Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (23 page)

“Food supplies?” he asked. They needed grain to feed the workers and it had to be imported.

“Slaves.”

Diodorus felt the familiar sickness; a bitter taste filled his mouth. Not just slaves, but the dregs of humanity, prisoners, half-wits, people no one wanted, bought for a pittance by the state and shipped to Lavrion. He closed his ledger.

“I guess we’d better sort through them. On our way there you can show me the latest improvements.”

“Good. I want you to see—oh, I almost forgot.” Georgios removed a scroll from the folds of his himation. “This came for you.”

Diodorus recognized the seal, a letter from Lycurgus, no doubt congratulating him on a job well done. Eagerly, he broke the wax, unrolled the papyrus, and scanned the page. The bitter taste in his mouth grew stronger. He reread the scroll.

“Bad news from the city?” Georgios sounded disdainful. He made it no secret that he considered Athenians effete.

“We are to cut meals back to twice a day, and extend the hours.”

“The way things used to be.” Georgios crossed his arms over his chest, his expression challenging.

“Exactly.” Diodorus crunched the letter into a ball.

Lycurgus had offered no congratulations, no mention of the increase in profits. He condemned the improvements, citing Diodorus for overspending. Six months more, Diodorus told himself. In six months he would be free from debt. Free from Lycurgus. Once free, he would not return to Athens. Nothing drew him there. He would sail to Africa, perhaps farther. He would see the world, experience adventures.

He stuffed the crumpled papyrus into the brazier and used an oil lamp to set it aflame. “Unfortunately,” he said, “that letter got lost in transport.”

“I didn’t think you had the—”

“Balls?” Diodorus clapped Georgios on the back. The expression on the foreman’s face was worth the repercussions he would undoubtedly face from Lycurgus. “After we unload the supplies, I’ll buy you a bowl of wine.”

“Not the cheap stuff, either.”

Diodorus laughed.

Hestia stroked Odysseus and the cat’s purring grew louder. Odysseus had made a nest between cushions on her sleeping couch.

“I’m getting fat and so are you.”

Lifting his chin, Odysseus allowed her to scratch.

She envied the cat’s freedom. Like her, he spent his days in luxurious seclusion, napping, begging scraps from her plate, catching an occasional mouse or other unfortunate creature, but the cat’s nights told a different story. When the sun set Odysseus slipped out of her room, climbed the courtyard wall, and roamed the streets. Sometimes he returned wounded and once he had disappeared for several days.

Hestia, however, like most wealthy women, remained in enforced seclusion.

Feeling a twinge in her gut, she pressed her hand against her belly.

“The baby’s kicking,” she said to Odysseus. The cat wrapped his tail over his nose and closed his eyes.

When she first told Lycurgus about the child he had been ecstatic, but as time went on he became obsessed. Afraid she might miscarry, that he might lose a son, he held Hestia prisoner, refusing her permission to leave the house for any reason. Not even to visit Aspasia.

Out in the courtyard a peacock squawked. On these sweltering days it was too hot to sit outside. Hestia wiped her forehead, leaned over the window sill. She caught the sharp scent of lye, reminding her that it was laundry day. Lines of rope crisscrossed the courtyard. The morning sun acted as bleach as it beat down on sheets of linen, tunics, and himations. Hestia examined her hands. White now, instead of red from cleaning, her hands reminded her of how far she’d risen.

But the higher she rose, the more imprisoned she felt, held captive by an old man.

As the baby’s arrival drew closer, Lycurgus seemed to deteriorate. The physician had become a weekly visitor, prescribing remedies for poor digestion, creams to alleviate an itch, potions for sleep, and countless tinctures for a slew of ailments. These days Lycurgus rarely left the house, spending his time in the library reading, compiling legal documents, composing letters—his life devoted to his unborn son.

Haruspices had read entrails, astrologers had consulted stars, and even the priests agreed that the child would be a boy. Hestia felt differently, but she kept her feelings to herself.

“I will name you Melissa,” she whispered to her unborn daughter. “My honey bee.”

She rubbed her lower back to soothe an ache. Wandering to her dressing table, she picked up the mirror. The face that peered back had grown older, perhaps wiser. She caught her breath. In the mirror, she saw Zosime watching her from the doorway.

She had avoided the woman for months.

Zosime entered the room as if her appearance weren’t unusual and set down a tray. “I thought you might like some refreshment.”

“Where is Galenos?”

“He’s busy so he sent me.”

An obvious lie.

“What do you want, Zosime?”

“I brought you some wine.” She poured red liquid into a bowl and added water. “It’s spiced with horn root.”

“Pour yourself some wine, as well.”

“I brought only one bowl.”

“Then we shall share.” Hestia took a sip of the gingery liquid and handed the bowl to Zosime. “I know Galenos didn’t send you, so tell me why you’re here.”

“Just a friendly chat.” Without taking a sip, Zosime handed the bowl back to Hestia. “Horn root eases morning sickness.”

“Sit down.” Hestia motioned to the chair, but Zosime strode across the room to sit at the dressing table. Controlling her annoyance, Hestia took another sip of wine, then set the bowl on her bedside table. “What do you want to chat about?”

Zosime picked up the hand mirror and gazed into the polished bronze. Running her fingers through her black curls, she said, “I’m not intellectual like you, not one to spend my days lying around with my nose glued to a scroll. For one who reads so much, you aren’t too smart. Are you?”

It took great resolve not to slap the mirror out of Zosime’s hand. Feigning indifference, Hestia reclined on her sleeping couch beside Odysseus. The cat opened his yellow eyes and yawned, exposing sharp teeth and a pink tongue. The face she’d like to offer Zosime. Hestia smiled at her private joke.

“Do you find me amusing?” Zosime asked, accusingly.

Hestia looked Zosime in the eyes. “I think something broke your heart and now you’re angry at the world. Why do you despise me?”

Zosime blinked, apparently taken off guard. “You’re like that cat,” she said, “living the easy life, lapping up cream, but one day the Master will throw you out, and you’ll both be wandering the streets.”

Hestia placed a protective hand on her belly. “Why would Lycurgus throw me out? I’m going to be the mother of his child.”

“Is the child his?”

Hestia sat up, her heart racing. “What are you implying?”

“We both know his sword is rusty. And I’ve heard rumors.”

“What rumors?”

“About your precious virginity.”

“This room is stuffy.” Hestia stood, disturbing Odysseus. She padded to the window, the cat following. Odysseus jumped onto the sill.

“You weren’t a virgin when you came here, were you?” Zosime sounded triumphant.

Hestia inhaled sharply, gazed out the window so the woman couldn’t see her face. Zosime might harbor suspicions, but she couldn’t know about Diodorus. Only Aspasia knew the truth, and since that night at the symposium they never spoke about it.

“All of Athens is whispering,” Zosime said.

“Let them whisper.” Regaining her composure, Hestia faced Zosime. “As Socrates has said, if gossip is neither true, nor good, nor useful, why mention it?” Taking a gamble, she stretched the truth. “His sword may be rusty, but Lycurgus managed to pierce my maidenhead.”

Zosime ran her tongue over her scarlet lips, weighing the probabilities. She set down the mirror. “Whosever child you bear, I hope you’re luckier than I.”

“Luckier in what way?”

“I once bore his child.”

“You bore the Master’s—?”

“Son. I was a child myself, barely fifteen.”

“What happened to your child?”

Zosime went to the window. Absently, she stroked Odysseus and gazed into the courtyard. “The laundry must be dry by now.”

“Where is your son?” Hestia asked.

“With Hades.”

“Pardon?”

“My son is dead.”

“I’m sorry.” Hestia didn’t know what else to say. She felt the weight and depth of Zosime’s sorrow. “How did he…”

“Exposure. It was winter.”

The old wound in Hestia’s ankle flared as if it had been set aflame. She sank onto the sleeping couch.

“Given the chance, I would have died for him.” Zosime turned from the window. “My son was murdered.”

“By whom?”

“An adulteress. The harpy Lycurgus bedded.”

“Who was she?”

“I don’t know. They met in secret. When she learned I’d given birth to his child, she became jealous, demanded my baby be killed. If I knew her name, if I knew where she lived, I’d pay her a visit.”

Frightened by Zosime’s tone, Odysseus leapt from the sill and slipped under the couch. Hestia wished she could follow the cat.

“Lycurgus allowed his child to die?”

“She stole my baby in the night and he did nothing to stop her.”

“Lycurgus knew?”

“He must have known.”

Hestia swore silently that no harm would come to her child.

Zosime stood at the foot of the sleeping couch, staring at Hestia. “By all rights, my son should be heir to the House of Lycurgus.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hestia said.

“You’ve hardly touched your wine.” Zosime handed Hestia the bowl.

Hestia stared into the ruby liquid. It reminded her of blood.

Twisting a dark curl around her finger, Zosime said, “Drink. The wine will do you good.”

Hestia raised the bowl to her lips. Peering at Zosime over the bowl’s rim, she pretended to sip.

D
iodorus walked slowly, allowing Georgios to keep pace.

“The old accident still pains you?” he asked.

“Especially when the weather changes. Not bad today.”

“Not a cloud in sight.”

The sky looked clear, except for sulfurous plumes of smoke rising from the furnaces, the result of roasting ore to prepare it for crushing. A yellowish haze settled on the hillside, but Diodorus had grown used to the foul air. They walked past the mill, and he stopped to watch the horses as they walked in circles.

“The rotary mill is a great improvement,” he said.

“Much faster than crushing the ore by hand with a mortar.” Normally a man of few words, Georgios became animated, explaining the fine points.

“I believe you could run this operation,” Diodorus said.

The foreman wiped his mouth with his hand, his fingers scored with cuts and burns. “I understand the work, but I’m no man for numbers. Thing is, I’ve been here so long, I’ve done most of these jobs myself.” He pointed to a row of wooden tubs. “Started as a water boy.”

Children ran back and forth to the creek to fetch water in leather buckets. Women poured the water into tubs, washing the crushed ore, ridding it of clay and salts. After the ore had been bathed, men poured off the sludge. This process was repeated until the water ran clear, leaving the silver—heavier than most minerals—to sink to the bottom of the bath.

Shielding his eyes, Diodorus looked toward the harbor and the recently arrived ship. The shore teemed with workers, carts, and animals. He dreaded sorting through the shipment, but slaves kept the mines operating. Much as he despised the idea of slavery, he could not imagine society without them.

“Show me those new furnaces,” he said.

The temperature grew hotter as they approached the scalding ovens. Diodorus wiped his forehead. His tunic stuck to his back.

“Spent a lot of time working for the god,” Georgios said.

“For what god?”

Georgios chuckled. “Hephaestus, god of metal working. He’s the one who scarred my hands so bad. Wants everyone to make a sacrifice and be a cripple like him.”

“I imagine it’s difficult to avoid being burned when you work the furnaces.”

Covering their faces to escape the sulfurous fumes, they walked past the ovens where silver ore, crushed to a powder, was fused with lead. Lead acted as a flux, allowing the silver ore to melt.

“Spent time as a coal bin runner too,” Georgios said. “Took me five years to get the soot out of my skin. These new stoves make cooking more efficient.”

They stopped in front of a row of hive-shaped furnaces and watched two men. They wore only loin cloths. Rivulets of sweat ran down their bodies. One man, his back deformed from some past injury, peered into the furnace where a cauldron of molten silver rested on red-hot coals.

“It’s ready.”

Using a sheet of flint, the other man, with arms as thick as a thigh, drew the cauldron from the crucible. When he turned, Diodorus saw his chest was scarred with burn marks.

“Stand back,” the man said, lowering the cauldron.

“Easy to get burned.” Georgios held his arm in front of Diodorus, preventing him from getting closer. “Lead carries silver to the bottom and slag floats on top.”