Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (8 page)

“Lycurgus claims we owe him a considerable sum.”

“How much?”

“Five talents.”

“How can that be possible?” Fanning her face with her hand, Melaina slumped against the wall; a bit overdone, perhaps, but her son’s concerned expression told her the charade was convincing. “Of course,” she added, her voice breathless, “Agathon indulged in philanthropy to a fault, and I suppose Lycurgus might have bailed him out.”

“I’m sorry to upset you, Mother.”

“What are we to do?” Clutching her chest, she twisted her robe. “Surely Lycurgus will help.”

“He wants me to work for him.”

“Work for him?”

“Yes.”

“And will you?”

“It seems I have no choice.”

Melaina wanted to laugh, wanted to clap her hands with delight, but she furrowed her brow and showed concern. “What kind of work?”

“I’m not sure, exactly, but it involves travel.”

“Will you leave Athens?”

“I must.”

Melaina squeezed her eyes, attempting to force a few tears. Unsuccessful, she covered her face and made a sobbing noise. “You’re leaving me?”

“Please, don’t cry.”

Diodorus held Melaina, and she sank into his strength. Her son, her beautiful boy—what she wouldn’t do for him.

Hiding her triumph, she drew away from Diodorus and held him at arm’s length. “I will be brave, and so must you. Leave Athens if you must. I won’t stand in your way. You are Master of the House of Agathon.”

“Yes, Mother. Remember that.”

His tone gave her pause.

“S
laves must be disciplined like wayward children.” Lycurgus wiped grease from his hands using a linen cloth and dipped his fingers into a bowl of rose-scented water.

Using a piece of pita, Diodorus scooped up another chunk of lamb. Cooked to perfection, delicately spiced with rosemary, garlic, and an herb he couldn’t name, it was the most delicious meat he’d ever tasted. But everything in the andron exceeded his expectations. Silk rugs from Persia were strewn across the mosaic floor—an intricate pattern of black-and-white pebbles which must have cost a fortune—and nine couches lined the raised perimeter. Low tables sat before each couch, and carved sculptures stood in every corner. Diodorus recognized the work of Phidias, the artist who’d designed the new Parthenon. Oil lamps glowed throughout the room, casting light on the red-plastered walls. Lycurgus lay on a couch adjacent to the couch of Diodorus. Shadows flickered across his face, making his expression difficult to read.

Diodorus didn’t want to offend his host, but he felt the need to speak. “Aren’t slaves human beings? Don’t they have hearts and minds?”

Lycurgus appeared amused. “So, you disagree with my statement?”

Measuring his words, Diodorus lifted his wine bowl and downed a gulp. Truthfully, the statement angered him. He found Lycurgus irritating. The man’s self-assurance bordered on hubris. Lowering the bowl, Diodorus did his best to disguise his loathing. “Socrates suggests that slavery be abolished. He cites the practice as an outrage.”

“Socrates is the son of a mason and a midwife, practically a slave himself. Without slaves, who would build our roads, till the fields? The institution of slavery is the foundation of civilization.”

Lycurgus snapped his fingers, and a servant whisked away the platter of lamb. Meanwhile, another brought a bowl of fruit and nuts.

Lycurgus smiled, long teeth filling his mouth. The wine, lightly watered and consequently strong, had begun to affect Diodorus. It was easy for him to imagine Lycurgus pouncing on his prey, sinking fangs into its neck. His name meant wolf and it suited him.

“Care for a pear?” Lycurgus asked.

“No, thank you.”

“More oysters?”

“You are a most solicitous host, but I have had enough.” Diodorus had eaten his fill of minted oysters, mullet baked with rosemary and lemon, asparagus in dilled yogurt sauce. The delicacies Lycurgus offered seemed endless.

Diodorus raised his wine bowl. Liquid ran down his throat, loosening his tongue. Lowering the bowl, he said, “Not all slaves are base in nature. For example, there’s a slave girl in my household whose wit and courage rivals any citizen’s.”

Lycurgus snorted. “The wine is speaking now, my boy. Or maybe it’s your cock.”

“This girl is different. Never have I met a woman so intelligent, so well read, so—”

“Beautiful?” Lycurgus bit into a pear. “You, my friend, are the victim of Eros, god of lust.”

“Not lust, a higher love.”

“Agape?” Lycurgus leaned back on his couch, regarding Diodorus. “A girl possessing the charms you describe should be shared. What is the name of this treasure? I may want to lease her for my next symposium. Or state your price and I may buy her.”

“She’s not for sale,” Diodorus said, the hairs on his neck prickling.

“Pity.” Lycurgus pursed his lips. “Is this the girl who caused a scene at Agathon’s funeral?”

“She had just cause.”

“Slaves have no
just cause
for anything.” Lycurgus sniffed, haughtily. “You’re far too lenient, my boy. Unruliness should never be tolerated in a servant. This is what comes from being a member of the Democratic party, rather than a Conservative. You should reconsider.”

“My father was a Democrat.”

“Never mind about politics. On one thing we agree, my boy.” Lycurgus winked at Diodorus. “I like fire in a woman. Fire in a woman’s cunt warms even the coldest cock.” He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, then carefully folded it. “That girl is damaged goods. She limps. Still, I’ll pay a good price for her.”

“As I said, she’s not for sale.”

Diodorus stood. He couldn’t bear to spend another moment with the man. He took a step toward the exit, but the floor seemed unreliable.

“Sit down,” Lycurgus said. It was a command, not a request. “We have business to discuss.”

Diodorus sat. “What is your business, exactly? My father spoke only of his building plans. I’m interested in supplying housing to those in need. I believe even slaves should have—”

“Trade.”

“What kind of trade?”

“Imports and exports.”

A servant offered Diodorus a platter of cakes, oozing with cream and honey, but he pushed it away.

Lycurgus snapped his fingers at a youth, no more than twelve years old. Pitcher in hand, the boy refilled the bowls with wine of the finest quality imported from Lesbos.

“I say treat slaves like children. They must learn to obey.” Lycurgus smacked the slave boy’s buttocks and smiled lasciviously. “On a rump fine as this, I never spare the rod.”

Diodorus gulped his wine, welcoming its strength. His tongue felt thick and heavy. “Socrates claims slavery robs a man of his greatest asset—freedom.”

“What rot. How many slaves do you keep in your household? Ten?”

“Twelve, I believe, including the stable boy.”

“You couldn’t do without them, and we’re not even discussing the slaves that work your land. My boy, you’re a hypocrite.” Lycurgus laughed, his eyes glinting like a predator’s. “Freedom is for citizens.”

“Please, tell me more about your business.” Diodorus noticed that his speech sounded slurred.

“I trade souls.”

“S-souls?”

“I rescue the dead and offer them new life.”

“Are you a priest?”

“A priest!” Lycurgus laughed delightedly. “I suppose, in a way, I am.”

“I thought you dealt in imports.”

Lycurgus reached for a fig. “I import labor for the mines.”

“The silver mines?”

“Your father and I got into the business years ago, before the Persian invasion. We contract mines from the state, oversee their operation, supply slaves for labor. We export silver to Athens and beyond. Our silver allows Athens to mint coins—the most trusted coinage in the world. So, you see, the business provides a tremendous service.”

Diodorus felt sick to his stomach. He’d heard about the silver mines, heard about the slaves who crawled through dark tunnels and never made it out—backbreaking work, with no reward except the prize of early death.

He took another sip of wine, but now it tasted sour. “I’ve heard that many people die working the mines.”

“That’s why we depend on slaves, those unsuited to any other work. At least we offer them means to eat. All labor is hard. Farming, building roads, do you think any of that work is easy?” Lycurgus bit into the fig, juice running down his chin. He dabbed his beard with a napkin. “New markets are opening and business is exploding. I can’t keep up with the demand. I need a man to oversee the operation. That’s where you come in.”

“I want no part of the slave trade,” Diodorus said. “Bad enough we make slaves of those defeated in battle.”

“Nonsense. You’re doing these slaves a service. They’re outcasts. No one else will buy them.”

“What’s worse than loss of freedom?”

“Hunger. Plague. Is death not worse than slavery? What good is freedom, if your family must eat dung? You’re a fool, my boy, too influenced by Socrates. We’re all slaves to someone.” Lycurgus pointed his finger at Diodorus. “And, until you pay your father’s debt, you’re slave to me.”

The statement felt like a punch. Diodorus tried to rise. Unable to trust his legs, he sat back down.

“Relax,” Lycurgus said. “I won’t make you crawl around the silver mines. You’ll be my right-hand man, and the work will provide you with more lucre than you can imagine. There’s trouble in the mines right now, and I need someone to set things straight.” Lycurgus snapped his fingers at a servant. “Fetch Galenos, and tell him to bring the papers.” He turned back to Diodorus. “You depart tomorrow. I’ve made all the arrangements.”

“Tomorrow?”

“There’s no time to waste. I have an oxcart carrying supplies to Piraeus in the morning. I’ll send the driver by your house first thing. My ship sails in the morning, and I want you to be on it.”

More wine was poured. Lycurgus spoke about the business, outlining travel arrangements and work to be performed. Words swirled around Diodorus, but he felt unable to take them in, unable to concentrate on what the man said.

After a time, the curtain opened and the steward entered, the slave called Galenos. Diodorus had seen him before, a man not easily forgotten—his eyebrows painted in an expression of surprise, his robe bright yellow. His milky skin appeared never to see the sun, and his muscles appeared slack. Everything about him seemed effeminate.

“My prize from Samos,” Lycurgus said. “Galenos thinks himself above Athenians, don’t you?”

The man said nothing, but handed Lycurgus a scroll.

“A pen and ink?”

“Yes, Master.” The slave’s voice sounded higher than most men’s. Diodorus surmised that Galenos had been captured in battle and made a eunuch. With a flourish, the slave set an inkpot and stylus on the table.

Lycurgus dipped the stylus into the soot mixed with water. Using bold strokes, he signed the papyrus and handed the pen to Diodorus. “Galenos will serve as witness to our signatures.”

“What am I signing?” Diodorus asked.

“Our agreement.”

Diodorus scanned the scroll, his concentration wavering. From what he gathered, the agreement stated that, after one year of work, he would be free of debt. “I suppose I have no choice but to sign.”

“You could choose poverty and ruin. Disgrace. Think of your poor mother.”

Diodorus felt as doomed as the tragic hero, Orestes, his hand forced by circumstance beyond his control. Praying the House of Agathon might have a better fate than the cursed House of Atreus, he dipped the stylus into the inkpot and scratched out his name.

With aplomb to rival an actor, Galenos blew on the papyrus before blotting their signatures.

Lycurgus clapped Diodorus on the back. “In one year’s time, your debt will be cleared. This is cause for celebration. Let’s toast to the future.” He raised his wine bowl.

Diodorus drank, barely noticing the wine’s taste. He told himself the stories he had heard about the silver mines must be exaggerated. Otherwise, how could his father—a man of integrity who cared about people, cared about slaves—have been involved in such a business? And how could he, a follower of Socrates, hope to reconcile his conscience?

He allowed a servant to refill his wine bowl and told himself he should feel pleased, proud that he had struck out on his own with no influence from his mother. Besides, Lycurgus made a good point, the whole fabric of society depended upon slaves. Slavery was part of the natural order.

Lowering the bowl, he wiped his mouth. “Five talents is a lot of money for one year’s work.”

“I promised your mother I’d take care of you.”

“My mother? What has Melaina got to do with this?”

“You didn’t know?” Lycurgus chuckled. “The gods know that woman can keep a secret.”

Diodorus stared at Lycurgus, hoping he misunderstood. “My mother arranged this agreement?”

“She asked me to offer you work.”

Diodorus set down his wine bowl. Bile rose into his mouth. In truth, he was no better than a slave—slave to Lycurgus, slave to Agathon’s debt, and slave to his mother. There was no escape.

“Now tell me more about your girl,” Lycurgus said.

“My girl?”

“The girl you lust after, the fabulous slave. Is she a virgin?”

He must mean Hestia.

“Of course, she’s virgin.”

Lycurgus raised a silver eyebrow. “You’ve never dipped into her honey pot? How can you be certain of her chastity?”

Diodorus wanted to punch the man, but he managed to control himself. “I know her,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “I’ve known her all my life. She’s not like other slaves, not like other women. She’s intelligent, cares about important things. My father taught her to read.”

“Perhaps Agathon sampled her.”

Diodorus clenched his fist. “He did not. My father was a man of honor.”

“Was he?” Lycurgus appeared skeptical. “We all cling to our delusions.”

“What are you implying?”

“If the girl’s all you claim she is, I’ll pay twice the going price.”

Diodorus slammed his fist on the table. “How many times must I tell you? Hestia is not—” His bowl crashed onto the floor, red wine spilling on the priceless carpet.