Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “Agathon lay here.” She touched the granite.

  Withdrawing her hand, she stared at her naked finger. No ring. No proof of her identity. Melaina had stolen it. Not that anyone would believe a slave. Perhaps the ring had been a play of her imagination. Perhaps she dreamed she was Agathon’s daughter.

  “Something to eat?” Therapon suggested. “Cheese and bread?”

  Hestia drew aside the doorway’s curtain and peered into the foyer. Oil lamps flickered, casting light over the mosaic floor. A cock crowed and the dogs barked outside, otherwise the house was silent.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost dawn.”

  “Dawn. I’ve been locked in that box since yesterday.” Usually at this hour, there would be clattering in the kitchen, the sounds of preparations for the coming day, and the delicious smells of stewing lentils and fresh-baked pita. “Where is everyone?”

  “The funeral.”

  “The funeral?”

  “The Master’s.”

  “But it’s too soon. His shade hasn’t had time to complete the journey.”

  “The Despoina said the sooner he’s laid on the pyre, the sooner he will reach Hades.”

  A thought sparked in Hestia. By custom, viewing of a body lasted for two days, allowing family to gather—wailing women, children running underfoot, priests mumbling prayers as the men offered sacrifice.

  Melaina seemed anxious to see her husband buried.

  The spark burst into a flame, illuminating her suspicions. She doubted the effectiveness of the physician’s tincture, but Agathon’s demise had accelerated with Melaina’s wine.

  “Therapon, where is the amphora of wine that the Despoina opened yesterday?”

  Therapon appeared thoughtful, the lines in his face deepening. “I believe it broke. She asked me to clean a mess of pottery and wine. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Has the Master’s room been cleaned yet?”

  “Of course.”

  So the pitcher used for Agathon’s wine had also been removed. A slave was expected to be loyal and could only speak against a Master under torture, but nothing prevented a slave from thinking.

  “I must go.” Hestia swept aside the curtain.

  Therapon followed on her heels.

  “Go where, child?”

  “To the funeral.”

  She lifted the bolt of the front door, felt dawn’s cool breeze.

  Therapon reached quickly and slammed the door shut. He slid the bolt back into place, before Hestia could leave, and said, “You’d better get back in the chest. Anger the Despoina, and you may end up working in the mines.”

  “I must go to the Master’s funeral.”

  “If I let you go, the Despoina will whip me with barbed hooks.”

  “Please.” Tears filled Hestia’s eyes.

  “Don’t cry.” The old slave rubbed his eyes. “The Despoina thinks I’m a worn-out donkey, too worthless to sell. She only keeps me alive for the sake of appearance. If I disobey her—”

  “What if I escaped?” Hestia said. “Claim you tried to stop me.”

  “You overpowered me, somehow.”

  “Yes.” Hestia clapped her hands. “You need an alibi.”

  Therapon’s grin was more gums than teeth. He handed Hestia the water cup and pointed to his balding head. “Hit hard and leave a lump.”

  Torches lit the steps leading to the street. A neighbor had placed a hydria of water beside the door as an offering. Hestia dipped her fingers into the earthen jar, sprinkling herself to purify the taint of death. Except for the sliver of a waning moon, shunting in and out of clouds, the night was dark.

  Something brushed against Hestia’s leg, and she caught her breath. Golden eyes gleamed in the torchlight.

  The intruder meowed.

  “Where did you come from?”

  This was no kitten, but a battle-scarred survivor of alleyways. One ear had nearly been chewed off. She bent to pet the animal and dust rose from its boney back. The cat’s fur was black, except for the white chest and feet tinged with dirt.

  Searching the folds of her chiton, Hestia found Therapon’s chunk of feta cheese. The poor thing gobbled it.

  The street was empty at this hour. Not even a watchman. Taking a torch to light her way, Hestia walked briskly along the quiet lane, the cat trotting after her.

  Trees, planted intermittently, rustled in a ghostly breeze. Dawn would be arriving soon. She would have to hurry to reach the city gates before sunrise in time for the funeral.

  The Skambonidai quarter housed the wealthiest Athenians and boasted improvements not seen in other districts. Open gutters, running down the center of the street, had been replaced by underground drains and sewers. Still, Hestia stepped carefully, inspecting the ground for random pools of putrid water.

  Most Athenians frequented public bathhouses; few houses had bathrooms and fewer still were as fine as Agathon’s. Though many buildings stood two stories high, most were constructed of timber and mud brick. Burglars found little need of breaking locks; instead they chipped holes into the walls.

  Hestia peered into an alleyway. A gust whipped around the corner, nearly smothering her torch, and sending shivers down her back. She longed for the narrow bed she shared with Calonice, tucked into their tiny cell where she felt safe.

  She glanced at the cat, trotting beside her.

  “You’re a wanderer,” she said. “Like Odysseus.”

  The cat pricked his ears, as if he understood.

  Veering west, Hestia ventured through the district of the Kerameikos where workers, mostly potters, lived in hovels—the crumbling wall of one mud structure pressed against another. Puddles filled the rutted road and made walking barefoot difficult. Her bad ankle began to ache. Wandering through a twisting alley, she picked her way through piles of rotting garbage. A rat shot across her path. She clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling a scream. A black-and-white streak dove into the garbage, following the rat.

  “Odysseus,” she called, but the cat had disappeared.

  A whistle echoed through the alleyway, followed by a voice.

  “What have we here? Come here, Goldie.”

  A thug hovered in the shadows of a doorway, his arms tattooed like a Persian, his beard unruly. Other men stood behind him. Hestia couldn’t make out their faces. In this quarter, gangs ruled the streets. The man moved toward her, his breath fast and heavy. She backed away, turned and tried to run, but her foot caught on a stone, twisting her bad ankle. She walked as quickly as she could, her limp obvious.

  The thug came after her, tried to grab her torch. She faced him, brandishing the flame. When she singed his beard, he jumped back and cursed her. The laughter of his cohorts rang through the alley. Their caterwauling turned to jeers. Favoring her good foot, Hestia tried to run.

  “Who’d want to plunge his sword into your stinking scabbard?” the thug called after her.

  “Cripple,” others shouted.

  “One-footed hag.”

  She dropped her torch and ran faster. Shuddering from pain and from the thugs’ ridicule, she hurried on. After a few minutes, she reached the main road and felt safe enough to slow her pace. She walked along the river, her toes sinking into mud. Her ankle had begun to swell, but she’d grown used to pain. A person could get used to anything.

  All her life she’d put up with ridicule. Men cared so much about appearance and, as Melaina often told her, she was far from beautiful. She wondered if she would ever know real love. She longed for a man who really cared for her, a man who wouldn’t use her only for pleasure. Socrates spoke of two kinds of love, agape and eros—friendship and passion. Surely the two might be combined. Socrates also said eros desires beauty. So, perhaps she’d be lucky to find friendship.

  A cock crowed, urging day to break. She forced herself to walk faster. Funerals had to take place before dawn, before death could pollute the sun.

  The road was lonely at this hour, unsafe for a woman traveling alon
e. Glad to spot the dung collector, Hestia hurried to catch up with him. He walked beside his donkey cart, pausing to shovel droppings into a leather bucket and then into the wagon. He would dump what he’d collected outside the city walls or sell the droppings as fuel. When she reached him, the stench of manure assaulted Hestia’s nostrils.

  “May I walk with you?” she asked. “Just to the gate.”

  He glanced at her bad foot. “Looks like you could use a ride. Get on the cart.” His accent was Phoenician. He was probably a metic, a foreigner who claimed more rights than an Athenian slave like her.

  Hestia eyed the load of dung. “I prefer to walk.”

  “Can’t say I blame you.”

  Hestia nodded at his bucket. “Hard work,” she said.

  “Best done at night.”

  “Why is that?”

  The man eyed her suspiciously. “If you really want to know, pickings are easier when it’s cool, before the sun heats the crap.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “Most people don’t. Most don’t give droppings a second thought. But they’d notice if the roads were knee-deep in shit, wouldn’t they?”

  “You provide an important service.”

  “Important service.” The man guffawed. “It earns my keep. I like to get an early start, before my competition.”

  Having exhausted the topic, they continued walking.

  Coming from the opposite direction, a farmer passed them on his way to market, the wooden wheels of his cart kicking up pebbles. Earthen amphorae of olive oil, almost as large as Hestia, stood side-by-side in the wagon, alongside wicker cages of squawking chickens. A woman tramped behind the farmer, pushing a barrow of vegetables.

  Upon reaching Dipylon Gate, the beat of drums and wail of flutes competed with the song of waking birds. The moon had faded to a whisper.

  Hestia bid the dung collector goodbye. She ran toward the gate, her ankle throbbing, eager to find the funeral.

  The Themistocleian wall had been erected over thirty years ago to enclose the city after the defeat of the Persians—a great victory for Athens. As Hestia hurried through the gate, she thought of Themistocles, the messenger who’d run all the way from Marathon, reported the victory, then promptly collapsed and died.

  She hoped she wouldn’t share his fate.

  Outside the stone wall lay the city of the dead. Beyond the cemetery, olive groves gave way to a ridge of mountains.

  She walked along the terraced avenue of tombs, where shades were known to congregate. Souls of the dead, caught between this world and the next, preferred dawn and evening—cracks in time. They moved like shadows. Hestia caught movement from the corner of her eye, the hem of a white dress.

  Forgetting her twisted ankle, she broke into a run. Cypress trees stood sentinel on each side of the path. Lifting the hem of her chiton, Hestia scrambled up the hill. From there, she saw a line of torches moving slowly. Greasy smoke from the sacrificial pyre unfurled toward the dismal sky. Out of breath, sweat pouring down her face, she joined the end of the procession with the other women.

  Men of the family walked alongside the horse-drawn hearse that carried Agathon. The procession was led by the priest of Zeus, followed by the family and friends bearing offerings. Then came the servants, and finally, professional mourners as befitted any proper funeral. Hestia walked behind them. The lengthy parade came to a halt in front of a granite tomb surmounted by twin marble lions. The hired mourners fell onto their knees, wailing, throwing ashes on their shorn heads. Hestia edged closer to the tomb, trying to get a better view. Women stood apart from the men. Except for Melaina, the grieving widow, who joined her son.

  Diodorus stood a good head taller than his mother, a head taller than most men. Though he was only twenty, he seemed more thoughtful than many men his age. His eyes held an intensity that spoke of fire in his heart.

  My half brother, Hestia reminded herself.

  But since he’d returned from military service the feelings she had for him were far from sisterly. Her childhood friend had become a man—a stranger, and she’d become a stranger to herself experiencing feelings she had never known. She forced herself to look away, but her gaze soon wandered back to him. Their eyes met across the crowd. Heat flooded Hestia’s body and crept up into her face.

  Melaina glanced in Hestia’s direction, her fists clenching and eyes narrowing with rage. Drawing veils over her face, she turned to her son. Melaina played the part of a bereaved widow to perfection, her face a mask of grief, silk veils fluttering in the breeze. But Hestia sensed the woman’s anger. Lifting an amphora by both handles, roughly as if she meant to strangle the jar, Melaina spewed olive oil onto the ground.

  Hestia kept her distance.

  The drums beat faster and the mourners wailed.

  Diodorus drew a shawl over his head and began the funeral oration.

  “Farewell, mighty Agathon.”

  “Farewell, mighty Agathon,” the crowd echoed him.

  “Now, as you descend to the House of Hades, you leave your son and wife in grief. All of Athens mourns your passing…”

  The words Diodorus spoke sent Hestia to her knees along with the paid mourners. She dug her fingernails into the ground, scooping earth into her hands, and let it rain over her tangled mane of hair. A moan rose from her throat and grew into a piercing cry. She needed no hired mourners, no actors to incite her grief. What she felt was real. The invocation rang in her ears, driving her into a land of shadows, a land of shades.

  Silently, she screamed.

  Without Agathon to guide and protect her, she wondered what life held for her.

  Determined to follow her Master, she closed her eyes and plunged into the river Styx. Cold choked her. Gasping, she batted at the icy water and attempted to stay afloat. But a whirlpool dragged her under. Forcing her eyes open, she stared into murky darkness. She resurfaced, clawing at the air, a rush of breath exploding in her lungs. Mist rose from the river and crawled along the bank. Through the veil she saw Agathon, not old as she remembered him, but young.

  “Olympia!” he called, his voice echoing off distant hills.

  A form appeared within the vapors—a woman, dressed in flowing white robes, her golden hair shimmering. She tried to see the woman’s face.

  “Mama!”

  A harsh slap brought Hestia back to the present.

  Melaina stood before her, eyes spitting fire like a gorgon. “How dare you desecrate my husband’s funeral? You make yourself a spectacle.”

  Olympia’s ring glistened on Melaina’s hand. The twin snakes seemed to writhe. Rising to her feet, Hestia said, “That ring belongs to me.”

  Melaina raised her hand, preparing to hit Hestia again.

  Diodorus caught her wrist. “Calm yourself, Mother.” He glanced at the gathered guests. The wailing and the drums had ceased. All eyes focused on Melaina and Hestia.

  Melaina pointed at Hestia. “Witness how this piece of dung, this worm, this slave that I was kind enough to take into my home, has disgraced our family. She’s a liar and a thief.” Holding up her hand so the ring glittered. She proclaimed. “She stole this ring from my dead husband, and now she calls it hers. Never have I seen such impudence.”

  A murmur ran through the crowd.

  Hestia looked out at the faces, many she had known for years—family members, slaves with whom she worked. Only Calonice looked at her with compassion. The other slaves returned her gaze blankly, ready to believe the worst, glad that she had been singled out so they were safe. She heard their muttered accusations, their cries for punishment. What hope did a slave’s word have against Melaina’s?

  “Is this true, Hestia?” Diodorus sounded gentle, but the fact that he asked, stung. “Did you steal the ring?”

  She met his gaze, searching for her childhood friend, the boy with whom she had grown up, the man she admired, even loved.

  Love.

  She hadn’t meant to think the word. Was that what she felt for him?
r />   “Look how she pales,” Melaina said. “She’s obviously guilty.

  Hestia’s gaze remained fixed on Diodorus. Afraid if she looked elsewhere her knees would buckle. “Your father gave me the ring,” she said.

  The crowd moved closer, straining to hear.

  “She stole the ring.” Melaina pointed at Hestia, riling the crowd. “Before my husband’s corpse grew cold.”

  Hestia saw that Diodorus wanted to believe her. “Your father said the ring belonged to my mother, and he told me—”

  “Thief!” Melaina shouted. “She must be punished.” Bending down, she grabbed a rock.

  A stone flew from the crowd and grazed Hestia’s arm. Another stone followed. It hit her squarely in the chest, piercing her robe. The impact drove her backward and she fell onto the ground. She raised her hands, attempting to protect her face. Tears choked her voice. Stones rained down, bruising her body, crushing her pride. She flung herself facedown into the dirt, wishing she had never been born. Now that Agathon was dead, her life seemed devoid of hope.

  “Stop!” Diodorus shouted at the crowd. “Stop at once.”

  Powerful hands lifted Hestia onto her feet, and Diodorus wrapped his arms around her protectively. She clung to him, wishing she might disappear into his strength. He stroked her tangled curls, brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. “Forgive my mother,” he said. “She’s suffering from grief, but there’s no excuse for her behavior.”

  Hestia doubted Melaina’s grief, but said nothing to Diodorus. Afraid to look into his eyes, afraid he’d see the depth of what she felt for him, she said, “I’m sorry for the loss of your father.”

  Diodorus turned to Melaina. “Let’s not mar this day with hatred, Mother, but take a higher road, in deference to my late father, your late husband. Agathon cared for this girl, and I will carry out his legacy. Hestia belongs to me, and, as the new Master, I will ensure that no harm comes to her.”

  This girl belongs to me.

  Hestia could have screamed, but as all good slaves, she remained silent. What a fool she was to imagine Diodorus might think of her as something more than a possession—a goat or an ox would receive as much protection.