Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (6 page)

“Mama!”

A harsh slap brought Hestia back to the present.

Melaina stood before her, eyes spitting fire like a gorgon. “How dare you desecrate my husband’s funeral? You make yourself a spectacle.”

Olympia’s ring glistened on Melaina’s hand. The twin snakes seemed to writhe. Rising to her feet, Hestia said, “That ring belongs to me.”

Melaina raised her hand, preparing to hit Hestia again.

Diodorus caught her wrist. “Calm yourself, Mother.” He glanced at the gathered guests. The wailing and the drums had ceased. All eyes focused on Melaina and Hestia.

Melaina pointed at Hestia. “Witness how this piece of dung, this worm, this slave that I was kind enough to take into my home, has disgraced our family. She’s a liar and a thief.” Holding up her hand so the ring glittered. She proclaimed. “She stole this ring from my dead husband, and now she calls it hers. Never have I seen such impudence.”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

Hestia looked out at the faces, many she had known for years—family members, slaves with whom she worked. Only Calonice looked at her with compassion. The other slaves returned her gaze blankly, ready to believe the worst, glad that
she
had been singled out so
they
were safe. She heard their muttered accusations, their cries for punishment. What hope did a slave’s word have against Melaina’s?

“Is this true, Hestia?” Diodorus sounded gentle, but the fact that he asked, stung. “Did you steal the ring?”

She met his gaze, searching for her childhood friend, the boy with whom she had grown up, the man she admired, even loved.

Love.

She hadn’t meant to think the word. Was that what she felt for him?

“Look how she pales,” Melaina said. “She’s obviously guilty.

Hestia’s gaze remained fixed on Diodorus. Afraid if she looked elsewhere her knees would buckle. “Your father gave me the ring,” she said.

The crowd moved closer, straining to hear.

“She stole the ring.” Melaina pointed at Hestia, riling the crowd. “Before my husband’s corpse grew cold.”

Hestia saw that Diodorus wanted to believe her. “Your father said the ring belonged to my mother, and he told me—”

“Thief!” Melaina shouted. “She must be punished.” Bending down, she grabbed a rock.

A stone flew from the crowd and grazed Hestia’s arm. Another stone followed. It hit her squarely in the chest, piercing her robe. The impact drove her backward and she fell onto the ground. She raised her hands, attempting to protect her face. Tears choked her voice. Stones rained down, bruising her body, crushing her pride. She flung herself facedown into the dirt, wishing she had never been born. Now that Agathon was dead, her life seemed devoid of hope.

“Stop!” Diodorus shouted at the crowd. “Stop at once.”

Powerful hands lifted Hestia onto her feet, and Diodorus wrapped his arms around her protectively. She clung to him, wishing she might disappear into his strength. He stroked her tangled curls, brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. “Forgive my mother,” he said. “She’s suffering from grief, but there’s no excuse for her behavior.”

Hestia doubted Melaina’s grief, but said nothing to Diodorus. Afraid to look into his eyes, afraid he’d see the depth of what she felt for him, she said, “I’m sorry for the loss of your father.”

Diodorus turned to Melaina. “Let’s not mar this day with hatred, Mother, but take a higher road, in deference to my late father, your late husband. Agathon cared for this girl, and I will carry out his legacy. Hestia belongs to me, and, as the new Master, I will ensure that no harm comes to her.”

This girl belongs to me.

Hestia could have screamed, but as all good slaves, she remained silent. What a fool she was to imagine Diodorus might think of her as something more than a possession—a goat or an ox would receive as much protection.

The stone Melaina had been prepared to throw dropped from her hand, though her hatred remained palpable. Her eyes met Hestia’s and sent a warning.

Hestia sent a silent warning back to her.
I know what you’ve done.

“Come, Hestia.” Diodorus led her to the edge of the crowd. “Stay here and you’ll be safe.”

He left her. Hestia watched him move through the crowd to join his aunts and uncles, cousins who would never recognize her as part of their family. No matter what Agathon had claimed, she would never be more than a slave, a piece of property. Diodorus stood at the altar, as distant as a god.

He proclaimed, “It’s time to offer sacrifice in honor of my father.” He glanced at Melaina, who stood beside him. “Come, Mother, let us give thanks for Agathon’s accomplishments.”

The flutes and drums began again. The mourners wailed. A trench had been dug before the tomb and, led by Diodorus, the mourners approached it. Some offered wine, some milk and honey; others offered oil or a small animal. The final sacrifice was performed by the Priest of Zeus, two sheep and an ox. Their sacrifice would not only appease the gods, but provide meat for feasting after the funeral. Blood overran the trench and soaked the earth, turning the soil crimson.

Tears streamed down Hestia’s face. She had nothing to offer but her grief.

Sensing that someone stood behind her, she turned and saw a silver-haired man. She recognized Agathon’s business partner, Lycurgus. He wore an elegant chiton, and although his face was lined he remained handsome. The intensity of his gaze made Hestia uneasy. He nodded, perhaps in sympathy, and took a step toward her. Melaina hurried toward them, the tails of her himation flapping behind her like dark wings.

A gust of wind swept through the field bringing dust and ash.

Hestia closed her eyes and opened them, unsure if what she saw was real. A whirlwind of screeching creatures swirled around Melaina, their talons clawing at her face—the Erinyes, Furies, goddesses of vengeance. Eyes dripping blood, heads wreathed by serpents, the Erinyes demanded retribution.

The world might be blind, but the gods had eyes. And so did Hestia. The Erinyes cemented her suspicions.

“Don’t waste your time on errant slaves,” Melaina said, glaring at Hestia. Turning to Lycurgus, she smiled coyly and reached for his hand. “Come, I need your support.”

Ignoring her flirtatiousness, the man sedately linked his elbow through Melaina’s, escorting her as one might escort an elderly aunt. They walked toward Agathon’s pyre—unaware of the Furies pursuing them.

A
painting of Zeus, god of the sky, controller of weather and supreme ruler of Olympus, stared down from the frescoed wall, reminding Diodorus of his insignificance. No manmade edifice, not even this substantial monument, could alter the transience of life. Surrounded by dead ancestors, he stood beside his father’s coffin within the courtyard of the family tomb. Agathon had commissioned the sarcophagus from the finest mason in Attica. Bas-relief, exquisitely carved, ran along the sides, depicting a hunt led by the goddess Artemis. Agathon had enjoyed hunting boar in his younger years, dangerous sport. Several times he’d brought Diodorus with him, but Diodorus found little pleasure in driving a spear through the charging pig, no pleasure in watching the animal die.

As the priest proclaimed the final invocation, Diodorus reminded himself that death was necessary, part of life. His father traveled to a better place, welcomed by Hades, god of the underworld, not to the hell of Tartaros, but to peaceful Elysium.

The women had departed earlier, gone home to prepare the funerary feast, and only men remained. Lamentation was left to women. Men were expected to be stoic, face death courageously. But as Diodorus stood stone-faced beside his father’s coffin along with other stone-faced men, he felt the weight of Agathon’s departure.

Someone touched his shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. His father’s business partner stood beside him. At one time the two men had been close as brothers, but lately they had seen little of each other. Despite their rift, Lycurgus had been appointed Kurios by Agathon and consequently served as an advisor to the family.

“We need to talk,” Lycurgus said. “Walk with me.”

Diodorus glanced at the gathered men: cousins, friends, acquaintances, most of them statesmen and wealthy businessmen, the leading citizens of Athens. The war hero and statesman, Pericles, had made an offering. He and Agathon had seen eye-to-eye and worked together on numerous building projects. Even Thucydides, the son of Melesias and leader of the Conservatives, had come to honor Agathon, though the two men had often argued about politics. Thucydides was a proponent of the old oligarchy. He wanted to bring back the aristocracy, while Agathon, like Pericles, believed that every citizen should have his say.

Diodorus looked to the priest, who nodded solemnly, giving him permission to depart. He followed Lycurgus from the courtyard, through darkened chambers of the tomb and out into a cheerful garden. The day had grown warm and brilliant sunshine promised the end of winter rains. Diodorus listened to the hum of insects, smelled the sun-warmed earth and felt better than he had all day.

“It seems winter has departed,” he said.

“And none too soon.” Lycurgus clapped him on the shoulder. “In my opinion, funerals are best kept short.”

“I agree with you,” Diodorus said. “I’d rather focus on life than death.”

“Yes. Death comes soon enough without encouragement.” Lycurgus glanced at Diodorus. “Do you appreciate the theater?”

“How could I not and call myself Athenian?”

“True.” Lycurgus chuckled. “All of Athens is abuzz in preparation for the Great Dionysia. This year I am a sponsor of the festival.”

“A great honor.” Diodorus assessed Lycurgus with greater scrutiny. Though he had been acquainted with him all his life, he hardly knew the man. They had never really had a conversation. Agathon and Lycurgus had argued bitterly, though Diodorus wasn’t certain of the cause. He knew Lycurgus was wealthy, wealthier than Agathon. In fact, Lycurgus was one of the wealthiest men in Athens. Sponsoring a play at the Dionysia required a vast sum of money. “Which playwright do you back?” Diodorus asked, relieved to distance himself from the funeral and death.

“Sophocles, of course. I always back a winner. You?”

“I favor Euripides.”

Lycurgus snorted. “An upstart. He’ll never outdo Sophocles. His roles depicting women outdo his roles for men.”

“That’s one reason I favor him,” Diodorus said. “I like strong women, women of intelligence, and I find his views superior to Sophocles.”

“Do you?” Lycurgus raised a silver brow. “Strong women have their place, and that place is in the bedroom.”

“Why not politics?”

“Politics.” Lycurgus spat the word. “You go too far, young man. But, I agree, I prefer a woman of intelligence.”

The path they walked along meandered past tombs of prominent Athenians, past statues of the dead. Glad for the silence, Diodorus struggled with his sorrow. Agathon had offered guidance. Without Agathon, he felt like a sailor lost at sea with no constellations to guide him—only the faulty light his mother offered. But trusting her to save him from wrecking on the rocks of life was no better than trusting a siren.

“This way, my boy.”

Lycurgus led him onto a rise which overlooked the cemetery and its gardens. At the pinnacle, a stone bench stood beneath a shade tree.

“The sun is hot.” Lycurgus wiped his forehead with a linen cloth and sat. He patted the bench. “You may be young, but I grow old and tired. Sit.”

Diodorus gazed at the distant mountains. “You and my father,” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “You were close.”

“Very close in our younger days.” Lycurgus leaned back on the bench. “Neither of us had brothers, so we went into business together, thought of each other as family.”

“You fought?”

“We quarreled.”

“About what?”

“Money, investments, other things.”

“What other things?”

“A woman.”

Diodorus glanced at Lycurgus. His chiton was woven of the finest wool, his boots exquisite leather, his beard perfectly trimmed. In every way he seemed immaculate. “What woman?” he asked.

“That was a long time ago. Ancient history.” Lycurgus chuckled. “Tell me about you. What are your plans for the future?”

“My mother urges me to go into politics.”

“And what do you want?”

“I’m not sure. I like seeing different places. I’d like to travel, have adventures like my father.” Diodorus laughed, but quickly sobered.

“So, you’d like to be a professional soldier? Fight battles in foreign territories? Keep those Persian swine at bay?” Lycurgus stroked his silver beard. “Despite the treaty for thirty years of peace, the Spartans continue to threaten trouble. Plenty of work for hoplites these days.”

Diodorus shook his head. “I served my time in the navy. I don’t like battles. I like meeting different people, experiencing different ways of life. At heart, I suppose I’m a philosopher. I follow Socrates—”

“Socrates! Over a bowl of wine, I grant you he’s entertaining. But most of what he spouts is nonsense. A man needs to do something useful with his life. Philosophy has its merits, but traipsing barefoot around the agora, asking questions, is no fit pastime for a citizen.”

“Fortunately, I’ve inherited wealth.”

Lycurgus pursed his lips. “Have you seen the ledgers?”

“No.” Diodorus felt his face redden. “My father took care of business. My interests lie elsewhere.”

“Beekeeping and philosophy?”

“Well, yes,” Diodorus stammered. “But now, of course, I’ll have to take an interest in finances.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about, my boy. Finances.”

“Today? At my father’s funeral?”

“Your father borrowed on his share of our business, for all his crazy building schemes. Housing for the poor—does that sound like a lucrative venture? Your estate owes me five talents of silver.”

“Five talents? Surely, you jest.”

“I’m serious as debt.”

The mirthless eyes Diodorus peered into stared back like tarnished coins. “That’s enough to build a palace. You must be mistaken.”