Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (27 page)

A smile split Therapon’s face as he opened the door. “Master Diodorus, it’s good to see you home. And Calonice! I thought I’d never lay eyes on you again.”

“I’m glad to find at least one trusted servant remains in my household.” Diodorus said. “It seems my mother chose to sell the others. Get Calonice resettled, won’t you, Therapon?” He surveyed the courtyard. “Where is the gorgon?”

The old slave hobbled after Diodorus, took his himation and his sandals. “If you’re referring to your mother—”

“Is there another gorgon in this house?”

“She’s in her rooms, Master.”

Fueled by fire in his gut, Diodorus headed for the women’s courtyard. Torches lit his way, flickering as he hurried past. “Mother!” His voice rang through the house. “I must talk to you!”

When Melaina didn’t appear, he bounded up the stairway.

An unfamiliar maid stopped him at the doorway. “Who are you?” she asked.

Ignoring her, he shouted, “Come out now!”

“Have you come to rob us?” The woman backed away from him. “The Despoina is resting and cannot be disturbed.”

Pushing past the servant, Diodorus headed for the door,

“Stop or I will use this.” Reaching a trembling hand into her himation the woman came back with a blade.

Diodorus grabbed her wrist, promptly removing the knife from her hand. “Thank you,” he said and continued shouting. “Show yourself, Mother. I want to see the succubus who preys on children, the blood-thirsty chimera who bore me.” He ripped open the doorway’s curtain.

There she stood—not asleep, but very much awake—her mouth a red gash in her powdered face, a wig of golden curls piled on her head. She appeared ghostly in the lamplight.

“Where’s the ring?” he demanded.

“Diodorus, what are—I, uh.” She backed away from him.

“Happy to see me, Mother?”

Without waiting for permission, obscenities streaming from his mouth, he stalked around the chamber pulling clothing from the chests, ripping tapestries from the walls. Pausing at her dressing table, he swiped the pixides and jars from the table, sent them crashing to the floor. Liquid pooled on the wood and her perfume assaulted his nostrils, the cloying scent of musk and oriental spices.

He picked up her mirror. Holding it in one hand, the knife in the other, he moved toward Melaina. “Look at yourself,” he said. “Take a good, long look. You’re hideous.” He forced the mirror to her face.

“Calm yourself, my honey.”

“Did you sell Hestia?”

“We needed the money and she fetched an excellent price.”

With a cry, he lunged at his mother, toppling her onto the floor. Pinning her down, he tried to decide if he should slit her throat or prolong her suffering. He ripped away her wig.

Melaina held her hands over her scalp, attempting to hide the patchy hair on her balding head.

Diodorus held up the wig, stared at the shimmering hair. “Is this Hestia’s?” The golden curls fell from his hand like a dead animal.

He turned back to his mother.

Footsteps clattered up the stairway as servants hurried from their work. Therapon burst through the doorway, followed by Melaina’s maid, the cook, a band of serving women, workmen. The entire household. Upon seeing Diodorus, they halted at the threshold.

“Master?” Therapon edged toward him, his hand outstretched. “Better give me that.”

Diodorus turned his eyes to his own fist, surprised to see it held the knife. Blood oozed from his fingers and scarlet rivulets ran down his arm. His blood, not his mother’s. The blade had sliced his palm. He dropped the knife.

Melaina got up slowly, her eyes focused on her son. With shaking hands she reached for the wig, rearranged it on her head. “Leave us,” she said to the servants. “Get back to your work.”

Grateful to escape, they hurried from the room. All but Therapon. The old slave glanced at Diodorus, his face worried. “Despoina, perhaps I should stay—”

“Go.”

With a backward glance at Diodorus, the old slave left.

Melaina closed the doorway’s curtains, then turned to her son.

“Shame.” She took hold of his arm, digging in her fingernails. “You shame your mother, shame the House of Agathon.”

All of his resolve, the fury he had mustered, vanished at her touch. He felt like a rag doll, empty and devoid of feeling. Drawing away from her, he examined his bloody palm, clenching and unclenching his fingers. He imagined wrapping his hands around her throat. He squeezed his fist to numb the pain.

Melaina gazed at him through kohl-rimmed eyes, her face whiter than a shade’s. “I know you care for that slave girl, but you must forget her. She is the property of Lycurgus. And now—” Her voice cracked. “She will bear his child.”

“I can’t forget Hestia. I love her.”

“Love.” Melaina spat the word. “Love brings trouble. Love brings pain. In this world power is what counts.” Turning away from him, she poured greenish liquid into a cup, absinthites oinos, her own concoction. “Would you like some wormwood wine? I find it soothing.”

“Is Hestia my sister?”

Melaina downed the cup, wiped her mouth, and turned back to him. “She’s a bastard and a slave.”

His fury immediately returned.

“Shut up,” he yelled and grabbed Melaina’s throat. He pressed his thumbs into her larynx, took delight in her fear. Blood from his wounded hand ran down her neck, staining her chiton. Clawing at his fingers, she made a gurgling sound. “I said, be quiet, Mother.”

“Is everything all right in there?” Therapon called through curtains.

“Fine,” Diodorus called back.

He picked the knife up from the floor, pressed the blade against his mother’s neck. “Cry out, and I’ll kill you. I mean it.” He dragged Melaina to a chair, forcing her to sit.

She stared at him, eyes wide with terror. Even in the dim light he saw bruises flowering on her neck, red marks that would become blue and purple, a garden.

He turned the blade so lamplight danced along the bronze. Melaina’s eyes filled with tears, but he felt no sympathy.

“Tell me the truth, Mother. Did you know that Hestia is Agathon’s daughter?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I knew.”

“Where is the ring?”

“Why?”

“I need it,” Diodorus said. “If Lycurgus sees the ring, he’ll write a statement claiming that Hestia is Agathon’s daughter and her mother a true Athenian. With that ring as proof, Lycurgus will free Hestia.”

“Even if she’s free, you can’t marry your sister. You’ll shame the House of Agathon.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. She won’t have me.” Diodorus pointed the tip of the blade at his mother’s throat. “I won’t shame the House of Agathon, but I
will
seek revenge from those who’ve wronged my sister. I may have to kill Lycurgus.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Melaina ran her tongue over her lips, her eyes focused on the knife. “You mustn’t hurt Lycurgus.”

“Why not? The gods require retribution. A brother must avenge his sister.”

“And what of patricide?”

“Patricide?”

“There’s something I must tell you.”

“I’m listening.” Diodorus kept the knife at her throat.

“Hestia is not your sister.”

“No more of your lies, Mother.” He pressed the knife’s tip into her neck, producing a bead of red. “You just admitted Agathon is her father.”

“Her father, not yours.”

Diodorus stared at her. “What are you saying?”

“Your father is Lycurgus.”

He swallowed. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His hand dropped from her neck. Dazed, he stared at the floor trying to comprehend what she had said.

Melaina pried the knife from his hand.

He looked up at the woman he called Mother as she stood from the chair, watched her straighten the wig of golden curls. She stooped to pick up a fallen jar and place it on her table, and then she glanced around the room, as if in search of something. Retrieving her jewelry box from the floor, she replaced scattered trinkets.

Diodorus found his voice. “How can Lycurgus be my father?”

“I hoped not to tell you, but—”

“You bedded him while you were married to Agathon?”

Melaina glared at him, her eyes mean as a viper’s. “He’s a better man than Agathon. Richer, wiser, and he loves me.”

Diodorus laughed. The nasty sound started in his belly, rose through his throat, and exploded from his mouth. Once begun, he couldn’t stop. Laughter sent him reeling backward and he leaned against the wall. Shaking his head, he pointed at his mother. “He loves you? When he has Hestia?” Another fit of laughter took hold of him, and he chortled like a man gone mad.

“You may laugh,” Melaina said. “But Lycurgus plans to marry me. He begged me to poison Agathon.”

“What?”

Melaina busied herself, collecting bits of broken pottery.

“Mother, tell me what you just said.”

She ran a finger up and down her forehead, blinked. “That wormwood wine makes me say strange things.” Groaning, she got down on her hands and knees to inspect the floor.

“Have you lost something?”
Aside from your reason?
The woman bordered on insanity.

“I’m picking up the mess you made.”

Diodorus wandered to the window. Blood-red clouds lay low on the horizon as day gave way to night. He didn’t know what to believe. He only knew his mother could not be trusted. Whether her madness had been caused by absinthites oinos or some internal conflict, he wasn’t certain. He watched her crawl across the floor.

“When did you last see Doctor Baraz?”

“He’s a nice man, for a Persian.” Melaina crawled toward a pile of clothing.

“And when did you last see Lycurgus?”

She stopped crawling, sat back on her heels. “Yesterday, but he was not himself.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t very nice.” She went back to crawling.

Nice was not a word Diodorus would have chosen to describe Lycurgus. He thought of the man’s eyes, dark and devoid of light. Ruthless would be a better word. Coward, swindler, liar, better described him. If Lycurgus were his father, not only was the man afraid to claim his son, but he was willing to lie in order to steal the woman his son loved. No matter where the truth lay, Agathon would always be his father. But in Lycurgus he saw himself. Their minds might be worlds apart, but they shared the same moody temperament, the same dark eyes.

“Something occurs to me, Mother.”

“What, my honey?” Melaina picked up a shawl and shook it out.

“If Lycurgus is my father, Hestia and I are free to marry.”

Using a chair for support, Melaina stood. “Not unless you prove her to be Agathon’s daughter.”

Diodorus kicked at the pile of clothing.

They spotted it at the same time, a gleam of gold lying on the floor, almost lost among the mess. Diodorus dove for it. Held it in his hand.

“Give me that ring!” Melaina shouted.

“Is this what you were looking for?” The ring glittered in his palm. He held it to the oil lamp. The snakes’ eyes glowed red and seemed to come alive. The ring felt warm, then hot, and Diodorus would have sworn that the snakes were writhing.

Despite lead powder, Melaina’s face appeared scarlet.

Diodorus tossed the ring into the air and caught it. “I’ll keep this safe.”

“Give it to me,” Melaina pleaded.

“I don’t think so.”

He slipped the ring onto his little finger. Once on, the band felt tight. The snakes coiled around his finger, their golden bodies molten.
Let it burn
. Any pain was worth enduring if it meant he might have Hestia, even the agony of knowing that his life had been a lie. At the break of dawn, he would go to her.

Melaina sank onto the stool at her dressing table. She swatted at the air, the wig askew, bruises blooming on her neck. The poor woman was deluded, imagining Lycurgus loved her. Diodorus stared at his mother. Stared at her, until his pity turned to horror. Slowly, the truth dawned on him. Despite her delusions, Melaina’s confession held some veracity. She and Lycurgus had killed Agathon.

She batted at the air, tears streaming down her face. Falling from the stool, she crawled toward Diodorus. “Make them stop,” she pleaded.

“Make who stop?”

“The bees.”

H
estia leaned her elbows on the windowsill. The night air carried the scent of jasmine. At this hour even the peacocks were quiet, but she found no escape in sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about Diodorus. Odysseus jumped onto the sill and she scratched the cat’s neck.

For months, she’d built a wall around her heart, a protective barrier to numb herself. And it had worked. She’d felt nothing. No pain. No love. No hope. But in one moment Diodorus had destroyed her fortress.

Tiring of her affection, Odysseus crept along the sill and climbed out of the window. The cat made his way along a vine, and then onto a trellis, finally leaping into the courtyard. A small creature scurried across the paving stones. Crouching in the moonlight, Odysseus focused on an area of groundcover.

Placing her hand on her bulging stomach, Hestia felt the baby move.

“You can’t sleep either, can you, Melissa?”

Just as she sensed the baby was a girl, her gut told her Diodorus was the father.

Hestia bit her lip, trying to stop the rush of feelings she’d been holding back, but emotions rushed through her. With a cry, she turned away from the window, flung herself onto the sleeping couch. It was no good. Nothing she did, nothing she thought, could stop the flood of agony.

Diodorus had come back. He hadn’t abandoned her, hadn’t known that she’d been sold. He loved her. Wanted to marry her. But that was impossible. He was her brother.

She grabbed a pillow, hugged it. “Curse you!” she yelled at Aphrodite. “You call yourself the goddess of love, but you’re crueler than Lycurgus, forcing me to love my brother, torturing us in this crucible.”

She punched the pillow and burst into tears.

Aphrodite was probably watching her right now, looking down from Olympus, amused by the pathetic mortal. She heard the goddess laughing. Saw Aphrodite’s glee as she and Apollo rolled dice, pushing Hestia and Diodorus one way and another, as if they were pieces in a game of tavli.