Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (18 page)

“If he wants a sweeter deal, he’ll have to seek another honey pot.” Breaking from Lycurgus, she tried the door. Someone had locked it from the outside.

“For the gods’ sake, don’t cause a scene,” Lycurgus said through a clenched jaw.

“Let me out!” she shouted. “I know you’re there, Galenos. Help!”

Lycurgus turned to his guest. “Pardon her behavior, Basileios. The girl is green.”

“Resistance can be entertaining,” the fat man said.

“I’ll show you entertaining.” Zosime pushed him back onto the couch.

Hestia tried the door again, but the lock wouldn’t budge. “I’m not a common prostitute,” she said to Lycurgus. “I’m not like Zosime.”

Zosime looked up from the fat man’s crotch, her expression disdainful. “What are you? The queen of Persia?” Leaving Basileios gasping, she stalked across the room and grabbed Hestia’s arm. “You need a lesson.”

“That’s right,” Lycurgus said. “Convince her, Zosime.”

“I won’t participate in orgies.”

Lycurgus had gone back to reading. “Zosime will teach you everything you need to know,” he said.

Hestia lunged at him, tearing the scroll from his hands. She ripped the papyrus into pieces and threw them at his lap. They fluttered to the floor.

“I may be your slave,” she said, “but I have integrity.”

“Apologize,” Lycurgus said. “To me and my guest.”

“It’s you who should apologize.” As she ran to the door, she heard Zosime shouting, Basileios laughing.

“I’m too old for this,” Lycurgus said.

This time the door opened, and Hestia ran smack into Galenos.

“Is everything all right?” the eunuch asked.

Hestia pushed past him, her bad ankle shooting pain, and broke into a run.

“I will not be disobeyed.” Lycurgus shouted after her, “Come back here!”

But she was halfway to her room.

Melaina spent the afternoon in the antechamber adjacent to the entrance of the house, pretending to sort herbs from her garden. A pile of heliotrope lay on the table, its delicate white flowers perfuming the air. There were mounds of parsley, sprigs of bright blue delphinium, stalks of prickly lettuce, but her thoughts kept drifting to Lycurgus and she found it difficult to concentrate on plants.

She dragged a square stool over to the window. Lifting her chiton, she climbed onto the stool. She pushed open the shutters and peered out at the street. No sign of Calonice or the schoolboy she’d been sent to fetch.

Thinking she heard someone at the door, Melaina stepped down from the stool and peeked through the doorway’s curtain. No one. She had granted Therapon the evening off so he could visit his brother, encouraging him to stay the night. She wanted no interference. The other servants were busy cooking dinner or completing tasks at the other end of the house.

She gazed at the table, admiring her knives. She’d arranged the blades according to length, from a paring knife to the long machaira. She spat on a whetstone, then ran the sacrificial knife over it, sharpening the bronze blade to a fine edge. Honing her knives had become habit. Knowing her knives were razor sharp, ready to be put to use, allowed her to sleep at night. Despite night sweats and disturbing dreams.

Wondering what kept the girl, she ran her fingers through her hair. Forgetting she wore a wig, she dislodged the pins and, unsuccessfully, tried to set it straight. She ripped the wig from her head and stared with horror at the clumps of black hair that came off with the pins. She wiped her forehead with a rag and slapped the wig back on her head. She stood on the stool again.

The road was busy at this hour with workmen pushing barrows, hurrying to get home for dinner or on their way to a tavern. Serving women walked in clusters, hydrias full of water balanced on their heads. Melaina envied their easy laughter and their freedom. Schoolboys ran along the street, carrying their tablets, throwing leather balls at one another, joking and carrying on. Though it wasn’t proper, Melaina leaned over the window ledge and enjoyed the breeze.

At the far end of the street, she spotted Calonice, a schoolboy trailing behind as if embarrassed to be seen with her. She was a sight, dressed in mismatched clothing, braids sticking out from her head. Calonice motioned for the schoolboy to come and pointed to the house. She walked along the gutter, the hem of her chiton dipping into filthy water. Then she stopped, retraced her steps, and disappeared into the alleyway with the schoolboy following. Melaina leaned further out the window to gain a better view and see what mischief the girl was up to. After a few minutes, Calonice and the boy reappeared.

Melaina squinted. A cat trotted after them. A mangy thing, no doubt riddled with fleas.

Melaina jumped down from the stool, drew back the curtain, and hurried to the entrance of the house. Unbolting the door, she lay in wait.

“Don’t let that rodent in the house,” she said as Calonice approached.

The cat shot past her.

“I said don’t—”

Calonice ran after it.

Attempting to remain calm, Melaina turned to the schoolboy. Big round eyes and tousled hair, scraped knees and a face smudged with something he’d been eating, he looked like a child. “How old are you?

“Thirteen, Despoina.”

Melaina grunted. “Can you write?”

“Read and write as well as mathematics.”

“More importantly, can you keep your mouth shut?”

He nodded and she led him to the workroom.

The schoolboy sat at the table scratching out a letter on a fresh sheet of papyrus. He glanced at Melaina’s knives and the stacks of plants.

“I’m not paying you to daydream.”

The boy continued writing.

Melaina had considered using more expensive parchment, but decided papyrus would serve. A well written letter scribed on papyrus imported from Alexandria would command respect without appearing overly eager to impress.

“Read it back to me.”

“My Dearest, Lycurgus—”

“Not Dearest, that’s a bit extreme, just, Dear.”

“You said Dearest, Despoina.”

“Did I? Well, tear that up and start again.”

The sun was setting, and no doubt the boy was anxious to get home to his dinner, but the letter had to be perfect.

The boy dipped his stylus into the inkpot and, for the fifth time, scratched out the address. Lifting the stylus from the page, he waited for Melaina’s dictation.

“My Dear Lycurgus of Athens, since my husband’s demise and my son’s departure, I find myself alone in the world.”

Melaina watched the boy as he wrote. He reminded her of Diodorus. How sweet her son had been at that age, before he’d become a man. Men, no matter who they were, could not be trusted.

“Read what you’ve written so far,” she said.

“My Dear Lycurgus of Athens, since my husband’s demise and my son’s departure, I find myself alone in the world.”

“Good.” Melaina paced the room. “Because you have been appointed Kurios of the House of Agathon, I hope I may depend on you for moral and emotional support. Please, do me the honor of visiting at your earliest convenience so you may advise me on my finances…”

The boy wrote frantically.

Melaina cracked her knuckles, noticing the tightness in her hands, the tightness in her body. She thought about her lonely bed.

“Is that all?” The boy looked at her, his stylus poised.

“Finances and other things,” Melaina said, completing the sentence. She watched over the boy’s shoulder as he scratched out the words. “I look forward to your guidance. Respectfully, Melaina of Athens.”

The boy blotted the papyrus before handing it to Melaina.

She folded the letter carefully and sealed it with a dab of wax. “Say nothing of this,” she said, fishing a drachma from her purse.

“The girl already paid me,” the boy said.

Melaina handed him a coin. “This is for your silence.”

H
estia lay on the sleeping couch and stared at Aphrodite, the goddess who held her prisoner. She had thought Lycurgus cared for her, thought he might even believe she was Agathon’s daughter. But today he’d treated her as less than a household slave. He’d treated her like a prostitute.

She’d been lying in her room for hours, hoping for an apology, but none had come.

Remembering what had happened made her queasy. Wondering if she might be getting ill, she turned away from Aphrodite and stared at the wall. Red as blood. Her eyes followed a crack in the plaster. She had thought this was a reputable household, but now she understood that Lycurgus participated in the basest practices. He saw himself as an aristocrat, which apparently entitled him to be exempt from common decency. It was one thing to engage a hetaera, quite another to host orgies. Small wonder that he and Agathon had quarreled. Lycurgus was the antithesis of everything Agathon had esteemed.

She heard footsteps outside the door.

“Who’s there?” she called.

The door swung open, revealing Zosime, her clothing disheveled, the red ochre on her lips smeared. The stench of stale wine preceded her. Hestia had believed Spartans to be strong, but this woman lacked moral fiber.

“What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I think there is.” Zosime closed the door behind her, and weaved drunkenly toward Hestia’s sleeping couch. “How does it feel, to have no power? No control of your life?”

“Is that how you feel?”

“We’re talking about you.”

Zosime moved around the room, touching everything as if taking inventory. Bottles rattled on the dressing table. The lid of the jewelry box opened, the trinkets tinkling as they were examined.

“This room used to be mine.”

“When?” Hestia sat, drew the covers to her chin.

“Until you came.” Zosime stood beside the sleeping couch, staring at Hestia. “Before you, I was his favorite.”

Hestia drew the covers closer. “You want the room back? Take it.”

Zosime leaned so close her nose touched Hestia’s. Her breath smelled sour. “That isn’t your decision to make.
He’s
the Master.
He
decides.”

“Decides what?”

“Who shall live and who shall die.”

Hestia extracted herself from the bed, careful not to make a sudden movement.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I need some air, need to get away from this house. I thought I might visit the marketplace today.”

“He won’t let you go anywhere unescorted.”

“We’ll see. As his hetaera I’m granted privileges.”

“Of course you are.” Zosime snorted.

Hestia edged toward the door, and Zosime came after her.

“Beg,” Zosime said.

“What?”

“Beg for your life. You’ve stolen mine, now I want yours.”

Hestia touched the door’s handle. Zosime locked her arms around Hestia’s waist, dragging her away. Hestia tried to throw her off, but Zosime shoved her against the wall. She wrapped her hands around Hestia’s throat and squeezed.

“You’re choking me.” Hestia tried to pry away Zosime’s fingers.

The woman was powerful. Pressing her palms against the wall, Hestia pushed, propelling herself into the center of the room with Zosime riding her back. Trying to buck her, Hestia spun in a circle. She lost her balance and they tumbled to the floor, Zosime on top of Hestia. Hestia kicked, struggling to get out from under the woman.

Zosime stank of wine and sex. Her breath sounded ragged.

Squirming from beneath her, Hestia crawled toward the door. She tried to stand, but Zosime latched onto her, dragging her down. Her body slammed onto the wooden floor. The room spun crazily. She pushed herself onto her knees, managed to stand, and staggered toward the door. Zosime tackled her, sent her crashing facedown. She tasted blood and tears; lay still, pretending to be dead.

“I know you’re faking.”

Grabbing Hestia’s shoulders, Zosime flipped her onto her back and straddled her.

Hestia struggled to breathe, the woman’s weight pressing into her ribs. She gasped, attempting to pull air into her lungs.

“Whore.” Zosime slapped her. Grabbing Hestia’s chiton, she ripped the fabric to her waist.

“Enough, Zosime.” A voice came from the doorway.