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

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  She raised her voice, “He can tell you about Hestia.”

  “Hestia? Where is she?” Diodorus searched the crowd.

  “Gone,” Zosime said. “Which proves her guilt.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Diodorus moved toward the library, a policeman close at his heels. “Is this where it happened?”

  “Yes,” the policeman said.

  “I’d like to see the body.”

  “No one is allowed in there.”

  “Not even family? Lycurgus was my father.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd. Diodorus felt the gaze of all their eyes, their curiosity. Saying the words aloud somehow made it real. Lycurgus was his father, not Agathon.

  “Lycurgus was your father?” Zosime glared at Diodorus with hatred he couldn’t comprehend. “Then your mother, the wife of Agathon, is the woman who killed my baby. You’re a family of murderers.”

  The courtyard grew quiet, the only sound the fountain’s rush of water.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  “Remember what I told you,” Aspasia said. “You must remain hidden beneath the hay until you are well out of Athens, preferably past Eleusis. The wagon is slow, but you should arrive there before nightfall.” She pressed a purse into Hestia’s hands. “This will carry you. All in all, the journey to Delphi will take about ten days. Once there, you’ll be in good hands.”

  Hestia kissed Aspasia on both cheeks. “Thank you for believing me.”

  “Some may claim Lycurgus deserved to die.”

  “Perhaps I really did kill him,” Hestia said. “I gave him sleeping potion.”

  “Not enough to die.” Galenos tugged the brim of his floppy hat, part of his disguise.

  “From the way things ended,” Aspasia said. “He was more than dead.”

  “Many will say he got what he deserved.” Galenos spat on the ground. Anger held his voice, “Lycurgus had plenty of enemies. Athens is better without him.”

  He spoke with so much passion that Hestia and Aspasia exchanged a glance.

  They stood in the stables behind the House of Pericles. The statesman had left for the agora before the fugitives arrived. Aspasia claimed it was just as well that he knew nothing of the matter.

  She clapped her hands. “I guess we’d better say goodbye. I’ll tell Pericles I gave this old donkey cart to a farmer in need.” She turned to Galenos. “And you, my friend, really do look like a farmer.”

  “Not my usual dress, but it serves a purpose.”

  Using walnut juice, the eunuch had stained his pale skin brown. Instead of his brightly colored tunic, he wore a peasant’s robe of sakkos and a wide-brimmed hat that came down almost to his nose.

  “You know the way?” Aspasia asked. Before either of them could answer, she said, “From Eleusis you continue on to Thebes, then Levadia, and finally Delphi. Chances are the authorities will assume you’ve gone to Piraeus and hope to sail. That should buy you a few hours.”

  “Thank you,” Hestia said. “What will you do if someone followed us? If they suspect you helped me?”

  “If they question me, I’ll steer them in the wrong direction. Once you’re past Eleusis, you should be safe from Athenian authority, but be careful of highwaymen.”

  Tears welled in Hestia’s eyes. “How can I ever repay you?”

  Aspasia touched Hestia’s face. “You will repay me by staying well and bearing a healthy baby. I will visit you in Delphi. You remember my friend’s name?”

  Hestia nodded. “Isidora, High Priestess of the Temple of Athena.”

  “Make haste.” Aspasia squeezed Hestia’s hands.

  Galenos helped her into the wagon. She lay on an old blanket, holding a water bladder in case of thirst. The last thing she saw, before Galenos covered her with hay, was Aspasia’s smiling face. She thanked the gods for giving her such a kind friend. She would miss Aspasia, miss Athens. Most of all, she would miss Diodorus, but beyond her own safety, she must take care of her child. Their child. She swiped tears from her eyes.

  “Don’t forget Odysseus.”

  “I don’t think that cat would let me,” Galenos said.

  Hestia heard a familiar meow. Odysseus nested beside her, circling the hay until he’d made a bed. Galenos set wicker baskets of food and clothing on the wagon. Amphorae of wine and water completed the picture of farmers returning from the marketplace.

  Hestia closed her eyes. She heard the wagon creak as Galenos sat on the driver’s bench, heard the crack of the whip and the donkey’s bray. She heard the stable door as it squeaked open, felt the warmth of the sun filter through the hay.

  The wagon bumped along the road, and Hestia knew then that it would be a long time before she returned to Athens.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Melaina woke early, eager to get to work. As the morning progressed, the temperature increased, draining every drop of water from the landscape, but Melaina’s root cellar remained pleasantly cool.

  She was working on a new concoction, soaking angelica root in absinthites oinos to produce a tincture. The wormwood in the absinthites oinos would only increase the angelica’s potency. She placed a drop on her tongue. The bitter taste made her wince—no amount of mint, fennel, and clove disguised it. She added more honey. Mixed with wine the tincture would not be noticed. The results, however, could not be ignored: contractions of the uterus, powerful enough to expel a six month pregnancy.

  She need only determine how to deliver her gift to Hestia.

  Using a rag she wiped her table. Standing on a stool, she replaced the pyxis of angelica root. Carefully, she arranged her knives, admiring how the polished bronze glittered in the oil lamp’s glow. She touched each blade lovingly, then poured herself another cup of wormwood wine.

  “Despoina.” Therapon’s shaky voice called down into the cellar. “You have a visitor.”

  Leaving her workroom, Melaina walked into the cavernous cellar. Therapon stood at the top of the ladder, wringing his hands like an old woman.

  “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  “She insists on seeing you.”

  A woman pushed past Therapon. Black curls fell around her shoulders, and her face was too beautiful to trust. She said, “I must speak to you, Despoina.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Zosime from the House of Lycurgus. May I come down?” Without waiting for Melaina’s answer, the woman began to descend the ladder.

  Melaina glanced at her workroom. No evidence of her experiment remained, just the vial of tincture. The woman might prove useful, providing a method of delivery to Hestia.

  Therapon left, closing the door behind him.

  In the darkness, the ladder creaked under Zosime’s weight. Startled, she paused, then completed her descent.

  Melaina met her at the bottom of the ladder, holding a lamp to light the way.

  “What is so urgent that you interrupt me?”

  “I want to speak to you about your son.”

  The way the woman said your son, disturbed Melaina. She rubbed her forehead, noticed a distant buzzing. “Diodorus?”

  “Is his father really Lycurgus?”

  Melaina’s chest tightened. How could the woman know? “My son’s father is Agathon.”

  “I need to know the truth.” Zosime grabbed Melaina.

  “You’re hurting me.” Melaina tried to pull away. The buzzing sound grew louder. She glanced at top of the ladder, wishing Therapon had left the door open.

  “Tell me.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Do you not recognize me?”

  “Let me go or I’ll scream.” Melaina knew with the door closed her screams would be lost in the cellar. But her ploy worked. Zosime released her.

  “Twenty years ago you killed my baby.”

  “I?” Melaina squinted at the woman, vaguely recalling a girl.

  “The son I had by Lycurgus. You stole him in the night and left him outside to die.”

  “I remember you now. You were his mai
d. Your baby had the croup.”

  “My baby was perfect.” Tears sprang into Zosime’s eyes. “A perfect son.”

  “Your baby died with no help from me.” Melaina tilted her head, listening. “Do you hear that?” Anxious to escape the buzzing, she moved into her workroom, and Zosime followed. “Would you like a cup of wormwood wine?” Melaina poured a cup and downed it, then poured more wine for Zosime.

  Instead of accepting the cup, Zosime grabbed one of Melaina’s knives from the table.

  “This is what I want.” She pointed the blade at Melaina. “Revenge for my son’s death.”

  “Your baby died of natural causes.”

  “That’s a lie.” Zosime raised the knife and jabbed at Melaina, but missed as her target sidestepped the blade. She stumbled, spearing the table as she fell against it.

  The vial of tincture fell, its contents spilling. A dark mark spread over the table.

  “What a waste.” Melaina plucked the knife from the table. “My favorite,” she said, examining the long, thin blade designed for sacrifice. Her eyes focused on Zosime.

  The woman’s face collapsed, and tears poured from her eyes. Melaina watched with fascination as her features transformed, changing from beautiful to hideous, like a statue made of clay. Sobbing, Zosime sank onto the hard, dirt floor.

  “Dust to dust,” Melaina said. She collected the other knives, placing them in the bronze box in which she kept them, arranging the knives consecutively by length.

  Even when she sensed their presence, she focused on the task at hand. She’d grown weary waiting—weary from expectation of their arrival, and now she almost welcomed them. A breeze stirred the dank air of the cellar. Something brushed her cheek, riffled her hair. They slipped through the cracks, maneuvering their way into her consciousness, flying through the dark. Shadows darted past her eyes, obscuring the light. They dove toward her, wings beating at her face.

  Zosime’s sobs grew into wails, as if she sensed them too, her shrill cries intermingling with their screeches.

  Melaina admired her work, the shiny blades neatly arranged, ready to be put away, except for the machaira—the sacrificial knife. She wrapped her fist around the mother-of-pearl handle and brought the blade to her face, gazing into the bronze as if it were a mirror. “Do you think yellow hair suits me?”

  Zosime stopped sobbing. Tears running down her face, she looked up from the dirt floor where she crouched.

  Melaina touched the wig. The screeching had become so loud, she barely heard herself. “Or would red better complement my complexion?”

  “You’re mad.” Wiping her eyes, Zosime stood.

  Turning her back to the woman, Melaina placed the box of knives on a shelf.

  “An eye for an eye,” Zosime said. “And a son for a son.”

  Melaina spun toward her, bringing down the machaira.

  Zosime cried out, her hand rushing to her face. Blood poured from the gash on her cheek, dripping through her fingers. She backed out of the workroom. Melaina followed her.

  “I’ll murder him,” Zosime said as she ran toward the ladder. “Like Lycurgus, his death will be awful.”

  “Lycurgus is dead?” Melaina stopped moving, stood still.

  “I killed him. And I’ll kill your son.”

  Screams echoed through the cellar. Melaina clapped her hands over ears, but the screams grew louder, reverberating through her head. Pain shot through her chest, ripping the screams out of her throat.

  Zosime began to climb. Soon she would escape.

  Holding the blade in her teeth, Melaina grabbed the ladder. It shook, straining to support the weight of both women. Zosime climbed faster and so did Melaina. Midway from the top, a rung snapped and Zosime slipped, her weight falling backward. The ladder veered away from the wall and teetered precariously. Melaina forced her weight toward the wall, against the pull of gravity and, with a clunk, the ladder hit the wall, sending tremors through the wood. When Melaina reached for the next rung it, too, cracked.

  She clung to the ladder, regained her balance. Bypassing the broken rung, Melaina climbed higher. Zosime’s foot stood on a rung above her face. Reaching out, Melaina grabbed the woman’s ankle.

  Zosime kicked, trying to shake off Melaina. Freeing her foot, she clambered up to the next rung.

  Melaina grabbed the knife from her teeth and slashed at Zosime’s ankle. The blade met flesh, and Zosime shrieked. Blood rained in Melaina’s eyes as she reached for the next rung. The bleeding made the wood slick and her hand slipped. The knife hit the floor with a dull thud.

  Zosime arrived at the final rung, her hand reaching for the landing.

  Determined to prevent her escape, Melaina placed her foot on the next rung. With a crack, the wood gave way and her foot met space.

  Zosime leapt from the ladder onto the landing.

  Without her weight as an anchor, the ladder tipped backward. Melaina leaned forward, willing the ladder back toward the wall. For a moment, it stood suspended between the landing and the cellar.

  “Help!” Melaina pleaded.

  Zosime reached out her hand. But instead of grabbing the ladder, she gave it a push.

  Fingers digging into the wood, Melaina clung to the ladder as it fell, but her weight pulled her down. She plunged into darkness, crashing to the hard, dirt floor, as her futile grasp brought the ladder down on top of her.

  Pain tore through her leg. Bone jutted through her skin at a strange angle.

  A blast of thunder echoed through the cellar, Melaina’s screams lost in the boom. Winged creatures swooped out of the darkness, eyes spitting fire, teeth ripping her flesh. Sinking talons into her chest, they tore out her heart. She flailed her arms, tried to kick with her good foot, but she could not escape the fury of the Erinyes, infernal goddesses sent to avenge the death of Agathon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  After interviewing Diodorus, the lokhagos advised him to remain in Athens. The investigation would continue until the person who’d killed Lycurgus had been found. Evidence pointed to Hestia, but Diodorus also remained a suspect. The magistrate of the House of Lycurgus read the will, and Diodorus had been named heir to the estate with substantial provisions made for Hestia’s expected child. The lokhagos seemed to suspect Diodorus and Hestia of plotting together. Galenos had been named as yet another suspect. The eunuch had vanished along with Hestia.

  Diodorus found Calonice waiting for him by the mule. Apparently, the police had found her of little interest.

  “Let’s go,” Diodorus said, helping her onto the mule.

  “Where?”

  “To find Hestia. Apparently she’s fled Athens.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want you to find her,” Calonice said.

  “We’ll have to disappoint her, then.” Diodorus mounted the mule and spurred the animal to move. “We’ll head for Piraeus, in case she plans to sail.”

  He glanced at the sun. Already past noon.

  Hestia stifled a sneeze. The straw made her itch, and she needed a drink of water, but until Galenos told her they were safely out of Athens and beyond Eleusis, she dared not show her face.

  Odysseus seemed content to nap.

  They had traveled beyond the gates; that much Hestia knew. Guards had stopped the wagon, but Aspasia had given Galenos a letter stating he was on business for the House of Pericles. That allowed them to leave the city without further questioning.

  The wagon rocked back and forth, the creak of the wooden wheels lulling her to sleep. Closing her eyes, she soon joined Odysseus.

  Diodorus and Calonice searched the road for any sign of Hestia.

  He stopped fellow travelers to ask if they had seen a girl with a limp, a girl with golden curls so beautiful that any man who didn’t favor boys would be sure to notice her.

  He described her to a band of sailors, described her to soldiers, workmen, men on horseback—with no luck.

  “Let’s ask him,” Calonice said, pointing to a donkey cart further down the road.

>   “That farmer seems half asleep. I doubt he’d notice anything.” But it couldn’t hurt to ask. He kicked the mule and caught up with the cart.

  “Excuse me,” he said, attempting to get the farmer’s attention. The man didn’t look at him, just kept staring straight ahead. It seemed impossible that he could see, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled so low that his eyes were hidden. The man was obviously a peasant, his skin as brown as dirt. “Excuse me,” Diodorus called again.

  The man grunted.

  “Have you seen a girl with yellow hair walking along this road? She may be traveling with a man. You can’t miss them. He dresses flamboyantly and the girl limps.”

  The farmer shook his head.

  “Well that was useless,” Diodorus said as they trotted past the wagon. “What made you want to ask him?”

  “I had a feeling,” Calonice said.

  Diodorus laughed. “So much for your feelings. That man could hardly speak.”

  “Onye otu anya na abu eze n’ala ndi isi.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The one-eyed man is king in the land of the blind.”

  “And that means what?”

  “That farmer may be paying more attention than a group of sailors or drunken soldiers. Maybe Hestia is traveling in disguise. We don’t even know if she took this road.”

  Diodorus sighed. The prospect of finding Hestia seemed hopeless.

  Calonice patted the mule. “Enyi will help us find her,” she said.

  Diodorus thought about what Calonice had said. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Hestia had taken another road or maybe she wore a disguise. Something about that farmer bothered him. Something about him seemed familiar.

  Pulling on the reins, he turned the mule around, guiding Enyi back the way they’d come.

  “Where are you going?” Calonice asked.

  “I’m searching for the one-eyed man.” But Diodorus saw no trace of the farmer or the donkey cart.

  The cart bumped along, jostling Hestia awake.

  She yawned, stroked Odysseus.

  “Are you awake?” Galenos called.