bolt scraped as it was lifted and the door opened.

  “Evening, Master.” Therapon yawned. A bandage encircled the old slave’s brow, attempting to mask a purplish contusion.

  “Well past evening, my friend.”

  Diodorus stumbled past him. Without bothering to remove his boots, he clomped toward the slave quarters. Therapon hurried after him.

  “They’re all asleep, Master.”

  A paving stone caught the toe of his boot and Diodorus tripped.

  “Piss on me!”

  “Take care or you’ll wake your mother.”

  “Pox on the cow.”

  At the entrance of the women’s courtyard, Diodorus leaned unsteadily against the wall. He pulled off his boot and examined his throbbing big toe. Blood seeped from beneath the nail.

  One boot off and one boot on, he walked lopsided toward the servants’ quarters.

  “It upsets the Despoina to see you drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk and she can’t see me.”

  Therapon stepped in front of him.

  Diodorus staggered backward, meaning to avoid the slave. Instead, he banged into a vase, a treasure of his mother’s. The monstrosity crashed on the paving stones, shattering into a thousand pieces.

  “Always hated that thing.”

  He glanced at the stairway that led to his mother’s rooms. No doubt she was dead asleep, and he hoped she’d stay that way. Blood binds, she’d said, and she was right. Not only binds, but strangles.

  He peered into the slave quarters, a narrow hallway lit by a smoking oil lamp. The walls, blackened by soot, needed a good scrubbing. The air felt close, reeked of body odors, though these quarters were better than many. A woman poked her head through the curtains of a doorway. Her face was blotched with scald marks, probably from lye used for laundry.

  “Which room is Hestia’s?” Diodorus asked.

  Lifting a scarred hand, the woman pointed down the hall. “Fourth cell on the right, Master.”

  Master.

  The title still seemed foreign. He walked along the corridor, felt eyes watching as he passed the cubicles. In these quarters his appearance was a novelty.

  He arrived at the fourth cell and hesitated.

  “Hestia,” he called, but no one answered.

  He swept aside the curtain and stared into the gloom. A dark face with frightened eyes peered back at him. A girl lay on the pallet, covers drawn up to her chin.

  “Where is she?”

  The girl’s eyes shifted as if she knew, but wouldn’t say.

  Diodorus ripped away the bedcovers to see if Hestia hid beneath them and revealed an empty pallet.

  The girl cried out.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Just tell me where she is.”

  The girl wiped her nose. “Getting milk.”

  Something brushed against his leg. Looking down, he saw a mangy cat.

  “You’ve frightened Calonice.” Hestia’s voice floated from behind him. He turned toward the doorway. Loose curls framed her face, her eyes dark sapphires. “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “I had to see you.”

  The girl called Calonice moved swiftly past him.

  Hestia stopped her at the doorway. “Where are you going, Callie?”

  “In my homeland we say, love is like seaweed. Even if you push it away, you cannot prevent it from coming back.” She slipped through the curtains.

  “Seaweed?” Diodorus smiled at Hestia.

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “A little.”

  “You’d better go.”

  “Not yet.” He stepped toward her, took her into his arms.

  She tried to pull away from him, but he held her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Something I’ve meant to do for a long time.” He bent to kiss her lips, and she turned her face away.

  “We can’t.”

  “Why not? I love you, Hestia. I’ve always loved you.” He kissed her neck and he felt her yield, felt her body soften. “Do you love me?”

  She didn’t answer, but she wanted him. He knew she did. And the gods knew he wanted her. A fire roared inside of him. They fell onto the pallet, their mouths meeting, moist and hot.

  He pushed up her chiton, rolled on top her. Something jumped onto his back, dug claws into his skin.

  “What the—”

  “Odysseus!”

  He sat up, saw the cat bolt under the curtain.

  Hestia laughed.

  He turned to her. “You think it’s funny?”

  Still laughing, she nodded.

  With a joy he’d never known, he tumbled onto her. He kissed her mouth, kissed her neck, kissed every part of her, and the two of them could not stop laughing.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Melaina woke, heard the dogs barking. Her nightshift, drenched in sweat, stuck to her back. She wiped her forehead. She thought she’d heard someone cry out, but since the death of her husband frightening dreams haunted her sleep. Something buzzed around her head. A fly? She swatted at the air, but it escaped.

  She sat up, readjusted the neck-rest. The dogs continued barking, and she wondered if the house had been robbed. A wealthy widow offered easy prey for thugs. The oil lamp still glowed on the bedside table. Senseless luxury, Agathon often said, but she preferred to sleep in light. Light dispelled unpleasant memories, which seemed always to lurk in every corner. She glanced around her room. Everything seemed in order. The cedar chest remained shut. The bottles and jars on her dressing table, carefully arranged by the maid, appeared undisturbed.

  One could never be too careful. Opening the pyxis she kept on her bedside table, she removed a dart, a trick she’d learned from Doctor Baraz. In case of intruders, she liked to have protection. She tucked the dart into her robe.

  With a groan, she swung her legs from the bed and, using both hands for leverage, pushed herself to standing. Straightening her spine, she rubbed her lower back and slowly made her way to the window. She undid the latch, thrust open the shutters, but instead of sunlight her eyes met a dark sky lit only by the waning moon.

  The dogs’ barking had subsided, but the buzzing sound grew louder. Perhaps a swarm of wasps had taken residence in the rafters. She would get the gardeners to check the roof.

  Stars faded in the sky as morning drew closer, but she still saw their light. It was not too late to make a wish. Even a woman of her age might pray for something better. She longed for a man’s admiration, dared to hope for tenderness.

  She closed the shutters, attempting to quell the buzzing sound. It increased in volume.

  Throwing a himation over her nightshift, she circled the chamber and checked the corners, convinced that wasps had built their nest inside. Unwilling to wait until sunrise to find the source of the annoying noise, she grabbed the lamp and hurried from her room.

  Descending the stairs, she saw Calonice standing in the middle of the courtyard, staring at the moon.

  Hestia drew her nightshift over her knees. Diodorus lay beside her on the pallet, his eyes closed. Intermittently, he mumbled something in his sleep. Her thighs felt sticky and she hurt. She chewed her thumb, gnawing at the skin. She hadn’t meant to bed Diodorus, hadn’t meant to let it go so far. In his drunken state he claimed he loved her, but if he truly did, would he have taken her virginity?

  Worse than that, she hadn’t told him about Agathon. When he learned he’d bedded his half-sister, he would probably despise her.

  In his sl
eep, he mumbled her name.

  Remembering what they had done, a strange heat ran through her. She still felt his strength, the taste of his skin. He had been gentle. She ran her hand over her neck, remembering how he had touched her, remembering their laughter.

  But now she was ruined.

  His hand reached for her.

  She stood. Saw the red stain on the pallet. The mark of her shame.

  She needed to bathe, needed to wash away the evidence. She grabbed her himation, threw it around her shoulders and moved toward the doorway.

  The curtain opened and she gasped.

  Melaina looked like a gorgon, unbound strands of hair writhing like Medusa’s snakes. The lamp she held illuminated the lines of her face. Her eyes narrowed like a serpent’s as she pushed past Hestia. Standing before the narrow pallet, she stared at her sleeping son.

  “What have you done? What spell have you cast on him?”

  “I’m sorry, Despoina.”

  “Whore.” Melaina cast the light over the bed, illuminating the red stain. “You’re a whore, just like your mother.”

  Diodorus stirred.

  “Wake up!” Melaina shook his shoulder.

  “What?” He sat, rubbed his eyes, and stared at Melaina. “What are you doing, Mother?”

  “The question is what have you done?”

  His eyes moved to Hestia, unwavering and clear. All the fear she felt, disappeared under his gaze.

  “I intend to marry Hestia.”

  “Marry her!”

  “Calm yourself.” Diodorus pushed aside the bedcovers and stood, facing his mother.

  “Calm myself?” Spittle flew from her mouth. “Of course you can’t marry her.”

  “She’s right,” Hestia said. “May the gods forgive us.”

  “Forgive us for what?” Diodorus moved toward her, trying to get past Melaina. “Marrying will make it right.”

  “Nothing can make it right. I’m your—”

  “Not another word!” Melaina looked from Diodorus to Hestia. “No one must know. No one must ever know.”

  “But, Mother—”

  “Leave us, Hestia.”

  Hestia started for the door.

  “She’s done nothing wrong.”

  “I said go!”

  Hestia turned back to Diodorus. “I do love you,” she said, before disappearing through the curtains.

  Diodorus started after her, but Melaina grabbed his arm, digging in her talons.

  “How could you?” she said. “How could you do this to me?”

  “Do what to you? My feelings for Hestia are not your business.”

  “You are my business. You’re my son. I’ve sacrificed everything for you.”

  Diodorus stared at the woman who stood before him, the woman he called Mother. Bitter lines tugged at her mouth, and her eyes exuded not just hatred, but something darker. He felt as if he didn’t know her.

  “You’re tired,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Sleep? How can I sleep?”

  “Well, I need rest.” Diodorus tore open the curtain. Walking quickly through the narrow corridor, he noticed curtains swaying, saw faces peering at him as he passed. The entire house would know by daybreak, and all of Athens would be whispering by evening. He broke into the courtyard, glad to feel the cool night air. He glanced around, hoping to see Hestia, but saw only the strange girl, Calonice.

  She stood in the center of the courtyard. Pointing at the sky, she said, “In my homeland, we say, it is the same moon that wanes today that will be the full moon tomorrow.”

  “Where’s Hestia?”

  His mother’s claw came down on his shoulder. Something bit his arm, and he slapped at it, thinking the mosquitoes must be early. He faced his mother. “I’m going to bed, and I suggest you do the same.”

  Melaina stared at him, said nothing in reply.

  “Goodnight, Mother.” He started for the men’s courtyard.

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  “What?” He turned back.

  “You’re leaving Athens, aren’t you?”

  “In the morning, but you already knew that, didn’t you? According to Lycurgus, you planned it.”

  Lamp light played over Melaina’s face. “How do you feel?” she said.

  “I feel—” Diodorus rubbed his eyes. His vision seemed a bit blurry.

  “You look unwell.”

  “Too much wine.” He tried to focus. “Don’t change the subject, Mother. You planned my departure with Lycurgus, didn’t you?”

  “Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for your own good.” She moved toward him.

  “Good?” Diodorus laughed. “That word’s in your vocabulary?”

  “Do you hear that?” Melaina swatted at the air. “That buzzing noise. It comes and goes.”

  “Mosquitoes,” he said. Melaina stood in front of him, her face shifting in the lamplight. “You’re tired, Mother. Go back to bed.”

  “How dare you tell me what to do?”

  “I’m merely suggesting…” Diodorus shook his head. The paving stones wobbled beneath his feet. The moon seemed to be growing larger, the world spinning.

  “Sweet dreams.” Melaina raised the lamp, her face frightening in the light.

  The lamp struck his skull, blinding him with pain. Flames carried by the oil leapt toward him, and he batted them away. He stumbled, attempting to escape, but Melaina struck again. Her face swam before him, ugly and distorted. She raised her arms, spreading them like wings, and the last thing Diodorus saw before he crashed into darkness was a screeching harpy.

  Act Two

  My handmaid, raise the offerings of many fruits,

  so I may lift my prayers to our master,

  for deliverance from my present fears.

  Lend a gracious ear, O Phoebus our defender,

  to my words, though they are dark;

  for I speak not among friends,

  nor is it wise to reveal all my thoughts to the light,

  while she stands near me,

  lest with her malice and her garrulous cry she spread some rash rumor throughout the town:

  but hear me say this, since in this way I must speak.

  —Sophocles, Orestes

  CHAPTER NINE

  The oxcart arrived midmorning, just as Lycurgus promised, along with two guards bearing spears.

  Diodorus remembered waking from his stupor, his mother’s face peering into his. She’d said something about an accident, said he’d come home drunk, slipped and hit his head. He recalled leaving the House of Lycurgus, recalled stopping at a tavern. After that, the evening was a blur.

  Diodorus couldn’t stop thinking about Hestia. He had dreamed of her all night. But when morning came, she had been nowhere to be found.

  He ran his fingers through his hair, felt a lump. His head felt as if it were being squeezed by a vice. The sway of the oxcart didn’t help. He rubbed his forehead. Each bump caused a sharp pain.

  Somehow, he’d gotten through the morning. Servants had packed his clothing, and the cook had supplied him with baskets of food. He sat beside the driver—a burly man twice his size—trying to piece together what had happened the night before. The driver cracked his whip, but it had little effect on the ox, and the cart continued to bump along slowly. Diodorus glanced at the guards keeping pace behind them.

  “Why are they here?” he asked the driver.

  “Insurance.”

  “For the supplies?”

  The driver glanced at Diodorus, his expression surly. “Don’t want to lose anything during transport.”

  Diodorus felt like a boy being escorted to school by a pedagogas to ensure his safe arrival, except these men appeared to be hired brutes.

  The walled road to the port of Piraeus was less than four miles, but the journey seemed to take forever. The road, filled with ruts and jagged stones, was too rough for the speed of a chariot. Most people made the trip on foot, some rode on donkeys. By mule, the trip would tak
e just over an hour, but an oxcart could not be hurried. The more the driver whipped the animal, the less progress they seemed to make.

  This gave Diodorus time to think as he sat, slumped and half asleep, beside the driver. The night had been filled with dreams, filled with Hestia. Pieces began to surface. The smell of her hair, the taste of her skin. The dream seemed so real. He sat up straight, his senses suddenly sharp.

  It hadn’t been a dream.

  He remembered telling Hestia he loved her, remembered his mother shouting.

  “Go back,” he told the driver. “I need to return to Athens.”

  The man shook his head. “No going back.”

  “Then let me off. I’ll walk.”

  “I can’t let you do that.” Flexing his massive biceps, the driver cracked the whip again. “The Master gave me strict orders. You’d best sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  “I said stop.” Diodorus grabbed the reins and brought the oxcart to a halt. He jumped from the cart, and the guards met him.

  “Move,” he said, attempting to sidestep them.

  Their spears pointed at his gut.

  “Get back in the cart,” the driver said.

  Diodorus assessed his situation. His head screamed and his legs felt weak. Even if he reached into his boot and found his dagger, he was no match for these three men. Lycurgus held him prisoner. Seething at the realization, he took his seat beside the driver.

  The wagon jerked along, carrying him to his destiny.

  He tried to piece together exactly what had happened. He remembered signing papers, remembered agreeing to work for Lycurgus. Blinded by wine and trust, he’d signed away his life and now he couldn’t break the contract. He wished Agathon were there to guide him. But Agathon had been the one to land him in this trouble, driving the family into debt. In reality, Diodorus realized, he’d become an indentured servant.

  He shook his head, hoping to clear it.

  However he studied the situation, his choices were limited. If he chose to run, he would be forced to flee Athens or face imprisonment, a trial, and, ultimately, banishment. No closer to paying off his debt, he would be forced to spend years away not just from Athens, but anywhere in Attica. Years away from Hestia. His only course, it seemed, was to move forward and serve his time working for Lycurgus. In one year, he would return to Athens and claim Hestia.