Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (22 page)

“What worries you?” Aspasia asked, snapping Hestia out of her thoughts.

“Nothing.”

“Hmmmm.” Aspasia’s lips curved in a knowing smile. “Why don’t I believe you?”

The two women shared a couch, one of seven in the andron. Their robes, in shades of sea green and turquoise, complemented each other as if planned.

It had taken some convincing to drag Lycurgus to the House of Pericles, but Thucydides was in attendance and Lycurgus wanted to show the elder statesman his support. Since the ostracism of Cimon years ago—the Conservative opponent of Pericles—Thucydides had been slipping in popularity. Now, growing tension threatened to further divide the government, and the two parties could not agree on anything.

“I had to persuade Pericles to invite his adversary,” Aspasia whispered to Hestia. “And pressure from the Conservative party forced Thucydides to accept our invitation.”

Hestia hid her smile. Politics, she’d learned, often made friends of enemies.

Pericles preferred frugality to luxury. The andron was large, but sparsely furnished. Seven couches lined the walls, low tables set before them. No rugs graced the tile floor, no hangings embellished the walls, and the furniture’s design was simple. Tired of extravagance, Hestia found the stark decor refreshing.

If Pericles had his way, he would have served parsley juice flavored with garlic, his favorite health remedy. But Aspasia had overseen the entertainment, and large doses of excellent red wine served at almost full strength had produced a truce between the Democrats and Conservatives. At least for the moment.

They had been discussing building plans, an issue close to Pericles.

“Beauty inspires,” he said. “Beauty in art and architecture must not be affordable only to the wealthy few, but shared by all citizens.”

“You’re throwing good money after bad,” said Thucydides. “The average citizen has no use for aesthetics, wouldn’t know beauty if it bit him in the buttocks.”

“Words of wisdom from one who favors tyranny,” said Pericles.

“I agree with Thucydides,” Lycurgus said. “The wealthy have been educated to know excellence. Beauty is wasted on the common man.”

Pericles turned to him. “I surmise you have no idea about the common citizen, and yet you name yourself his voice.”

“More wine, gentlemen?” Aspasia snapped her fingers and slaves hurried to fill the bowls.

The conversation lulled into an uncomfortable silence.

Aspasia offered her most charming smile to Thucydides. “Have you read the new tract by that young historian, Herodotus?”

“A promising scholar,” Thucydides said, obviously glad for a change of topic. “I hear he’s compiling the entire history of the war with the Persians.”

“I only hope he gets it straight,” Pericles said. “Herodotus tends to pepper his stories with imaginative anecdotes.”

“On that we may agree.” Thucydides raised his bowl to Pericles. “Imagination is a sign of youth, while age brings reason.”

“Or entrenchment,” Pericles said, under his breath. “Especially in politics.”

Aspasia jumped in again. “Fact may not be a strong point for Herodotus, but I find his interpretations entertaining.”

“He makes history exciting,” Hestia chimed in.

“My dear,” Thucydides said, glancing at her, “at my age the physician tells me excitement is to be avoided.”

“Do you suffer from the gout?” Aspasia patted his knee.

“My big toe pains me.”

Pericles appeared amused, but Hestia saw he took pride in Aspasia’s tact. The conversation turned to the safer subject of remedies for gout.

“I recommend parsley juice with garlic,” Pericles said, warming to the topic.

Aspasia turned to Hestia and spoke quietly so none of the men might hear. “Now that a political crisis has been averted, let’s discuss a more interesting subject.”

“Such as—?”

“Sex.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Hestia felt her face turn red.

“Speaking of incorrigible,” Aspasia said, glancing at Lycurgus, whose attention seemed fixed on a slave girl. “How are things?”

Hestia took a gulp of wine. “I do his bidding and perpetuate the myth of his virility. His prowess remains legend, but rising to the occasion has become less likely than one of Aesop’s fables.”

“He doesn’t satisfy?”

“Not half so well as a cucumber, but I prefer vegetables to Lycurgus.”

“You are wicked!”

The two women burst into laughter and the men’s conversation ceased.

“We need oysters.” Aspasia clapped her hands at the servants. “Although I hear they’re bad for gout.”

A slave, his body shimmering with oil, approached the couch.

Aspasia leaned toward Hestia and spoke softly, “Here’s a better remedy than parsley juice with garlic or any vegetable.”

The slave offered the women a platter of oysters.

“An aphrodisiac,” Aspasia said, selecting the largest shell.

“In that case I’d better pass,” Hestia said.

“You’re too young to pass on oysters. Watch. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

All eyes turned to Aspasia.

Raising the oyster, she lifted her chin, her full lips quivering.

The men inhaled collectively.

Slowly she lowered the oyster, her lips parting. The mollusk slid out of its shell and slipped into her open mouth. She swallowed, the line of her throat undulating as the oyster traveled downward.

The men collectively released their breath.

“Now you,” Aspasia said to Hestia.

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can.”

The men made encouraging noises.

Hestia examined the platter. She ran her tongue over her lips, savoring the men’s anticipation. Following Aspasia’s instructions, she raised her chin and then the oyster. The men cheered as the shell met her lips. The oyster slid into her mouth, slippery and salty. She let it run over her tongue. On the verge of swallowing, she noticed a lump. Using her teeth, she extracted a tiny orb.

“A pearl,” Aspasia said, and the men murmured.

Hestia held the jewel in her palm.

Picking up the pearl with her thumb and forefinger, Aspasia held it to the light.

“A sign of good fortune,” Pericles said, raising his wine bowl to Hestia.

“The symbol of wisdom and purity,” Aspasia said.

“I’m neither wise nor pure.”

“Nonsense.” Aspasia handed Hestia the pearl. “Light is pure and it illuminates. You are the rising star of Athens.” She nodded toward the men. “They worship you.”

The men had gone back to discussing rhetoric and its effect on politics.

Hestia leaned toward Aspasia. “Tonight I might appear to be a star, but I am nothing in the universe of Athens. Pythagoreans claim the universe contains mathematical order, but in my case one plus one does not equal two. One plus one is always one, and that one is Lycurgus. No matter how I shine, my Master demands to be the center of my universe.”

“What of free will?”

“His will is mine.”

“You believe that?”

“I believe freedom is internal, but internal freedom is difficult to feel when I am held his prisoner.” Hestia glanced at Lycurgus. A slave girl massaged his shoulders as he continued arguing.

“We are all prisoners of something—health, age, beliefs. In order to find true freedom you must escape the chains you place upon yourself.”

“The mind’s chains are heaviest and most difficult to escape,” Hestia said.

“You sound bitter, but your wit is keen.”

“Disappointment provides a whetstone for humor.”

“Put that sharp edge to use then, and cut what binds you.”

Tears filled Hestia’s eyes. “That’s impossible.”

“Sweet, let’s go where we may talk in private.” Aspasia reached for Hestia’s hand, drawing her from the couch. The two women left the andron, slipping out to the courtyard.

Torches stood in stanchions along the perimeter, moths fluttering in the haloes of light. Aspasia led Hestia to a stone bench beneath a fig tree. She plucked a ripe fig from a low hanging branch and handed it to Hestia. Crickets chirred, and the scent of roses filled the air. A silver crescent shone in the sky. Hestia thought of Ala, Calonice’s goddess of the moon, the goddess of new beginnings.

“This garden is my favorite place,” Aspasia said as she reached for another fig.

“It’s lovely.” Hestia gazed at the sky.

Aspasia sat beside her, arranging her himation so it fell in elegant folds. “Wherever we stand the same moon shines on all of us.”

“Does it? Or do the veils of our experience define what we perceive?”

“Eat your fig. You’re far too serious for one so young.”

“So I’m told.”

Hestia rubbed her forehead, noticing the beginning of a headache. She wondered if, at this very moment, Diodorus happened to be looking at the moon.

“What’s his name?” Aspasia asked.

“Whose?”

“The one you dream about.”

“I don’t dream of anyone.” Hestia bit into the fig, juice filling her mouth. Despite its sweetness the fruit tasted bitter. She let it fall to the ground.

Aspasia said, “The new moon marks the time for beginnings.”

“So they say.”

Hestia felt life growing in her womb, the child forming. Her stomach churned.

“You look ill,” Aspasia said.

“I’m fine.”

A metallic taste filled Hestia’s mouth. She swallowed.

“I want you to think of me as a sister,” Aspasia said. “If you’re in trouble know that you can come to me.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Anything.”

Bile rushed into Hestia’s mouth. Turning away from Aspasia, she retched, spewing sickness onto the paving stones.

“Poor dear.” Aspasia rubbed Hestia’s back. “Is there nothing I can do for you?”

Hestia shook her head.

Aspasia handed her a handkerchief.

Hestia wiped her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“Perhaps it was the oysters.”

“Yes.”

The women sat in silence. The torches flickered, casting shadows through the courtyard. A warm breeze stirred the leaves of the fig tree.

Hestia swallowed, trying to wash away the bile.

Aspasia took Hestia’s hand, turned it over, and traced her forefinger along a line in the palm. “You will have a long life.” Her finger traced another line and paused midway. “But soon there will be changes.”

“What changes?”

“Look at me, Hestia. Who is the father?”

Hestia sighed. “I’m not certain.”

“You must tell Lycurgus the child is his.”

“But—”

Aspasia touched Hestia’s lips. “Promise me you’ll tell him.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“It will be soon.”

Tears spilled from Hestia’s eyes. Life stretched out before her, a desolate road dedicated to Lycurgus. She chewed her thumb and noticed that the skin was raw. She bit harder, but couldn’t stop her tears.

“You must make the most of your position,” Aspasia said. “Lycurgus won’t live forever and who knows what the future holds?” She straightened Hestia’s himation, draping the fabric gracefully. “Now dry your eyes. The men must wonder where we’ve gone.”

D
iodorus dipped his stylus into the pot of ink and scratched another entry in the ledger. Silver sales were booming. Minting coinage had become popular throughout the city-states, and no coins were more dominant than the silver
owls
of Athens.

Under his guidance, profits had steadily increased. He attributed the rise in productivity to improvements he had initiated. Better housing and shorter hours had boosted the workers’ morale. Diodorus found the work surprisingly rewarding. Besides, it took his mind off Hestia.

Since his arrival six months ago, he hadn’t heard a word from the girl. At first he’d written letters every week, but receiving no response, he’d stopped writing. Six months was a long time, and he’d been a fool to think she’d wait for him.

Diodorus had thrown himself into work, and the silver mines were all-consuming. Despite the long hours, he enjoyed being his own boss. Lycurgus left decisions to him. Letters had been their only communication. Diodorus had expected Lycurgus to visit, assumed he would want to witness the improvements, but Lycurgus seemed to have lost interest in the mines.

Diodorus tapped the stylus on the desk distractedly. At least Lycurgus wrote, sometimes including a message from Melaina. According to his mother, the House of Agathon ran smoothly without its Master. In truth, Diodorus missed Athens very little—except for Hestia.

Sometimes, at night, he tortured himself, imagining her with another man, until exhaustion dragged him into sleep. Sometimes he imagined she was ill or that she’d died, but his mother would have reported anything so drastic. Apparently, Hestia had forgotten him.

He returned to the ledger and added the final column, pleased to note the increase in last month’s production. He blew on the papyrus, allowing the ink to set, but his pleasure quickly dissipated. Despite better housing and regular meals, crawling through the mines could quickly destroy a man. And his workers included women and children. More improvements were needed, and he planned to put them into place. But not today.

He cracked his knuckles and thought about an early supper washed down with a bowl of wine. The sound of his foreman’s footsteps clumping through the doorway ended his daydream. He glanced at the water clock, saw that he’d been working for ten hours. Over the past six months, he had come to rely on Georgios. Although they had their differences, he respected the foreman.

“Sit down, Georgios.” Diodorus waved toward a stool, but Georgios remained standing. “Tell me about the latest disaster.”

“No disaster. Fresh supplies.” Pressing his thick hands on the table, probably to ease his back which gave him pain, Georgios leaned toward Diodorus and nodded in the direction of the harbor. “The ship just docked.” He spoke louder than necessary, used to shouting over the pounding noise of anvils.

Diodorus turned his head to avoid the man’s body odor. Apparently, Georgios remained unacquainted with the bathhouse. Diodorus pushed open the shutters, welcoming the breeze and relief from the oppressive heat. A cargo ship had pulled into the harbor, its sails white against the relentless blue sky.