Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (14 page)

A sharp screech made her jump.

“What’s that?” She glanced around a lushly planted courtyard, seeking the source of the tortured scream.

The eunuch chuckled. “Have you never seen a peacock?”

A brilliant, blue bird strutted along the path in front of them, amazing Hestia when its tail opened like a fan. The bird screeched again.

“Come along,” the eunuch said. “We need to make you presentable.”

He led her into a room filled with luxuries to rival a king. The floor was strewn with carpets, their intricate designs woven in the colors of gemstones. Couches, plush with cushions, surrounded low tables inlaid with iridescent shells, coral, turquoise and lapis-lazuli. A mural covered the wall—a voluptuous woman, in an impossible position, accommodating two satyrs.

“What is this place?”

“This is the entrance to the bath, a room in which to relax.”

The House of Agathon had a bath, but nothing this spectacular. In awe, Hestia looked around the chamber.

“Why am I in here?” she asked. “This doesn’t appear to be a room for servants.”

“There are many slaves in this household,” the eunuch said. “But the Master intends to give you a special place.”

“A special place? Why?”

“Apparently, you’ve come highly recommended.”

Hestia could not imagine Melaina recommending her highly. She studied the eunuch with curiosity. At first, she’d thought his face effeminate, but now she saw a fierce determination.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“The past bears no consequence. The present is what counts.”

“The past has a bearing on the future.”

“For slaves, like you and me, the future is determined by our Master’s will.”

“What of the gods? Do they have no say in mortals’ destinies?”

“Lycurgus is the only god to whom you answer. He is the god to whom you sacrifice.” His eyes met Hestia’s.

Within the dark reaches of his soul, she recognized pain and understood that he had suffered greatly, suffered still.

“He cut you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he cut me.”

“Why?”

The eunuch glanced around the room as if someone might be listening. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you? He cut me because I disobeyed. Take that as a warning. Lycurgus may play the part, but he is not a gentle man.”

Hestia searched his eyes, sorrow flooding her. “You had a wife and children, didn’t you?”

“Who told you?”

“I see it in your heart. Where is your family now?”

“By the gods,” the eunuch cleared his throat, spoke in a hushed tone. “You have a rare gift, girl. Mind you guard it. Some might take offence.”

Hestia spoke softly too. “What of your family?”

“My wife is dead. I pray my daughter and son remain alive on Samos.”

“Samos? You’re a survivor of the revolt?”

“We dreamed of independence. I imagined myself a hero, but now I’m half a man.”

“Your heart is as whole as any warrior’s.”

“And you’re a strange one. Has anybody told you that?”

Hestia smiled. “Not in the past hour.”

The eunuch laughed, and she knew they would be friends.

“Come.” He led her through another doorway into a steamy bathroom—a room ten times larger than the bath at Agathon’s. Water dripped from the stone walls, and the floor felt slick beneath her feet. A tub stood in the middle of the chamber. Not the usual basin—only large enough for one person to sit in—but wide and deep, a tub almost as large as the pools at the public bathhouse.

“A few words of advice,” the eunuch said, bending to whisper in her ear. “Don’t ask too many questions, and tread lightly with Zosime.”

“Tell me your name.”

“When they don’t call me Boy, my name is Galenos.”

“Calm. And are you calm by nature?”

“I’ll leave that for you to decipher.”

“Good to meet you, Galenos.”

“Just do as you’re told,” he said, gruffly. “And stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t mind him,” a voice floated through clouds of steam. “He may seem calm on the surface, but rage boils inside of him.” The woman called Zosime approached, a linen towel draped in her hands. Her eyes ran the length of Hestia’s body, her full lips hinting at a frown.

A rivulet of sweat ran down Hestia’s face, plopped onto the floor.

Despite the heat, Zosime appeared cool. Turning to Galenos she said, “She’s still a child. What does the Master see in her?”

“Youth?”

“Lycurgus prefers experience.”

“Experience can be learned.” Galenos said. “Get the oil, Zosime.”

“Speaking of oil, can you guess what makes Galenos full of vinegar?” She watched Hestia, waiting for an answer.

Hestia shook her head. The woman made her feel uncomfortable.

“His cock won’t cock. What use is a man without balls?”

Galenos examined his fingernails. “What philosophy do you follow, Zosime? Or is the word philosophy too large for your tiny mind?”

“Nothing’s too large for me, Galenos. You should know that by now.” Zosime snapped a towel at him, as if warding off a dog. “Back, Boy, back.”

“Bitch.”

“Men.” Zosime gave Hestia a knowing look. “They think they’re so intelligent, but it’s easy to outsmart them. Stroke their ego and their head swells—both of them. Inflate their…
ego
, and they’ll give you anything you want. Isn’t that right, Galenos? Or does your lack of balls make you forget how the game is played?”

“Don’t test me. I’m a champion at any game involving balls.” The eunuch turned to Hestia. “Remove those rags and get into the water.”

Embarrassed to get undressed, Hestia hesitated. Galenos might be a eunuch, but he was still a man.

Zosime laughed. “The girl’s shy. How quaint.”

“I find her innocence refreshing,” Galenos said. “Of course, it’s been decades since you’ve been innocent, Zosime. If you ever were.”

Zosime shot him an angry glance.

“Forgive Zosime. She’s Spartan,” Galenos said. “She’s used to running around naked in front of men.”

Zosime flexed her arms, displaying impressive biceps. “If we fight, you know who’ll win, don’t you Galenos?”

“A battle of brains or brawn?” Galenos muttered. He turned his back to Hestia and covered his eyes. “Get undressed. I promise not to look.”

She slipped out of the chiton, glad to be free of the scratchy sakkos. Glancing at Galenos to make certain he wasn’t watching, she unwrapped the strophium that bound her breasts and lowered her body into the bath.

“How’s the temperature?” Galenos opened a valve and hot water, carried through clay pipes, cascaded into the tub.

Hestia watched the gush of water with amazement. Running water was a luxury she had only seen in public baths.

“What’s wrong with your foot?” Zosime asked.

“It’s been this way all my life.”

“Lycurgus is a perfectionist. I’m surprised he overlooked a deformity. Guess his sight is going.” Hips swaying, she walked to a table filled with earthen pots and jars. “Jasmine or rose oil?”

“Cananga Odorata,” Galenos said. “That’s what the Master requested.”

Zosime grunted. “He must think this girl is something special.”

Hestia had some knowledge of plants from watching Melaina. Cananga Odorata, also known as ylang-ylang, was an exotic flower imported from Asia, a scent sacred to Aphrodite, known to whet the sexual appetite.

“I prefer rosemary oil,” she said. The sharp scent promoted mental clarity.

“I think not,” said Galenos.

He doused the bath with ylang-ylang, while Zosime poured oil into her palms. Her powerful hands worked the muscles in Hestia’s shoulders.

Hestia strained against her touch.

“Relax,” Zosime said. She kneaded Hestia’s back, her fingers loosening the knots.

Hestia sighed, giving in to the pleasure.

Zosime made her way along Hestia’s spine, finding all the places that held tension, working the muscles from the tailbone to the neck. Without warning, she wrapped her hands around Hestia’s throat.

Hestia gagged, tried to pry away the fingers.

“I can’t breathe.”

Zosime laughed, a flat, mirthless sound. “Don’t worry. I won’t choke you—yet.”

Rubbing her neck, Hestia studied Zosime. The woman might prove as dangerous as Melaina. “I prefer you don’t touch me.”

“Zosime,” Galenos said, his voice a warning.

“Where’s your sense of humor?” Zosime reached for Hestia’s shoulders and Hestia flinched. “I said relax.”

Despite herself, Hestia stopped struggling as the woman’s fingers dug into her tired muscles. She felt her shoulders loosen, felt warm water lapping at her body, and she began to drift.

“You have a lot to learn,” Zosime said. “I suppose I’ll have to teach you.”

“About what?”

“Life.”

“Socrates says—”

“Philosophy won’t help you here. Lean forward.” Zosime rubbed oil over Hestia’s back, massaged it into her arms. Then, using a bronze scraper, she removed dead skin and dirt.

Twice a week, as a slave in the House of Agathon, Hestia had visited the public baths where women bathed in robes, unlike men who reveled in communal nudity. Sometimes she would stand under a shower as water from a cistern ran through the open jaws of a stone lion. As she stood in that waterfall, she felt her heart dissolving, felt the fears that she kept hidden swirling down the drain.

“Lean back.” Zosime’s voice seemed to come from far away. She poured a pitcher of warm water over Hestia’s head and worked soap into her shorn hair.

Steam rose from the bath, filling the room. The past few days had been exhausting, and Hestia gave in to sleep. Her eyelids drooped. Scented vapors wrapped around her, and through the mist she saw gleaming eyes. A face began to emerge, long and lean, the face of a predator. Its mouth opened, revealing fangs. Teeth clamped onto her bad ankle, severing the tendons, snapping bones. Scarlet ribbons billowed through the water, wispy clouds of blood spiraling around her body.

Screams echoed through the chamber.

Zosime slapped Hestia and the screams stopped.

Hestia rubbed her cheek. The gleaming eyes faded, but she could not stop trembling.

“What’s wrong with you?” Zosime demanded.

“There’s death in this house. I feel it.”

“Whose death?”

“The Master’s.” And hers, Hestia thought, if she wasn’t careful.

The jar of oil Zosime held crashed on the tiles, and the cloying scent of ylang-ylang filled the steamy chamber.

Galenos rushed to Hestia with a towel.

She tried to rise from the bath, but her legs refused to support her. Like Aphrodite sinking into the sea, she sank back into the water. She imagined her essence seeping back into the severed genitals of Father Sky from where Aphrodite had sprung.

“May the gods help me,” she whispered.

But as the words fell from her lips, she doubted she could count on gods. She couldn’t count on anyone. Not even Diodorus.

The only person she could count on was herself.

T
he Argos, a sturdy ship, set sail for Lavrion at dawn the next day. Built to carry cargo, and larger than many, it was not as fleet as a trireme
,
the type of warship on which Diodorus had served in the navy. A trireme was agile and had three sets of oarsmen. Many times, in battle, they had destroyed ships of the enemy by battering them until they sank. The Argos had only two oars at the stern for steering and otherwise relied on linen sails. Despite the ship’s bulk, they made good time. After the short voyage to Lavrion the ship would continue on to other ports, and its final destination would be Africa.

Diodorus remained on deck, enjoying the sunrise, breathing the salt air. The guards stood at a distance, ensuring his passage. Diodorus resigned himself to fate. Despite the presence of the guards, he felt happy to be leaving Attica, happy to escape the machinations of his mother, happy to distance himself from the grief of losing Agathon. He only wished, instead of guards, that Hestia stood by his side.

She loved him, he knew she did. Hadn’t she admitted it? And he could see it in her eyes. They were still young and they had time. He would write to his mother, instructing her to take good care of Hestia. He was Master, Melaina had said so herself, and she must obey his commands. In one year he would return, free from debt, free from Lycurgus, and free from his mother. And then, regardless of her heritage, he planned to claim Hestia. Pericles had recently divorced his wife to be with his foreign woman, Aspasia. They might not be officially married, but they had a child and made a good life.

As Socrates said,
to find yourself, think for yourself.
Diodorus swore he would not live by the constrictions set down by society. Freedom was everything.

Freedom.
He pondered the word, pondered how quickly fate might change a man’s destiny. The only freedom which could not be stolen was freedom of intellect. No one could imprison a man’s thoughts.

He tried not to think about the cargo the ship carried below. Not pottery, for which Athens was famous, not olive oil or wine, but human beings—slaves of the lowest order, criminals and those useless for domestic work—destined to work in the mines. For them, freedom was more elusive than a dream.

He gazed over the water. Dolphins played alongside the ship, jumping after one another, and gulls soared overhead, screeching warnings.

They sailed south around the Attica peninsula, staying close to the coast to avoid pirates. The navy patrolled the Aegean and defended the seas from Attica to the Crimea, ensuring supplies of wheat and corn reached Athens. Though rich in many ways, the city relied heavily on imported food. And silver from the mines was used to pay for it.

Diodorus told himself someone had to work the mines, brave narrow shafts descending into the earth’s bowels. Revenue from the silver mines was important to the state. If not for the mines, Athens might starve.

Still, he wished the ship were headed north to the Black Sea and the Crimea, if not north, then south to the island of Crete. Anywhere, but Lavrion.

H
estia woke from a dream, stared at the unfamiliar wall, and wondered where she was. Pushing away a silk coverlet, she sat up. She felt like an enchanted princess in a Persian tale. Somehow, she’d been transported from the prison into a world of luxury. At any moment she expected to find herself back in a cell.