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

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “I have,” Hestia said. “Cimon was ostracized. Banished from society. If we marry we’ll be outcasts, and in time you’ll come to hate me.”

  “I’d never hate you. I love you, Hestia.”

  “You heard the girl,” Lycurgus said. “She doesn’t want to marry you.”

  “Forget about the ring. Just sell Hestia back to me.”

  “You would keep your sister a prisoner out of jealousy and spite? You would commit incest and call down the wrath of the gods? You would have Hestia’s child be born a bastard and a slave? Give me the ring, and condone our marriage, or I won’t set her free.” Lycurgus raised his cup again. “Galenos, give the boy another cup of wine. He’s looking peaked. Would you care for something to eat, Diodorus? We have bread and cheese as well as olives.”

  Hestia couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. She felt as if she were standing on a precipice. The room’s walls disintegrated into a veil of gray. Fog crept along the carpet and swirled around her feet. Through the mist she saw a woman, her white robes billowing.

  The voice of Lycurgus came from far away.

  “Long ago, Agathon told me the story. A child was conceived during the Eleusinian Mystery. You are that child, Hestia. Your father played the role of Hades, your mother the role of Demeter.”

  “Then I must be Persephone.” Hestia wasn’t certain if she spoke. She felt as if she peered into a dark mirror, the images too vague to see.

  “During the ceremony, Olympia received a ring.”

  “Twin snakes,” Hestia said.

  “You were conceived on the twenty-ninth day of Boedromion. Your mother is Olympia and your father Agathon. Bring me the ring and you will take your rightful place. Marry me, Hestia.”

  The serpents coiled around Hestia’s ankles, their skin as cool as metal, their scales glittering. She felt them writhing, felt them wrap around her calves and move slowly up her thighs. Their eyes glowed like red hot coals. Slithering over her belly, they coiled around her waist, and then traveled to her chest, their forked tongues lashing at her throat.

  “No!”

  Arms wrapped around her body, warm and human, pulling her out of the mist. Diodorus. She sank into his strength, felt their breath mingling, his heart beating against hers.

  “If I can’t have you for my wife,” he said, “then I shall keep you as my sister.”

  She looked into his eyes and saw his heart split in two, wide open. Saw his beauty and his suffering. Pain coursed through her body, a raging heat that scorched anything as delicate as love. It hurt to look at him. Hurt to feel his touch. She drew away from him, shivering as she left his embrace.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice controlled. “We are brother and sister.”

  And pray the gods forgive us.

  But how could gods forgive, when she could not forgive herself? She had lain with him. Her own brother. The pain of finding Diodorus, only to lose him again, must be the gods’ retribution.

  “You don’t have to marry Lycurgus,” Diodorus said. “I’ll take care of you.”

  “I beg to differ,” Lycurgus said. “Your sister’s freedom is contingent on our marriage.”

  “What do you want, Hestia?” Diodorus turned to her, his eyes imploring.

  She stared into his heart and saw it breaking. Closing her eyes, she said, “I don’t want my child to be born into slavery. I want my child to be born free, a full-blooded citizen of Athens.”

  “Then it is settled,” Diodorus said.

  “Good,” Lycurgus said. “Give me the ring, and I will write a letter stating that Hestia is your sister and a true Athenian. Give me the ring and I shall free her.”

  “The ring is yours,” Diodorus said. “I’ll bring it in the morning.”

  Lycurgus clapped him on the back. “Well done. Your sister shall marry the richest man in Athens.”

  Hestia glanced at Diodorus, hoping for escape.

  He appeared stricken, like a man condemned to die. His voice shook when he said, “Come along, Calonice. I need to pay a visit to my mother.”

  Galenos opened the door.

  Even Calonice looked pale as she followed Diodorus from the library.

  Hestia was on the verge of leaving too, but Lycurgus caught her arm. “Leave us, Galenos. We have food enough for supper and wine to celebrate. Under no condition do I want to be disturbed.” He closed the door and turned to Hestia, his eyes so hooded that she could barely see them. “Share a cup of wine with me,” he said. “Let’s drink to your freedom and our marriage.”

  Holding her stomach, Hestia leaned against the wall. So it had been decided. She would be freed—free to marry the man who held her prisoner.

  “Is something wrong, my pretty bird?”

  She forced a smile. “Nothing. Just the baby kicking, sweet.” Lycurgus liked it when she called him sweet.

  “My son.” He ran his hand over her belly.

  She closed her eyes, imagining the hand touching her belonged to Diodorus.

  Lycurgus kissed her lips, his mouth tentative and loose—the mouth of an old man. “Let me get you some wine, my dear.” He walked slowly, as if it cost him, to the sideboard where Galenos had left wine and food.

  If only he would fall asleep.

  She needed time to think, time to make a plan.

  She noticed the tincture sitting on his desk, his cup of wine beside the vial.

  Lycurgus stood at the sideboard, his back to her as he poured wine into a pitcher.

  Soundlessly, she moved toward the desk, her eyes focused on the tincture and his cup of wine.

  Lycurgus added water to the pitcher of wine at the sideboard. “I’m an old man, my pretty bird, but you make me feel young. Tonight we will celebrate.”

  “Of course, my sweet.” She undid the vial’s cap, and the smell of valerian assaulted her nostrils. She glanced at Lycurgus. Humming happily, his back still facing her, he prepared the wine.

  She poured the contents of the vial into his cup, valerian and poppy juice the doctor had said. Not enough to be lethal, but potent enough to ensure sleep. She stirred it with her finger. The scent of cinnamon and ginger masked the valerian.

  “My dear, you will be the envy of every woman in Athens,” Lycurgus said as he added honey to her cup of wine. “And I’m proud of you for learning obedience. Spare the rod and spoil the child, I always say. The same is true for slaves and women.”

  Discretely, she recapped the vial and set it on the desk.

  “And dogs, I suppose,” she said under her breath.

  “What, my dear?” He turned from the sideboard and offered her the cup. “My precious, little bird, your cage will be not only gilded, but jeweled.”

  “What if I prefer to remain your hetaera? As you have said, that position offers greater freedom.”

  “Hetaera is not a suitable position for Agathon’s daughter. What would people say? I care for you, Hestia, as I have never cared for another woman. I believe I love you, and I don’t want our son to be a bastard.”

  She almost laughed. How could he claim to know love, this man who’d allowed his own child to be killed? This man who beat her? Staring into her cup, she said nothing.

  “I know you don’t love me.” His voice grew hard, his eyes narrowing to slits. “I have made my offer and you will gratefully accept.”

  She raised her cup. “To us,” she said. “Bottoms up.”

  They drained their cups and Lycurgus made a sour face. “I think that wine has turned,” he said. “Come, my dear, let’s sit.” Taking her hand, he led her to the couch.

  He reclined and she sat beside him.

  “Let me see you.” He pushed aside her himation, allowing the fabric to fall around her waist. “Undo your chiton.”

  She unpinned a brooch and the fabric dropped from her shoulder.

  “Lovely.” He reached for her breast.

  His touch made her shudder.

  “Lie back and I’ll give you a massage,” she said.

  “Hmmm…” His
eyelids had begun to droop.

  He lay back on the couch. She stood behind him, her fingers circling his temples, stroking his forehead, kneading the muscles in his neck. Within a few minutes he began to snore.

  Before he had a chance to wake, she tiptoed from the room and quietly closed the door. Looking down, she saw her breast. The brooch. She’d left it in the library along with her himation. Not wanting to risk waking Lycurgus, she held the chiton over her chest and turned to leave.

  Zosime blocked her escape.

  “You frightened me,” Hestia said.

  “You should be frightened.”

  “How long have you been standing here?”

  “Long enough. You’re the only woman he’s ever cared for? He’d make you his wife? Name your son his heir?”

  “Excuse me,” Hestia said, trying to sidestep Zosime.

  “There is no excuse for you.”

  Hestia pushed past, thankful for the fountain’s rushing water as it drowned the woman’s angry words.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Diodorus left the House of Lycurgus, his head spinning. Hestia, the barefoot girl he’d known all his life, no longer existed. In her place he’d found a stunning woman. His half-sister. Could any outcome be worse? She belonged to Lycurgus, and soon she would be his wife. Diodorus told himself he should be happy for Hestia. She would gain her freedom and he had gained a sister. But, in truth, he felt miserable.

  Saddled on the mule with Calonice sitting in front, they clip-clopped along the cobblestones. Afternoon heat had brought the city to a boil, and now as evening approached, the streets teemed with pedestrians, making progress slow.

  They passed through the Kollytos Quarter, lowly home to prostitutes, performers, writers, and other hucksters. An open gutter ran through the street; the air stank of rotting garbage and piss. Diodorus spurred the mule attempting to get through a crowd.

  “Look.” Calonice pointed to a makeshift stage. “They’re performing a dance.”

  “A kordax. Not fit for a young woman. Close your eyes.”

  Calonice strained to see as Diodorus maneuvered the mule through the crush of people. The crowd cheered, yelling out obscenities as the actors performed their comic dance, gyrating their hips, leather phalluses strapped to their groins.

  The mule skirted a donkey cart loaded with terra-cotta tiles and narrowly avoided a steaming pile of dung. An amphora lay broken in the street and oil made the cobblestones slick. Diodorus pulled on the reins, attempting to guide the mule around the mess.

  An old woman, carrying a basket of eggs, shook her finger at him. “Slow down, young man.”

  “Sorry.” Diodorus nodded at her.

  “She gave you the evil eye,” Calonice said.

  “She probably wants money.”

  “Don’t worry,” Calonice said. “I know a charm to ward off curses.” She mumbled something in her language.

  “I feel better now,” Diodorus said, spurring the mule on.

  Thoughts tumbled through his mind. His mother must have known that Hestia was Agathon’s daughter. He supposed his parents had kept the fact hidden due to embarrassment. But what of Hestia? What of him? Their secret had led him to fall in love with his half-sister.

  “You are angry, Master?” Calonice said as if she read his mind.

  “I am.”

  “You think the gods will punish you?”

  “I don’t care a bull’s ball about the gods.”

  “Don’t say that, Master. The gods are always listening.”

  “The gods are deaf.”

  Blood rushed to his temples, throbbed in his skull. He kicked the mule, but it had little effect. He felt like they were swimming underwater, wading through a sea of honey. Merchants anxious to get home for dinner were shutting down their shops, rolling up rugs, tucking away jewelry.

  Diodorus imagined the reunion with his mother and tried to prepare what he would say to her. His stomach roiled thinking of Melaina and he wanted to strangle her. The woman would be fortunate to escape with her life.

  The sun slipped behind a building. Soon it would be dusk. They reached the outskirts of the Skambonidai Quarter and, like a cow returning to the barn, the mule sped up as if the creature sensed the proximity of the House of Agathon.

  A smile split Therapon’s face as he opened the door. “Master Diodorus, it’s good to see you home. And Calonice! I thought I’d never lay eyes on you again.”

  “I’m glad to find at least one trusted servant remains in my household.” Diodorus said. “It seems my mother chose to sell the others. Get Calonice resettled, won’t you, Therapon?” He surveyed the courtyard. “Where is the gorgon?”

  The old slave hobbled after Diodorus, took his himation and his sandals. “If you’re referring to your mother—”

  “Is there another gorgon in this house?”

  “She’s in her rooms, Master.”

  Fueled by fire in his gut, Diodorus headed for the women’s courtyard. Torches lit his way, flickering as he hurried past. “Mother!” His voice rang through the house. “I must talk to you!”

  When Melaina didn’t appear, he bounded up the stairway.

  An unfamiliar maid stopped him at the doorway. “Who are you?” she asked.

  Ignoring her, he shouted, “Come out now!”

  “Have you come to rob us?” The woman backed away from him. “The Despoina is resting and cannot be disturbed.”

  Pushing past the servant, Diodorus headed for the door,

  “Stop or I will use this.” Reaching a trembling hand into her himation the woman came back with a blade.

  Diodorus grabbed her wrist, promptly removing the knife from her hand. “Thank you,” he said and continued shouting. “Show yourself, Mother. I want to see the succubus who preys on children, the blood-thirsty chimera who bore me.” He ripped open the doorway’s curtain.

  There she stood—not asleep, but very much awake—her mouth a red gash in her powdered face, a wig of golden curls piled on her head. She appeared ghostly in the lamplight.

  “Where’s the ring?” he demanded.

  “Diodorus, what are—I, uh.” She backed away from him.

  “Happy to see me, Mother?”

  Without waiting for permission, obscenities streaming from his mouth, he stalked around the chamber pulling clothing from the chests, ripping tapestries from the walls. Pausing at her dressing table, he swiped the pixides and jars from the table, sent them crashing to the floor. Liquid pooled on the wood and her perfume assaulted his nostrils, the cloying scent of musk and oriental spices.

  He picked up her mirror. Holding it in one hand, the knife in the other, he moved toward Melaina. “Look at yourself,” he said. “Take a good, long look. You’re hideous.” He forced the mirror to her face.

  “Calm yourself, my honey.”

  “Did you sell Hestia?”

  “We needed the money and she fetched an excellent price.”

  With a cry, he lunged at his mother, toppling her onto the floor. Pinning her down, he tried to decide if he should slit her throat or prolong her suffering. He ripped away her wig.

  Melaina held her hands over her scalp, attempting to hide the patchy hair on her balding head.

  Diodorus held up the wig, stared at the shimmering hair. “Is this Hestia’s?” The golden curls fell from his hand like a dead animal.

  He turned back to his mother.

  Footsteps clattered up the stairway as servants hurried from their work. Therapon burst through the doorway, followed by Melaina’s maid, the cook, a band of serving women, workmen. The entire household. Upon seeing Diodorus, they halted at the threshold.

  “Master?” Therapon edged toward him, his hand outstretched. “Better give me that.”

  Diodorus turned his eyes to his own fist, surprised to see it held the knife. Blood oozed from his fingers and scarlet rivulets ran down his arm. His blood, not his mother’s. The blade had sliced his palm. He dropped the knife.

  Melaina got up slow
ly, her eyes focused on her son. With shaking hands she reached for the wig, rearranged it on her head. “Leave us,” she said to the servants. “Get back to your work.”

  Grateful to escape, they hurried from the room. All but Therapon. The old slave glanced at Diodorus, his face worried. “Despoina, perhaps I should stay—”

  “Go.”

  With a backward glance at Diodorus, the old slave left.

  Melaina closed the doorway’s curtains, then turned to her son.

  “Shame.” She took hold of his arm, digging in her fingernails. “You shame your mother, shame the House of Agathon.”

  All of his resolve, the fury he had mustered, vanished at her touch. He felt like a rag doll, empty and devoid of feeling. Drawing away from her, he examined his bloody palm, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He imagined wrapping his hands around her throat. He squeezed his fist to numb the pain.

  Melaina gazed at him through kohl-rimmed eyes, her face whiter than a shade’s. “I know you care for that slave girl, but you must forget her. She is the property of Lycurgus. And now—” Her voice cracked. “She will bear his child.”

  “I can’t forget Hestia. I love her.”

  “Love.” Melaina spat the word. “Love brings trouble. Love brings pain. In this world power is what counts.” Turning away from him, she poured greenish liquid into a cup, absinthites oinos, her own concoction. “Would you like some wormwood wine? I find it soothing.”

  “Is Hestia my sister?”

  Melaina downed the cup, wiped her mouth, and turned back to him. “She’s a bastard and a slave.”

  His fury immediately returned.

  “Shut up,” he yelled and grabbed Melaina’s throat. He pressed his thumbs into her larynx, took delight in her fear. Blood from his wounded hand ran down her neck, staining her chiton. Clawing at his fingers, she made a gurgling sound. “I said, be quiet, Mother.”

  “Is everything all right in there?” Therapon called through curtains.

  “Fine,” Diodorus called back.

  He picked the knife up from the floor, pressed the blade against his mother’s neck. “Cry out, and I’ll kill you. I mean it.” He dragged Melaina to a chair, forcing her to sit.