Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  The stone Melaina had been prepared to throw dropped from her hand, though her hatred remained palpable. Her eyes met Hestia’s and sent a warning.

  Hestia sent a silent warning back to her. I know what you’ve done.

  “Come, Hestia.” Diodorus led her to the edge of the crowd. “Stay here and you’ll be safe.”

  He left her. Hestia watched him move through the crowd to join his aunts and uncles, cousins who would never recognize her as part of their family. No matter what Agathon had claimed, she would never be more than a slave, a piece of property. Diodorus stood at the altar, as distant as a god.

  He proclaimed, “It’s time to offer sacrifice in honor of my father.” He glanced at Melaina, who stood beside him. “Come, Mother, let us give thanks for Agathon’s accomplishments.”

  The flutes and drums began again. The mourners wailed. A trench had been dug before the tomb and, led by Diodorus, the mourners approached it. Some offered wine, some milk and honey; others offered oil or a small animal. The final sacrifice was performed by the Priest of Zeus, two sheep and an ox. Their sacrifice would not only appease the gods, but provide meat for feasting after the funeral. Blood overran the trench and soaked the earth, turning the soil crimson.

  Tears streamed down Hestia’s face. She had nothing to offer but her grief.

  Sensing that someone stood behind her, she turned and saw a silver-haired man. She recognized Agathon’s business partner, Lycurgus. He wore an elegant chiton, and although his face was lined he remained handsome. The intensity of his gaze made Hestia uneasy. He nodded, perhaps in sympathy, and took a step toward her. Melaina hurried toward them, the tails of her himation flapping behind her like dark wings.

  A gust of wind swept through the field bringing dust and ash.

  Hestia closed her eyes and opened them, unsure if what she saw was real. A whirlwind of screeching creatures swirled around Melaina, their talons clawing at her face—the Erinyes, Furies, goddesses of vengeance. Eyes dripping blood, heads wreathed by serpents, the Erinyes demanded retribution.

  The world might be blind, but the gods had eyes. And so did Hestia. The Erinyes cemented her suspicions.

  “Don’t waste your time on errant slaves,” Melaina said, glaring at Hestia. Turning to Lycurgus, she smiled coyly and reached for his hand. “Come, I need your support.”

  Ignoring her flirtatiousness, the man sedately linked his elbow through Melaina’s, escorting her as one might escort an elderly aunt. They walked toward Agathon’s pyre—unaware of the Furies pursuing them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A painting of Zeus, god of the sky, controller of weather and supreme ruler of Olympus, stared down from the frescoed wall, reminding Diodorus of his insignificance. No manmade edifice, not even this substantial monument, could alter the transience of life. Surrounded by dead ancestors, he stood beside his father’s coffin within the courtyard of the family tomb. Agathon had commissioned the sarcophagus from the finest mason in Attica. Bas-relief, exquisitely carved, ran along the sides, depicting a hunt led by the goddess Artemis. Agathon had enjoyed hunting boar in his younger years, dangerous sport. Several times he’d brought Diodorus with him, but Diodorus found little pleasure in driving a spear through the charging pig, no pleasure in watching the animal die.

  As the priest proclaimed the final invocation, Diodorus reminded himself that death was necessary, part of life. His father traveled to a better place, welcomed by Hades, god of the underworld, not to the hell of Tartaros, but to peaceful Elysium.

  The women had departed earlier, gone home to prepare the funerary feast, and only men remained. Lamentation was left to women. Men were expected to be stoic, face death courageously. But as Diodorus stood stone-faced beside his father’s coffin along with other stone-faced men, he felt the weight of Agathon’s departure.

  Someone touched his shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. His father’s business partner stood beside him. At one time the two men had been close as brothers, but lately they had seen little of each other. Despite their rift, Lycurgus had been appointed Kurios by Agathon and consequently served as an advisor to the family.

  “We need to talk,” Lycurgus said. “Walk with me.”

  Diodorus glanced at the gathered men: cousins, friends, acquaintances, most of them statesmen and wealthy businessmen, the leading citizens of Athens. The war hero and statesman, Pericles, had made an offering. He and Agathon had seen eye-to-eye and worked together on numerous building projects. Even Thucydides, the son of Melesias and leader of the Conservatives, had come to honor Agathon, though the two men had often argued about politics. Thucydides was a proponent of the old oligarchy. He wanted to bring back the aristocracy, while Agathon, like Pericles, believed that every citizen should have his say.

  Diodorus looked to the priest, who nodded solemnly, giving him permission to depart. He followed Lycurgus from the courtyard, through darkened chambers of the tomb and out into a cheerful garden. The day had grown warm and brilliant sunshine promised the end of winter rains. Diodorus listened to the hum of insects, smelled the sun-warmed earth and felt better than he had all day.

  “It seems winter has departed,” he said.

  “And none too soon.” Lycurgus clapped him on the shoulder. “In my opinion, funerals are best kept short.”

  “I agree with you,” Diodorus said. “I’d rather focus on life than death.”

  “Yes. Death comes soon enough without encouragement.” Lycurgus glanced at Diodorus. “Do you appreciate the theater?”

  “How could I not and call myself Athenian?”

  “True.” Lycurgus chuckled. “All of Athens is abuzz in preparation for the Great Dionysia. This year I am a sponsor of the festival.”

  “A great honor.” Diodorus assessed Lycurgus with greater scrutiny. Though he had been acquainted with him all his life, he hardly knew the man. They had never really had a conversation. Agathon and Lycurgus had argued bitterly, though Diodorus wasn’t certain of the cause. He knew Lycurgus was wealthy, wealthier than Agathon. In fact, Lycurgus was one of the wealthiest men in Athens. Sponsoring a play at the Dionysia required a vast sum of money. “Which playwright do you back?” Diodorus asked, relieved to distance himself from the funeral and death.

  “Sophocles, of course. I always back a winner. You?”

  “I favor Euripides.”

  Lycurgus snorted. “An upstart. He’ll never outdo Sophocles. His roles depicting women outdo his roles for men.”

  “That’s one reason I favor him,” Diodorus said. “I like strong women, women of intelligence, and I find his views superior to Sophocles.”

  “Do you?” Lycurgus raised a silver brow. “Strong women have their place, and that place is in the bedroom.”

  “Why not politics?”

  “Politics.” Lycurgus spat the word. “You go too far, young man. But, I agree, I prefer a woman of intelligence.”

  The path they walked along meandered past tombs of prominent Athenians, past statues of the dead. Glad for the silence, Diodorus struggled with his sorrow. Agathon had offered guidance. Without Agathon, he felt like a sailor lost at sea with no constellations to guide him—only the faulty light his mother offered. But trusting her to save him from wrecking on the rocks of life was no better than trusting a siren.

  “This way, my boy.”

  Lycurgus led him onto a rise which overlooked the cemetery and its gardens. At the pinnacle, a stone bench stood beneath a shade tree.

  “The sun is hot.” Lycurgus wiped his forehead with a linen cloth and sat. He patted the bench. “You may be young, but I grow old and tired. Sit.”

  Diodorus gazed at the distant mountains. “You and my father,” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “You were close.”

  “Very close in our younger days.” Lycurgus leaned back on the bench. “Neither of us had brothers, so we went into business together, thought of each other as family.”

  “You fought?”

  “We quarreled.”


  “About what?”

  “Money, investments, other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “A woman.”

  Diodorus glanced at Lycurgus. His chiton was woven of the finest wool, his boots exquisite leather, his beard perfectly trimmed. In every way he seemed immaculate. “What woman?” he asked.

  “That was a long time ago. Ancient history.” Lycurgus chuckled. “Tell me about you. What are your plans for the future?”

  “My mother urges me to go into politics.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “I’m not sure. I like seeing different places. I’d like to travel, have adventures like my father.” Diodorus laughed, but quickly sobered.

  “So, you’d like to be a professional soldier? Fight battles in foreign territories? Keep those Persian swine at bay?” Lycurgus stroked his silver beard. “Despite the treaty for thirty years of peace, the Spartans continue to threaten trouble. Plenty of work for hoplites these days.”

  Diodorus shook his head. “I served my time in the navy. I don’t like battles. I like meeting different people, experiencing different ways of life. At heart, I suppose I’m a philosopher. I follow Socrates—”

  “Socrates! Over a bowl of wine, I grant you he’s entertaining. But most of what he spouts is nonsense. A man needs to do something useful with his life. Philosophy has its merits, but traipsing barefoot around the agora, asking questions, is no fit pastime for a citizen.”

  “Fortunately, I’ve inherited wealth.”

  Lycurgus pursed his lips. “Have you seen the ledgers?”

  “No.” Diodorus felt his face redden. “My father took care of business. My interests lie elsewhere.”

  “Beekeeping and philosophy?”

  “Well, yes,” Diodorus stammered. “But now, of course, I’ll have to take an interest in finances.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, my boy. Finances.”

  “Today? At my father’s funeral?”

  “Your father borrowed on his share of our business, for all his crazy building schemes. Housing for the poor—does that sound like a lucrative venture? Your estate owes me five talents of silver.”

  “Five talents? Surely, you jest.”

  “I’m serious as debt.”

  The mirthless eyes Diodorus peered into stared back like tarnished coins. “That’s enough to build a palace. You must be mistaken.”

  “I assure you, I’m not. Your father spent money recklessly.” The man’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Diodorus. “And as Master of the House of Agathon, you’ve inherited your father’s debts. You must pay them or face ruin.”

  “Of course I’ll pay all debts, as soon as—”

  “With what?”

  Diodorus hesitated before speaking, afraid of what he would learn. “Surely,” he said, searching for words, “my father left enough to cover what he owes.”

  “No.”

  Diodorus shook his head, attempting to comprehend his situation. “What am I to do?”

  “Work for me.”

  “Work? What kind of work?” Diodorus looked askance at Lycurgus. A job was something he had not considered. He’d assumed, like his father, he’d live off of investments and his properties.

  “I’m offering you a business proposition.” Lycurgus cleared his throat. “Though I hate to admit it, my bones have grown weary. I have no children, no son to take over my half of the business. I need fresh blood, a young man with energy. I’ll pay you well. And, if you excel, you’ll inherit everything.”

  “What, exactly, is the business?”

  “Trade. Importing and exporting. You’ll have the opportunity to travel, mostly to southeast Attica, but other places too.”

  “Egypt?”

  “Possibly.”

  Diodorus brightened. “I’ve heard about the pyramids. Have you seen them? Is there really an expanse of sand as vast as the sea?”

  Lycurgus patted Diordorus’s knee. “I see you have interest, my boy. The business is financially rewarding, and there’s opportunity for growth. But let’s not discuss the details now. As you mentioned, today is a day of reverence.” Lycurgus stood, and so did Diodorus. “Come to dinner at my house tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Lycurgus placed his hand Diodorus’s back. “Are you willing to leave Athens soon?”

  “I don’t see why not.” The prospect of travel fired Diodorus, as did the prospect of escaping his mother and her dreams of politics. He imagined Melaina’s shock when he informed her that he’d be leaving home. “Of course, my mother will object.”

  “Will she?” Lycurgus smiled, displaying yellowed teeth. “Then you’ll have to stand up to her, won’t you? Your mother doesn’t rule the house. You’re Master now.”

  Diodorus nodded. Still, the prospect of confronting Melaina daunted him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Holding an oil lamp, Melaina found her way through the kitchen. The cook and scullery slaves had finished cleaning and the room stood empty. At the back, near the larder, she descended the stone steps leading to the root cellar. The key slipped into the lock and the door swung open.

  Closing the door behind her, she stood on the landing, glad to be alone. She took a deep breath, attempting to calm herself. Agathon’s funeral had been trying. Ululations still rang in her ears. Placing a hand on her chest, she willed her heart to slow and thanked the gods that the guests had finally departed. The ringing in her ears faded.

  A smile played on her lips. Despite her run-in with Hestia, the day had been successful. Lycurgus had been charming and agreeable. Her idea of convincing Diodorus that the House of Agathon was deep in debt had been a stroke of genius, if she said so herself.

  Removing her son from Athens would provide the time she needed—time to let things settle, to make arrangements, especially in regard to the estate. Of course, she would solicit the help of Lycurgus, and together they would be unstoppable. She imagined accompanying him to the Great Dionysia, sitting by his side along with all the leading citizens of Athens. Diodorus had no head for finances. Like Agathon, he would waste money on worthless causes. In any case, she was doing Diodorus a favor, removing him from Hestia. Given a chance, the girl would destroy his future.

  Holding her lamp high so light spilled down the ladder, Melaina peered into the dark cellar. Wood was expensive, but now that Agathon no longer controlled the till, she planned to build a stairway. Placing her foot on the ladder’s first rung, she shuddered at the creak.

  Despite the day’s success, doubt nagged her. She wondered if she had shown herself to her best advantage. Throwing stones at Hestia might have been an overreaction, but the girl drove her to extremes. Hestia must possess some kind of magical power to escape a locked chest. In any case, she’d proved herself to be disobedient. Surely, Lycurgus had no qualms about punishing a wayward slave. He had never been a man of moderation. Not like Agathon. Lycurgus was a man of action.

  Still, he had made no mention of marriage. Disappointing, but Melaina felt certain his proposal would come soon.

  Meanwhile, she needed to make certain she’d left no incriminating evidence.

  She descended the ladder and dust motes rushed toward her from the dark. The fourth rung wobbled beneath her sandal, not enough to cause alarm, but she hurried down the next five, relieved when her foot touched the hard dirt floor. The ladder’s disrepair provided one advantage: privacy. Slaves feared the descent, and Melaina preferred to keep her lair undisturbed.

  The chamber wrapped around her like a womb. From this darkness sprung all nourishment. Double-handled amphorae containing oil and wine stood along the walls and sacks of barley were piled to the ceiling.

  Opening a side door, she ducked under the lintel and entered her workroom. Her sanctuary. Clusters of herbs hung from ceiling beams. The scent of freshly cut mint and spicy cinnamon enveloped her. She drew the smell into her lungs as if she hadn’t breathed for days, and the tightness i
n her chest uncoiled.

  She set the lamp on a table scored with cuts. Her knives, razor-sharp the way she liked them, gleamed. She surveyed the shelves of earthen jars—at first glance, a jumble of containers, but she had a system. The most potent herbs resided on the highest shelf, making access to them difficult. She dragged a stool across the floor; lifting the hem of her chiton, she climbed. A bundle of rosemary dangled from the rafters. Pushing it aside, her hand brushed a cluster of mandragora root, not to be confused with parsnips. If boiled, the resulting tonic would produce a stupor, but mandragora could also be used as an aphrodisiac. She noted that it might provide a useful potion for Lycurgus.

  She turned her attention to a red-clay pyxis lacking dust, an indication that the jar had been recently moved. Melaina’s reading was limited, but she recognized the label for Hyoscyamus niger, better known as hog’s bean. Though hog’s bean could be poisonous, she used the weed on a regular basis. Applied with vinegar the leaves would dissipate a headache; fumes emitted by burning the stalks eased chilblains and ointment made from the flowers soothed gout. But if ingested, hog’s bean set the heart racing, produced fever, delirium, and death. She opened the lid. Only a few petals remained. Reminding herself to replenish her supply, she replaced the clay pot.

  To avoid the curiosity of prying eyes, the possibility of someone noticing which herbs had been recently used, she decided to do some cleaning.

  Sweeping away cobwebs, she reached for another pyxis. Using her robe, she wiped dust from the lid and stared at the inscription. Belladonna. Dampness had swollen the container. With a sharp twist, she wrenched it open. She ran her fingers through dried berries, sweet tasting and filled with inky juice when she’d picked them last summer, now shriveled to husks. Three berries steeped in goat’s milk would be sufficient to send a grown man into trance.

  She replaced the pyxis and reached for the next: a favorite useful for inducing sleep. The lid opened easily. A strong odor met her nostrils. Many found the scent repugnant, but she found the smell of valerian woodsy and not unpleasant. The dried flowers tasted bitter, but when she made her tinctures she masked the taste with honey.