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

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  She dragged a square stool over to the window. Lifting her chiton, she climbed onto the stool. She pushed open the shutters and peered out at the street. No sign of Calonice or the schoolboy she’d been sent to fetch.

  Thinking she heard someone at the door, Melaina stepped down from the stool and peeked through the doorway’s curtain. No one. She had granted Therapon the evening off so he could visit his brother, encouraging him to stay the night. She wanted no interference. The other servants were busy cooking dinner or completing tasks at the other end of the house.

  She gazed at the table, admiring her knives. She’d arranged the blades according to length, from a paring knife to the long machaira. She spat on a whetstone, then ran the sacrificial knife over it, sharpening the bronze blade to a fine edge. Honing her knives had become habit. Knowing her knives were razor sharp, ready to be put to use, allowed her to sleep at night. Despite night sweats and disturbing dreams.

  Wondering what kept the girl, she ran her fingers through her hair. Forgetting she wore a wig, she dislodged the pins and, unsuccessfully, tried to set it straight. She ripped the wig from her head and stared with horror at the clumps of black hair that came off with the pins. She wiped her forehead with a rag and slapped the wig back on her head. She stood on the stool again.

  The road was busy at this hour with workmen pushing barrows, hurrying to get home for dinner or on their way to a tavern. Serving women walked in clusters, hydrias full of water balanced on their heads. Melaina envied their easy laughter and their freedom. Schoolboys ran along the street, carrying their tablets, throwing leather balls at one another, joking and carrying on. Though it wasn’t proper, Melaina leaned over the window ledge and enjoyed the breeze.

  At the far end of the street, she spotted Calonice, a schoolboy trailing behind as if embarrassed to be seen with her. She was a sight, dressed in mismatched clothing, braids sticking out from her head. Calonice motioned for the schoolboy to come and pointed to the house. She walked along the gutter, the hem of her chiton dipping into filthy water. Then she stopped, retraced her steps, and disappeared into the alleyway with the schoolboy following. Melaina leaned further out the window to gain a better view and see what mischief the girl was up to. After a few minutes, Calonice and the boy reappeared.

  Melaina squinted. A cat trotted after them. A mangy thing, no doubt riddled with fleas.

  Melaina jumped down from the stool, drew back the curtain, and hurried to the entrance of the house. Unbolting the door, she lay in wait.

  “Don’t let that rodent in the house,” she said as Calonice approached.

  The cat shot past her.

  “I said don’t—”

  Calonice ran after it.

  Attempting to remain calm, Melaina turned to the schoolboy. Big round eyes and tousled hair, scraped knees and a face smudged with something he’d been eating, he looked like a child. “How old are you?

  “Thirteen, Despoina.”

  Melaina grunted. “Can you write?”

  “Read and write as well as mathematics.”

  “More importantly, can you keep your mouth shut?”

  He nodded and she led him to the workroom.

  The schoolboy sat at the table scratching out a letter on a fresh sheet of papyrus. He glanced at Melaina’s knives and the stacks of plants.

  “I’m not paying you to daydream.”

  The boy continued writing.

  Melaina had considered using more expensive parchment, but decided papyrus would serve. A well written letter scribed on papyrus imported from Alexandria would command respect without appearing overly eager to impress.

  “Read it back to me.”

  “My Dearest, Lycurgus—”

  “Not Dearest, that’s a bit extreme, just, Dear.”

  “You said Dearest, Despoina.”

  “Did I? Well, tear that up and start again.”

  The sun was setting, and no doubt the boy was anxious to get home to his dinner, but the letter had to be perfect.

  The boy dipped his stylus into the inkpot and, for the fifth time, scratched out the address. Lifting the stylus from the page, he waited for Melaina’s dictation.

  “My Dear Lycurgus of Athens, since my husband’s demise and my son’s departure, I find myself alone in the world.”

  Melaina watched the boy as he wrote. He reminded her of Diodorus. How sweet her son had been at that age, before he’d become a man. Men, no matter who they were, could not be trusted.

  “Read what you’ve written so far,” she said.

  “My Dear Lycurgus of Athens, since my husband’s demise and my son’s departure, I find myself alone in the world.”

  “Good.” Melaina paced the room. “Because you have been appointed Kurios of the House of Agathon, I hope I may depend on you for moral and emotional support. Please, do me the honor of visiting at your earliest convenience so you may advise me on my finances…”

  The boy wrote frantically.

  Melaina cracked her knuckles, noticing the tightness in her hands, the tightness in her body. She thought about her lonely bed.

  “Is that all?” The boy looked at her, his stylus poised.

  “Finances and other things,” Melaina said, completing the sentence. She watched over the boy’s shoulder as he scratched out the words. “I look forward to your guidance. Respectfully, Melaina of Athens.”

  The boy blotted the papyrus before handing it to Melaina.

  She folded the letter carefully and sealed it with a dab of wax. “Say nothing of this,” she said, fishing a drachma from her purse.

  “The girl already paid me,” the boy said.

  Melaina handed him a coin. “This is for your silence.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hestia lay on the sleeping couch and stared at Aphrodite, the goddess who held her prisoner. She had thought Lycurgus cared for her, thought he might even believe she was Agathon’s daughter. But today he’d treated her as less than a household slave. He’d treated her like a prostitute.

  She’d been lying in her room for hours, hoping for an apology, but none had come.

  Remembering what had happened made her queasy. Wondering if she might be getting ill, she turned away from Aphrodite and stared at the wall. Red as blood. Her eyes followed a crack in the plaster. She had thought this was a reputable household, but now she understood that Lycurgus participated in the basest practices. He saw himself as an aristocrat, which apparently entitled him to be exempt from common decency. It was one thing to engage a hetaera, quite another to host orgies. Small wonder that he and Agathon had quarreled. Lycurgus was the antithesis of everything Agathon had esteemed.

  She heard footsteps outside the door.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  The door swung open, revealing Zosime, her clothing disheveled, the red ochre on her lips smeared. The stench of stale wine preceded her. Hestia had believed Spartans to be strong, but this woman lacked moral fiber.

  “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I think there is.” Zosime closed the door behind her, and weaved drunkenly toward Hestia’s sleeping couch. “How does it feel, to have no power? No control of your life?”

  “Is that how you feel?”

  “We’re talking about you.”

  Zosime moved around the room, touching everything as if taking inventory. Bottles rattled on the dressing table. The lid of the jewelry box opened, the trinkets tinkling as they were examined.

  “This room used to be mine.”

  “When?” Hestia sat, drew the covers to her chin.

  “Until you came.” Zosime stood beside the sleeping couch, staring at Hestia. “Before you, I was his favorite.”

  Hestia drew the covers closer. “You want the room back? Take it.”

  Zosime leaned so close her nose touched Hestia’s. Her breath smelled sour. “That isn’t your decision to make. He’s the Master. He decides.”
>
  “Decides what?”

  “Who shall live and who shall die.”

  Hestia extracted herself from the bed, careful not to make a sudden movement.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I need some air, need to get away from this house. I thought I might visit the marketplace today.”

  “He won’t let you go anywhere unescorted.”

  “We’ll see. As his hetaera I’m granted privileges.”

  “Of course you are.” Zosime snorted.

  Hestia edged toward the door, and Zosime came after her.

  “Beg,” Zosime said.

  “What?”

  “Beg for your life. You’ve stolen mine, now I want yours.”

  Hestia touched the door’s handle. Zosime locked her arms around Hestia’s waist, dragging her away. Hestia tried to throw her off, but Zosime shoved her against the wall. She wrapped her hands around Hestia’s throat and squeezed.

  “You’re choking me.” Hestia tried to pry away Zosime’s fingers.

  The woman was powerful. Pressing her palms against the wall, Hestia pushed, propelling herself into the center of the room with Zosime riding her back. Trying to buck her, Hestia spun in a circle. She lost her balance and they tumbled to the floor, Zosime on top of Hestia. Hestia kicked, struggling to get out from under the woman.

  Zosime stank of wine and sex. Her breath sounded ragged.

  Squirming from beneath her, Hestia crawled toward the door. She tried to stand, but Zosime latched onto her, dragging her down. Her body slammed onto the wooden floor. The room spun crazily. She pushed herself onto her knees, managed to stand, and staggered toward the door. Zosime tackled her, sent her crashing facedown. She tasted blood and tears; lay still, pretending to be dead.

  “I know you’re faking.”

  Grabbing Hestia’s shoulders, Zosime flipped her onto her back and straddled her.

  Hestia struggled to breathe, the woman’s weight pressing into her ribs. She gasped, attempting to pull air into her lungs.

  “Whore.” Zosime slapped her. Grabbing Hestia’s chiton, she ripped the fabric to her waist.

  “Enough, Zosime.” A voice came from the doorway.

  For once, Hestia felt glad to see Lycurgus. Tugging on the torn fabric of her chiton, she attempted to cover her breasts, attempted to restore her dignity.

  Zosime raised her fist and brought it down with force.

  “I said, enough.” Lycurgus shut the door. “Get off her, Zosime.”

  Air rushed into Hestia’s lungs. She ran her tongue over her lips, felt them swelling.

  “I’ll finish this,” Lycurgus said, bending over Hestia.

  She searched his eyes, hoping for sanity.

  “You disobeyed me and insulted my guest. You leave me no choice. I must punish you.” Slowly, he removed the belt he wore around his waist. Holding it at both ends, he snapped the leather and nodded to Zosime. “Get her up.”

  Zosime grabbed Hestia beneath her armpits and yanked her to her feet. Hestia tried to break away, but she was no match for the Spartan. Zosime dragged her to the sleeping couch.

  “Facedown,” Lycurgus said. “I don’t want the marks to show.”

  Zosime flung Hestia onto her stomach.

  Lycurgus brought the belt down, lashing at Hestia’s back—not just once, but again and again.

  She screamed until her throat felt raw.

  Finally it ended.

  She lay still, trying not to sob. Trying not to move. She heard them talking, heard the door open and close, heard footsteps descending the staircase.

  Galenos found her.

  She tried to speak, but made only a croaking sound.

  “I’ll kill him,” Galenos said. He pressed a cup to Hestia’s lips. The water tasted sweet.

  Gathering her into his arms, he carried Hestia down the stairway to the bath. There he cleaned her wounds, gave her a potion so she might sleep through the night.

  The next morning when she woke, carefully tucked into her bed, she had only a faint recollection of the night’s debaucheries. Memories lurked like shadows in the recesses of her mind, and she felt like Persephone must have upon her return from the underworld.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Melaina didn’t trust Cassandra, Chloe…Calonice, whatever the girl’s name. She wanted to make certain that the letter got delivered to Lycurgus, and she wanted to know his reaction.

  Thank goodness Therapon chose to stay the night with his brother so she could avoid his prying eyes. She had a rein on the other servants, but not that cagey old slave. She would have sent him to the mines as soon as Agathon had died, but society frowned upon treating an old servant badly, and she had no desire to draw negative attention to herself.

  She’d woken Calonice at sunrise and had given her strict instructions. As soon as the girl left the house with the letter, Melaina slipped out after her. She drew an old himation over her head so she wouldn’t be recognized. She remained distant, trailing behind the girl. Calonice took her time, pausing to study every flower, pick up stones, and pet every dog she met.

  The girl meandered by Areopagus Hill, slowing her pace—if that were possible—as she passed the stone precipice. Melaina slowed as well. The famous wall of rock loomed at the entrance of the acropolis. According to legend, Ares, the god of war, had been tried here for the murder of Poseidon’s son. Justice had been served on the precipice more than once. Orestes had also been tried on Areopagus Hill after killing his adulterous mother, Clytemnestra. An overreaction, Melaina thought. She’d always favored Clytemnestra. Of course Clytemnestra had been angry when her husband, Agamemnon, offered up their daughter as sacrifice to the gods before running off to fight the Trojan War for that whore, Helen. No wonder the poor woman had taken a lover. And no wonder they’d killed Agamemnon upon his return.

  Hawks circled overhead in search of prey, their wings black against the rising sun. A lizard scurried over the rock and disappeared into a crevice. In nature, life was simple. Humans made it complicated.

  Up ahead, she heard Calonice chanting in a foreign language. The girl stayed close to the rock, slipping in and out of shadows.

  Finally they reached the entrance to the acropolis. Preparations for the Dionysia were underway. Rehearsals had begun, and even at this hour voices of the chorus floated from the open auditorium on the south side of the hill. Melaina expected to receive an invitation from Lycurgus. After all, he was to be a choregoi. Producing a play was not only prestigious, but Lycurgus and his guests would be eligible for preferred seats. Anticipating his invitation, Melaina had spent hours planning what she would wear. She’d decided a new silk chiton was in order.

  She heard laughter and shouting. A group of boys ran down the street in search of the music. Hoping to avoid them, she ducked behind a bush. Most of the boys passed, but one lagged behind. He didn’t notice Melaina until he began to relieve himself. Crying out, she hurried away as the boy hooted with laughter, warm liquid splashing at her heels.

  Pebbles slid beneath her sandals as she climbed the hill, trying to catch up with Calonice. The girl moved fast when going uphill. Melaina paused to catch her breath. Thankfully, at this hour the doors of the fine houses were closed, the windows shuttered, so no one would notice her.

  A black streak shot out of the shadows and Melaina jumped.

  A cat.

  She clutched her chest, her heart thumping. A black cat crossing her path was not an auspicious sign. Nevertheless, she had to keep going. The path grew steeper. Rounding a bend she caught sight of Calonice, the mangy cat trotting beside her.

  They continued climbing: Calonice, the cat, and Melaina bringing up the rear.

  The house they sought was unmistakable. As they approached the white-washed fortress, Melaina’s palms felt sweaty. She hoped Calonice still had the letter, hoped Lycurgus would read it. Most of all, she hoped he would respond. She hung back, hiding behind a statue and watching as Calonice climbed the marble steps leading to t
he portico. The girl reached for the bronze knocker, pounded several times. Melaina controlled herself from calling out when the girl bent down, scooped the cat into her arms, and cradled the disgusting thing.

  A face appeared in the doorway, the eunuch who served as Steward. Melaina had seen him with Lycurgus on several occasions.

  That stupid girl Calonice still held the cat.

  Melaina crept closer, careful to remain concealed.

  “What have we here?”

  “Calonice,” the girl said, lifting her chin, “from the House of Agathon.” The cat let out a guttural growl and squirmed in her arms. Calonice reached inside her himation and pulled out the scroll. “The Despoina asked me to deliver this letter to your Master.”

  Good. At least the foolish girl had done as she was told.

  Melaina moved closer, straining to hear.

  The eunuch examined the wax seal and raised a painted eyebrow. “It’s early for visitors,” he said. “Come in, but leave that beast outside.”

  “I brought the cat for Hestia.”

  Melaina could have screamed, but again she controlled herself.

  So she planned to see Hestia. She’d told Calonice to deliver the letter, wait for an answer, and come right back. The girl could not be trusted.

  Still holding the cat, Calonice pushed past the eunuch.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

  “To see my friend.”

  The door slammed on Melaina, and there was nothing she could do but wait.

  Hestia lay on her sleeping couch, staring at the ceiling. She moved her legs and pain shot through her body. The skin on her back felt raw. A wave of nausea forced her to the chamber pot.

  “Hestia,” a familiar voice floated through the window.

  She wiped her mouth, told herself she must be dreaming.

  “Hestia,” the voice called again, “I brought Odysseus to see you.”

  Despite another jolt of nausea, she stumbled to the window. The fresh air felt good. She peered down into the courtyard, couldn’t believe what she saw. Calonice stood below the window, a squirming cat in her arms.