Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (11 page)

Diodorus stirred.

“Wake up!” Melaina shook his shoulder.

“What?” He sat, rubbed his eyes, and stared at Melaina. “What are you doing, Mother?”

“The question is what have
you
done?”

His eyes moved to Hestia, unwavering and clear. All the fear she felt, disappeared under his gaze.

“I intend to marry Hestia.”

“Marry her!”

“Calm yourself.” Diodorus pushed aside the bedcovers and stood, facing his mother.

“Calm myself?” Spittle flew from her mouth. “Of course you can’t marry her.”

“She’s right,” Hestia said. “May the gods forgive us.”

“Forgive us for what?” Diodorus moved toward her, trying to get past Melaina. “Marrying will make it right.”

“Nothing can make it right. I’m your—”

“Not another word!” Melaina looked from Diodorus to Hestia. “No one must know. No one must ever know.”

“But, Mother—”

“Leave us, Hestia.”

Hestia started for the door.

“She’s done nothing wrong.”

“I said go!”

Hestia turned back to Diodorus. “I do love you,” she said, before disappearing through the curtains.

Diodorus started after her, but Melaina grabbed his arm, digging in her talons.

“How could you?” she said. “How could you do this to me?”

“Do what to you? My feelings for Hestia are not your business.”

“
You
are my business. You’re my son. I’ve sacrificed everything for you.”

Diodorus stared at the woman who stood before him, the woman he called Mother. Bitter lines tugged at her mouth, and her eyes exuded not just hatred, but something darker. He felt as if he didn’t know her.

“You’re tired,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

“Sleep? How can I sleep?”

“Well, I need rest.” Diodorus tore open the curtain. Walking quickly through the narrow corridor, he noticed curtains swaying, saw faces peering at him as he passed. The entire house would know by daybreak, and all of Athens would be whispering by evening. He broke into the courtyard, glad to feel the cool night air. He glanced around, hoping to see Hestia, but saw only the strange girl, Calonice.

She stood in the center of the courtyard. Pointing at the sky, she said, “In my homeland, we say, it is the same moon that wanes today that will be the full moon tomorrow.”

“Where’s Hestia?”

His mother’s claw came down on his shoulder. Something bit his arm, and he slapped at it, thinking the mosquitoes must be early. He faced his mother. “I’m going to bed, and I suggest you do the same.”

Melaina stared at him, said nothing in reply.

“Goodnight, Mother.” He started for the men’s courtyard.

“When were you going to tell me?”

“What?” He turned back.

“You’re leaving Athens, aren’t you?”

“In the morning, but you already knew that, didn’t you? According to Lycurgus, you planned it.”

Lamp light played over Melaina’s face. “How do you feel?” she said.

“I feel—” Diodorus rubbed his eyes. His vision seemed a bit blurry.

“You look unwell.”

“Too much wine.” He tried to focus. “Don’t change the subject, Mother. You planned my departure with Lycurgus, didn’t you?”

“Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for your own good.” She moved toward him.

“Good?” Diodorus laughed. “That word’s in your vocabulary?”

“Do you hear that?” Melaina swatted at the air. “That buzzing noise. It comes and goes.”

“Mosquitoes,” he said. Melaina stood in front of him, her face shifting in the lamplight. “You’re tired, Mother. Go back to bed.”

“How dare you tell me what to do?”

“I’m merely suggesting…” Diodorus shook his head. The paving stones wobbled beneath his feet. The moon seemed to be growing larger, the world spinning.

“Sweet dreams.” Melaina raised the lamp, her face frightening in the light.

The lamp struck his skull, blinding him with pain. Flames carried by the oil leapt toward him, and he batted them away. He stumbled, attempting to escape, but Melaina struck again. Her face swam before him, ugly and distorted. She raised her arms, spreading them like wings, and the last thing Diodorus saw before he crashed into darkness was a screeching harpy.

My handmaid, raise the offerings of many fruits,

so I may lift my prayers to our master,

for deliverance from my present fears.

Lend a gracious ear, O Phoebus our defender,

to my words, though they are dark;

for I speak not among friends,

nor is it wise to reveal all my thoughts to the light,

while she stands near me,

lest with her malice and her garrulous cry she spread some rash rumor throughout the town:

but hear me say this, since in this way I must speak.

—
Sophocles,
Orestes

T
he oxcart arrived midmorning, just as Lycurgus promised, along with two guards bearing spears.

Diodorus remembered waking from his stupor, his mother’s face peering into his. She’d said something about an accident, said he’d come home drunk, slipped and hit his head. He recalled leaving the House of Lycurgus, recalled stopping at a tavern. After that, the evening was a blur.

Diodorus couldn’t stop thinking about Hestia. He had dreamed of her all night. But when morning came, she had been nowhere to be found.

He ran his fingers through his hair, felt a lump. His head felt as if it were being squeezed by a vice. The sway of the oxcart didn’t help. He rubbed his forehead. Each bump caused a sharp pain.

Somehow, he’d gotten through the morning. Servants had packed his clothing, and the cook had supplied him with baskets of food. He sat beside the driver—a burly man twice his size—trying to piece together what had happened the night before. The driver cracked his whip, but it had little effect on the ox, and the cart continued to bump along slowly. Diodorus glanced at the guards keeping pace behind them.

“Why are they here?” he asked the driver.

“Insurance.”

“For the supplies?”

The driver glanced at Diodorus, his expression surly. “Don’t want to lose anything during transport.”

Diodorus felt like a boy being escorted to school by a pedagogas to ensure his safe arrival, except these men appeared to be hired brutes.

The walled road to the port of Piraeus was less than four miles, but the journey seemed to take forever. The road, filled with ruts and jagged stones, was too rough for the speed of a chariot. Most people made the trip on foot, some rode on donkeys. By mule, the trip would take just over an hour, but an oxcart could not be hurried. The more the driver whipped the animal, the less progress they seemed to make.

This gave Diodorus time to think as he sat, slumped and half asleep, beside the driver. The night had been filled with dreams, filled with Hestia. Pieces began to surface. The smell of her hair, the taste of her skin. The dream seemed so real. He sat up straight, his senses suddenly sharp.

It hadn’t been a dream.

He remembered telling Hestia he loved her, remembered his mother shouting.

“Go back,” he told the driver. “I need to return to Athens.”

The man shook his head. “No going back.”

“Then let me off. I’ll walk.”

“I can’t let you do that.” Flexing his massive biceps, the driver cracked the whip again. “The Master gave me strict orders. You’d best sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“I said stop.” Diodorus grabbed the reins and brought the oxcart to a halt. He jumped from the cart, and the guards met him.

“Move,” he said, attempting to sidestep them.

Their spears pointed at his gut.

“Get back in the cart,” the driver said.

Diodorus assessed his situation. His head screamed and his legs felt weak. Even if he reached into his boot and found his dagger, he was no match for these three men. Lycurgus held him prisoner. Seething at the realization, he took his seat beside the driver.

The wagon jerked along, carrying him to his destiny.

He tried to piece together exactly what had happened. He remembered signing papers, remembered agreeing to work for Lycurgus. Blinded by wine and trust, he’d signed away his life and now he couldn’t break the contract. He wished Agathon were there to guide him. But Agathon had been the one to land him in this trouble, driving the family into debt. In reality, Diodorus realized, he’d become an indentured servant.

He shook his head, hoping to clear it.

However he studied the situation, his choices were limited. If he chose to run, he would be forced to flee Athens or face imprisonment, a trial, and, ultimately, banishment. No closer to paying off his debt, he would be forced to spend years away not just from Athens, but anywhere in Attica. Years away from Hestia. His only course, it seemed, was to move forward and serve his time working for Lycurgus. In one year, he would return to Athens and claim Hestia.

Claim her as what? His hetaera?

Pieces of the night floated back to him. He had taken Hestia’s virginity, pledged to marry her. But how could he marry her if she were not Athenian? Perhaps she was. Perhaps the ring she claimed to be her mother’s was proof. Maybe that was why Agathon had given her the ring.

Thinking about the situation exhausted him. His eyelids drooped.

The ring coiled around his thoughts, snaking through his mind—the serpents’ eyes glinting, their bodies writhing. They grew larger, into the size of cobras, their mouths opening to display sharp teeth.

The cart lurched to a stop and his eyes flew open.

The driver cursed Hermes, god of travel.

A shepherd stood in the middle of the road, shouting at his flock of sheep, urging them to move. A red-faced farmer approached the shepherd, shook his fist and yelled. A ram had overturned the farmer’s cart. Cabbages, onions, and leeks littered the road. Meanwhile, goats wandered onto the road from a nearby hill, bells tinkling around their necks, and promptly began to feast.

Diodorus climbed down from the wagon, the guards close at his heels.

“Can’t a man take a piss?”

They stood back, watching.

He glanced at the sky, the sun already past mid-heaven. He tried to recall his dream, but it had slipped away. He only remembered the ring.

He took a deep breath, hoping the salt air would revive him, and relieved himself against the wall that ran along the road. Recently built, the long wall provided protection for Athenians and allowed the navy access to its port. Diodorus remembered walking this road with Agathon, remembered how proud his father had been of the long wall. Agathon often extolled the benefits of being an Athenian. He often spoke about the glory of Athens, the city-state greater than any other, the state that had defeated the Persians. Sparta might glorify war but Athens glorified truth, beauty, democracy. Aspirations rivaling the gods’. Great civilizations had flourished and vanished—the fearsome Mycenaeans and their war with Troy, the Minoans of Crete who built fantastic palaces and worshipped a bull—but Agathon felt certain that Athens would survive the test of time. Diodorus did not share his father’s faith. Beneath the city’s fine veneer, he sensed corruption. Except for leaving behind Hestia, he felt glad to be leaving Athens.

Finally, the farmer’s cart was righted, his vegetables retrieved or eaten by stray goats. The driver cracked his whip, and the ox lifted his head from a clump of wildflowers. The wooden wheels began to roll, and Diodorus swayed precariously as he steadied baskets of provisions. The guards took up their spears and trudged behind the cart.

Resolving himself to his fate, Diodorus felt the allure of an impending adventure. Of course he would miss Hestia, but he looked forward to the freedom of the sea, the freedom of being on his own and away from his mother.

Hestia sat huddled in the corner of a holding cell.

Men had come that morning, just past sunrise. Led by Melaina, they searched the house until they’d found Hestia hiding in the back room of the kitchen. She’d begged to see Diodorus, pleaded to speak with him, but Melaina insisted he’d gone out. In front of the other servants, she stripped Hestia of her clothing and forced her to wear a robe of sakkos, coarse cloth made from the hair of animals that made her skin itch and caused a rash to creep over her back.

Melaina’s parting gift had been the cruelest, a gift that Hestia would always remember. She still saw her severed hair, golden curls held like a trophy in the gorgon’s claws. No doubt, Melaina planned to crown herself with the glory of her slave’s humiliation.

Then the men dragged Hestia from the house, forced her to walk between them to the marketplace.

Hugging her knees to her chest, she tried to disappear into the corner of the cell. She felt as if no part of her was sacred, every part a commodity to be bought and sold. Except her heart. Her heart belonged to Diodorus.

But maybe he didn’t want her heart. Maybe he had lied to her. He must have lied. Otherwise this would not be happening. He wouldn’t allow her to be ripped from the only home she knew, to be locked in a filthy cell, to be sold to the highest bidder like an animal. The things he’d said, the way he’d touched her, obviously meant nothing. After all, what was she but a slave, a girl to be used and thrown away?