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

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  She took a sip of wormwood wine, attempting to calm her thoughts and untangle her memories. The past kept getting jumbled with the present.

  Fanning herself she wondered how much more heat she could bear. The night sweats had crept into the day. Noticing a brown spot on her hand, she searched through a basket of jars and found castor oil. She rubbed a glob into her skin.

  She had plans.

  First on her list was marrying Lycurgus. But what seemed probable only a week ago now seemed out of reach.

  Once again, the problem was Hestia.

  What had possessed Lycurgus to buy that slave? She’d sold Hestia to get rid of her, and now, once again, the girl had wormed her way into Melaina’s life.

  She held the mirror at arm’s length. At a certain angle the polished bronze made her appear youthful, but when she brought the mirror close, years of disappointment showed. Selecting another jar from her collection, she dipped her fingers into brownish grease and smeared the cream onto her forehead. Despite daily applications of crocodile dung imported from Egypt, despite weekly baths in asses’ milk, red blotches marred her complexion. That’s what came from working in the garden. She touched the corners of her eyes where lines had taken hold, ran her fingers along her jaw where the flesh had loosened.

  Her thoughts turned back to Hestia.

  If Diodorus discovered that she had sold the girl, he would be angry. Well, let him be. Hestia had been born a slave and she would remain one, no matter what her heritage. Like a chariot with a loose wheel, Diodorus had been racing toward disaster. And, as his mother, it was her job to divert him from his reckless course. Everything she did, she did for him. The sacrifices she had made—remaining married to Agathon so her son might have a future.

  She smeared lead cream over her face, hoping to hide the wrinkles. Using a puff of rabbit fur, she slapped on chalk powder. A mask gazed back at her, more Medea than Aphrodite. Perhaps Medea had it right, ridding herself of her children. Melaina always favored Medea. Like her, Medea had waited patiently for Jason while he sailed off with the Argonauts in search of a golden fleece. What a load of nonsense. And upon his return he left Medea for another woman. Jason deserved to see his offspring murdered.

  The whoosh of the doorway’s curtains told Melaina that the maid had returned.

  “Cold fish and garden greens.”

  “What of them, Cassandra?”

  “It’s Calonice, Despoina.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “The cook says she will serve cold fish and garden greens for the midday meal. Do you feel unwell, Despoina? Your face is pale.”

  “Of course it’s pallid, idiot. My face is powdered.”

  Melaina gritted her teeth, resentful of the maid’s intrusion on her thoughts. What had she been thinking? Something important. She glanced at the girl. What right did she have to be so young?

  The girl approached, apparently unperturbed, and spoke in a soothing voice. “You want to lie down, Despoina?”

  “No. I have business to which I must attend.”

  “How shall I fix your hair today?” Calonice twisted Melaina’s hair into a bun. “Like this?”

  “That style makes me look older than the Hebrews’ Methuselah.”

  “A few curls around the throat, maybe makes you younger?”

  “Calonice,” Melaina said, pleased that she remembered the girl’s name. “Do you think I’ve aged since you’ve known me?”

  “Oh no, Despoina. You look as old as ever.”

  “Thank you.” Melaina wanted to shake the girl.

  “In my homeland, we say, Ngwele rilu enu oji abulozi nwa. A lizard that climbs the iroko tree cannot be old.” The girl lifted the curling iron from the brazier. She spat on the metal and it hissed.

  “I hope you’re not calling me a lizard.”

  “No, Despoina. Neither am I saying that you can climb the iroko tree.” Calonice wrapped a strand of Melaina’s hair around the hot metal.

  Was that a compliment or an insult? Melaina changed the subject. “Have any letters come for me?”

  “Just what I gave you earlier.”

  Melaina clenched her jaw. She’d hoped for a letter from Lycurgus. Why hadn’t he made her an offer? She turned the mirror in her hands, examining the bronze handle. Aphrodite’s breasts were firm and ripe, her waist slender, long legs tapering to pointed toes. Melaina set the mirror face down on the table.

  Perhaps, for the sake of appearances, Lycurgus was moving slowly, giving the bereaved widow time to mourn. But he needed no excuse to see her. Agathon had appointed him Kurios, protector of the family, and Diodorus was gone. She needed his guidance. She had to see him.

  Calonice drew the comb through Melaina’s hair. The comb snared, and she pulled out another tuft of hair.

  “Ouch.”

  “Forgive me, Despoina.”

  “Give me the comb.” Melaina ran her fingers over her head, feeling for patches of bare scalp. “Bring me a wig.”

  The girl returned with a red mop of curls. “This one?”

  “No. My new wig.”

  Calonice looked unhappy as she secured the golden curls in place with silver pins. If the girl recognized Hestia’s hair, perhaps the wig would serve as a warning. Since Agathon’s death, Melaina felt the servants lacked respect.

  So did Lycurgus.

  The more she thought about him, the more she realized she must act. One year was not much time. She and Lycurgus must be wed before her son’s return to Athens. Diodorus would never approve of their marriage, especially when he discovered that Lycurgus had bought Hestia.

  Melaina grimaced at her reflection.

  “This style pleases you, Despoina?”

  “Wonderful.”

  She must write to Lycurgus, speed things along. Like most women, her writing skills were limited, but she had a way with words. She could be convincing, and if need be she could force his hand. After all, he owed it to their son to wed his mother. However, she needed someone to scribe a letter, and the correspondence must be kept a secret.

  Calonice drew the golden hair away from Melaina’s forehead. “Pulled back is elegant.”

  “I don’t like it. The lines in my forehead are too prominent.” Melaina rubbed her brow, feeling the deep furrows. A harpy, that’s what Diodorus called her. She slammed the mirror on the table, rattling bottles and toppling a jar of almond oil.

  “Clean up this mess.”

  The maid hurried to the spill and righted the jar of oil. Her hand brushed Melaina’s jewelry box.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  The girl withdrew her hand, but her gaze lingered on the bronze box.

  “It’s locked,” Melaina said. “I keep the key around my neck.”

  The girl was too curious. But cunning was a trait of hers that might prove useful in the future. And she lacked beauty, a trait that would help her to pass for invisible.

  Calonice headed for the doorway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get rags and soapy water.”

  “Never mind the mess. Come here, Cassandra.”

  “Calonice.”

  “Calonice,” Melaina said, controlling her annoyance, “I need to compose a letter.”

  “I cannot write.”

  “I’m not asking you to write.”

  “I will fetch Therapon.”

  “No.”

  “Then who? Hestia could scribe letters, but you sold her.”

  Melaina’s impulse was to slap the girl. Instead, she forced a smile. The fewer who knew of her plan, the better. Turning her back on Calonice, she picked up her mirror. The bronze reflected the girl’s face—far too curious. But after she had served her purpose, she would be expendable.

  At this angle the bronze proved annoyingly accurate. A hair Melaina hadn’t noticed sprouted on her chin. She searched through her jars for her depilatory cream, a concoction she made using the root of bryonia vine. The jar was empty. She picked up her tweezers and squinted
at the mirror.

  Thrusting out her chin, she sought the offending hair. “Can you keep a secret, Calonice?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Good.” Melaina plucked the hair and held it to the light. Hideous. Why, as the years progressed, did hair grow in arbitrary places? “I’m planning a surprise, and if anyone learns of my little plan, I’ll cut out your tongue. Do you understand?”

  “I-I think so, Despoina.”

  Melaina turned to the girl, glad to see her words had the desired effect. “Go to the agora and find a schoolboy. A boy old enough to read and write.”

  “Y-yes, Despoina.”

  Melaina reached into her cleavage and extracted the key she wore on a silk cord. She picked up her bronze box, fitted the key into the lock, and opened the lid. Her gaze fell on Olympia’s ring, two intertwining snakes, the symbol of her suffering. Shoving the ring aside, she lifted a leather pouch out of the box and removed a coin.

  “Find that boy and give him this drachma. Then bring him to me.”

  She turned back to her mirror, dismayed to find another errant hair. Using the tweezers, she attacked it—best to pluck a problem at its root.

  Hestia gazed at her reflection. Her face appeared the same, but her eyes seemed wiser. The girl she’d been just ten days ago had vanished.

  She’d settled into a routine. She spent her mornings reading in the library—sometimes aloud to Lycurgus. He considered it important that she keep informed regarding art, politics, and conversations of the day. Consequently he insisted she read all the plays of Sophocles, the histories by Herodotus, and learn to recite the epic poems of Homer. She found her days pleasant. She strove to forget the nights.

  Their coupling was an act she tolerated. She had no choice. Thankfully, copulation with Lycurgus proved to be an event of short duration.

  No longer expected to perform household chores, she spent countless hours reading, thinking, learning. She found solace in books. Love, she told herself, was a pursuit for fools, and as Socrates said, the hottest love has the coldest end.

  She held the mirror to the light and applied kohl around her eyes.

  Though it was afternoon, when he was usually out on business, today the Master had requested her presence in the library. She wondered why he wanted to see her. Perhaps a new scroll had arrived; she’d been waiting for the latest histories by Herodotus.

  As long as she complied in bed, Lycurgus gave her anything she wanted, including books, papyrus, pens and ink. And things for which she didn’t ask, like jewelry. She thought of him as a benevolent uncle, rather than her Master. Men were simple, she decided. A woman merely needed to keep the upper hand and that was easy with Lycurgus.

  She dabbed jasmine oil behind her ears and at her throat. The silk chiton she wore, blue as lapis-lazuli, brought out the color of her eyes. She checked her earrings, drops of silver filigree and lapis stones to match her robe, a gift from Lycurgus.

  Opening her door, she found Galenos waiting.

  “If I may be so bold as to say it, you look beautiful.” The eunuch swept his arm dramatically. “The Master awaits you in the library.”

  “Thank you, good prince,” Hestia said, returning his dramatic gesture.

  Of all the people Hestia had met in the household, she liked Galenos best. They descended the stairs, chatting about the day and discussing the latest gossip as they walked from the northern peristyle to the central courtyard where the fountain played.

  The library stood beside the andron, where Lycurgus hosted his more elaborate parties, and both rooms adjoined the courtyard. A steady stream of servants made their way to and from the kitchen, the gardens, and the stable. The household had so many servants that Hestia could not keep track of them.

  Galenos spoke in low voice so others couldn’t hear, “Things have been going well for you, I think?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Good.” Galenos clasped his hands, his face concerned. “I’m not sure how to say this, but I must say something.”

  “What?”

  “I feel I must caution you.”

  “Don’t be so serious, Galenos. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Of what?”

  “Don’t cross the Master.”

  Hestia gazed into the eunuch’s eyes, and saw not just concern, but fear.

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Good.” Laying a protective hand on her shoulder, he led her to the library and opened the heavy wooden door.

  She felt at home in the library. It smelled of must and sandalwood. Cubbyholes, filled with scrolls, lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Lycurgus boasted one of the finest collections of books—meticulously handwritten on parchment scrolls—in all of Attica. Comfortable couches and chairs were scattered throughout the spacious room, and plush carpets were strewn across the floors.

  Lycurgus reclined on a couch, absorbed in reading a scroll.

  “Hestia,” he said, still focused on what he read. “Meet my friend, Basileios.”

  At the far end of the room, a man reclined on a couch—the largest man Hestia had ever seen. The couch sagged beneath his weight, and when he nodded, his chins jiggled.

  Zosime reclined on a couch parallel to his, the bodice of her chiton pulled down around her waist. A cluster of grapes rested between her breasts. She plucked a grape and fed it to Basileios. Two boys, who wore nothing but gold chains around their waists, stood at attention ready to serve the man.

  “Go on, Hestia.” Lycurgus waved her toward them. “Join them.”

  Reluctantly, she walked toward Zosime and the man.

  “As you see,” Zosime said as Hestia approached, “you’re overdressed for the occasion.”

  “What occasion?

  “Wine?” One of the boys offered her a cup, but Hestia refused.

  “Grape?” Zosime placed a purple orb between her plump lips and smiled.

  “No, thank you.” Hestia glanced over her shoulder at Lycurgus, hoping he might rescue her, but he continued reading.

  Basileios stared at Hestia, making her feel naked.

  “Very nice.” He raised his cup. “To Hestia, goddess of the hearth and pyromaniacs.”

  Lycurgus looked up from his scroll. “She fires you?”

  “My blood naturally runs hot,” the fat man said, “but this girl could set it to a boil.”

  “Service him.” Lycurgus waved Hestia toward the man.

  “Service him?” She stared at Lycurgus, unsure of what he meant.

  Basileios pushed aside his tunic, but the bulge he displayed was dwarfed by Zosime’s. Ripping off her robe, Zosime revealed an olisbos constructed of padded leather. She turned slowly in a circle, phallus bobbing, obviously enjoying the effect it had on Hestia. A harness ran between her thighs and over her posterior, holding the dildo in place. For emphasis, she bumped her hips.

  Basileios screeched with delight.

  “That’s obscene.” Hestia backed toward the door.

  “Don’t you adore my prick?” Zosime stroked the phallus. “Give me that olive oil, Basileios, and I’ll demonstrate on Hestia. Shall I sneak in the back way?”

  “Yes!” The fat man clapped his hands. “Where is that oil?” He sat up, not an easy task with his bulk. Lifting his hindquarters, he peered at the couch. “Never mind.” He motioned to Hestia. “I bet you’re juicy without oil. Come, sit on my lap.”

  “Look at her,” Zosime said. “She’s trembling. The girl has no balls.”

  Hestia bolted for the door, but before she reached it, Lycurgus stopped her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To my room.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. My friend wants both of you, and I expect you to comply. It’s partial payment for the tract of land I’m purchasing.” He nodded toward the papers he’d been reading. “He wants me to sweeten the deal before he signs the contract.”

  “If he wants a sweeter deal, he’ll have to seek another honey pot.
” Breaking from Lycurgus, she tried the door. Someone had locked it from the outside.

  “For the gods’ sake, don’t cause a scene,” Lycurgus said through a clenched jaw.

  “Let me out!” she shouted. “I know you’re there, Galenos. Help!”

  Lycurgus turned to his guest. “Pardon her behavior, Basileios. The girl is green.”

  “Resistance can be entertaining,” the fat man said.

  “I’ll show you entertaining.” Zosime pushed him back onto the couch.

  Hestia tried the door again, but the lock wouldn’t budge. “I’m not a common prostitute,” she said to Lycurgus. “I’m not like Zosime.”

  Zosime looked up from the fat man’s crotch, her expression disdainful. “What are you? The queen of Persia?” Leaving Basileios gasping, she stalked across the room and grabbed Hestia’s arm. “You need a lesson.”

  “That’s right,” Lycurgus said. “Convince her, Zosime.”

  “I won’t participate in orgies.”

  Lycurgus had gone back to reading. “Zosime will teach you everything you need to know,” he said.

  Hestia lunged at him, tearing the scroll from his hands. She ripped the papyrus into pieces and threw them at his lap. They fluttered to the floor.

  “I may be your slave,” she said, “but I have integrity.”

  “Apologize,” Lycurgus said. “To me and my guest.”

  “It’s you who should apologize.” As she ran to the door, she heard Zosime shouting, Basileios laughing.

  “I’m too old for this,” Lycurgus said.

  This time the door opened, and Hestia ran smack into Galenos.

  “Is everything all right?” the eunuch asked.

  Hestia pushed past him, her bad ankle shooting pain, and broke into a run.

  “I will not be disobeyed.” Lycurgus shouted after her, “Come back here!”

  But she was halfway to her room.

  Melaina spent the afternoon in the antechamber adjacent to the entrance of the house, pretending to sort herbs from her garden. A pile of heliotrope lay on the table, its delicate white flowers perfuming the air. There were mounds of parsley, sprigs of bright blue delphinium, stalks of prickly lettuce, but her thoughts kept drifting to Lycurgus and she found it difficult to concentrate on plants.