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

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “Let them whisper.” Regaining her composure, Hestia faced Zosime. “As Socrates has said, if gossip is neither true, nor good, nor useful, why mention it?” Taking a gamble, she stretched the truth. “His sword may be rusty, but Lycurgus managed to pierce my maidenhead.”

  Zosime ran her tongue over her scarlet lips, weighing the probabilities. She set down the mirror. “Whosever child you bear, I hope you’re luckier than I.”

  “Luckier in what way?”

  “I once bore his child.”

  “You bore the Master’s—?”

  “Son. I was a child myself, barely fifteen.”

  “What happened to your child?”

  Zosime went to the window. Absently, she stroked Odysseus and gazed into the courtyard. “The laundry must be dry by now.”

  “Where is your son?” Hestia asked.

  “With Hades.”

  “Pardon?”

  “My son is dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hestia didn’t know what else to say. She felt the weight and depth of Zosime’s sorrow. “How did he…”

  “Exposure. It was winter.”

  The old wound in Hestia’s ankle flared as if it had been set aflame. She sank onto the sleeping couch.

  “Given the chance, I would have died for him.” Zosime turned from the window. “My son was murdered.”

  “By whom?”

  “An adulteress. The harpy Lycurgus bedded.”

  “Who was she?”

  “I don’t know. They met in secret. When she learned I’d given birth to his child, she became jealous, demanded my baby be killed. If I knew her name, if I knew where she lived, I’d pay her a visit.”

  Frightened by Zosime’s tone, Odysseus leapt from the sill and slipped under the couch. Hestia wished she could follow the cat.

  “Lycurgus allowed his child to die?”

  “She stole my baby in the night and he did nothing to stop her.”

  “Lycurgus knew?”

  “He must have known.”

  Hestia swore silently that no harm would come to her child.

  Zosime stood at the foot of the sleeping couch, staring at Hestia. “By all rights, my son should be heir to the House of Lycurgus.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Hestia said.

  “You’ve hardly touched your wine.” Zosime handed Hestia the bowl.

  Hestia stared into the ruby liquid. It reminded her of blood.

  Twisting a dark curl around her finger, Zosime said, “Drink. The wine will do you good.”

  Hestia raised the bowl to her lips. Peering at Zosime over the bowl’s rim, she pretended to sip.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Diodorus walked slowly, allowing Georgios to keep pace.

  “The old accident still pains you?” he asked.

  “Especially when the weather changes. Not bad today.”

  “Not a cloud in sight.”

  The sky looked clear, except for sulfurous plumes of smoke rising from the furnaces, the result of roasting ore to prepare it for crushing. A yellowish haze settled on the hillside, but Diodorus had grown used to the foul air. They walked past the mill, and he stopped to watch the horses as they walked in circles.

  “The rotary mill is a great improvement,” he said.

  “Much faster than crushing the ore by hand with a mortar.” Normally a man of few words, Georgios became animated, explaining the fine points.

  “I believe you could run this operation,” Diodorus said.

  The foreman wiped his mouth with his hand, his fingers scored with cuts and burns. “I understand the work, but I’m no man for numbers. Thing is, I’ve been here so long, I’ve done most of these jobs myself.” He pointed to a row of wooden tubs. “Started as a water boy.”

  Children ran back and forth to the creek to fetch water in leather buckets. Women poured the water into tubs, washing the crushed ore, ridding it of clay and salts. After the ore had been bathed, men poured off the sludge. This process was repeated until the water ran clear, leaving the silver—heavier than most minerals—to sink to the bottom of the bath.

  Shielding his eyes, Diodorus looked toward the harbor and the recently arrived ship. The shore teemed with workers, carts, and animals. He dreaded sorting through the shipment, but slaves kept the mines operating. Much as he despised the idea of slavery, he could not imagine society without them.

  “Show me those new furnaces,” he said.

  The temperature grew hotter as they approached the scalding ovens. Diodorus wiped his forehead. His tunic stuck to his back.

  “Spent a lot of time working for the god,” Georgios said.

  “For what god?”

  Georgios chuckled. “Hephaestus, god of metal working. He’s the one who scarred my hands so bad. Wants everyone to make a sacrifice and be a cripple like him.”

  “I imagine it’s difficult to avoid being burned when you work the furnaces.”

  Covering their faces to escape the sulfurous fumes, they walked past the ovens where silver ore, crushed to a powder, was fused with lead. Lead acted as a flux, allowing the silver ore to melt.

  “Spent time as a coal bin runner too,” Georgios said. “Took me five years to get the soot out of my skin. These new stoves make cooking more efficient.”

  They stopped in front of a row of hive-shaped furnaces and watched two men. They wore only loin cloths. Rivulets of sweat ran down their bodies. One man, his back deformed from some past injury, peered into the furnace where a cauldron of molten silver rested on red-hot coals.

  “It’s ready.”

  Using a sheet of flint, the other man, with arms as thick as a thigh, drew the cauldron from the crucible. When he turned, Diodorus saw his chest was scarred with burn marks.

  “Stand back,” the man said, lowering the cauldron.

  “Easy to get burned.” Georgios held his arm in front of Diodorus, preventing him from getting closer. “Lead carries silver to the bottom and slag floats on top.”

  Using skimmers the men removed the waste.

  “Well done,” Diodorus said.

  The men poured the molten silver into porous cups.

  “What are they doing now?” Diodorus asked Georgios.

  “Cupellation, parting the lead from the silver using oxidation. The porous material absorbs the lead.”

  “And the result is pure silver?”

  “Yes.”

  “We need to stoke this furnace,” the hunched man muttered to his partner. “Where’d that coal girl get to?”

  The other man shrugged his shoulders.

  The hunched man wiped his forehead with a rag. “Here she comes.”

  Diodorus squinted. The sulfur fumes made his eyes water. A girl, black as the coal she carried, wove through the furnaces. She held a bucket in each hand, her gait unsteady. Chunks of coal jumped from the buckets, but she didn’t seem to notice. She stared at the ground, only looking up when she reached the men. She set down one bucket and emptied the other into a small bin. Her movements seemed to cause her pain. Picking up the empty buckets, she turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Diodorus said.

  Her eyes were sunken, and she seemed thinner than he remembered, but he recognized the hair tamed by braids and the strange markings on her face.

  “Don’t I know you?”

  The girl stared at him blankly.

  “Did you work at the House of Agathon?”

  Something flickered in her eyes. Diodorus couldn’t tell if it was fear or recognition. Clutching the buckets, she backed away from him.

  “Some go mad,” Georgios said.

  “I won’t hurt you,” Diodorus called out to the girl. “You’re Hestia’s friend, aren’t you?”

  She stopped moving.

  “What’s your name?”

  She licked her lips. Beads of sweat sparkled on her forehead.

  “The girl’s unwell,” Diodorus said.

  “I’ll get some water.” Georgios headed to the creek.

  Diodorus turned back t
o the girl. “Tell me your name.”

  “They call me Calonice.”

  “Calonice.” A rush of homesickness surprised Diodorus. “But why aren’t you in Athens?”

  “The Despoina sold me.”

  “Sold you? Why?”

  “She accused me of stealing.”

  “And did you?”

  “No.” The girl swayed unsteadily. “I wanted to. I wanted to return the ring she stole from Hestia.” The buckets dropped from the girl’s hands and her knees buckled.

  Diodorus lifted her. She weighed less than a sack of flour. He carried her away from the furnaces. Looking up, he saw Georgios returning from the creek with a bucket of water.

  “Over here,” he shouted.

  He lay the girl down on the ground, shaking his head at her ragged clothing, her half-starved face. He gritted his teeth, anger boiling in his gut. Without asking his permission, without even consulting him, Melaina had sold this girl, his slave, to the silver mines. What else had his mother done?

  Georgios ladled out a cup of water.

  Diodorus knelt beside Calonice. “Drink,” he said, holding the ladle to her lips.

  The girl’s eyes fluttered open and she drank greedily.

  “She’s suffering from dehydration.” Georgios ladled out more water.

  “She’s suffering from more than that,” Diodorus said.

  Between sips, Calonice said, “She loves you, Master.”

  “My mother?” Melaina’s love was like poison, lethal and best avoided.

  “Hestia.”

  Hearing her name sent a jolt through his body. He laughed bitterly. “If she loves me, why doesn’t she answer my letters?”

  “She never got them.” The water had revived the girl and her dark eyes regained their sparkle. “The day you left, the Despoina sold her.”

  “Sold Hestia? To whom?” Diodorus clenched his fists, but the one he wanted to punch was back in Athens.

  “That rich man.”

  “What rich man?”

  “The wolf.”

  “Lycurgus?”

  The girl nodded.

  That’s why Hestia hadn’t written. Diodorus punched his fist into his hand. “I must go back to Athens.”

  “He beats her,” Calonice said.

  “Beats her? Are you sure?”

  “I’ve seen the marks.”

  Diodorus felt as if he had been stabbed. He’d woken from a dream into a nightmare. He should never have left Athens, never have trusted Lycurgus. The man was no better than a thug. And neither was his mother. Rage burned in his gut, and he struggled to contain his anger.

  “Get up,” he said, offering Calonice his hand. He lifted her onto her feet and turned to Georgios. “That ship sails to Athens in the morning?”

  The foreman nodded.

  “I’m leaving you in charge. Calonice and I will be getting on that boat.”

  “The girl is state property.”

  “I’ll buy her back and pay whatever price they want.”

  Diodorus headed to the harbor to unload the shipment.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Melaina stood on the portico of the House of Lycurgus, her himation drawn over her head so she would not be recognized. She had written Lycurgus several letters, and his responses had been coolly polite. Not the response of a man who meant to marry her, not the response she had expected.

  Pushing the himation from her head, she ran her fingers through her hair. Not her hair really, but a wig of golden curls. She’d spent a great deal of time at her dressing table that morning. Not too much powder; that would give away her age. She wanted Lycurgus to see her as she’d once been, wanted him to remember the things he’d promised. If he chose not to remember, she would remind him. After all, they had made plans.

  She glanced at the statue of Priapus and shook her head at the distended phallus. A fertility god for peasants, he had no place in Athenian society. As Despoina, she would rid the house of that atrocity. Fanning her face with her hand, she struggled to compose herself. The statue mocked her.

  Lifting the bronze doorknocker, she let it fall again. Suddenly, she felt woozy. She swatted at her face, but couldn’t stop the drone. Her mind felt like a hive of bees, insects flying in and out. Lately, the buzzing never stopped.

  Sun glinted on the doorknocker. She stared at the gleaming metal, trying to remember a conversation she’d had with Lycurgus. A conversation they’d had before Agathon died. Snippets drifted through her mind, then promptly drifted out again, but one thing she remembered clearly. They had both agreed that Agathon must die.

  A trickle of sweat ran down her face, tracking through her powder.

  Earlier that morning she’d worked in her garden. Instead of seeds, she thought she might plant bones, but Hekatombaion was not a month for planting. The Dog Star, Sirius, traveled too close to the sun, challenging the gods and causing the earth to burn.

  Hubris caused this rise in temperature, this feverish affliction.

  The world had gone mad. People no longer knew their place. Common citizens demanded the vote and slaves dreamed of freedom. The lowest born imagined they might rise through society and take their place beside a king.

  Hestia, for example. Melaina thought she’d rid herself of the girl, but like a shade that refused to rest, Hestia kept returning.

  Melaina had heard rumors.

  She began to hum, softly at first, then louder, to mask the insistent buzzing.

  Just that morning she had overhead the servants gossiping. She had been walking through the courtyard, past the open kitchen door, and she couldn’t help hearing them talk. The cook said Hestia was with child. Startled by the news, Melaina had kept walking, pretending she’d heard nothing, but then she turned around, walked past the door again—not to eavesdrop, but to be certain that she’d heard correctly. The child of Lycurgus, the cook said.

  “The child of Lycurgus.”

  She didn’t mean to speak aloud. She slapped her face so hard it stung.

  The noise grew louder. A single word said in repetition. She clapped her hands over her ears, but that only increased the clarity.

  Retribution. Retribution. Retribution.

  Lycurgus loved her. She knew he did. Why then, did he torment her with rumors? Why did he refuse to visit her?

  And then she remembered why she’d come here. Lifting her hand, she pounded on the door, kept pounding till it opened.

  “Yes?” A round face peered out.

  “I’ve come to see your Master.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  Melaina pushed past the eunuch and entered the foyer. “Where is Lycurgus?”

  “May I have your name?”

  “Tell him his wife has arrived.”

  “His wife?” The servant’s painted eyebrows lifted. “Wait here. I’ll let him know.”

  Melaina took the opportunity to examine her new home. Already, she saw room for improvements. She stared at the tiled floor, appalled by its obscenity, and looked up when she heard footsteps.

  “There you are, my honey.” She ran to Lycurgus and threw her arms around his neck.

  He pried her off. “What is it, Melaina? You should not have come here on your own.”

  “I have a right.” He looked older, his face pale and sickly. “Are you unwell?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s talk in private.” He glanced at the servant. “Galenos, bring refreshment to the library.”

  Lycurgus led Melaina through the foyer into a courtyard where a fountain splashed. Very nice, she thought. They entered a gloomy library filled with scrolls from floor to ceiling. This room would have to be redone.

  Lycurgus shut the door and turned to her.

  “How dare you come here? How dare you call yourself my wife?”

  The blood drained from her face. The room became gloomier, the buzzing sound louder. She smiled at him, the smile she had often practiced in her mirror. “Have you forgotten, sweet?”

  “Forgotten what?” />
  “Our plans?”

  “What plans?” He stood behind his desk, a table piled high with scrolls. Leaning across it, he said, “We have no plans, Melaina. What we had died long ago.”

  “But you said if not for Agathon we would have married.”

  “Years ago. Years ago we might have married. Not now.”

  Feeling faint, she sank onto a thronos, ran her hand over the stool’s carved wood and precious stones. Leaning back, she surveyed Lycurgus. Over the past few months, he’d aged. The girl had ruined him.

  “Hestia,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Is she really expecting your child?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked so proud, she couldn’t bear it. “What of our son?”

  “I will take care of Diodorus.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I will see to him. He need never know the truth.”

  “Because of her,” Melaina said. “Because of Hestia. If she knew the truth, knew that he’s not her half-brother, nothing would stop her from marrying him.”

  “So it’s true? She really is Agathon’s daughter?”

  “His bastard.”

  “And you have proof?”

  “Proof enough. My word and her mother’s ring.”

  “But Diodorus left her and she no longer loves him.”

  “And you believe that she loves you? I thought you wiser. You’re an old fool.” Melaina walked toward him. “Do you know that when she came to you she was not a virgin?”

  She felt glad to see his face turn a shade paler.

  “Her papers state she was. You swore it.”

  “I lied. Diodorus bedded her.”

  Lycurgus pressed his fingertips together, closed his eyes. “Even if he did, I’ll claim the child as mine. I have feelings for the girl.”

  “Then you’re a greater fool than I believed.” Melaina leaned over the desk and met him face to face. “And I will have to tell them.”

  “Tell who what?”

  “Everyone. Everything.” She leaned so close, she felt his breath. Lowering her voice, she said, “I’ll tell them how we plotted to kill Agathon.”

  “You have no proof of my involvement. If I were you, Melaina, I would take care.”

  She stared into his eyes. Saw cold ashes where once a fire burned.