Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (2 page)

Hestia removed the cup from his trembling hand, her own shaking as well. Her eyes met Agathon’s and she gazed into his heart. The cup slipped from her hand, crashed on the tile floor, and shattered.

“You knew my mother, didn’t you?” Her gaze reached deeper, unlocking his secrets. “You loved her.”

“Yes.” He stared at her, stricken.

“Tell me,” she said.

“Tell you what?”

She released him from her gaze.

Bending to collect pieces of the broken cup, she sorted through disparate emotions—sorrow for her Master’s illness, anger at his reticence, loneliness. As she stood, she felt light-headed, as if she were falling into a dark well. Who would find her? Who would notice she had gone?

His voice came from far away, calling her into the present.

“I’ll get another cup,” she said.

She moved toward the sideboard, felt his eyes follow her. The amphora felt slick against her palms. Her back to him, she poured medicine into the wine, added a large spoon of honey. She wanted him to sleep, wanted him to close his eyes—so she couldn’t see into his heart.

She handed him the cup, and Agathon drank deeply, his face flushing as the medicine took its course.

He wiped his mouth, settled into his cushions.

“Her name was Olympia.”

“Olympia,” Hestia said, the name forming on her tongue, swelling like a wave and crashing in her gut.

“Give me that box.” Agathon pointed to the bedside table.

She handed him a bronze box inlaid with colored stones.

Agathon opened the lid, drew out a ring. Gold glittered in the lamplight, sending shivers through Hestia. He pressed the ring into her palm, and a flood of images followed, each vying for her attention: a man crowned by a diadem, a woman dressed in flowing robes. The man slipped the ring on the woman’s finger. The ring was worth more than a slave could hope to earn in a lifetime. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, Hestia marveled at the workmanship. Twin serpents intertwined to form the symbol of eternity, ruby eyes flashing fire.

“Read the inscription.”

“To Olympia from Agathon,” Hestia read. And then a month, “Boedromion.”

“A golden day in autumn, a day sacred to Dionysius—the day of your conception.”

“How would you know?”

“Have you not guessed?”

She stared into his eyes, afraid to speak the truth she saw.

Agathon reached for her hand, but she recoiled, her thoughts and feelings churning. When she spoke, her voice came out as a whisper. “I am your—”

“Daughter.”

“And my mother?”

“Died giving birth to you. I was here, in Athens, when I received the news.” Agathon sank back into the cushions.

Hestia turned the ring in her palm, feeling the weight of the gold, the weight of Agathon’s words. Of course, she’d been abandoned, a bastard and a girl. Unwanted children were often left out in the elements to expire.

“Why did you save me?”

“I couldn’t bear to see you die. I sought you out, plucked you from your chains.”

“And kept me as your slave.”

“I couldn’t claim you as my own. Melaina wouldn’t…”

Her eyes met his. His face seemed to be melting, like a wax mask left out in the sun. His mouth moved, but his words were drowned in the roar of questions rushing through her mind. She wasn’t the first bastard to be born to a wealthy Master, not the first child to be unclaimed. It was a common story. But she had trusted Agathon. Gorge rose to her mouth, molten rage that stung her throat. She swallowed, forcing down her anger.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Forgive an old man.”

Blue veins lined his hands, carrying his blood. Her blood. The blood she had been denied.

“Who was she, my mother? A slave?”

“A goddess. She belonged to no man.” Agathon sighed heavily, closed his eyes.

Hestia studied his ravaged face and saw her own. She reached for his shoulder, shook him. “Olympia who? From where?”

He mumbled something.

The shutters clattered. The wind had ripped them open. She glanced at the high window. Clouds drifted over the moon, smothering its light.

She turned back to Agathon, knelt beside his bed. Tears streaming down her face, she pressed her cheek against his chest, listened for his heartbeat, and heard only the rattle of the shutters.

D
awn brought the wail of servants, but Melaina shed no tears for her dead husband.

After consuming a substantial meal of goat cheese and barley bread, she rinsed her hands in the washbasin and splashed her face. Leaning over the water, she pulled the corners of her eyes, tightening the fine, webbed lines. Thanks to a paste of lead and limestone, which she applied religiously, her hair remained jet-black. Despite her fading beauty men still found her appealing, and she expected Agathon’s wealth to enhance her attractiveness. According to the law she would inherit nothing. Even her dowry, still held in trust, would be controlled by her son. But Diodorus was an idealist. He had no mind for business, no desire to advance himself. He had proved himself as a soldier, serving as a hoplite in the Spartan uprising; but Agathon had ruined their son’s desire for practical pursuits, encouraging the boy (though he was twenty Melaina refused to call him a man) to follow Socrates—a half-crazed philosopher who wandered barefoot around the agora spouting gibberish. When Diodorus wasn’t spewing nonsense he spent his time studying insects, rocks and other worthless objects.

Melaina counted on her son’s disinterest in financial matters. With any luck, Diodorus would leave management of the property to Lycurgus, Agathon’s business partner who had been appointed Kurios, protector of the family. Diodorus needed guidance.

Melaina gave her face a final splash.

Now that Agathon was on the road to Hades, she vowed to put an end to her son’s foolish pursuits. She planned to push him into politics. But for now, it would be best to entice Diodorus out of Athens. Not forever, just for one year.

One year would give her time.

She clapped her hands, and a slave parted the curtains—a new girl, dark skinned with strange markings on her face, waves of dots across her forehead and cheeks, the result of scarification. No Athenian woman would mark her face in such a barbaric way. Melaina could not recall the girl’s name.

“Come here.”

The slave mumbled something in a foreign language.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, Despoina.”

“Don’t stand there, gaping. Fetch my chiton, the black one.”

The girl looked at her blankly, as if she didn’t understand. Melaina pointed to her cedar chest, one of several that stood against the wall. The girl moved lethargically. With maddening sluggishness, she opened the chest’s lid and pulled out one carefully folded tunic after another. Melaina guessed the girl came from some backwater in Africa. One of Agathon’s strays. The house was full of untrained slaves that no one else would put up with.

Melaina sighed. “Do I need to find the chiton myself?”

“Is this what you want, Despoina?” The girl dragged a large rectangle of cloth from the chest and brought it to Melaina.

“Custom demands a widow’s clothes be drab, but black is not my color.” Melaina fingered the finely woven wool. “Makes my complexion appear sallow.”

“Yes, Despoina.”

“You don’t have to agree with me.”

“No, Despoina.”

Melaina rolled her eyes. Yes, no. Could the girl say nothing else? “What’s your name?”

“They call me Calonice.”

“Calonice, a good Greek name.”

“My Igbo name is Adisa. It means
one who sees clearly.
”

“Fascinating. Be careful how you drape the cloth.” Sucking in her stomach, and holding out her arms, Melaina readied herself to be dressed. Unlike her last maid, who’d had years of practice—and had, inconveniently, died—this girl was obviously a novice. Standing on her toes, the girl attempted to drape the cloth.

“Not like that.” Melaina caught the wool at each shoulder so it could be pinned in place. “Don’t use those brooches. Fetch the others, the gold set with sapphires.”

The girl gazed at her, like a sheep.

“Blue stones.” Melaina nodded toward her jewelry box.

“The brooch the rich man gave to you?”

Melaina’s eyes shot to the slave. “Who told you that?”

“No one, Despoina.” The girl busied herself with the bronze box.

No one.
There were no secrets in a house full of servants. “And fetch the matching earrings.”

Mumbling to herself the girl fastened the brooches at Melaina’s shoulders as Melaina slipped the heavy earrings through her earlobes. Intricately wrought and exquisitely designed, the brooch and earrings far exceeded any gift of Agathon’s.

The brooch jabbed her shoulder.

“Clumsy girl!”

“Forgive me, Despoina.”

Melaina slapped the slave. “Get out!”

The girl rubbed her cheek. If it were possible, her eyes grew darker. Muttering something that sounded like a curse, she left the room.

Relieved to see her go, Melaina rubbed her shoulder. She inspected the deep scratch where the heavy pin had gouged her and wondered if the wound had been intentional.

Feeling the beginning of a headache, she massaged her temples.

Soon Agathon’s sisters would arrive, interfering women twenty years her senior. Sometimes she felt so alone. She had no one to confide in, no one she could trust. Locked away, within her house, like all proper Athenian matrons—forbidden to go out, unless under a man’s protection, not even to the marketplace—she sometimes wondered if a slave’s life might offer more freedom.

There must be some escape.

She thought of Lycurgus. He’d chosen to remain single, not because he didn’t care for women—the gods knew
that
was not an issue—but for other reasons.

Using a length of silk cord, she girded the long tunic at her waist, allowing the excess fabric to form an overdress, the latest fashion. The chiton fell to the floor in graceful folds, showing her body to its best advantage. Of course, Lycurgus would attend Agathon’s funeral. In many ways he was the opposite of Agathon, brilliant with a dangerous reputation, a statesman with his choice of women. Melaina prayed he would find Agathon’s wealth an aphrodisiac.

Besides her dead husband’s money, what did she have to offer?

She reached for her bronze mirror. The handle had been cast in the form of Aphrodite, goddess of love. Such a fickle deity. Melaina squeezed the handle till it cut into her palm. These days, she preferred Athena, goddess of strategy. Or even better, Hecate, goddess of the moon and magic. She admired Hecate’s elusiveness.

Holding the polished bronze to her face, she pursed her lips, then parted them. Receding gums, but pumice mixed with vinegar kept her teeth passable. She smiled at her reflection. Agathon had been a popular member of the council, known for his philanthropy. His funeral would bring a throng and, naturally, all eyes would dwell on the bereft widow. But she had no intention of remaining a widow for long. She picked a bit of barley from between her teeth.

She glanced toward the window, a small square in the white plaster. A shade tree blocked the sun, but warm air crept through the open shutters. Already half the morning gone, and so much to do.

She opened another cedar chest and selected an indigo himation. The color negated the drabness of the black chiton and brought out the luster of her hair. She wrapped the shawl over her left shoulder, bringing the end around her back and across the front of her body, before draping the tail over her left arm.

Despite the expectations of society, she would ignore the custom of shearing her hair. The dark tresses, highlighted with henna, remained one of her best features. Solemn faced, as the occasion merited, she left her chamber and sedately descended the steps leading to the women’s courtyard. Agathon would have made do with a ladder, but she had insisted he build a stairway. He’d been tight about important things, while lavishing on foolish projects—housing for paupers, public assistance for invalids and indigents—a waste of money.

Of course, no one in Athens valued the opinion of a woman. Unless she was a courtesan. Melaina couldn’t understand how the opinions of hetaerae were respected while those of obedient wives were not. Sometimes, she wished she were a Spartan, though she’d never give voice to such a blasphemous idea. Spartan women were educated, almost as well as men. More importantly, they were permitted to own property, and, while their husbands were off fighting, the women controlled the purse strings. Here in Athens respectable women were close to prisoners.

Melaina walked through the colonnaded women’s courtyard, past the kitchen where slaves prepared a midday meal. The smell of lentils and onions, mingled with the scent of bread, wafted through the door, then drifted toward the courtyard’s open sky. She glanced at the kitchen’s adjoining bath, empty at this hour, and continued walking past the altar dedicated to Hestia, goddess of the hearth.

Anger caught her step, and she nearly tripped—ridiculous that a slave should share the name of a goddess, a name assigned by Agathon, of course. As soon as possible, Melaina swore she would change Hestia’s name to something more appropriate, Ptolemais, for example, a name which meant warlike and rude. Smirking at her jest, she entered the men’s courtyard.

An offering of myrrh smoldered on the altar of Zeus, the scent smoky and resinous. Melaina peeked into the andron, a room forbidden to proper women such as she, where men gathered for symposiums—discussions of politics and philosophy fueled by large quantities of wine. She thought she might find Diodorus lounging on one of the couches that lined the perimeter, but the room was empty. She wondered where her son might be. Often in the mornings he used the men’s courtyard as a gymnasium, but today there was no sign of him.

Two slaves, on their knees, worked their way along the colonnade, scrubbing the mosaic floor. Melaina approached them, and the men quickly stood, the youngest nearly knocking over a leather bucket of water.

“You missed that corner,” Melaina said.