HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods (9 page)

I thought I might vomit.

My knees shook like willow limbs as I was led to
the foot of the stairs. I glanced down the line at the black Nubians, the
almond-eyed Persians captured during their last unsuccessful campaign, and the
more familiar Greeks, Spartans, and Moesians on display. Most were men,
although there were a handful of tired women and even a few children.

The children made my heart even heavier.

A trader with a thick wooden staff sauntered
behind his stock. He positioned their bodies for best display, even going so
far as to prod between the shoulder blades of an aged, worn man so his
shoulders might square and thus make him appear fit.

“He’ll be sent to toil in the silver mines,”
whispered the old Samothraki.

“How do you know?” I asked, in spite of my fear.

“The mine owners buy those that no other master
will keep. They work them to death in the tunnels.” He whistled through the gap
in his bottom teeth.

I thought he might be afraid for his own fate, but
didn’t ask.

“You are a pretty thing,” he said. “My daughter
was pretty like you. She went to a good household. Do you know Greek law claims
a slave can earn enough coin to buy back their freedom? But not in the mines.” He
gave me a meaningful look. “Never in the mines.”

Coin was coin, for a slave trader. I could not
help but think that if anyone knew of my crimes, I, too, might be sent to the
mines. I hated the thought of working in the deep, silent tunnels under the
mountains. Halls so much like the cursed temple that stole my mother and
brother from me.

I could not die unloved and forgotten under the
earth. I would not. Whatever it took, I swore, I would not.

Live free,
my father had wished.

His words echoed in my head. I saw my mother’s
face and I swore I could smell the sweet scent of her skin. I don’t know
exactly how my thoughts turned from death to regaining my life. But with that
thought planted firmly in my mind, I was led onto the platform.

As soon as my sandaled feet hit the rough timber
planks, I thrust my shoulders back, as Lukra had taught me. I swayed across the
wooden stage, tipped my chin and stared unabashedly at the crowd before me.

There were so many in the marketplace. Wealthy
Greek men, with their curled hair. Some scarce out of boyhood with the smooth
cheeks of babes and others with shaggy beards, well-oiled and perfumed. Even a
few jeweled women, with house slaves and scribes in tow--widows to whom moral
conventions did not restrict to their homes. I sighed inwardly. Perhaps a
wealthy woman would have need for me. I knew enough to serve a lady’s
household.

I tried to catch their eyes, to show them that I
knew enough of womanly things to be a good purchase.

“What are you doing? Lower your eyes!” whispered
the old Samothraki.

I didn’t. It seemed ever to be my nature to not do
as I must.

Well, I would meet my fate with my head lifted. Interested
citizens intent on purchase of a new slave gathered at the wooden platform,
their heads on level with my knees. I forced myself to unclench my fingers from
my chiton and stand still, and even felt a moment’s thanks for Cyrus’ self-serving
gift of a bath and clean clothes.

The two silent boys were bought first, by a
hardened man wearing official robes. Once their price was met, the buyer eyed
me, leaning close to peer at the shard around my neck. He grimaced, and moved
away shaking his head. Then, went the old Samothraki, to a woman, no less. His
eyes flickered once in my direction as he stooped to pick up a heavy basket of
the woman’s belongings. Cyrus stood to my left, in a knot of other traders
hawking their stock. His eyes narrowed and he stroked his stubbled chin in a
way that made my knees quake, until a voice drew my attention.

“See here, Iadmon. A trembling Thracian flower,”
hooted a man, standing near the stocks.

He was dressed richly, if not well. The dark shade
of wool draped on his shoulders did nothing to complement him, for he was short
and pale in every regard. He called to a white-haired man with elegantly
pleated robes and an exceedingly ugly personal servant whose features I recognized
as vaguely Thracian.

The elderly man glanced at me and looked away in
disinterest.

“I have no need for such, at present, Tyrsius,” he
said. He turned his back and continued conversing with a horse trader. The ugly
servant gazed at me with an unreadable expression.

“Hoo hoo, what a face!” Tyrsius, the man in front
of me, called to no one in particular. “I think I shall buy her and give poor
Lydia a respite.”

He staggered over to the stairs and onto the
platform, slopping wine over the edge of a bronze goblet at every step. Other
patrons averted their eyes, clearly embarrassed by his public drunkenness. When
he reached me, he squinted his eyes and peered at the shard on my chest.

“Great Zeus, what a price! Surely this can’t be
right.” He stumbled and I shifted my position to prevent him from trodding on
my foot.

Cyrus strutted onto the platform. “She is
untouched, good citizen. Temple trained and, as you can see, a beauty.”

The man looked at me again. “Untouched, you say? How
can this be true? Is not a Thracian woman synonymous with ‘slave’?”

I felt my cheeks flush.

It was true; many city-states raided our villages
to steal away Thracian women, for the Greeks have ever nurtured a love for that
which is lovely and elegant. They equated the number of Thracian ‘flowers’
adorning Grecian homes as a measure of status. And now, the moment was here. I
was to be sold and to this pig of a man.

I couldn’t bear it!

By now a crowd had gathered at my feet. Buyers
haggling over sturdy men had stopped to eye the noisome man in front of me. Everywhere,
my eyes searched for some good and proper woman to take me into her household. But,
there were none.

“I assure you, she is pure,” Cyrus insisted. I
could tell the gathering throng had heightened his excitement. He fairly rubbed
his hands together in expectation.

Even the elderly man, Iadmon, and his ugly
Thracian servant concluded their business with the horse trader and drew nearer
to the platform.

I stood there, and did my best not to fidget under
the scrutiny of so many eyes. Slavery or death, I wondered. Those not fit for
better service would be sent to die in the mines. Die alone and in the dark. Which
would be worse, I wondered.

I was nervous and so very afraid. My mind flitted
for something unconnected to me, something mundane on which to ponder, that I
might calm my racing heart. I found I could not keep my eyes from the Thracian
servant.

He had a misshapen face, like fresh clay left to
sag. His head was set at an odd tilt, as if something within him was broken,
once, but his eyes were keen and sharp as a blade. I forced myself again to
unclench my fingers from the fabric of my chiton. His gaze flickered to my
hands and his brows lifted well into the folds of his forehead. He stared at me
for some long moments while the drunken man fumbled with his sack of coins and
haggled with Cyrus.

“A Thracian flower, indeed,” rumbled the Thracian.
“What say you, Iadmon? Is she a fine piece to be sweated over by these foolish
boys, like a pack of dogs over a bone?”

I had never heard such a voice before, nor ever
since. Not even Merikos rivaled this man for depth and complexity of tone. He
spoke softly, and yet it seemed his words carried over the noise and cacophony
of the
agora
. Though he did not address his master with
reverence, it seemed to matter little to Iadmon. I wondered what could be
between a master and his personal servant that such liberties were taken in
public.

Iadmon shrugged. “Another riddle, dear Aesop?”

Aesop smiled broadly, transforming his face into a
modicum of attractiveness. “Merely a question to muse, this time. Does not your
wife have need of some new domestic?”

The back of my neck prickled. He played with
Iadmon, much the way Merikos and I had bantered words during my lessons. Could
I gain the interest of this Iadmon as I had my former tutor? Surely this
elderly gent’s wife would not abuse me as the drunken fool before me intended.

“Leave off, Aesop,” slurred Tyrsius, drawing out
his purse from beneath his robes. “Give the girl over to her fate.”

“Fate?” Aesop replied. “Ah, now there’s a question
to be pondered.”

Iadmon crossed his arms before his chest as if
enjoying what was to come.

 “What is fate, after all? Are we not all, men and
women, made from the same clay?” charmed Aesop. The crowd chuckled with
laughter.

Tyrsius tried to interject, but Iadmon waved him
away with a stylish hand.

“What noise is this, Aesop?” said Iadmon. “You
propose that men of all nations should be treated with the same privileges as
the citizens of our beloved Greece?”

Aesop inclined his head and the corners of his
eyes crinkled into deeper ruts in the fleshy skin around his cheeks.

“A spotted cur is the same as a black, is it not? Do
they not all snarl and snap in fear, or bark when threatened?” he responded. The
crowd murmured, and a few nodded. “Can you best judge a dog by the color of its
coat or by the nature of his behavior?”

Iadmon stroked his grizzled chin, clearly
encouraging his attendant’s rebuttal.

Cold clarity flooded over me. This was no game
they played at. I did not know yet, what these two bantered, but I knew the
rules. To answer each question, in turn with another rhetorical question. An
answer that posed a response only through speculation, not absolutes. They
spoke in riddles, but I could glean somewhat of what was being said beneath the
play of words. I had but one moment in which to make myself worthy of their
attention, or relegate myself to the anonymity of a flower fit to be plucked.

I cleared my throat, swallowing the hard lump of
anxiety lodged just below my chin. I must phrase my response carefully. Enough
to gain interest, but not enough to humiliate either party, for what if Tyrsius
should buy me after all? No man will tolerate a woman who will make him look a
fool.

“And which will best determine the fate of that
beast?” I ventured. “Nature? Or the care by which the animal is received?”

All three men, and a good portion of the crowd,
gaped at my response, more so I think because a woman dared to speak than the
cleverness of my phrase. Cyrus’ cheeks mottled with an angry red stain. The
drunken Tyrsius stared at me with a slackened jaw.

Save me
,
I thought.
I
should never have spoken
.

They would neither of them have me, now. I knotted
my icy fingers into my chiton. Better to be a plucked flower than to toil unto
death in the mines. I shifted my feet and waited for the worst to come.

Then, inexplicably, Aesop laughed.

It was a loud, rich, booming laugh, one that
startled the crowd with the breadth of it. Iadmon glanced at his servant and
then he too began to snigger. Soon, it was a full blown chuckle and the whole
crowd laughed until they cried, all save Tyrsius, who wheeled from person to
person shouting.

“What?
What is it?
”

Aesop laughed even harder. Even I could not stop a
smile from touching my lips. Iadmon roared and slapped his attendant on the
back with glee. And Cyrus glared at me with such fury; I thought he would kill
me on the spot. Indeed, he raised his hand to strike me a blow.

“Hold,” gasped Iadmon. He wiped at the tears
running from his twinkling eyes. “Do not strike her. She has done her sex much
good this day. And Tyrsius is a fool who drinks too deeply from the wine cart
seller’s horn. Aesop, pay the man her fee and see that she is brought round to
our home before any other ‘dogs’ gather.”

Quick as a wink, Aesop sobered and tossed a bag of
coins to Cyrus. I think he planned this from the start, to be so ready with
purse in hand.

“Wait,” Tyrsius protested feebly. “She was to be
mine!”

But the deed was done.

“Come, girl.” Aesop took my arm and led me to the
tally master. “Sign your mark to the tablet to record your sale. Can you
write?”

I nodded dumbly.

“Good,” said Aesop. “Be quick about it before that
buffoon says another word. Unless you were hoping to have Tyrsius’ affections? To
elevate yourself through his bedchamber?”

“No.” I shook my head vehemently.

“Humph.” Aesop stroked his beard. “Then you do
have some wit about you. Let’s go home. We shall see what a little care can do
for you, as well.”

My new home, as it turned out, was a rented
dwelling in the finest district of Abdera. Iadmon was a philosopher of sorts
and quite wealthy. His wife ran his main household on the island of Samos, but
for now, Iadmon traveled with Aesop in search of higher learning. His son, Young
Iadmon, we rarely saw although I heard he visited on occasion.

Aesop introduced me to the other slaves and
concubines, most of their names I promptly forgot. I hoped I wouldn’t need to
learn them. Now that I was safely away from the stock markets, I planned to run
away within the week, perhaps back to Perperek. With the press of so many
bodies in the city, I could be long gone before they even noticed I was
missing.

The question at hand was where to run. I trusted
no one and my family was dead. Still determined, I secreted flat bread and a
few olives from our midday meals into the folds of my chiton while I plotted my
escape. I’d need food to make the journey, and it would take time to find an
unused waterskin. After the second day in Iadmon’s household, Aesop asked me to
accompany him to the
agora
. It was an unusual request.

When we turned the corner, I saw several large men
beating a young slave boy in the streets. He wailed in pain. Again and again
their fists struck, sending the boy to his knees. I couldn’t bear it.

“What goes here?” I cried. “Aesop, make them
stop.”

But Aesop would not.

He watched, face impassive as granite, as a man
clubbed the boy with a stout stick. When the slave boy’s bloody, bruised face
struck the stones at my feet, I squealed and turned my face to Aesop’s broad
shoulder, until at last, Aesop drew me away.

“What did he do?” I asked. My hands began to
tremble.

“He ran, Doricha.” Aesop looked at me for a very
long time. “He ran.”

I stopped sneaking bread during meals.

*** ***

The rest of the week, Aesop taught me much about
the life of a Greek slave. I must never use my given name in front of my
master. Iadmon was to assign me one. Until then, the other slaves took to
calling me “girl”, except for Aesop, who enjoyed some special status among us.

There were twelve slaves in the house of
Iadmon--seven women and five men, one of which was the cook. Two female
concubines attended Iadmon’s personal grooming. There were men for the yard,
the animals, and to work the wine and olive presses, but such domestics were
not for me.

I was assigned the lowliest of household
tasks--cleaning the privies and chamber pots. The many pots must be collected
from various parts of the house and taken outside. I tossed the contents onto
the huge refuse pile near the back alley, usually spattering my chiton in the
process, especially if the wind blew in from the sea. Then I had to rinse and
dry the pots, and return them to their positions. After I began my chores, most
of the others avoided me.

Huge, shit-sucking black flies swarmed my eyes and
mouth as I drew nearer the refuse heap. How I loathe insects! I kept my lips
pressed in a firm grimace and tried not to breathe until I could move a few
steps away--only to be forced to return several times throughout the day and
night to repeat the process anew.

It was worse when it rained, which was often
during the storm season. Then the refuse pile became an oozing puddle of foul
rivulets and squirming, pale maggots. I bathed dutifully every morning and
evening, but the scent of decay clung to my hair and my skin. I felt like death
itself, both inside my heart and out. I reeked. The others kept their distance,
which was no hardship for me. I could not trust anyone, anymore. What did I
care if they wanted conversation?

After the shock of my second week of slavery
passed, my stomach burned with Aidne’s treachery and Merikos’ betrayal. If
they’d dared to journey to Abdera, I swear, I would have killed them upon
sight. My right hand prickled and burned as my healing tattoos festered. I
suspected it was from the filth they were submerged in daily.

I screamed when the healer lanced my red streaked,
swollen blisters. I was on fire! He poured wine on the wounds and wrapped them
in a poultice. It made little difference, the following day I was back at my
chores, although I did them with my good hand as much as I could. I wrapped and
rewrapped my sores with clean linens each night before I dropped into an
exhausted, fitful sleep.

Finally my wounds healed. The old, achingly familiar
blue patterns of Dionysus danced across the backs of my hands. If the other
slaves knew what my marks meant, they never said. Such a pattern would be
revered in Thrace, but these ignorant barbarians did not recognize the god’s
touch on my skin. I wanted to go home. I ached for my mother’s smile and my
father’s embrace. I’d give my hair to see Mara again and feared the worst for
her.

I begged the other slaves for news whenever they
returned from the agora. “Were there any Thracian girls there? Did you see a
girl, with hair of gold, at the slave market?”

“There are always girls like that,” they scoffed
and fanned their hands in front of their noses. Had Mara been sold after I
left? I kept after the others, hungry for any tidbit of news. When one of the
men grew frustrated with my pestering and shoved me so hard I fell to the
ground, I stopped asking for news. I was a slave. What good would the knowledge
do me anyway?

My life was an endless cycle of flinging excrement
and gagging from the stench. Still, it was better than mining or working in the
fields beside the men. Anything was better than that. As there was no lady of
the house, Cook oversaw the division of chores--for everyone except Aesop, who
reported only to Iadmon. Well, if Aesop could rise to such a state, so could I.
I needed only to prove myself worthy.

What a futile wish!

“You have been lazing in the sun,” Cook shouted,
even though I’d emptied the last pots as fast as I could. “No meal for you
tonight!”

My mouth dropped open in disbelief. I’d risen
before sunrise to get an early start!

His hand shot out and he slapped me across both
cheeks. “Close that insolent mouth. No food tomorrow, either.”

The sting of his palm seared away my righteous
anger. I glared at him, but didn’t speak.

Iadmon, like few well-to-do masters, had ordered
that we be given adequate meals instead of the leftover scraps. I suspected it
was more out of his love for Aesop, than for decency sake. Some of the other
slaves I’d met at the well were not half so fortunate. But what good are food
and luck when you’re starved into submission?

I went hungry often. The scent of stewed bull-fish
and crabs filled me with anguish. I tried to be dutiful, honestly I did. But
somehow there was always another pot of piss or vomit to be gathered from the
nightly parties and gatherings. I swear Cook must have emptied his bladder more
than the goats gave milk, for how else do you explain the filled vessel that
I’d only just returned?

If I slept past the cock’s crow, I was beaten with
a willow sapling until crimson cuts ribboned my back and legs. Sometimes Cook
beat me for no other reason than I was a Thracian woman and unprotected. My
hands grew raw and chapped and my back constantly ached from either bending or
an unwarranted switching. I saw Aesop’s jaw clench when I winced during a
simple offering ceremony--one of the few luxuries the household staff was
allowed to attend. His eyes darted towards the cook, but he said nothing.

I learned to keep my mouth closed and my ears
open. Better this, than to starve to death on a mountainside. My infrequent
meals would sustain me better than exposure to men and wild beasts, and at
least I had shelter from the elements.

My only blessing was that the others could not
stand my stench, so I was given a very small alcove all to myself. My sleeping
mat was a worn straw pallet, but it was all my own, free of snoring, gassy
bodies. At night, I curled into a miserable ball and tried to picture my
mother’s face. I yearned to feel my father’s warm embrace, but only the bite of
the stone against my back comforted me. I drifted to sleep often too weary and
hungry to even dream.

Live
.
Well, at least I could
fulfill one of my father’s wishes. I
would
live. I had to
survive, if I ever wished to regain my freedom.

In the next months, Cook’s attentions grew worse. He
caught me several times going about my business. At times, I swore he sought me
out. I began to dread the sound of his footfalls. What purpose would he have to
accost me when there was any number of much more pleasantly scented women about
the house? But, there he was…with rough hands and mean eyes.

At the end of one year, I’d reached utter
humiliation. My stained chiton started to pull across my breasts, a sure sign
they were growing. My beatings lessened, but now the cook would pinch and grope
me whenever I was nearby. I went to the other women to beg help, but as I
turned the corner, I saw him grab the buttock of Lyphinna, one of Iadmon’s
concubines. She bobbled and almost dropped a tray of olive oil and combs, but
righted herself in time. She said nothing and did not even look his way as she
left the open air kitchen.

I caught up with her in the hall. “Cook cannot do
that. He touches us whenever and however he pleases. We should tell the
master.”

“Hush, girl,” Lyphinna grunted and cast a dark
glance behind her. “We have no status here. Such is the man’s right of
dominance.”

“It is not his right to fondle me,” I claimed. “Even
I know marriage is forbidden amongst slaves!”

She laughed. “Marriage? Ha, you are a stupid
girl!”

“I am not stupid! I am temple trained for a god’s
pleasure not some filthy Greek!”

Lyphinna turned her eyes on me. I have seen such
eyes many times, in the faces of those who have been slaves for most of their
lives. They were without compassion, without hope--without any emotion at all. Her
expression remained as blank as the stone walls surrounding us and just as
hard.

“Pray to your gods, then. Go on, pray.” She turned
slowly and continued down the hall. “See if they answer you.”

“I will,” I said to her retreating figure. But I
wondered if Dionysus would hear the prayers of an outcast.

The next week, Lyphinna returned late from the
well. She set a large amphora of water on the floor as soon as she entered the
house, instead of in its customary spot. The sight of her stopped me in my
tracks.

Her face and neck were scored with red welts and
one of her large brown eyes was almost swollen shut. Her chiton had been torn
away from her upper body on the left side, and she held it over her breasts
with a trembling hand. She had a bleeding gash in her shoulder joint, just
above her breast. The wound looked suspiciously like teeth marks, set close and
deep, though from what kind of animal, I could not say.

I set down my pots and ran to help her. Why did the
others not move?

“Lyphinna?” I gasped. My hands froze in mid-reach.
I was afraid to touch her. She was trembling all over and I thought for certain
she would collapse.

Instead, she brushed my hands away and wiped the
bloody spittle from her lips with the back of her quaking hand. Then she
tottered down the hall, as if each step was trod upon broken shards of pottery.

“Lyphinna,” I said again. I stared around the
room, as one by one the others began to move. One of the men shook his head and
picked up an amphora before going out to the stables.

“Go back to your chamber pots, girl. There is
nothing you can do.” I did not see who spoke. I did not have to.

In a daze of despair and regret, I picked up my
chamber pot and went out the side yard towards the refuse pile. As I left the
rear courtyard, I saw Cook come in, brushing dust from the front of his short
chiton. He stopped and looked at me for a moment, like a wolf trying to
determine if he should expend the effort to catch his prey. My eyes flew from
him to the house and back. I began to shake. The contents of the pot sloshed
over the edges and soaked the front of my chiton.

The cook curled his lip.

“No meal tonight,” he grunted and went into the
house.

*** ***

When Aesop walked in the next morning and found me
pinned against a column, and Cook with his hand on my breast, his bushy brows
furrowed like dark clouds gathering before a storm. Aesop gave Cook a scolding
about the rights of slave property and sent me to the women’s quarters to darn
and weave from now on. Thus my chamber pot duties ended, and all because Cook
found my breasts worthy.

I was so grateful, I didn’t care.

My fingers peeled and blistered from carding wool
and twisting it to be spun, but the tasks were superior in comparison to
emptying piss, so I did not complain. Weaving was not the greater glory of
dance or song, true, but better this than to die alone and unloved in the
streets of Abdera. It was a trade skill, and a useful one at that. Perhaps I
could take in extra coins to buy my freedom.

I dreamed nightly of Mara, my father and, of
course, my precious mother. How many of these low tasks did she perform at the
temple, so that I might have been trained? I was selfish not to have seen her
disgrace. Was this how she felt--forced to the lowest drudgery at the temple
where once she’d been a prize? I had been blind in so many ways.

In the months that followed, I kept well out of
Cook’s way, or made certain Aesop was within hearing. It meant I had to sneak
cheese and bread to my alcove at night, or go hungry, but that was a small
price to pay to reduce Cook’s attentions to me. It was not Cook’s notice that I
most secretly hoped to gain, for he was also a slave and therefore could be of
no use to me.

After two months, I noticed a goodly amount of
frothy spew in the chamber pots, most of them near the women’s quarters. When I
commented on Lyphinna’s pale and sweating face, I was told to hush. Two weeks
later the news was confirmed. Lyphinna was with child. Normally such would be
cause for joy, but for a concubine or slave it is dreadful news. We are not
only forbidden to marry, we are not allowed to nurture children. Lyphinna’s
babe would be sold or left out in the elements to die--its fate for Iadmon, our
master, to decide.