Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (10 page)

A howl rose from his gut, more tortured than the shrieking cats.

“Shut up!” someone yelled.

A door banged shut.

The stars were spinning and so were the houses. The wineskin slipped from his hands. He staggered toward The House of Agathon.

My house.

Welcoming as a tomb.

He sank onto a step, cold and hard.

There was little point in being Master if he was slave to Lycurgus. Slave to his mother. Slave to his conscience. If he wanted Hestia, he should take her. Love couldn’t hurt anyone, and he felt certain that he loved the girl. He thought of her constantly, and his body ached to hold her. Surely, that was proof.

And she must feel the same for him. Passion smoldered in her eyes; no matter how she tried to hide, he saw it. He needed only to stir the embers and flames would take hold. What could his mother do if he coupled with the girl? Let Melaina fly into a rage, threaten to ruin him. It would make no difference. He already felt ruined.

The stars were fading, and soon it would be light.

Diodorus staggered up the steps, tried the door, and found it locked.

Trying not to wake the other slaves, Hestia moved silently along the hallway past drawn curtains of the cells. Odysseus followed, padding behind her. She slipped into the courtyard, the paving stones cool on her bare feet.

Odysseus darted ahead, a dark silhouette in the night. Hestia glanced toward the stairway that led to Melaina’s quarters. With any luck, the Despoina wouldn’t stir for hours. Odysseus trotted toward the kitchen, tail straight up, as if he knew his destination.

Hestia pushed open the door, and her nostrils met the smell of meat and herbs. The hearth stood in the center of the kitchen, the stones still warm from last night’s fire. Above it, the ceiling opened, allowing an escape for smoke and a glimpse of stars. In the dim light, she moved past work benches and shelves of pottery. The carcass of a lamb hung from a ceiling beam, along with bunches of thyme, strings of garlic, and baskets of onions. Odysseus pawed her leg.

“Almost there.”

She reached the rear of the kitchen, glancing at the steps that led down to the root cellar—a dank cavern she avoided. She entered the larder, a small room that remained cool even in the heat of day, where the cook kept eggs and cheese. Odysseus jumped onto the stone counter.

“I know you’re hungry.”

In reply, the cat meowed.

Hestia found a pot, lifted the lid and sniffed.
Still fresh
. She poured the yellowish liquid into a bowl, and Odysseus lapped the milk.

She wished she could be like a cat, slipping in and out of windows, sneaking through alleyways. Instead, she felt trapped.

Diodorus pounded on the front door, ignoring a fresh rain of protests from the neighbors. After a few minutes, a bleary eye peered through the peephole. The metal bolt scraped as it was lifted and the door opened.

“Evening, Master.” Therapon yawned. A bandage encircled the old slave’s brow, attempting to mask a purplish contusion.

“Well past evening, my friend.”

Diodorus stumbled past him. Without bothering to remove his boots, he clomped toward the slave quarters. Therapon hurried after him.

“They’re all asleep, Master.”

A paving stone caught the toe of his boot and Diodorus tripped.

“Piss on me!”

“Take care or you’ll wake your mother.”

“Pox on the cow.”

At the entrance of the women’s courtyard, Diodorus leaned unsteadily against the wall. He pulled off his boot and examined his throbbing big toe. Blood seeped from beneath the nail.

One boot off and one boot on, he walked lopsided toward the servants’ quarters.

“It upsets the Despoina to see you drunk.”

“I’m not drunk and she can’t see me.”

Therapon stepped in front of him.

Diodorus staggered backward, meaning to avoid the slave. Instead, he banged into a vase, a treasure of his mother’s. The monstrosity crashed on the paving stones, shattering into a thousand pieces.

“Always hated that thing.”

He glanced at the stairway that led to his mother’s rooms. No doubt she was dead asleep, and he hoped she’d stay that way. Blood binds, she’d said, and she was right. Not only binds, but strangles.

He peered into the slave quarters, a narrow hallway lit by a smoking oil lamp. The walls, blackened by soot, needed a good scrubbing. The air felt close, reeked of body odors, though these quarters were better than many. A woman poked her head through the curtains of a doorway. Her face was blotched with scald marks, probably from lye used for laundry.

“Which room is Hestia’s?” Diodorus asked.

Lifting a scarred hand, the woman pointed down the hall. “Fourth cell on the right, Master.”

Master.

The title still seemed foreign. He walked along the corridor, felt eyes watching as he passed the cubicles. In these quarters his appearance was a novelty.

He arrived at the fourth cell and hesitated.

“Hestia,” he called, but no one answered.

He swept aside the curtain and stared into the gloom. A dark face with frightened eyes peered back at him. A girl lay on the pallet, covers drawn up to her chin.

“Where is she?”

The girl’s eyes shifted as if she knew, but wouldn’t say.

Diodorus ripped away the bedcovers to see if Hestia hid beneath them and revealed an empty pallet.

The girl cried out.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Just tell me where she is.”

The girl wiped her nose. “Getting milk.”

Something brushed against his leg. Looking down, he saw a mangy cat.

“You’ve frightened Calonice.” Hestia’s voice floated from behind him. He turned toward the doorway. Loose curls framed her face, her eyes dark sapphires. “Why are you here?” she asked.

“I had to see you.”

The girl called Calonice moved swiftly past him.

Hestia stopped her at the doorway. “Where are you going, Callie?”

“In my homeland we say, love is like seaweed. Even if you push it away, you cannot prevent it from coming back.” She slipped through the curtains.

“Seaweed?” Diodorus smiled at Hestia.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“A little.”

“You’d better go.”

“Not yet.” He stepped toward her, took her into his arms.

She tried to pull away from him, but he held her.

“What are you doing?”

“Something I’ve meant to do for a long time.” He bent to kiss her lips, and she turned her face away.

“We can’t.”

“Why not? I love you, Hestia. I’ve always loved you.” He kissed her neck and he felt her yield, felt her body soften. “Do you love me?”

She didn’t answer, but she wanted him. He knew she did. And the gods knew he wanted her. A fire roared inside of him. They fell onto the pallet, their mouths meeting, moist and hot.

He pushed up her chiton, rolled on top her. Something jumped onto his back, dug claws into his skin.

“What the—”

“Odysseus!”

He sat up, saw the cat bolt under the curtain.

Hestia laughed.

He turned to her. “You think it’s funny?”

Still laughing, she nodded.

With a joy he’d never known, he tumbled onto her. He kissed her mouth, kissed her neck, kissed every part of her, and the two of them could not stop laughing.

M
elaina woke, heard the dogs barking. Her nightshift, drenched in sweat, stuck to her back. She wiped her forehead. She thought she’d heard someone cry out, but since the death of her husband frightening dreams haunted her sleep. Something buzzed around her head. A fly? She swatted at the air, but it escaped.

She sat up, readjusted the neck-rest. The dogs continued barking, and she wondered if the house had been robbed. A wealthy widow offered easy prey for thugs. The oil lamp still glowed on the bedside table. Senseless luxury, Agathon often said, but she preferred to sleep in light. Light dispelled unpleasant memories, which seemed always to lurk in every corner. She glanced around her room. Everything seemed in order. The cedar chest remained shut. The bottles and jars on her dressing table, carefully arranged by the maid, appeared undisturbed.

One could never be too careful. Opening the pyxis she kept on her bedside table, she removed a dart, a trick she’d learned from Doctor Baraz. In case of intruders, she liked to have protection. She tucked the dart into her robe.

With a groan, she swung her legs from the bed and, using both hands for leverage, pushed herself to standing. Straightening her spine, she rubbed her lower back and slowly made her way to the window. She undid the latch, thrust open the shutters, but instead of sunlight her eyes met a dark sky lit only by the waning moon.

The dogs’ barking had subsided, but the buzzing sound grew louder. Perhaps a swarm of wasps had taken residence in the rafters. She would get the gardeners to check the roof.

Stars faded in the sky as morning drew closer, but she still saw their light. It was not too late to make a wish. Even a woman of her age might pray for something better. She longed for a man’s admiration, dared to hope for tenderness.

She closed the shutters, attempting to quell the buzzing sound. It increased in volume.

Throwing a himation over her nightshift, she circled the chamber and checked the corners, convinced that wasps had built their nest inside. Unwilling to wait until sunrise to find the source of the annoying noise, she grabbed the lamp and hurried from her room.

Descending the stairs, she saw Calonice standing in the middle of the courtyard, staring at the moon.

Hestia drew her nightshift over her knees. Diodorus lay beside her on the pallet, his eyes closed. Intermittently, he mumbled something in his sleep. Her thighs felt sticky and she hurt. She chewed her thumb, gnawing at the skin. She hadn’t meant to bed Diodorus, hadn’t meant to let it go so far. In his drunken state he claimed he loved her, but if he truly did, would he have taken her virginity?

Worse than that, she hadn’t told him about Agathon. When he learned he’d bedded his half-sister, he would probably despise her.

In his sleep, he mumbled her name.

Remembering what they had done, a strange heat ran through her. She still felt his strength, the taste of his skin. He had been gentle. She ran her hand over her neck, remembering how he had touched her, remembering their laughter.

But now she was ruined.

His hand reached for her.

She stood. Saw the red stain on the pallet. The mark of her shame.

She needed to bathe, needed to wash away the evidence. She grabbed her himation, threw it around her shoulders and moved toward the doorway.

The curtain opened and she gasped.

Melaina looked like a gorgon, unbound strands of hair writhing like Medusa’s snakes. The lamp she held illuminated the lines of her face. Her eyes narrowed like a serpent’s as she pushed past Hestia. Standing before the narrow pallet, she stared at her sleeping son.

“What have you done? What spell have you cast on him?”

“I’m sorry, Despoina.”

“Whore.” Melaina cast the light over the bed, illuminating the red stain. “You’re a whore, just like your mother.”