Claim her as what? His hetaera?
Pieces of the night floated back to him. He had taken Hestia’s virginity, pledged to marry her. But how could he marry her if she were not Athenian? Perhaps she was. Perhaps the ring she claimed to be her mother’s was proof. Maybe that was why Agathon had given her the ring.
Thinking about the situation exhausted him. His eyelids drooped.
The ring coiled around his thoughts, snaking through his mind—the serpents’ eyes glinting, their bodies writhing. They grew larger, into the size of cobras, their mouths opening to display sharp teeth.
The cart lurched to a stop and his eyes flew open.
The driver cursed Hermes, god of travel.
A shepherd stood in the middle of the road, shouting at his flock of sheep, urging them to move. A red-faced farmer approached the shepherd, shook his fist and yelled. A ram had overturned the farmer’s cart. Cabbages, onions, and leeks littered the road. Meanwhile, goats wandered onto the road from a nearby hill, bells tinkling around their necks, and promptly began to feast.
Diodorus climbed down from the wagon, the guards close at his heels.
“Can’t a man take a piss?”
They stood back, watching.
He glanced at the sky, the sun already past mid-heaven. He tried to recall his dream, but it had slipped away. He only remembered the ring.
He took a deep breath, hoping the salt air would revive him, and relieved himself against the wall that ran along the road. Recently built, the long wall provided protection for Athenians and allowed the navy access to its port. Diodorus remembered walking this road with Agathon, remembered how proud his father had been of the long wall. Agathon often extolled the benefits of being an Athenian. He often spoke about the glory of Athens, the city-state greater than any other, the state that had defeated the Persians. Sparta might glorify war but Athens glorified truth, beauty, democracy. Aspirations rivaling the gods’. Great civilizations had flourished and vanished—the fearsome Mycenaeans and their war with Troy, the Minoans of Crete who built fantastic palaces and worshipped a bull—but Agathon felt certain that Athens would survive the test of time. Diodorus did not share his father’s faith. Beneath the city’s fine veneer, he sensed corruption. Except for leaving behind Hestia, he felt glad to be leaving Athens.
Finally, the farmer’s cart was righted, his vegetables retrieved or eaten by stray goats. The driver cracked his whip, and the ox lifted his head from a clump of wildflowers. The wooden wheels began to roll, and Diodorus swayed precariously as he steadied baskets of provisions. The guards took up their spears and trudged behind the cart.
Resolving himself to his fate, Diodorus felt the allure of an impending adventure. Of course he would miss Hestia, but he looked forward to the freedom of the sea, the freedom of being on his own and away from his mother.
Hestia sat huddled in the corner of a holding cell.
Men had come that morning, just past sunrise. Led by Melaina, they searched the house until they’d found Hestia hiding in the back room of the kitchen. She’d begged to see Diodorus, pleaded to speak with him, but Melaina insisted he’d gone out. In front of the other servants, she stripped Hestia of her clothing and forced her to wear a robe of sakkos, coarse cloth made from the hair of animals that made her skin itch and caused a rash to creep over her back.
Melaina’s parting gift had been the cruelest, a gift that Hestia would always remember. She still saw her severed hair, golden curls held like a trophy in the gorgon’s claws. No doubt, Melaina planned to crown herself with the glory of her slave’s humiliation.
Then the men dragged Hestia from the house, forced her to walk between them to the marketplace.
Hugging her knees to her chest, she tried to disappear into the corner of the cell. She felt as if no part of her was sacred, every part a commodity to be bought and sold. Except her heart. Her heart belonged to Diodorus.
But maybe he didn’t want her heart. Maybe he had lied to her. He must have lied. Otherwise this would not be happening. He wouldn’t allow her to be ripped from the only home she knew, to be locked in a filthy cell, to be sold to the highest bidder like an animal. The things he’d said, the way he’d touched her, obviously meant nothing. After all, what was she but a slave, a girl to be used and thrown away?
She had to stop thinking about him.
Noises interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up.
The cell held four other women. Two spoke in a language Hestia recognized as Persian. Another lay on the rotting straw, curled in a fetal position, sobbing inconsolably. The fourth woman had latched onto the cell’s iron bars, rattling them like a wild beast. She caught Hestia watching her and spat out an obscenity.
A single window, too high to offer a view, provided scant air. The mud brick building, where prisoners and slaves were held, stood in the southwest corner of the agora—stark contrast to the gleaming buildings of state. Dim light filtered through the narrow window. Except for the barred door, there was no escape. A bucket stood in the corner, where the women might relieve themselves; otherwise the cell was bare. It stank of sweat and excrement.
Hestia closed her eyes, and darkness brought back memories. His lips on hers, the feel of his skin, memories so sweet she couldn’t bear them. Her eyes opened. This cell was her reality. She ran her fingers over her shaved scalp, remembering how he had run his fingers through her hair, and felt a stab of sorrow. The pain of the whip seemed dull in comparison.
If she had told him that she was his half-sister, would that have made a difference? Would he have believed her? Why would he? She had no proof. Agathon’s ramblings might have been a dying man’s feverish hallucinations.
Avoiding the gaze of her cellmates, she stared at the floor, felt the weight of the clay tablet which hung around her neck. It stated: household slave, literate, sewing, spinning, damaged foot, virgin. Melaina had sworn that Hestia retained her maidenhead, wanted to believe it true. Hestia smiled at the irony. Her new Master, whoever he might be, would be disappointed.
Tablets dangled from each of the women’s necks citing their strengths and weaknesses, as was required by law, but only Hestia could read them. The two Persians had served as prostitutes and now, past their prime, would be sold for very little. If luck favored them, they might serve as kitchen slaves. The sobbing mother, though no longer a virgin, was young enough to bring a good price. These days in Athens, though, slaves were abundant and cheap.
Hestia stole a glance at the lunatic. She failed to get close enough to read the tablet, but the woman seemed unfit to serve in any household. If not sold privately, the state would ship her off to work in fields or worse, the silver mines.
The woman rattled the bars.
A guard approached the cell and shouted, “Quiet.”
The guard’s face was hideously scarred and when Hestia’s eyes met his, she saw a tortured soul. He carried a pot of barley gruel, the tasteless slop they ate for every meal.
“Feeding time,” he said.
“They want to poison us!” The crazed woman’s voice echoed through the block of cells, riling other captives to shout and bang on bars.
Another man, with a belly like a melon, stomped toward their cell. His chiton was made of fine fabric and earrings jingled in his ears. Hestia recognized the slave monger. He carried a barbed whip, and he would not hesitate to use it.
“Settle down!” He cracked the whip.
Ignoring him, or perhaps oblivious, the crazed woman continued rattling the bars.
The slave monger brought the whip down, lashing at her hands, and left her fingers bleeding.
The woman howled.
“Animal,” the slave monger said.
Reaching into the bucket of excrement, the woman came up with a handful and hurled it at the slave monger.
“Bitch!”
The slave monger’s face turned bright red and he gasped heavily. Feces ran down the front of his fine chiton, and he began to heave as if preparing to vomit. Holding
a hand over his mouth, he ordered the scar-faced guard to unlock the cell.
The guard slid a key into the lock, but before the cage door released, the crazed woman grabbed his hand, yanked it through the bars, and bit his thumb. The man cried out, which only fueled her rage. Growling like a rabid dog, she clamped her teeth harder. Blood ran down the man’s arm and, pale with pain, he sank to the floor.
The woman spat out a lump of flesh and shrieked triumphantly.
The man writhed on the stone floor, howling in pain and clutching his wounded hand in an attempt to stay the bleeding.
The slave monger bellowed for more guards.
“Take her down!” He pointed to the woman.
The cell’s door flew open, and Hestia watched in horror as the guards attacked. The woman kicked and screamed, attempting to crawl away as the men flogged her with barbed whips. Retreating to the corner, Hestia squeezed herself against the stone, plugging her fingers into her ears.
The men dragged the screeching woman from the cell and threw her on the floor. The slave monger shoved his boot into her chest, pinning her down as the guards slashed her with whips. The barbs ripped through her chiton, shredding the rough cloth and turning it to bloody rags. The slave monger raised his foot again, then crashed his boot into her chest.
Athens was known for fair treatment of all people, even slaves. Killing a slave without cause was forbidden, but hidden from the eyes of justice the slave monger decided a thumb was worth a life. Hestia listened to the crack of whips, the men’s angry voices, the gurgling sounds of the woman as she struggled for breath.
Finally, the whipping and the woman’s breathing stopped.
Shortly after noon, the oxcart reached Piraeus.
Just beyond the city gates, Diodorus saw the blue line of water. A breeze brought the smell of seaweed and fish. Sailors, whores, and merchants spilled out of the taverns. A person might get lost within that crowd. Diodorus glanced at the guards who remained in close proximity.
The wagon jerked along. They came to the agora famous not only for an array of sea creatures and exotic spices, but for more unusual merchandise. Gem cutters from Cypress offered stones unlike any Diodorus had ever seen. Traders from Africa displayed giant ostrich eggs, scarab seals, statues of exotic gods. The street swarmed with pedestrians, carts, and donkeys, forcing the oxcart to a crawl. People jostled around them, cutting off the guards, and Diodorus saw his opportunity.
He hopped out of the wagon and tossed the disgruntled driver a drachma. The silver coin tumbled in the air, and landed in the large man’s palm.
“They say beer’s good for your health,” Diodorus called to the driver.
He elbowed his way into the crowded marketplace. Glancing back, he glimpsed the guards caught in the flood of humanity. He turned one way, then another, dodging through a maze of stalls, slowing only when he lost the guards. He found himself in a labyrinth of tables and tarpaulins. He wandered past stalls of spices from the orient, snake charmers, and strange fruits. Merchants called out to him, hawking amulets guaranteed to lure a lover, carpets said to fly. One merchant claimed to have a djinni who would grant wishes, captured within a beat-up lamp.
He came to a row of jewelers, and though he’d never had much interest in jewelry, Diodorus felt fascinated by the tables displaying gems stones and carved ivory. Bedazzled by silver, tin, and copper bangles, strings of beads made of glass, lapis-lazuli, alabaster, and amethyst, he continued walking as merchants offered him bargains.
“Can I help you?”
An old man with a scraggly beard stood in his path. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat which shaded his face and cast his eyes in shadow.
“Do I look like I need help?”
“You seem lost. Come.” The man motioned for Diodorus to join him at his stall. A tarpaulin overhung a table, providing shelter. A goat-skin tent stood behind the stall, and Diodorus guessed the man to be a nomad, far from his native home.
“What brings you here?” The man spoke with an accent, his Greek broken.
“I’m not certain.”
“Perhaps you’re looking for a particular piece of jewelry?” The man chuckled. “Perhaps there is a woman you would like to please? Rings are always popular.”
“Yes, a ring.”
The man gave Diodorus a toothless smile. Bending down, which obviously required effort, he retrieved a tray from beneath the table. The rings were wrought in many shapes and sizes, from simple copper bands to elaborate gold filigree. The man reached for a dome-shaped ring, set with a green stone.
“A ring like this one can be useful.” Lifting the stone, he revealed an empty cavity. “A dash of love potion or poison…”
“Do you have any rings designed as snakes?”
The old man cocked his head. “Wait. I’ll be right back.”
He lifted the flap of his tent and ducked inside. After several moments, he returned with an inlaid box.
“This belonged to an Egyptian princess.”
Within the box, lay a ring shaped like a cobra. The man slipped it on. The cobra’s tail snaked over his hand while the head rested on his forefinger.
“I’m seeking something smaller,” Diodorus said. “Two snakes intertwined to form the sign of infinity with ruby eyes that glow like fire.”
The man frowned. “Tell me why you want that ring.”
“My father wore a ring of that description, and I wonder where it came from.”
The furrows in the old man’s forehead deepened. “In all my life, I’ve seen only one ring like that. Years ago, in Eleusis at the time of the festival, I met a man and a woman. They asked me to inscribe the ring and I did.”
“Do you remember their names?”
The old man shook his head. “I remember the woman, a beauty, with hair the color of the sun and brilliant blue eyes.”
“Was the man’s name Agathon?”
“Maybe. I don’t remember much—just that I offered the woman ten times the gold’s worth. The design was unusual, you see, but she refused to sell the ring.”
The man appeared nervous. A sweat broke out on his forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Diodorus asked.
“Just remembering.”
“What?”
“That ring held an ancient power.”
“What kind of power?”
“The power of the sibyls. If there’s nothing else I can offer you—”
“How can a piece of metal contain the power of the sibyls?” Diodorus asked.
The old man appeared frightened. His face paled. Without saying goodbye, he disappeared into his tent.
Diodorus waited, wondering if he would return. The sibyls were priestesses of ancient times who’d traveled through the countryside delivering prophecies. Even kings had feared them. Some said they were the ancestors of the famed Oracle of Delphi.
When the man did not come back, Diodorus continued wandering. He needed to find a way out of the marketplace that would allow him to evade the guards. Free of them, he planned to buy a donkey and get back to Athens as soon as possible. He hated leaving Hestia in the clutches of his mother, but he had no choice. Even if he married her, bringing a woman to the silver mines seemed unthinkable. He had to explain that he’d be back in one year’s time.
He thought about the couple that the old merchant mentioned and wondered if the man might have been Agathon. Even if he had been, the old man’s story brought him no closer to discovering the identity of Hestia’s mother. Perhaps, if he determined the origin of the ring—where it was wrought, the meaning of the design—he would be able to unravel the mystery of Hestia’s heritage.
Diodorus kicked a stone. Looking up, he saw the guards.
He turned and ran, heard the guards coming after him, heard people shouting as they dodged through the crowded stalls. He ducked into a tent filled with fabrics and pushed through the tent’s back flap, ignoring the angry merchant.
A guard caught his arm, shouted to the other guard.
; They led him through the swarm of people. Onlookers stood back, probably assuming he was a thief or something worse, allowing them to pass through the marketplace and out to the street.
The oxcart stood where he’d left it. The driver appeared angry. No doubt he’d hoped to spend his afternoon in a tavern before heading home to Athens. The taverns of Piraeus were famous for dancing girls.
The ox pulled the wagon toward the harbor. White sails cut into the red-streaked sky, an unfurled scroll on which his future would be written. And Diodorus wondered what the fates would scribe.
CHAPTER TEN
Hestia spent the night dreaming about Diodorus, dreaming he had come for her. But morning arrived, and she had not been rescued. One-by-one the slave monger led her cellmates to the auction block. When her turn came, she stood.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
“Why?”
“I want to see your teeth.”
The slave monger bore the arrogance of a freedman. Apparently he’d earned enough to buy his freedom or perhaps his former Master had given him his papers. Manumitted slaves often looked down on their enslaved counterparts, and Hestia sensed the man’s disdain as his calculating eyes measured her value. Slaves were bought and sold, it was a fact of life, but though she’d imagined standing on the auction block she hadn’t fathomed the humiliation she now felt under the man’s gaze. She felt dirty, insignificant. Anger gurgled in her stomach. What right had he to examine her as if she were a goat or sheep? How was he better than her? He wasn’t a citizen, only a metic, and not even a Greek. She guessed him to be Phoenician. By law, owning a house was denied him, and if brought to trial he might be tortured. He’d gained his post by trampling others. She owed him no respect.
“Open your mouth, girl.” When she didn’t comply, he stuck his fingers between her lips, prying them apart. “Still white and unbroken.”
Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (Agathon's Daughter) Page 9