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

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “When they don’t call me Boy, my name is Galenos.”

  “Calm. And are you calm by nature?”

  “I’ll leave that for you to decipher.”

  “Good to meet you, Galenos.”

  “Just do as you’re told,” he said, gruffly. “And stay out of trouble.”

  “Don’t mind him,” a voice floated through clouds of steam. “He may seem calm on the surface, but rage boils inside of him.” The woman called Zosime approached, a linen towel draped in her hands. Her eyes ran the length of Hestia’s body, her full lips hinting at a frown.

  A rivulet of sweat ran down Hestia’s face, plopped onto the floor.

  Despite the heat, Zosime appeared cool. Turning to Galenos she said, “She’s still a child. What does the Master see in her?”

  “Youth?”

  “Lycurgus prefers experience.”

  “Experience can be learned.” Galenos said. “Get the oil, Zosime.”

  “Speaking of oil, can you guess what makes Galenos full of vinegar?” She watched Hestia, waiting for an answer.

  Hestia shook her head. The woman made her feel uncomfortable.

  “His cock won’t cock. What use is a man without balls?”

  Galenos examined his fingernails. “What philosophy do you follow, Zosime? Or is the word philosophy too large for your tiny mind?”

  “Nothing’s too large for me, Galenos. You should know that by now.” Zosime snapped a towel at him, as if warding off a dog. “Back, Boy, back.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Men.” Zosime gave Hestia a knowing look. “They think they’re so intelligent, but it’s easy to outsmart them. Stroke their ego and their head swells—both of them. Inflate their…ego, and they’ll give you anything you want. Isn’t that right, Galenos? Or does your lack of balls make you forget how the game is played?”

  “Don’t test me. I’m a champion at any game involving balls.” The eunuch turned to Hestia. “Remove those rags and get into the water.”

  Embarrassed to get undressed, Hestia hesitated. Galenos might be a eunuch, but he was still a man.

  Zosime laughed. “The girl’s shy. How quaint.”

  “I find her innocence refreshing,” Galenos said. “Of course, it’s been decades since you’ve been innocent, Zosime. If you ever were.”

  Zosime shot him an angry glance.

  “Forgive Zosime. She’s Spartan,” Galenos said. “She’s used to running around naked in front of men.”

  Zosime flexed her arms, displaying impressive biceps. “If we fight, you know who’ll win, don’t you Galenos?”

  “A battle of brains or brawn?” Galenos muttered. He turned his back to Hestia and covered his eyes. “Get undressed. I promise not to look.”

  She slipped out of the chiton, glad to be free of the scratchy sakkos. Glancing at Galenos to make certain he wasn’t watching, she unwrapped the strophium that bound her breasts and lowered her body into the bath.

  “How’s the temperature?” Galenos opened a valve and hot water, carried through clay pipes, cascaded into the tub.

  Hestia watched the gush of water with amazement. Running water was a luxury she had only seen in public baths.

  “What’s wrong with your foot?” Zosime asked.

  “It’s been this way all my life.”

  “Lycurgus is a perfectionist. I’m surprised he overlooked a deformity. Guess his sight is going.” Hips swaying, she walked to a table filled with earthen pots and jars. “Jasmine or rose oil?”

  “Cananga Odorata,” Galenos said. “That’s what the Master requested.”

  Zosime grunted. “He must think this girl is something special.”

  Hestia had some knowledge of plants from watching Melaina. Cananga Odorata, also known as ylang-ylang, was an exotic flower imported from Asia, a scent sacred to Aphrodite, known to whet the sexual appetite.

  “I prefer rosemary oil,” she said. The sharp scent promoted mental clarity.

  “I think not,” said Galenos.

  He doused the bath with ylang-ylang, while Zosime poured oil into her palms. Her powerful hands worked the muscles in Hestia’s shoulders.

  Hestia strained against her touch.

  “Relax,” Zosime said. She kneaded Hestia’s back, her fingers loosening the knots.

  Hestia sighed, giving in to the pleasure.

  Zosime made her way along Hestia’s spine, finding all the places that held tension, working the muscles from the tailbone to the neck. Without warning, she wrapped her hands around Hestia’s throat.

  Hestia gagged, tried to pry away the fingers.

  “I can’t breathe.”

  Zosime laughed, a flat, mirthless sound. “Don’t worry. I won’t choke you—yet.”

  Rubbing her neck, Hestia studied Zosime. The woman might prove as dangerous as Melaina. “I prefer you don’t touch me.”

  “Zosime,” Galenos said, his voice a warning.

  “Where’s your sense of humor?” Zosime reached for Hestia’s shoulders and Hestia flinched. “I said relax.”

  Despite herself, Hestia stopped struggling as the woman’s fingers dug into her tired muscles. She felt her shoulders loosen, felt warm water lapping at her body, and she began to drift.

  “You have a lot to learn,” Zosime said. “I suppose I’ll have to teach you.”

  “About what?”

  “Life.”

  “Socrates says—”

  “Philosophy won’t help you here. Lean forward.” Zosime rubbed oil over Hestia’s back, massaged it into her arms. Then, using a bronze scraper, she removed dead skin and dirt.

  Twice a week, as a slave in the House of Agathon, Hestia had visited the public baths where women bathed in robes, unlike men who reveled in communal nudity. Sometimes she would stand under a shower as water from a cistern ran through the open jaws of a stone lion. As she stood in that waterfall, she felt her heart dissolving, felt the fears that she kept hidden swirling down the drain.

  “Lean back.” Zosime’s voice seemed to come from far away. She poured a pitcher of warm water over Hestia’s head and worked soap into her shorn hair.

  Steam rose from the bath, filling the room. The past few days had been exhausting, and Hestia gave in to sleep. Her eyelids drooped. Scented vapors wrapped around her, and through the mist she saw gleaming eyes. A face began to emerge, long and lean, the face of a predator. Its mouth opened, revealing fangs. Teeth clamped onto her bad ankle, severing the tendons, snapping bones. Scarlet ribbons billowed through the water, wispy clouds of blood spiraling around her body.

  Screams echoed through the chamber.

  Zosime slapped Hestia and the screams stopped.

  Hestia rubbed her cheek. The gleaming eyes faded, but she could not stop trembling.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Zosime demanded.

  “There’s death in this house. I feel it.”

  “Whose death?”

  “The Master’s.” And hers, Hestia thought, if she wasn’t careful.

  The jar of oil Zosime held crashed on the tiles, and the cloying scent of ylang-ylang filled the steamy chamber.

  Galenos rushed to Hestia with a towel.

  She tried to rise from the bath, but her legs refused to support her. Like Aphrodite sinking into the sea, she sank back into the water. She imagined her essence seeping back into the severed genitals of Father Sky from where Aphrodite had sprung.

  “May the gods help me,” she whispered.

  But as the words fell from her lips, she doubted she could count on gods. She couldn’t count on anyone. Not even Diodorus.

  The only person she could count on was herself.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Argos, a sturdy ship, set sail for Lavrion at dawn the next day. Built to carry cargo, and larger than many, it was not as fleet as a trireme, the type of warship on which Diodorus had served in the navy. A trireme was agile and had three sets of oarsmen. Many times, in battle, they had destroyed ships of the enemy by battering them until they san
k. The Argos had only two oars at the stern for steering and otherwise relied on linen sails. Despite the ship’s bulk, they made good time. After the short voyage to Lavrion the ship would continue on to other ports, and its final destination would be Africa.

  Diodorus remained on deck, enjoying the sunrise, breathing the salt air. The guards stood at a distance, ensuring his passage. Diodorus resigned himself to fate. Despite the presence of the guards, he felt happy to be leaving Attica, happy to escape the machinations of his mother, happy to distance himself from the grief of losing Agathon. He only wished, instead of guards, that Hestia stood by his side.

  She loved him, he knew she did. Hadn’t she admitted it? And he could see it in her eyes. They were still young and they had time. He would write to his mother, instructing her to take good care of Hestia. He was Master, Melaina had said so herself, and she must obey his commands. In one year he would return, free from debt, free from Lycurgus, and free from his mother. And then, regardless of her heritage, he planned to claim Hestia. Pericles had recently divorced his wife to be with his foreign woman, Aspasia. They might not be officially married, but they had a child and made a good life.

  As Socrates said, to find yourself, think for yourself. Diodorus swore he would not live by the constrictions set down by society. Freedom was everything.

  Freedom. He pondered the word, pondered how quickly fate might change a man’s destiny. The only freedom which could not be stolen was freedom of intellect. No one could imprison a man’s thoughts.

  He tried not to think about the cargo the ship carried below. Not pottery, for which Athens was famous, not olive oil or wine, but human beings—slaves of the lowest order, criminals and those useless for domestic work—destined to work in the mines. For them, freedom was more elusive than a dream.

  He gazed over the water. Dolphins played alongside the ship, jumping after one another, and gulls soared overhead, screeching warnings.

  They sailed south around the Attica peninsula, staying close to the coast to avoid pirates. The navy patrolled the Aegean and defended the seas from Attica to the Crimea, ensuring supplies of wheat and corn reached Athens. Though rich in many ways, the city relied heavily on imported food. And silver from the mines was used to pay for it.

  Diodorus told himself someone had to work the mines, brave narrow shafts descending into the earth’s bowels. Revenue from the silver mines was important to the state. If not for the mines, Athens might starve.

  Still, he wished the ship were headed north to the Black Sea and the Crimea, if not north, then south to the island of Crete. Anywhere, but Lavrion.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hestia woke from a dream, stared at the unfamiliar wall, and wondered where she was. Pushing away a silk coverlet, she sat up. She felt like an enchanted princess in a Persian tale. Somehow, she’d been transported from the prison into a world of luxury. At any moment she expected to find herself back in a cell.

  She rubbed her eyes and reopened them.

  Still here.

  She remembered bathing, remembered the eunuch giving her a sleeping potion. Now she drifted on a cloud.

  Her gaze traveled the chamber. Carpets covered the wood floor and a window, larger than any in Agathon’s house, let in a flood of light. She glanced at the doorway, covered not by a curtain, but by a door carved of wood. She got up, ran to the door. It opened easily. She had expected it to be locked.

  She closed the door and lay on the sleeping couch, her head buoyed by cushions. It was large enough for three.

  A blue chest stood against the wall, as well as tables, two stools and a chair—its back curved for comfort. The walls were painted red, and a fresco of Aphrodite peered down from the ceiling. Aphrodite smiled at her as if they shared a secret.

  A fragment of a dream floated through her memory.

  Diodorus.

  Turning away from Aphrodite, she faced the wall and attempted to drive Diodorus from her mind. It was hopeless. She felt his arms around her, heard him whispering in her ear. She ran her fingertips over her throat, remembering. Aching, she slipped her hands between her thighs. She moaned, not with pleasure, but with pain.

  Could he have forgotten her so soon? Surely, by now, he knew her fate, knew she had been sold to Lycurgus.

  She stood, straightened the bedcover and the cushions so it looked untouched. She felt like she was trespassing, expecting at any moment to be discovered. The carpet felt spongy beneath her bare feet. Its pattern of birds and flowers captured forever in a tranquil world only increased Hestia’s anxiety. Hugging herself, she stood at the window and peered down into the courtyard. Hyacinths perfumed the air, the sweet scent of rebirth according to the Persians. Trees lined the walls, forced into early fruition, apple, quince, and fig. Exotic birds flitted through the branches. She watched a peacock strut along a path lined by flowers. The sun cast long shadows. Evening marked her favorite time of day, the blending of light and dark, a doorway between worlds. She soaked in the dying warmth, wondering when she would wake.

  Without warning, the door to the room opened.

  “The Master wants you to come to dinner.” Zosime’s chiseled face, set as stone, might have belonged to a statue, but Hestia sensed the woman’s annoyance.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “What could possibly be wrong?”

  Zosime wandered around the room. Pausing at a table inlaid with precious woods, she picked up a jar, opened the lid, and sniffed. “Lotus flower from Egypt. Expensive. Only the best for the Master’s new favorite.” Without asking for permission, she dabbed the essence on her throat. “Galenos appointed me to help you dress. Apparently, I am to be your personal maid. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Hestia failed to see the irony.

  “Let’s see.” Zosime opened the blue chest and drew out a rose colored chiton. “This will do.” She continued rummaging, her anger evident.

  “I apologize,” Hestia said.

  “Apologize for what?” Zosime tossed a shawl back into the chest.

  “About earlier, in the bath. Sometimes I—” Hestia rubbed her forehead trying to remember exactly what had happened. She didn’t know how to explain. “Sometimes I have visions, hear voices.”

  Zosime looked up from the chest. Gazing at Hestia, she said nothing. A long silence ensued.

  “You’re from Sparta?” Hestia asked, hoping to initiate a conversation.

  “A long time ago.”

  “You were a captive.”

  “Why else would I be here?”

  “Were you ever married?”

  “No.”

  “Any children?”

  Zosime looked up from the cedar chest, her cheeks flushed. “Is this an interrogation?”

  “Just trying to be friendly.”

  “Don’t bother.” Zosime pulled a scarlet himation out of the chest. “This goes well with the rose. We’d better hurry. The Master doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Hold out your arms.”

  Hestia did as she was told.

  Using brooches, gold inlaid with garnets, Zosime secured the chiton at each shoulder. She belted the robe at Hestia’s waist, carefully arranging the fabric. Standing back, she surveyed her work. “Gold sandals, I think.”

  “If you ever want to talk—”

  “I don’t.”

  Hestia slipped the sandals on her feet and tied the straps around her ankles.

  “Where did all these clothes come from?”

  “Lycurgus keeps them for his women. Kohl around your eyes and you’ll be ready.”

  “How many women does he have?”

  “As many as he wants.”

  “I hope we can be friends.” Hestia touched Zosime’s hand, but she promptly withdrew it.

  “The Master waits. Better hurry.”

  Melaina surveyed the courtyard, determining where she would place her new garden. With her son out of the way, she had full reign of the house and she planned to make changes.

  A slave hurried past, head bowed so hi
s eyes didn’t meet Melaina’s.

  “You.” She crooked her finger. “Come here.”

  The young man glanced around as if hoping she meant someone else.

  Melaina poked her foot at a paving stone. “Remove this thing.”

  The slave looked at the stone, then at Melaina, his expression confused. “What’s wrong with it, Despoina?”

  “I want it moved.”

  The slave seemed nervous. He rocked from foot to foot. “I’ll need a pick axe. These stones are heavy.”

  “I don’t care how you do it. Just get it out of here.” Melaina rolled her eyes. Was every slave she owned an imbecile?

  The man hurried off.

  Placing one foot in front of the other, Melaina measured the perimeter of her intended garden. Elation rushed through her. How long had she planned for this day, looked forward to it? Now that Diodorus had departed, she was free to do what she pleased without begging a man’s permission, free to tear up paving stones, if she so desired, free to run the household as she saw fit.

  Free to keep the company she preferred.

  Parting with her son had not been sweet, different from when he’d gone into military service. This time when Diodorus said farewell he seemed glad to be rid of her. Since Agathon’s death, he was too full of himself, and as Master of the house, Melaina feared he might thwart her plans. She had one year to put things in order. A year from now Diodorus would return and, with luck, his childish dreams would be forgotten. A year from now she would make sure he married a suitable girl from a good family. If Diodorus married a proper Athenian girl, he would be too busy to watch over his mother, too busy to interfere with her plans. Children and a wife would occupy his time. Of course, if he had children she would be a grandmother.

  That notion upset her stomach.

  After all, she was far from old. Men still found her attractive.

  She wondered if it would be too forward to invite Lycurgus to dinner. Strictly business, of course. They needed to discuss finances.

  The slave girl, Calonice, appeared—a basket of laundry balanced on her head, and her bare feet slapping the stones as she walked across the courtyard.

  “I have a task for you,” Melaina said.