Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (13 page)

“Open your mouth, girl.” When she didn’t comply, he stuck his fingers between her lips, prying them apart. “Still white and unbroken.”

She clamped down her teeth and he cried out.

“Medusa’s teat! Another biter. You saw what happened to your cellmate. I’ll sell you to the silver mines.”

Hestia looked him squarely in the eyes. Slaves sent to the mines were sold for a pittance and this man craved profit. His chiton, woven of fine flax, was girded by a rope of silk, gold rings dangled from his earlobes as was the custom in his homeland, and he wore sandals mimicking a rich Athenian.

“What are you staring at?” He grabbed a length of rope and twisted it around her wrists. He grinned at her. “They claim you’re still a virgin.”

“And they say you’re an idiot.”

Shoving aside her robe, he reached for her breast. Before his fingers found their destination, her knee met his crotch.

He doubled over, groaning.

Amazed at her own power, Hestia watched with fascination as the man hawked and spat, clutching his private parts. Recovering, he tugged the rope that tethered her, jerking her so close that she could taste the garlic on his breath. The rough rope cut into her wrists.

“Don’t try that again.”

“You’re hurting me.”

“Know how I punish slaves like you?” Releasing the rope, he picked up an iron rod and slapped it against his palm. “Some methods leave no outward signs.”

Clenching her jaw, Hestia warned herself to keep her mouth shut. The man wasn’t worth the pain he might inflict.

He dragged her from the holding cell, out of the jail, and into the agora. The marketplace was packed with citizens and merchants, farmers and their animals, acrobats and soothsayers. The slave monger jostled Hestia through the crowd, people gaping at his captive. He pushed Hestia up the steps leading to the kykloi, a circular platform set in the center of the agora. Beyond the gathered crowd stood marble buildings including courts of law, the mint, and the colonnaded stoa—its columns painted white, in bold contrast to colorful friezes. For thirty years the acropolis had lain in ruins, destroyed by the Persians, but Pericles had begun to rebuild the temple dedicated to Athena. Above the agora, high on the hill, cranes taller than ten men were used to set the heavy stones. Even now, slaves turned massive wheels, moving pulleys and placing interlocking drums of marble one on top of the other—segments of the Doric columns which marked the entrance of the Parthenon. Whispering a prayer to Athena, Hestia hoped the virgin goddess might help her retain her dignity.

The slave monger pushed her toward the eager crowd, and she stumbled across the auction block. The monthly slave market provided catharsis for the poor, as if Hestia’s wretched fate forestalled their own misery. Hungry faces gazed up at her. Well-fed faces stared down from shaded tiers where rich Athenians sat on cushioned benches. Hestia searched the crowd for Diodorus, but saw no sign of him.

“A fine piece of merchandise,” the slave monger shouted to the crowd. Clamping his sweaty hands on Hestia’s shoulders, he spoke so only she could hear, “Smile. Show them those teeth, and maybe they’ll overlook your deformed foot. No one wants a slave who limps.”

She clenched her jaw, determined to betray no emotion as he loosened the knot that secured the chiton at her shoulder. The cloth fell to her waist. Her knees felt weak, and lights flashed across her vision. Her hands moved toward her chest, but the slave monger tugged the rope, preventing her from covering herself.

“Bidding starts at one hundred drachmas,” the slave monger shouted. “One mina; do I hear one mina?”

No one responded and Hestia cringed. One hundred drachmas was low for a slave. Most sold for two or three hundred.

“She’s damaged,” someone called out. “I’ll give you fifty.”

“Fifty?” The slave monger sounded incredulous. “How do you expect me to feed my family?” Cupping a breast in his palm, he flicked Hestia’s nipple with a manicured fingernail. “Nothing wrong with this,” he said.

“Is she a virgin?”

“I tested her myself.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, followed by catcalls.

Hestia lowered her eyes, felt the heat of shame.

“A bargain,” the slave monger said. Having gained the audience, he grew more confident. Running his fingers over Hestia’s shorn scalp, he said, “Guaranteed, no fleas and no lice. Plunge your stick into this honey pot without worry of getting stung.”

The crowd roared with laughter.

Someone offered seventy-five drachmas.

Another bid one hundred.

Biting her lip to stop the tears, Hestia searched the sky. In hope of what? That the gods on Olympus might notice her? The sun peeked over buildings, casting shadows sharp as daggers. Her gaze traveled the agora, rows of tables stacked with vegetables, butcher stalls where meat hung from the joists, wine shops lined with double-handled amphorae. Beyond the market stood the Court of Law and Temple of Hephaestus, girded by colonnaded walkways where Sophists gathered to argue philosophy. But there was no justice at the marketplace, no discussion about life’s meaning, just price according to demand.

“One hundred drachmas.” The slave monger puffed his cheeks and pursed his lips, making a rude sound. “You’d pay more for a donkey.”

“One hundred-fifty drachmas; that’s my limit.”

“You’d pay more for a horse.”

“The nag is lame.”

“That’s a plus. She can’t run away from you, old man.”

More laughter. More shouting.

Hestia cursed Melaina, cursed Agathon and his lies. How could the Master she had loved and honored, the Master who claimed to be her father, have allowed her this humiliation? She focused on the Court of Law, white and shining on this brilliant morning. Her gaze fell on a man who walked along the stoa’s colonnaded walkway. His feet were bare, and the himation draped around his shoulders dragged behind him. He stopped walking, as if he sensed her desperation, and turned to look at her. She had never met the man, but she recognized Socrates.

Even from that distance, kindness flooded from his heart to hers and gave her courage.

“Going once. Going twice. Do I hear two hundred?”

The slave monger released the belt girding Hestia’s chiton, and the fabric pooled around her feet. A murmur went through the crowd, followed by a hush. Perhaps she imagined it, but as the sunlight touched her body, she felt golden as the statue of Athena.

“Two hundred-fifty!”

“Three hundred.”

The crowd cheered, stomped their feet, and more bids followed.

Hestia couldn’t bear to look at them. Her gaze reached beyond the crowd to Socrates. A silver-haired man approached the philosopher. Hestia recognized Lycurgus, Agathon’s business partner. Socrates did not seem pleased to see him. Nodding curtly, the philosopher continued walking.

Lycurgus leaned against a pillar, his gaze fixed on Hestia.

She looked away and then looked back. He moved toward the kykloi, his fine robes billowing like sails. The glory she had felt quickly dissipated and, despite the sun’s heat, she shivered. Her mouth felt dry, her legs unsteady.

Her heart cried out for Diodorus, even as she thanked the gods that he had not appeared to witness her humiliation. A tear spilled from her eye and carved a path along her cheek. She’d been a fool to imagine she might escape destiny, a fool to believe that Diodorus loved her.

The crowd parted as Lycurgus approached the stage.

“She’s trained in the household arts,” the slave monger said, motioning grandly as the bids escalated. “Reads, writes, knows two plus two equals four—”

“What’s your name, girl?” Lycurgus stood beside the stage. His eyes, deep-set and hooded, focused on her.

Her mouth felt dry. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible.

“Speak up.” The slave monger prodded Hestia, but his tone had softened with the possibility of a better price. “This is your chance, girl. Lycurgus is the richest man in Athens.”

In Lycurgus, she saw a predator.

“My name is Hestia.”

“Virgin goddess of the hearth.” The man smiled, but his black eyes held no light. “And do you live up to your reputation, Hestia?”

His condescension sparked her anger, and she no longer felt afraid. “Hestia is the name my father gave me,” she said. “You knew him well—Agathon of Athens.”

“Impertinent fool,” the slave monger growled, clamping a hand over her mouth. “I’ll cut out your tongue, you ungrateful—”

“Ten minae.” Lycurgus held up a heavy leather pouch, jangling the contents.

The crowd fell silent. Ten minae, a thousand drachmae—the price paid for a chariot of the highest workmanship, the price of a prize-winning stallion.

“Sold!”

Lycurgus threw the money pouch onto the platform. The leather split, gushing a small fortune.

Dropping to his knees, the slave monger scrambled after coins.

Acid filled Hestia’s mouth and she felt light-headed. Closing her eyes, she imagined she could fly. A breeze swept through the marketplace and caught her wings. She raised her arms, the breeze lifting her beyond the stench of carcasses and rotting vegetables, the stench of bartering a person’s life. She flew over the buildings of the acropolis, beyond the city gates, sweeping toward the lapis Aegean. She flew higher, passing through a veil of clouds toward the blazing sun, soaring toward the promise of its fire, the promise of oblivion.

“Deliver her to my house,” Lycurgus said.

The slave monger clamped his hand on Hestia shoulder. The force made her falter. And, like Icarus, she tumbled back to earth.

T
he House of Lycurgus stood on the road leading to the acropolis. The sprawling palace, a fortress cut into the rocky hill, overlooked a maze of alleyways lined with mud-brick houses which had sprung up with little planning. Though the view lacked majesty, the location offered the benefit of being close to the theater and the pulse of city life.

As the slave monger led Hestia along the winding road, she focused straight ahead and tried not to think of Diodorus. He had abandoned her. Perhaps because she’d said she couldn’t marry him or maybe Melaina set her claws so deep that he could not escape. Of one thing Hestia felt certain. Diodorus was not the man she’d imagined him to be.

“This way please,” the slave monger said.

Since receiving his substantial payment from Lycurgus the man’s attitude toward Hestia had improved. Leaving the main road, he led her along a shaded path. Plane trees formed a canopy; filtered light dappled the paving stones and danced on marble nymphs and satyrs. The House of Lycurgus rose before them, not two stories, but three. The white walls gleamed, and the red terra-cotta roof appeared immaculate. Agathon had relayed tales about Persian palaces, rambling complexes large enough to house a harem and a hundred slaves. Hestia thought of them as she approached the edifice.

At the bottom of the steps leading to the entrance stood a statue of Priapus—short, fat and balding, his phallus erect and swollen beyond proportion. They climbed the marble steps arriving at a brightly painted portico and a massive door made of precious oak, the tree sacred to Zeus. The slave monger lifted the heavy doorknocker, and before it fell a second time, the peephole slid open. The bolt unlocked.

The most flamboyant creature Hestia had ever seen stood in the doorway, his head grazing the lintel. He wore a yellow tunic that fell in folds to his ankles. His face, pale as the moon, seemed to be painted, and his body appeared to be as soft as a woman’s. Hestia guessed the man to be a eunuch, a practice favored by Persians.

“You must be Hestia,” he said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

He pressed a coin into the slave monger’s palm, before shutting the door in the man’s face.

“Riffraff,” he said, rolling his eyes.

A group of servants had gathered in the spacious antechamber, so many Hestia couldn’t count them. Her legs shook so badly, she feared her ankle might fail. She imagined herself falling, face-forward, in the middle of the foyer.

The eunuch grinned at her, before turning to the servants.

“Let’ welcome Hestia—the newest addition to our household.”

“And the loveliest,” someone said.

“Zosime, might take offence at that,” another person added.

“Don’t be foolish.” A woman with intense eyes and long, black curls approached Hestia. She moved as gracefully as a dancer, and though she smiled, Hestia sensed a lack of warmth when she said “Welcome.”

The servants clustered around Hestia. Their faces appeared friendly, but their fists were raised. Something pelted her, and she covered her face, expecting to be beaten.

A cacophony of voices cried out.

“Welcome!”

“Good health!”

“Be prosperous!”

Opening her eyes, Hestia was amazed to find that she stood in a rain of figs and nuts, as if she were a bride. Her fellow slaves continued to bombard her, laughing and shouting. Finally, the rain subsided.

“Back to work, everyone,” the eunuch said, dispersing the crowd.

He led Hestia across the tiled floor of the foyer. The mosaic depicted Eros, his bow armed with a flaming arrow, as he chased the nymph, Psyche, through the woods. Wings budded from Psyche’s shoulder blades, transforming her into a butterfly.

Love, the poets claimed, transformed the soul. Hestia shook her head. What did poets know?

With deliberation, she placed her foot on the flaming arrow, hoping to smother it. Love provided fickle light to the dark cave of the soul. Better to live by the words of Sophocles,
there is no such thing as a lover’s oath.

“Cheer up,” the eunuch said. “Don’t drag your feet. You look as if you’ve been condemned to die.”

“Is the Master kind?” Hestia asked.

“Kind?” The eunuch laughed. “What does kindness have to do with the price of barley? The Master is rich, and he has chosen you.”

“Chosen me for what?”

Perhaps the eunuch hadn’t heard her, because he didn’t answer.

They passed through one courtyard into another, but Hestia paid little attention. She felt as if she were walking in a dream, transported to some life other than hers.