Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (15 page)

She rubbed her eyes and reopened them.

Still here.

She remembered bathing, remembered the eunuch giving her a sleeping potion. Now she drifted on a cloud.

Her gaze traveled the chamber. Carpets covered the wood floor and a window, larger than any in Agathon’s house, let in a flood of light. She glanced at the doorway, covered not by a curtain, but by a door carved of wood. She got up, ran to the door. It opened easily. She had expected it to be locked.

She closed the door and lay on the sleeping couch, her head buoyed by cushions. It was large enough for three.

A blue chest stood against the wall, as well as tables, two stools and a chair—its back curved for comfort. The walls were painted red, and a fresco of Aphrodite peered down from the ceiling. Aphrodite smiled at her as if they shared a secret.

A fragment of a dream floated through her memory.

Diodorus.

Turning away from Aphrodite, she faced the wall and attempted to drive Diodorus from her mind. It was hopeless. She felt his arms around her, heard him whispering in her ear. She ran her fingertips over her throat, remembering. Aching, she slipped her hands between her thighs. She moaned, not with pleasure, but with pain.

Could he have forgotten her so soon? Surely, by now, he knew her fate, knew she had been sold to Lycurgus.

She stood, straightened the bedcover and the cushions so it looked untouched. She felt like she was trespassing, expecting at any moment to be discovered. The carpet felt spongy beneath her bare feet. Its pattern of birds and flowers captured forever in a tranquil world only increased Hestia’s anxiety. Hugging herself, she stood at the window and peered down into the courtyard. Hyacinths perfumed the air, the sweet scent of rebirth according to the Persians. Trees lined the walls, forced into early fruition, apple, quince, and fig. Exotic birds flitted through the branches. She watched a peacock strut along a path lined by flowers. The sun cast long shadows. Evening marked her favorite time of day, the blending of light and dark, a doorway between worlds. She soaked in the dying warmth, wondering when she would wake.

Without warning, the door to the room opened.

“The Master wants you to come to dinner.” Zosime’s chiseled face, set as stone, might have belonged to a statue, but Hestia sensed the woman’s annoyance.

“Is something wrong?”

“What could possibly be wrong?”

Zosime wandered around the room. Pausing at a table inlaid with precious woods, she picked up a jar, opened the lid, and sniffed. “Lotus flower from Egypt. Expensive. Only the best for the Master’s new favorite.” Without asking for permission, she dabbed the essence on her throat. “Galenos appointed me to help you dress. Apparently, I am to be your personal maid. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Hestia failed to see the irony.

“Let’s see.” Zosime opened the blue chest and drew out a rose colored chiton. “This will do.” She continued rummaging, her anger evident.

“I apologize,” Hestia said.

“Apologize for what?” Zosime tossed a shawl back into the chest.

“About earlier, in the bath. Sometimes I—” Hestia rubbed her forehead trying to remember exactly what had happened. She didn’t know how to explain. “Sometimes I have visions, hear voices.”

Zosime looked up from the chest. Gazing at Hestia, she said nothing. A long silence ensued.

“You’re from Sparta?” Hestia asked, hoping to initiate a conversation.

“A long time ago.”

“You were a captive.”

“Why else would I be here?”

“Were you ever married?”

“No.”

“Any children?”

Zosime looked up from the cedar chest, her cheeks flushed. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Just trying to be friendly.”

“Don’t bother.” Zosime pulled a scarlet himation out of the chest. “This goes well with the rose. We’d better hurry. The Master doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Hold out your arms.”

Hestia did as she was told.

Using brooches, gold inlaid with garnets, Zosime secured the chiton at each shoulder. She belted the robe at Hestia’s waist, carefully arranging the fabric. Standing back, she surveyed her work. “Gold sandals, I think.”

“If you ever want to talk—”

“I don’t.”

Hestia slipped the sandals on her feet and tied the straps around her ankles.

“Where did all these clothes come from?”

“Lycurgus keeps them for his women. Kohl around your eyes and you’ll be ready.”

“How many women does he have?”

“As many as he wants.”

“I hope we can be friends.” Hestia touched Zosime’s hand, but she promptly withdrew it.

“The Master waits. Better hurry.”

Melaina surveyed the courtyard, determining where she would place her new garden. With her son out of the way, she had full reign of the house and she planned to make changes.

A slave hurried past, head bowed so his eyes didn’t meet Melaina’s.

“You.” She crooked her finger. “Come here.”

The young man glanced around as if hoping she meant someone else.

Melaina poked her foot at a paving stone. “Remove this thing.”

The slave looked at the stone, then at Melaina, his expression confused. “What’s wrong with it, Despoina?”

“I want it moved.”

The slave seemed nervous. He rocked from foot to foot. “I’ll need a pick axe. These stones are heavy.”

“I don’t care how you do it. Just get it out of here.” Melaina rolled her eyes. Was every slave she owned an imbecile?

The man hurried off.

Placing one foot in front of the other, Melaina measured the perimeter of her intended garden. Elation rushed through her. How long had she planned for this day, looked forward to it? Now that Diodorus had departed, she was free to do what she pleased without begging a man’s permission, free to tear up paving stones, if she so desired, free to run the household as she saw fit.

Free to keep the company she preferred.

Parting with her son had not been sweet, different from when he’d gone into military service. This time when Diodorus said farewell he seemed glad to be rid of her. Since Agathon’s death, he was too full of himself, and as Master of the house, Melaina feared he might thwart her plans. She had one year to put things in order. A year from now Diodorus would return and, with luck, his childish dreams would be forgotten. A year from now she would make sure he married a suitable girl from a good family. If Diodorus married a proper Athenian girl, he would be too busy to watch over his mother, too busy to interfere with her plans. Children and a wife would occupy his time. Of course, if he had children she would be a grandmother.

That notion upset her stomach.

After all, she was far from old. Men still found her attractive.

She wondered if it would be too forward to invite Lycurgus to dinner. Strictly business, of course. They needed to discuss finances.

The slave girl, Calonice, appeared—a basket of laundry balanced on her head, and her bare feet slapping the stones as she walked across the courtyard.

“I have a task for you,” Melaina said.

“What task, Despoina?” The girl set down the basket, her dark eyes locked on Melaina’s.

“Tell the cook that we’ll be having company. I want her to make something exceptional for dinner. Not just fish, a leg of lamb.”

“Yes, Despoina.”

The girl didn’t move, as if she wanted to say something more.

Melaina ran her foot over the paving stone. “What is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just…”

“Just what?” Bending down, Melaina grabbed the stone slab and tried to pry it from its resting place.

“Was Hestia really sold to that rich man?”

“What rich man?”

“Lycurgus.”

Releasing the stone, Melaina stood. Sickness gurgled in her stomach.

“Who told you that?”

“The cook said—”

“The cook?” Melaina swallowed a mouthful of bile.

“She said Lycurgus paid twenty minae.”

“Ten.” Melaina stared at the girl. “A rich man paid ten minae…” Her voice trailed off. Did every slave in her household know more than she? “Get out of here.”

The girl backed away. “I shall ask the cook—”

“Forget about dinner!” Melaina reached into the basket of laundry. Her hand latched onto a strophium and she hurled it at the slave.

The girl ran, clothing flying after her.

“Get out!” Melaina kept shouting long after the girl had disappeared. “Get out of here.”

Hestia swallowed. Her stomach felt queasy, as she stood before her new Master. The floor-length chiton Lycurgus wore was gathered by a heavy leather belt, and the robe hung in folds around his once toned body. The features of his face might still be considered elegant, his high forehead and prominent cheekbones, but his eyes were hooded and she found them difficult to read. He reclined on a crimson couch, the plump cushions covered in purple silk. He tapped his polished fingernails in a syncopated rhythm, his gaze intent.

“Come here,” he said, his tone commanding, the voice of a man used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed.

She stepped toward him.

“How long have you had that limp?”

“All my life.”

“What caused it?”

“Exposure. Agathon rescued me.”

“The man you claim to be your father.”

“Yes.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Compassion? Pity? Perhaps, simple curiosity. Hestia watched him and slipped past his guarded eyes. The chambers of his heart felt empty, like deserted cells, their doors sealed. This man kept his feelings hidden, even from himself.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“Pain.”

He laughed. “Who, in this world, has no pain? Since you chose to examine me, I will examine you.” He nodded to the window. “Open the shutters so we have more light.”

Hestia undid the latch and evening sun filtered into the room. The window opened to a courtyard different from the courtyard her room gazed upon. Strings of lanterns glowed in the fading light, creating an enchanted world. Grapevines raced along trellises and overhung an archway. Mosaic walkways wandered through beds of flowers, and a sparkling pool of water reflected the light of the lanterns. But, most amazing, in the center of the pool, stone dolphins frolicked—water cascading over the superb sculptures in a never-ending shower.

Hestia stared in wonder. “How is that possible?”

“Anything is possible, if it can be imagined. The fountain is fed by a spring.”

She watched the water splashing merrily as the dolphins jumped.

“Look at me, girl.”

She turned toward Lycurgus, the last rays of sunlight moving through the fine gauze of her chiton and dancing on her face. She ran a hand through her shorn hair.

“Lovely,” he murmured. “Aphrodite reincarnate.”

“Hardly Aphrodite, unless the goddess has gone bald.”

Lycurgus chuckled. “I know beauty when I see it.”

Blushing, Hestia felt certain that her cheeks were redder than her robes. She wondered why Lycurgus wanted her, this man who could have anything and anyone.

“Why did you pay such a high price for me?”

“I collect beautiful and unusual things.” He swept his hand around the room. “Sculpture, pottery, tapestries.”

“Women?”

“Of course.” He smiled. “And you came highly recommended.”

“By Melaina?”

“By her son.”

Hestia’s mouth went dry. “Diodorus recommended me?”

“He speaks highly of your skills, and I see why he finds you appealing.”

“He
wanted
to sell me?”

“I suppose he did or I couldn’t have bought you.”

Unable to look at Lycurgus, Hestia stared at the fountain. Diodorus had wanted to sell her, had planned it, but he couldn’t resist using her, his property, before selling her to the highest bidder.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear my question,” Lycurgus said.

“What question?”

“I’m curious why you claim Agathon to be your father.” Lycurgus reached into a bowl of fruit and selected a purple fig. “On what proof do you base such an extraordinary assertion?”

“Only the word of Agathon.”

“The word of a dead man proves nothing.” Lycurgus offered her the fig. “Do I frighten you?”

“Should I be frightened?”