Athenian Steel (Book I of the The Hellennium) (34 page)

She melted into the embrace, her skin warmer
even than the water surrounding them. She sighed, "Thank you."

He put a palm alongside her face,
compressing dry red curls that were yet to submerged. She sat
quietly in his embrace, business of the bath forgotten, but not
with the usual distractions. He sensed disquiet in Eurydike. He
raised her chin to look upon her face and perhaps kiss her lips and
silence the scream that echoed from her past, heard by his ears
alone. But when she raised her eyes, that bright place where true
sadness was so rarely seen, they were liquid with checked
tears.

One slid free, and it might has well have
been her blunted Spartan dagger sliding into her master's breast.
Before he had recovered from the wound, Eurydike said in an
apologetic whisper, "I know she told you."

He affirmed it, with nothing more than a
look, and pulled her head close under his chin.

She did not resist. "I'm glad," she said.
Her breath licked the skin of his throat. "But I don't want to talk
about it. About her. It hurts." Her voice was choked as she
finished, "She would understand."

She.
 The nameless sister now
dust and bones in a valley of Thrace.

What is your true name? 
he
longed to ask, but held back. If she was happier in silence, and in
being Eurydike, then let her be silent Eurydike. She was hardly the
only one in this oikos to have left a name and a life behind
her.

"Pfft!" Eurydike said suddenly. She sank
from his embrace, submerging her whole body. An island of floating
coppery curls was last to slip under, and then she rose up, a
slick, speckled fish with head thrown back and straight, sopping
hair trailing behind.

She cleared her face and brow of water and
accused with acrimony that was wholly feigned, "You fuckwit! You
made me cry!" Her tears, rare as Thalassia's, rare as his own, were
gone now and would drain with the bathwater.

With a look of disdain as false as her own
display, Demosthenes growled back, "I see the mistake in letting
you be taught to read and write by someone with such a foul
mouth."

Retrieving the cloth and cake of soap,
Eurydike shrugged. "First, mine's fouler. And second, it doesn't
matter 'cause I'm a shitty student anyway."

"At least you can count to two."

She swatted him.

***

When he was clean and shaved, he dressed in
the finest himation he owned, one of brilliant white linen with
geometric trim that was in fact nondescript by the standards of an
Alkibiades or a Kleon. The day prior he had had his hair, grown
rather wild in Thrace, trimmed back a bit, though it remained, on
advice of both his women, rather longer than he had worn it
previously. In the megaron, Thalassia stood facing him, making
final adjustments to his appearance. Her fingers traced tingling
lines on his scalp.

"Perfection," she declared. Her hands fell
away, but she did not withdraw.

He had come to know when Thalassia was
holding something back; or, at least, he knew when she wanted him
to know when she was holding back.

"Out with it," he said, in no mood for
games.

"There's one thing," she admitted, as no
doubt she'd planned to all along. "It really isn't that important,
but you ought to know so that it won't be a surprise should it come
up in conversation today."

Demosthenes told her with a dark look that
he did not much care for her prologue.

"Laonome's husband died in the Aetolian
disaster," Thalassia revealed, "under your command."

He gaped. "Not important? How is that not
important? I made her a widow! You tell me
this 
now?
"

"If you'd known, would you have agreed to
meet her?"

"We will never know that now! But I would
have had good enough reason not to. I killed her fucking
husband!"

"If it's any consolation," Thalassia said,
smoothing his chiton, utterly unperturbed, "he treated her like
garbage."

Rattled but undeterred, Demosthenes called
on his prospective bride at the house of her brother
and 
kyrios
, Autokles, in the deme of Koele. Autokles
greeted his illustrious guest wearing what was doubtless his own
finest himation, and he fawned so much that he threatened to soak
both his own and his guest's garments in drool.

"What an honor it is to welcome the hero of
Amphipolis into my humble home," Autokles droned, bowing low in the
doorway. "Not to forget Pylos, of course! To think we might become
kin! But I get ahead of myself. Here, come in, come in. This is my
wife, Chrysis. That's a special pomegranate cheese she is bringing
you. It comes from her father's farm. She sells it in the agora, or
tries her best to, but thus far it appeals only to customers with
truly discerning palates. A shame we have to resort to such
measures to make ends meet, but–well, let us not dwell on that. I
suppose you would like to meet Laonome!"

"Aye." It was Demosthenes' first
contribution to the conversation, such as it was, and he made it
whilst seated on a worn couch and holding a morsel of vile pink
cheese. Thankfully Autokles wasted no time dispatching his giddy
wife upstairs to send down the sister-in-law who had dwelt with
them since her husband's death.

Moments later, Laonome descended the stairs.
She was pale skinned, notwithstanding a pink cast to her cheeks
which was likely temporary, and her long, straight hair of light
brown had been pleated into a multitude of small braids fastened in
loops around her head in a mock garland that was peppered with
small, white blossoms. At the nape of her bare neck nestled the
only piece of jewelry she wore, a silver brooch turned into a
necklace by the addition of a silken ribbon. Her chiton was of pale
pink, with an embroidered hem that dragged just slightly behind her
heels. Its bodice had been gathered and pinned at the front to
mimic the pleating of a more expensive gown.

Thalassia had not lied. Laonome was
eminently fu–

Inviting.

The widow reached the floor of the megaron,
halted and stood before her suitor with hands clasped and brown
eyes dutifully downcast. Autokles, seated beside his guest on the
couch, beamed at his sister's entrance and set to nudging
Demosthenes with an elbow in the hope his own enthusiasm would
prove contagious.

"Sit, sit, my beloved sister!" Autokles
urged.

Laonome glided in her long chiton to a chair
set far enough from the men to preclude her participation in the
conversation, but close enough that she could easily serve as its
object. When she was seated, Autokles produced a scroll which he
opened and presented to her suitor.

"I could go on and on about how well she
cooks and how you will get no trouble from her," her keeper said,
"but no doubt you will think me biased. So let me show you this
instead. As you can see, it is a sworn statement by her deceased
husband's father to the effect that his son found Laonome's
personality unobjectionable and her household skills more than
satisfactory. Here, read for yourself!"

"High praise indeed," Demosthenes remarked
after pretending to scan the document. He glanced briefly at
Laonome to see if she might be receptive to a smile at her
brother's expense, but she demurely averted her eyes.

Autokles tucked the affidavit back into his
chiton for future use, should today's efforts come to naught.
Abruptly, he threw an urgent look over his shoulder in the
direction of a street-facing window.  He leaped to his feet
and ran over, peering outside.

"You must excuse me for a few moments," he
said. "There is a man outside who borrowed twenty drachmae from me
and then vanished without trace. What terrible timing it is for him
to reappear now, but I really had better chase him down!"

Autokles raced out his front door, but not
before drawing the curtains on the window and flicking a curious
glance at his sister.

Demosthenes had never been a suitor before,
but he knew, as anyone did, that a guardian never left a man alone
with his potential bride. Even if she was not a virgin. And so for
several awkward minutes, Demosthenes waited for Chrysis to descend
and replace her husband as chaperon, but she never came.

Laonome sat rigid in her chair with hands
folded, head bowed. At the risk of being caught staring,
Demosthenes studied her face. It was fine and feminine, its
highlight a pair of full pink lips the upper of which was marred by
a tiny, bloodless scar which was prominent enough to be noticeable,
but which failed to detract. Besides finding her face a pleasant
sight, he detected on it the trace of some inner struggle. Did it
have something to do with that cruel twist of fate which Thalassia
had convinced him did not matter, that he had been the one to lead
her husband to his death in Aetolia? Thalassia had told him the
dead man's name, but no face matched it in his memory.

When the long silence lurched from awkward
to intolerable, Demosthenes smiled and tried and failed to gain eye
contact with Laonome. He said anyway, "I suppose it cannot be
pleasant to be talked about like a sow at the butcher's."

If possible, Laonome's posture grew even
stiffer. The brooch at her neck pivoted briefly as a lump passed
underneath it.

"Apologies," Demosthenes said. "I did not
mean to call you a sow. It was meant as a joke. You have met
Thalassia and Eurydike, so you know I need a sense of humor to
suffer keeping them in my home." To offset the inadvertent
self-compliment with praise for her, he added, "They speak very
highly of you."

Laonome's reaction was a series of rapid eye
blinks while she stared down at her folded hands. Whatever conflict
had been written on her features seemed to come now to a head. She
looked up and gave a thin, tentative smile, at last meeting her
suitor's gaze.

"My brother did not leave by chance," she
said, voice just above a whisper. "He expects me to flirt with you.
More than that. Because I have no dowry, he says the only reason
anyone would ever marry me is to save money by getting a wife and a
whore for one price. He told me to... show you my tits." She had
the courage to use unladylike vulgarity, but not without blushing.
"But I will not. I hope you are not disappointed."

"Quite the opposite," Demosthenes returned,
relieved to have the tension broken. "I think that if you had
followed that advice, I would be on my way home now."

Laonome coyly broke off her gaze. "Not that
I don't have a nice body," she added. "I do, I think, for having
borne two sons."

Demosthenes had no chance to reply before
Autokles returned to carry on his charade.

"The thief swears he will have it for me
next month!" the master of the house lied. He cast what he thought
was a subtle look at Laonome, who in answer turned a pink cheek on
him. Autokles sat and said eagerly to Demosthenes, "Did I mention
that sons run in our family? Both of Laonome's children were
strapping lads right up until the plague took them, poor
souls."

Just as Autokles' backside hit the couch,
Demosthenes rose from it abruptly. With panic plain on his face,
Autokles followed suit.

"Do not leave so soon!" he sputtered. "We
have not discussed–"

"Autokles of Koele," Demosthenes addressed
the man, "I formally request the hand of your sister Laonome in
marriage."

He had made the decision only in that
instant. He could not quite say why. He knew that he liked Laonome,
and not only out of pity for her unenviable situation, and neither
for guilt over his part in causing it. Maybe in truth what he had
decided was to trust in the instincts of those who knew him best.
Sure, it was a risk adding to his oikos a third female who was such
a natural ally to the two willful ones already inhabiting it. But
he was unlikely, instinct said, to find a more suitable match than
Laonome without scouring the city, a task which he had no intention
of undertaking.

The wind flew out of Autokles in a single,
hot gust. As quickly as he had risen, the distasteful man fell to
his knees and scrambled to clasp Demosthenes' right hand. There
came from upstairs a loud clatter followed by the fast scrape of
sandals on the stairs, the result of which was the timely arrival
of a surely eavesdropping Chrysis.

But Demosthenes' attention was not on them.
He watched his betrothed. Laonome's lower lip gently trembled
beneath the upper with its white scar, which he already found
endearing. Her lashes fluttered and tears slid down her cheeks.
Whether they came from sadness or joy, it was impossible to tell,
and she covered them quickly. They were tears of change, perhaps,
but Autokles and his wife took no notice of them. Euphoric, they
embraced then praised the gods and danced in delight before their
prestigious soon-to-be brother-in-law.

"The wedding should be modest," Demosthenes
declared, "and as soon as possible."

"Of course!" Autokles veritably sang. "My
new brother!"

Claiming he had pressing business, which he
did not, Demosthenes made a hasty exit.

Poseideon in the archonship of Isarchos
(December 424 BCE)

They were hostages in an enemy land,
technically at the mercy of the mob-rule which Athenians labeled
democracy, but inside the jailhouse walls, as far as any Spartiate
was concerned, Brasidas ruled. He treated the men just as he would
have if they had been here in Attica as invaders: assigning duties,
organizing drills, leading calisthenics and enforcing an iron
discipline to which, owing to the authority bestowed on Brasidas by
the ephors and a reputation untarnished even by his capture, the
prisoners happily submitted.

The crookedest of the Athenian guards
greeted the new discipline and unity with disappointment, since it
robbed them of the chance to administer beatings and ended the
intra-Spartan violence which had until then broken out
periodically, and which the jailers sometimes wagered on,
intervening only when necessary to prevent the loss of a valuable
hostage. But they were in the minority; most guards were happy to
see their jobs made easier. In exchange for making their lives
easier, the Athenians treated Brasidas well and gave him
considerable leeway in managing the lives of his prisoners. In
time, it hardly seemed as if the Equals were imprisoned at all, so
closely did existence within the jail house walls mimic barracks
life in Sparta.