Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens

by Suzanne Tyrpak

  “What am I signing?” Diodorus asked.

  “Our agreement.”

  Diodorus scanned the scroll, his concentration wavering. From what he gathered, the agreement stated that, after one year of work, he would be free of debt. “I suppose I have no choice but to sign.”

  “You could choose poverty and ruin. Disgrace. Think of your poor mother.”

  Diodorus felt as doomed as the tragic hero, Orestes, his hand forced by circumstance beyond his control. Praying the House of Agathon might have a better fate than the cursed House of Atreus, he dipped the stylus into the inkpot and scratched out his name.

  With aplomb to rival an actor, Galenos blew on the papyrus before blotting their signatures.

  Lycurgus clapped Diodorus on the back. “In one year’s time, your debt will be cleared. This is cause for celebration. Let’s toast to the future.” He raised his wine bowl.

  Diodorus drank, barely noticing the wine’s taste. He told himself the stories he had heard about the silver mines must be exaggerated. Otherwise, how could his father—a man of integrity who cared about people, cared about slaves—have been involved in such a business? And how could he, a follower of Socrates, hope to reconcile his conscience?

  He allowed a servant to refill his wine bowl and told himself he should feel pleased, proud that he had struck out on his own with no influence from his mother. Besides, Lycurgus made a good point, the whole fabric of society depended upon slaves. Slavery was part of the natural order.

  Lowering the bowl, he wiped his mouth. “Five talents is a lot of money for one year’s work.”

  “I promised your mother I’d take care of you.”

  “My mother? What has Melaina got to do with this?”

  “You didn’t know?” Lycurgus chuckled. “The gods know that woman can keep a secret.”

  Diodorus stared at Lycurgus, hoping he misunderstood. “My mother arranged this agreement?”

  “She asked me to offer you work.”

  Diodorus set down his wine bowl. Bile rose into his mouth. In truth, he was no better than a slave—slave to Lycurgus, slave to Agathon’s debt, and slave to his mother. There was no escape.

  “Now tell me more about your girl,” Lycurgus said.

  “My girl?”

  “The girl you lust after, the fabulous slave. Is she a virgin?”

  He must mean Hestia.

  “Of course, she’s virgin.”

  Lycurgus raised a silver eyebrow. “You’ve never dipped into her honey pot? How can you be certain of her chastity?”

  Diodorus wanted to punch the man, but he managed to control himself. “I know her,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “I’ve known her all my life. She’s not like other slaves, not like other women. She’s intelligent, cares about important things. My father taught her to read.”

  “Perhaps Agathon sampled her.”

  Diodorus clenched his fist. “He did not. My father was a man of honor.”

  “Was he?” Lycurgus appeared skeptical. “We all cling to our delusions.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “If the girl’s all you claim she is, I’ll pay twice the going price.”

  Diodorus slammed his fist on the table. “How many times must I tell you? Hestia is not—” His bowl crashed onto the floor, red wine spilling on the priceless carpet.

  “Hestia.” Lycurgus picked up the bowl, returned it to the table. “Named for a goddess. If she means so much to you, why don’t you bed her? Or do you lean the other way?”

  Lycurgus summoned the slave boy, pointed him toward Diodorus. “More wine for my guest, and whatever else he may desire.”

  “I’ve had enough.”

  Diodorus tried to stand.

  Lycurgus pushed him back onto the couch. “The night is young,” he said. “Surely, you won’t offend your host. You can’t leave before dessert.”

  Lycurgus clapped his hands.

  The shrill of flutes pierced the doorway’s curtain, and a trio of scantily clad women danced into the room, flutes lifted to their scarlet lips, their eyes rimmed with kohl. A girl with dark curls led the pack, her muscles defined beneath her glistening skin.

  Despite his efforts not to, Diodorus felt himself respond. He grabbed his bowl and quickly drained it, hoping to quell the rising flames, but the wine only fueled his fire.

  The meeting had left him irritable, as had talking about Hestia. Perhaps he should take her, as Lycurgus suggested. After all, she was his property. Shaking the thought from his head, he watched the dancers, admiring the way they swayed their bodies, their hips jingling with belts of coins, their bodies exuding scent.

  The one with black curls would do.

  Their eyes met, and she snaked toward him, her body undulating.

  “I’m Zosime,” she whispered in his ear, her ample breasts brushing his lips.

  His tongue sought her nipple, and a bolt of heat ran through his groin. He slid his hands along her oil-slicked hips. Feeling the strength of her thighs, he imagined the girl must be a Spartan.

  “Are you a warrior?” he asked.

  “I’d rather play than fight,” she said.

  A skilled entertainer, Zosime slipped her hand beneath his chiton in search of his unfettered instrument. Unable to resist his need, Diodorus gave in to her. Reclining on the couch, he breathed her musk. She played his flute with expert skill, her lips soft and her tongue agile. Settling herself on his lap, she arched her back and moaned—a well rehearsed rendition of ecstasy.

  But, throughout the girl’s performance, his thoughts remained fixed on Hestia.

  Hestia lay on her straw pallet, listening to her bedmate’s steady breathing. Calonice’s face, dark as ebony and scarred with markings of her tribe, appeared peaceful as she slept.

  But Hestia found no escape in dreams. Images of Agathon’s funeral haunted her. Smoke from the burnt offerings lingered in her nostrils, and the mourners’ wails rang in her ears. Touching the cut on her chest, rent by Melaina’s stone, she flinched. The Despoina bore her no love; that much was clear. Athenian law demanded that even slaves be tried before facing punishment of death by stoning, but Melaina had no respect for law.

  Hestia touched the wound again and felt pain within her heart. Perhaps it would be best if she were sold, perhaps she would be safer. If nothing else, she would be saved from loving Diodorus. Saved from incest. Granted, he was her half-brother, and they didn’t share the same mother. Though society might frown upon their coupling, legally they could.

  She felt a gentle touch.

  “What’s wrong?” Calonice asked.

  “Nothing, Callie.”

  “You kicked me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Calonice reached her thin arms around Hestia, holding her in an embrace. “In my homeland there is a river, and the sound of her rushing water is Mother Ala crying with both joy and sorrow.”

  “Who is Mother Ala?”

  “She who gives life to all beings. Ala shows herself as the crescent moon. When night is darkest the crescent moon rises from the underworld to mark a new beginning.”

  “A new beginning.” Hestia felt the warmth of Calonice beside her. She thought about Melaina and what she’d done, not just to her, but to Agathon. She had no proof, and even if she did, nothing would bring him back. She had been happier before he said he was her father, happier to think herself a lucky slave rather than a luckless daughter. She had told no one. Not even Calonice.

  “Do you love him?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who,” Calonice said. “I see the way you look at him, and I see how he looks at you.”

  “I can’t love him, Callie.”

  “Why not?”

  “It would be wrong.”

  “In my homeland they say love is always right.”

  Hestia lay still, thinking about Diodorus, thinking about love. She glanced at Calonice. The girl’s eyes had closed. Asleep, she looked like a child. Calonice knew what it
was to be lonely. Pirates had stolen her from her parents; that’s what she claimed. In all probability, her parents had been eager to sell her. Girls were expendable, and the sale of a daughter might feed a family for a year. Calonice had arrived at the House of Agathon, half-starved and terrified.

  Who will protect her, Hestia wondered, when I am gone?

  Gone.

  She sensed her departure would be soon.

  A gecko scurried across the sloping ceiling before fading into shadows. Life pressed against her, calling her to act, but she felt powerless. Rolling onto her side, she tried to sleep, tried to escape the dilemma confronting her, but the straw pallet offered little comfort. Opening her eyes, she stared at the tiny window—too narrow for even Calonice to crawl through. Beneath the shutter, a line of gray sky appeared. Soon it would be dawn, and her day would begin, emptying chamber pots, scrubbing floors, doing the bidding of Melaina.

  The sound of scratching startled her.

  A white paw poked through the crack beneath the shutters. The paw moved back and forth, claws extending and retracting.

  “Odysseus?”

  Hestia unhooked the shutters. The cat sprang from the window ledge onto her lap. She ran her fingers through his mangy fur. Odysseus arched his back and purred.

  ‘What’s that noise?” Startled from her sleep, Calonice pushed away the covers. Upon seeing the cat, she sprang from the bed.

  Hestia laughed. “Say hello to Odysseus.” Gathering the cat into her arms, she held him out to Calonice.

  Calonice edged away, her eyes wide and frightened.

  “He won’t hurt you.”

  “Spirits live inside of cats.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Grandmother.”

  “Did she? You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  “She’s the one who…”

  “What? You can tell me, Callie.”

  The girl shook her head.

  Hestia set Odysseus down. The cat wandered over to Calonice and rubbed his back against her ankles. Softening, she said, “Odysseus is hungry.”

  “You’re right.” Hestia smiled at the girl, and Calonice smiled back. “I bet he’d like some milk. Want to help me find some?”

  Calonice shook her head, her smile disappearing.

  Hestia removed her chiton from a hook and drew it on.

  “Where are you going?” Calonice asked.

  “To the kitchen.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Hestia touched the doorway’s curtain. Looking back, she saw Calonice trembling. “I’m just going to get milk.”

  “Evil spirits haunt this place.”

  Calonice looked tiny, sitting on the pallet, her thin arms wrapped around her knees. A shiver ran through Hestia. “Of course I’m coming back, Callie.”

  “That’s what Grandmother said when—”

  “What?”

  Calonice sank onto the pallet. Crossing her arms over her narrow chest, she stared at the ceiling.

  Hestia sat beside her, stroked her tangled hair. “What happened that day, Callie?”

  “Don’t look at me.” Calonice closed her eyes.

  Hestia kissed the girl’s forehead. She felt as if the gods had tossed a pebble down from Olympus, a small stone, hardly worth noticing, but it marked the beginning of an avalanche.

  Diodorus kicked a rock. It hit a wall and ricocheted along the street. Lifting his face, he searched the black expanse of sky. The waning moon stared down at him, and stars stretched to infinity, unconcerned with his small life.

  He uncorked the wineskin he’d secured from a tavern and squirted the unwatered brew into his mouth. It tasted like vinegar.

  He’d left the House of Lycurgus hours ago, but he still hadn’t managed to return home. He’d been wandering the streets, tacking back and forth with no direction. Leaning against a column, he gazed at the sky. The tail of the Great Bear pointed toward Arktourus, a constellation he had used to navigate while serving in the navy. He searched for Gemini, the constellation under which he had been born. The Twins tugged his heart in opposite directions. He longed to run away from his responsibilities, run from Lycurgus and the dreaded work he offered, but he owed it to his family—the dead that came before him and those yet to be born—to preserve the House of Agathon.

  “I should have followed in my father’s footsteps,” he shouted at the starry night. Like Agathon, he should have gone to sea and continued traveling. He should have stayed away from Athens, had adventures in foreign lands and returned a hero. Or never returned at all.

  He might have left that very night, might have taken Hestia with him—ancestors be damned—if not for his mother. Melaina stood in his path. She was the common denominator of all his failures. Even now, when he’d become Master of the House of Agathon, she prevented him from being a man, forcing him into the clutches of Lycurgus and a life he didn’t want.

  Melaina seemed to take pleasure in denying him his dreams. Though he risked the gods’ displeasure, he wished his mother had died instead of Agathon. If Melaina were dead, he might even have Hestia.

  Footsteps echoed through the nearly deserted agora. Only a few stragglers remained. Torches flickered in the colonnades, and a figure dressed in white drifted through the stoa’s columns.

  Socrates.

  Attempting intelligent conversation while intoxicated might be torment. Dialogue would lead to questions. Questions better left unasked. Like a fly to poisoned honey, Diodorus felt drawn to the philosopher, drawn to the challenge of a duel of wits, but he forced himself to walk in the opposite direction. Head bowed, he crossed the square, hoping to escape Socrates.

  “There are no limits set to thoughts are there, Diodorus?”

  He came to a halt, felt spray from a nearby fountain. Swaying slightly and struggling for mental focus, he listened to the splash of water.

  “No limit,” he said, turning to face Socrates. He offered the philosopher his wineskin.

  Socrates shook his head. “No thank you. I prefer clarity.”

  “Sometimes a murky mind provides more freedom.” Diodorus took another swig.

  “That, I might debate.” The philosopher stroked his unruly beard. “No amount of wine provides escape from self.”

  “I agree. There is no escape from self. I hold myself hostage.”

  “As do we all. True freedom may only be found in the mind.” Socrates pursed his lips, appearing pensive. “No government, no law, no man can grant me freedom if I hold myself a prisoner. Condemnation of the self, by the self, is most devastating.”

  “That’s why I drink.”

  “And are you happy?”

  “What is happiness?”

  “That’s a good question.” Socrates dipped his hand into the fountain’s pool, rippling the moon’s reflection, allowing silvery water to drip through his fingers.

  Diodorus focused on the light’s elusive shifting. “I suppose happiness is fulfillment of desire, getting what you want from life.”

  “And what do you want?”

  That was easy. Hestia. He wanted to be with her, lie with her. Every impulse in his body screamed it must be so. He lifted his face to the philosopher. “Right now, at the risk of sounding rude, I want to go home.”

  Socrates laughed. “Go in peace.”

  “Go in peace,” Diodorus echoed. Raising his wineskin, he toasted the philosopher and bitter liquid drenched his tongue.

  Peace was the last thing he felt as he left the agora and made his way back to the House of Agathon. By the time he reached the street leading to his house, the wineskin had run dry.

  The screech of warring cats echoed through an alleyway.

  Even after a night of drinking, a night of trying to forget, he longed for Hestia. He told himself he must be careful not to show his feelings, not to stir his mother’s wrath. Melaina had proved that she would stop at nothing to destroy the girl. His mother, ever v
igilant, loomed larger than the moon, threatening his happiness.

  A howl rose from his gut, more tortured than the shrieking cats.

  “Shut up!” someone yelled.

  A door banged shut.

  The stars were spinning and so were the houses. The wineskin slipped from his hands. He staggered toward The House of Agathon.

  My house.

  Welcoming as a tomb.

  He sank onto a step, cold and hard.

  There was little point in being Master if he was slave to Lycurgus. Slave to his mother. Slave to his conscience. If he wanted Hestia, he should take her. Love couldn’t hurt anyone, and he felt certain that he loved the girl. He thought of her constantly, and his body ached to hold her. Surely, that was proof.

  And she must feel the same for him. Passion smoldered in her eyes; no matter how she tried to hide, he saw it. He needed only to stir the embers and flames would take hold. What could his mother do if he coupled with the girl? Let Melaina fly into a rage, threaten to ruin him. It would make no difference. He already felt ruined.

  The stars were fading, and soon it would be light.

  Diodorus staggered up the steps, tried the door, and found it locked.

  Trying not to wake the other slaves, Hestia moved silently along the hallway past drawn curtains of the cells. Odysseus followed, padding behind her. She slipped into the courtyard, the paving stones cool on her bare feet.

  Odysseus darted ahead, a dark silhouette in the night. Hestia glanced toward the stairway that led to Melaina’s quarters. With any luck, the Despoina wouldn’t stir for hours. Odysseus trotted toward the kitchen, tail straight up, as if he knew his destination.

  Hestia pushed open the door, and her nostrils met the smell of meat and herbs. The hearth stood in the center of the kitchen, the stones still warm from last night’s fire. Above it, the ceiling opened, allowing an escape for smoke and a glimpse of stars. In the dim light, she moved past work benches and shelves of pottery. The carcass of a lamb hung from a ceiling beam, along with bunches of thyme, strings of garlic, and baskets of onions. Odysseus pawed her leg.

  “Almost there.”

  She reached the rear of the kitchen, glancing at the steps that led down to the root cellar—a dank cavern she avoided. She entered the larder, a small room that remained cool even in the heat of day, where the cook kept eggs and cheese. Odysseus jumped onto the stone counter.