Hestia took a gulp of wine. “I do his bidding and perpetuate the myth of his virility. His prowess remains legend, but rising to the occasion has become less likely than one of Aesop’s fables.”
“He doesn’t satisfy?”
“Not half so well as a cucumber, but I prefer vegetables to Lycurgus.”
“You are wicked!”
The two women burst into laughter and the men’s conversation ceased.
“We need oysters.” Aspasia clapped her hands at the servants. “Although I hear they’re bad for gout.”
A slave, his body shimmering with oil, approached the couch.
Aspasia leaned toward Hestia and spoke softly, “Here’s a better remedy than parsley juice with garlic or any vegetable.”
The slave offered the women a platter of oysters.
“An aphrodisiac,” Aspasia said, selecting the largest shell.
“In that case I’d better pass,” Hestia said.
“You’re too young to pass on oysters. Watch. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
All eyes turned to Aspasia.
Raising the oyster, she lifted her chin, her full lips quivering.
The men inhaled collectively.
Slowly she lowered the oyster, her lips parting. The mollusk slid out of its shell and slipped into her open mouth. She swallowed, the line of her throat undulating as the oyster traveled downward.
The men collectively released their breath.
“Now you,” Aspasia said to Hestia.
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
The men made encouraging noises.
Hestia examined the platter. She ran her tongue over her lips, savoring the men’s anticipation. Following Aspasia’s instructions, she raised her chin and then the oyster. The men cheered as the shell met her lips. The oyster slid into her mouth, slippery and salty. She let it run over her tongue. On the verge of swallowing, she noticed a lump. Using her teeth, she extracted a tiny orb.
“A pearl,” Aspasia said, and the men murmured.
Hestia held the jewel in her palm.
Picking up the pearl with her thumb and forefinger, Aspasia held it to the light.
“A sign of good fortune,” Pericles said, raising his wine bowl to Hestia.
“The symbol of wisdom and purity,” Aspasia said.
“I’m neither wise nor pure.”
“Nonsense.” Aspasia handed Hestia the pearl. “Light is pure and it illuminates. You are the rising star of Athens.” She nodded toward the men. “They worship you.”
The men had gone back to discussing rhetoric and its effect on politics.
Hestia leaned toward Aspasia. “Tonight I might appear to be a star, but I am nothing in the universe of Athens. Pythagoreans claim the universe contains mathematical order, but in my case one plus one does not equal two. One plus one is always one, and that one is Lycurgus. No matter how I shine, my Master demands to be the center of my universe.”
“What of free will?”
“His will is mine.”
“You believe that?”
“I believe freedom is internal, but internal freedom is difficult to feel when I am held his prisoner.” Hestia glanced at Lycurgus. A slave girl massaged his shoulders as he continued arguing.
“We are all prisoners of something—health, age, beliefs. In order to find true freedom you must escape the chains you place upon yourself.”
“The mind’s chains are heaviest and most difficult to escape,” Hestia said.
“You sound bitter, but your wit is keen.”
“Disappointment provides a whetstone for humor.”
“Put that sharp edge to use then, and cut what binds you.”
Tears filled Hestia’s eyes. “That’s impossible.”
“Sweet, let’s go where we may talk in private.” Aspasia reached for Hestia’s hand, drawing her from the couch. The two women left the andron, slipping out to the courtyard.
Torches stood in stanchions along the perimeter, moths fluttering in the haloes of light. Aspasia led Hestia to a stone bench beneath a fig tree. She plucked a ripe fig from a low hanging branch and handed it to Hestia. Crickets chirred, and the scent of roses filled the air. A silver crescent shone in the sky. Hestia thought of Ala, Calonice’s goddess of the moon, the goddess of new beginnings.
“This garden is my favorite place,” Aspasia said as she reached for another fig.
“It’s lovely.” Hestia gazed at the sky.
Aspasia sat beside her, arranging her himation so it fell in elegant folds. “Wherever we stand the same moon shines on all of us.”
“Does it? Or do the veils of our experience define what we perceive?”
“Eat your fig. You’re far too serious for one so young.”
“So I’m told.”
Hestia rubbed her forehead, noticing the beginning of a headache. She wondered if, at this very moment, Diodorus happened to be looking at the moon.
“What’s his name?” Aspasia asked.
“Whose?”
“The one you dream about.”
“I don’t dream of anyone.” Hestia bit into the fig, juice filling her mouth. Despite its sweetness the fruit tasted bitter. She let it fall to the ground.
Aspasia said, “The new moon marks the time for beginnings.”
“So they say.”
Hestia felt life growing in her womb, the child forming. Her stomach churned.
“You look ill,” Aspasia said.
“I’m fine.”
A metallic taste filled Hestia’s mouth. She swallowed.
“I want you to think of me as a sister,” Aspasia said. “If you’re in trouble know that you can come to me.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Anything.”
Bile rushed into Hestia’s mouth. Turning away from Aspasia, she retched, spewing sickness onto the paving stones.
“Poor dear.” Aspasia rubbed Hestia’s back. “Is there nothing I can do for you?”
Hestia shook her head.
Aspasia handed her a handkerchief.
Hestia wiped her mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“Perhaps it was the oysters.”
“Yes.”
The women sat in silence. The torches flickered, casting shadows through the courtyard. A warm breeze stirred the leaves of the fig tree.
Hestia swallowed, trying to wash away the bile.
Aspasia took Hestia’s hand, turned it over, and traced her forefinger along a line in the palm. “You will have a long life.” Her finger traced another line and paused midway. “But soon there will be changes.”
“What changes?”
“Look at me, Hestia. Who is the father?”
Hestia sighed. “I’m not certain.”
“You must tell Lycurgus the child is his.”
“But—”
Aspasia touched Hestia’s lips. “Promise me you’ll tell him.”
“Is it so obvious?”
“It will be soon.”
Tears spilled from Hestia’s eyes. Life stretched out before her, a desolate road dedicated to Lycurgus. She chewed her thumb and noticed that the skin was raw. She bit harder, but couldn’t stop her tears.
“You must make the most of your position,” Aspasia said. “Lycurgus won’t live forever and who knows what the future holds?” She straightened Hestia’s himation, draping the fabric gracefully. “Now dry your eyes. The men must wonder where we’ve gone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Diodorus dipped his stylus into the pot of ink and scratched another entry in the ledger. Silver sales were booming. Minting coinage had become popular throughout the city-states, and no coins were more dominant than the silver owls of Athens.
Under his guidance, profits had steadily increased. He attributed the rise in productivity to improvements he had initiated. Better housing and shorter hours had boosted the workers’ morale. Diodorus found the work surprisingly rewarding. Besides, it took his mind off Hestia.
Diodorus had thrown himself into work, and the silver mines were all-consuming. Despite the long hours, he enjoyed being his own boss. Lycurgus left decisions to him. Letters had been their only communication. Diodorus had expected Lycurgus to visit, assumed he would want to witness the improvements, but Lycurgus seemed to have lost interest in the mines.
Diodorus tapped the stylus on the desk distractedly. At least Lycurgus wrote, sometimes including a message from Melaina. According to his mother, the House of Agathon ran smoothly without its Master. In truth, Diodorus missed Athens very little—except for Hestia.
Sometimes, at night, he tortured himself, imagining her with another man, until exhaustion dragged him into sleep. Sometimes he imagined she was ill or that she’d died, but his mother would have reported anything so drastic. Apparently, Hestia had forgotten him.
He returned to the ledger and added the final column, pleased to note the increase in last month’s production. He blew on the papyrus, allowing the ink to set, but his pleasure quickly dissipated. Despite better housing and regular meals, crawling through the mines could quickly destroy a man. And his workers included women and children. More improvements were needed, and he planned to put them into place. But not today.
He cracked his knuckles and thought about an early supper washed down with a bowl of wine. The sound of his foreman’s footsteps clumping through the doorway ended his daydream. He glanced at the water clock, saw that he’d been working for ten hours. Over the past six months, he had come to rely on Georgios. Although they had their differences, he respected the foreman.
“Sit down, Georgios.” Diodorus waved toward a stool, but Georgios remained standing. “Tell me about the latest disaster.”
“No disaster. Fresh supplies.” Pressing his thick hands on the table, probably to ease his back which gave him pain, Georgios leaned toward Diodorus and nodded in the direction of the harbor. “The ship just docked.” He spoke louder than necessary, used to shouting over the pounding noise of anvils.
Diodorus turned his head to avoid the man’s body odor. Apparently, Georgios remained unacquainted with the bathhouse. Diodorus pushed open the shutters, welcoming the breeze and relief from the oppressive heat. A cargo ship had pulled into the harbor, its sails white against the relentless blue sky.
“Food supplies?” he asked. They needed grain to feed the workers and it had to be imported.
“Slaves.”
Diodorus felt the familiar sickness; a bitter taste filled his mouth. Not just slaves, but the dregs of humanity, prisoners, half-wits, people no one wanted, bought for a pittance by the state and shipped to Lavrion. He closed his ledger.
“I guess we’d better sort through them. On our way there you can show me the latest improvements.”
“Good. I want you to see—oh, I almost forgot.” Georgios removed a scroll from the folds of his himation. “This came for you.”
Diodorus recognized the seal, a letter from Lycurgus, no doubt congratulating him on a job well done. Eagerly, he broke the wax, unrolled the papyrus, and scanned the page. The bitter taste in his mouth grew stronger. He reread the scroll.
“Bad news from the city?” Georgios sounded disdainful. He made it no secret that he considered Athenians effete.
“We are to cut meals back to twice a day, and extend the hours.”
“The way things used to be.” Georgios crossed his arms over his chest, his expression challenging.
“Exactly.” Diodorus crunched the letter into a ball.
Lycurgus had offered no congratulations, no mention of the increase in profits. He condemned the improvements, citing Diodorus for overspending. Six months more, Diodorus told himself. In six months he would be free from debt. Free from Lycurgus. Once free, he would not return to Athens. Nothing drew him there. He would sail to Africa, perhaps farther. He would see the world, experience adventures.
He stuffed the crumpled papyrus into the brazier and used an oil lamp to set it aflame. “Unfortunately,” he said, “that letter got lost in transport.”
“I didn’t think you had the—”
“Balls?” Diodorus clapped Georgios on the back. The expression on the foreman’s face was worth the repercussions he would undoubtedly face from Lycurgus. “After we unload the supplies, I’ll buy you a bowl of wine.”
“Not the cheap stuff, either.”
Diodorus laughed.
Hestia stroked Odysseus and the cat’s purring grew louder. Odysseus had made a nest between cushions on her sleeping couch.
“I’m getting fat and so are you.”
Lifting his chin, Odysseus allowed her to scratch.
She envied the cat’s freedom. Like her, he spent his days in luxurious seclusion, napping, begging scraps from her plate, catching an occasional mouse or other unfortunate creature, but the cat’s nights told a different story. When the sun set Odysseus slipped out of her room, climbed the courtyard wall, and roamed the streets. Sometimes he returned wounded and once he had disappeared for several days.
Hestia, however, like most wealthy women, remained in enforced seclusion.
Feeling a twinge in her gut, she pressed her hand against her belly.
“The baby’s kicking,” she said to Odysseus. The cat wrapped his tail over his nose and closed his eyes.
When she first told Lycurgus about the child he had been ecstatic, but as time went on he became obsessed. Afraid she might miscarry, that he might lose a son, he held Hestia prisoner, refusing her permission to leave the house for any reason. Not even to visit Aspasia.
Out in the courtyard a peacock squawked. On these sweltering days it was too hot to sit outside. Hestia wiped her forehead, leaned over the window sill. She caught the sharp scent of lye, reminding her that it was laundry day. Lines of rope crisscrossed the courtyard. The morning sun acted as bleach as it beat down on sheets of linen, tunics, and himations. Hestia examined her hands. White now, instead of red from cleaning, her hands reminded her of how far she’d risen.
But the higher she rose, the more imprisoned she felt, held captive by an old man.
As the baby’s arrival drew closer, Lycurgus seemed to deteriorate. The physician had become a weekly visitor, prescribing remedies for poor digestion, creams to alleviate an itch, potions for sleep, and countless tinctures for a slew of ailments. These days Lycurgus rarely left the house, spending his time in the library reading, compiling legal documents, composing letters—his life devoted to his unborn son.
Haruspices had read entrails, astrologers had consulted stars, and even the priests agreed that the child would be a boy. Hestia felt differently, but she kept her feelings to herself.
“I will name you Melissa,” she whispered to her unborn daughter. “My honey bee.”
She rubbed her lower back to soothe an ache. Wandering to her dressing table, she picked up the mirror. The face that peered back had grown older, perhaps wiser. She caught her breath. In the mirror, she saw Zosime watching her from the doorway.
She had avoided the woman for months.
Zosime entered the room as if her appearance weren’t unusual and set down a tray. “I thought you might like some refreshment.”
“Where is Galenos?”
“He’s busy so he sent me.”
An obvious lie.
“What do you want, Zosime?”
“I brought you some wine.” She poured red liquid into a bowl and added water. “It’s spiced with horn root.”
“Pour yourself some wine, as well.”
“I brought only one bowl.”
“Then we shall share.” Hestia took a sip of the gingery liquid and handed the bowl to Zosime. “I know Galenos didn’t send you, so tell me why you’re here.”
“Just a friendly chat.” Without
taking a sip, Zosime handed the bowl back to Hestia. “Horn root eases morning sickness.”
“Sit down.” Hestia motioned to the chair, but Zosime strode across the room to sit at the dressing table. Controlling her annoyance, Hestia took another sip of wine, then set the bowl on her bedside table. “What do you want to chat about?”
Zosime picked up the hand mirror and gazed into the polished bronze. Running her fingers through her black curls, she said, “I’m not intellectual like you, not one to spend my days lying around with my nose glued to a scroll. For one who reads so much, you aren’t too smart. Are you?”
It took great resolve not to slap the mirror out of Zosime’s hand. Feigning indifference, Hestia reclined on her sleeping couch beside Odysseus. The cat opened his yellow eyes and yawned, exposing sharp teeth and a pink tongue. The face she’d like to offer Zosime. Hestia smiled at her private joke.
“Do you find me amusing?” Zosime asked, accusingly.
Hestia looked Zosime in the eyes. “I think something broke your heart and now you’re angry at the world. Why do you despise me?”
Zosime blinked, apparently taken off guard. “You’re like that cat,” she said, “living the easy life, lapping up cream, but one day the Master will throw you out, and you’ll both be wandering the streets.”
Hestia placed a protective hand on her belly. “Why would Lycurgus throw me out? I’m going to be the mother of his child.”
“Is the child his?”
Hestia sat up, her heart racing. “What are you implying?”
“We both know his sword is rusty. And I’ve heard rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“About your precious virginity.”
“This room is stuffy.” Hestia stood, disturbing Odysseus. She padded to the window, the cat following. Odysseus jumped onto the sill.
“You weren’t a virgin when you came here, were you?” Zosime sounded triumphant.
Hestia inhaled sharply, gazed out the window so the woman couldn’t see her face. Zosime might harbor suspicions, but she couldn’t know about Diodorus. Only Aspasia knew the truth, and since that night at the symposium they never spoke about it.
“All of Athens is whispering,” Zosime said.
Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (Agathon's Daughter) Page 17