Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (21 page)

“Does it?” Aspasia appeared doubtful. “I believe we have a say in destiny. As Socrates might say, know thyself.”

“I too am a fan of Socrates.” Her eyes met Aspasia’s and she saw an open heart. This was a woman of compassion, a woman she would like to emulate. “To determine one’s destiny would be the greatest freedom.”

Aspasia smiled, her expression no longer guarded. “You have a gift, don’t you?”

“Some say I do.” Hestia looked at her lap.

“You see the truth of people.”

“Many people call my gift impertinence.”

Aspasia patted Hestia’s hand. “We will talk more,” she said, before turning to the man who sat beside her.

It took Hestia a moment before she realized the man was Pericles.

The statesman struck her as a thoughtful man. Unlike Lycurgus and Thucydides, who sat beside him, Pericles did not wear silk robes, but a simple linen tunic. His thighs were as muscular as a man in his twenties, although his beard was tinged with gray, which only made him more appealing, adding gravity to his demeanor. Aspasia wasn’t beautiful, Hestia noted, but her wit and character made her attractive. Hestia found her fascinating. Apparently so did the men. When Aspasia spoke even Lycurgus and Thucydides listened with rapt attention.

Hestia felt awkward by comparison, sitting in such elevated company. Normally she’d be standing in the street, part of the mob; but those who sponsored the Dionysia held an esteemed position. They reclined in cushioned comfort within the theater, a canopy shielding them from the scorching sun. They sipped honeyed wine while servants passed platters of assorted delicacies, including smoked eel, pickled eggs, and fried testis of sheep. Meanwhile, outside the entrance to the arena, the populace crowded the southern side of the acropolis. It seemed that all of Athens had turned out for the celebration of Dionysius, god of theater, wine, and chaos. Citizens, medics, and slaves lined the street, along with women and children. Boys scrambled up the rocky hills, climbing twisted, windswept trees to gain a better view. Drums and flutes competed with the wail of babies and the excited screams of children. Vendors hawked their goods: figurines of Dionysus, amulets to ward off the evil eye, wine spiced to hide the taste of vinegar, and all kinds of food. The smell of roasting lamb and onions filled the air, reaching Hestia’s nostrils and making her mouth water. She missed the earthy taste of simple food, missed walking barefoot along the creek to collect honey and, though she hated to admit it, she missed Diodorus.

Rearranging herself on the cushioned bench, she studied her gold sandals inlaid with pearls. The straps, made of the finest leather and elegantly styled, cut into her bad ankle and made her foot ache.

She glanced at Lycurgus, deep in conversation with Thucydides. The Conservatives had been attacking Pericles, suggesting that he misappropriated money, wasting it on his building plans. Disagreements between the parties continued to escalate. Lycurgus and Thucydides paid little attention to the festivities and seemed more interested in discussing politics.

Hestia was glad to be left alone. If, as Lycurgus claimed, hetaerae enjoyed greater freedom than slaves, she had not noticed that to be the case. He gave her gifts that she could call her own, but otherwise he held her captive. Each day made it clearer that, like his name, Lycurgus was more wolf than man. To him, she said as little as possible. Not even that she carried his child. Of course she’d counted the weeks often, and she could not be certain of the father.

She turned back to Aspasia.

Pericles and several other men had just asked for her opinion, and Aspasia gave it freely. Her eyes sparkled mischievously and the men obviously adored her. Hestia thought it sad that Aspasia and Pericles could never marry even though she had borne Pericles a son.

Hestia curved her lips in a half smile, imitating Aspasia. She doubted she would ever be a match for the consort of Pericles. By comparison, her wit was sluggish. She tended to mull things over, sometimes for hours, before delivering an answer.

Aspasia flashed Hestia a smile. “Tell us, Hestia. What is your opinion of Sparta?”

Hestia felt her face grow hot as Pericles and his colleagues stopped talking so they might hear her answer.

“I think—” Her voice sounded shaky. She thought of Zosime. “I think Spartans are warriors by nature, and they won’t be content to remain at peace. Only last year they took advantage of the uprising in Euboea, attacking Attica. I believe it’s only a matter of time until we are engaged in another full-scale war.”

“Extremely perceptive,” Pericles said. “Lycurgus, you should be proud. The girl speaks more sense than many men. You’ve found a jewel in this raw stone.”

Lycurgus did not look happy to be interrupted.

“She is a precious dove,” Aspasia said to him. “You must take good care of her.”

“I do,” he said, stiffly.

“But a man of your importance, a man with your business concerns, may lack time to properly train a woman.” Aspasia spoke charmingly, and even Lycurgus couldn’t help but return her smile. “You must send Hestia to me, and I will take your bird under my wing. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Hestia felt certain that Lycurgus had no desire to accept Aspasia’s invitation, but to refuse would not be politic.

“As you wish,” he said, but as soon as he spoke, his mouth twisted sourly.

“Excellent.” Aspasia patted his knee. “I’ll expect her next week after the Dionysia.”

Hestia smiled at her small victory. Visiting Aspasia marked freedom that a mere slave would not be granted.

Lycurgus sought her hand and squeezed it till her bones felt bruised. The ease she’d felt, the giddiness at being out and the prospect of her visit to Aspasia, slipped out of her grasp. Despite the day’s warmth, she felt chilled.

Outside of the arena, in the street, the crowd cheered, announcing the beginning of the pompe
.
The gates swung open, and the statue of Dionysius made its entrance. Carried on the shoulders of several priests, the god circled the theater, pausing in front of Pericles. The archon nodded, and the priests set the statue on a podium at the altar so Dionysus could oversee the festival.

People followed, flooding through the gate, their voices echoing through the amphitheater as they scrambled to find seats.

A slave refilled Hestia’s cup.

Lycurgus had gone in search of the poet, Sophocles.

Hestia glanced at Aspasia. “Thank you,” she said.

The hetaera patted her hand, bent her head toward Hestia, and spoke softly, “Take care little bird. Your Master is dangerous.”

The chill she’d felt earlier seeped into Hestia’s bones. “What do you mean?”

Aspasia peered over her cup, her eyes intelligent and deep. She traced a finger over Hestia’s carefully powdered neck. “Where did you get this scratch?”

“I’m not sure.” Hestia laughed nervously. “Maybe playing with my cat.”

“Not your wolf? Have you spoken to his eunuch?” Aspasia’s gaze moved around the theater.

Across the way, Hestia saw Lycurgus speaking to Sophocles, so speaking was safe. “Galenos?”

“Yes, Galenos. A good man. Ask him how he got cut.”

“He told me.”

“He told you that Lycurgus raped his wife in front of him and his children? He told you that Lycurgus cut him as his children watched?”

Hestia felt sick to her stomach. Her throat felt parched.

The beat of drums drowned their voices, making further conversation impossible. The crowd surged through the arena, pushing and shoving, climbing the stone benches as the drums’ beat grew more intense. The flutes shrieked as if in warning.

Hestia sipped the honeyed wine, but it did little to quench her thirst.

Aspasia had drifted from her side and now stood, as regal as an empress, next to Pericles. Hestia found it difficult to look away from the hetaera. More than anything, she wanted Aspasia to be a friend.

Citizens and freedmen carried poles bearing bronze and wooden phalluses. The crowd yelled as the men circled the arena. But the excitement Hestia had felt earlier soured in her stomach.

A cart, drawn by two oxen, followed the parade of phalluses. The drums beat louder. A phallus carved from the trunk of a tree, far too large for any man to carry, perched upright in the cart. Girls, carrying loaves of bread and amphorae of wine, flocked after the enormous member. After the performances of singers and poets, the wine would be served to mortals. But the god, Dionysius, was not so easily placated. His thirst demanded satisfaction with blood. Bulls entered the arena, their horns painted red, garlands of flowers circling their necks. After the entertainment their flesh would be served to all of Athens.

The thought of roasting meat no longer made Hestia’s mouth water. She swallowed, fighting a wave of nausea.

Singers and dancers gathered on the central platform. One group at a time, the choregoi
,
including Lycurgus, led the artists they sponsored in the dithyrambic competitions. Hestia sat through the dithyrambs, but she barely noticed the performances. She thought about what Aspasia had said about Lycurgus and what he’d done to Galenos.

The music seemed to drone on forever. To ease her mind Hestia continued sipping wine, and as if by magic her cup remained full.

She felt dizzy, felt a headache coming on.

Finally, the dithyrambs ended.

The thought of facing the sacrifice of bulls, the cries of the animals as their throats were slit, sent her stomach into summersaults.

She searched the crowd and saw Lycurgus talking to someone—a woman—his face impossible to read. The woman lowered her himation revealing a blond wig of all too familiar curls, and bile rushed to Hestia’s mouth. Melaina’s face appeared strained as she spoke to Lycurgus, her expression furious.

The priests led the bulls to the altar and the crowd roared. They began to chant, calling for Pericles to lead the sacrifice. People stamped their feet, voices ringing through the stadium demanding blood.

Hestia moved forward, carried by the crowd. She stumbled, nearly fell. She tried to see above the heads of all the people, but she’d lost sight of Lycurgus, lost sight of Melaina. The sun’s heat made her feel faint, or perhaps it was the wine. She found it difficult to focus. Pressing through the horde, she moved in the direction of the exit in search of the latrines. The stench told her she must be near. Bodies crushed against her and sweat poured down her face as she jostled her way to the long row of wooden benches.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

She turned to see who spoke, stared into Melaina’s face.

“Excuse me,” she said, attempting to sidestep her.

“Hubris.” Melaina drew out the S, so it sounded like a hiss. “You would rise above your station, fly past the gods toward Olympus, and for that you will burn.”

“I feel ill,” Hestia said. “Please let me pass.”

“You sent that little friend of yours to steal from me, didn’t you?” Melaina grabbed Hestia’s wrist. The ring glittered on her hand, ruby eyes flashing in the sun, the snakes weaving around her finger.

“Calonice?”

“I caught her.”

Hestia ran her tongue over her lips. “Keep the ring,” she said, trying to free herself from Melaina.

“I intend to.” Melaina’s grasp tightened, fingers coiling around the delicate bones, squeezing so hard that Hestia felt sure her wrist would snap. “And every time I wear the ring, I’ll curse the day I took you in. You poisoned Agathon against me. You seduced my son, and now you steal the man I love. I curse the day you were born.”

“You poisoned Agathon. Not me.”

“How dare you!”

Passersby glanced in their direction.

Sweet wine roiled in Hestia’s stomach. She gazed longingly toward the latrines. “Let me go.”

“Quiet.” Melaina tilted her head, appeared to be listening. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That noise.” Melaina released Hestia’s wrist to swat at the air. “Get these bees away from me.”

The Erinyes.

Ignoring the pain in her ankle, Hestia hurried to the latrine. Waves of sickness rushed through her body.

Out in the arena the drums rolled, and the crowd roared as Pericles made the first cut, roaring louder as blood gushed onto the altar.

Oh home of Hades and Persephone!

Oh Hermes of the shades!

Perpetual
Curse, and you, dreadful daughters of Chaos, Erinyes—You who witness
this life torn apart by violence, a marriage bed dishonored by treachery— come,
help me, avenge the murder of my father—and send to me my brother; for
I have not the stamina, to carry alone this heavy load of grief,
this great weight that drags me down.

—
Sophocles,
Orestes

S
ummer scorched the rocky hills of Athens. The land grew parched as creeks ran dry and the air danced with dust. As the flow of spring became a memory, so did the passion of Lycurgus. His lack of interest suited Hestia. She could no longer bear to have him taint her body.

She touched her belly, wondering how much longer she might conceal the truth.

In contrast to the barren landscape, life swelled in her womb.

Odds named Lycurgus as the father. The thought of bearing his baby sickened her. A child would tighten their ties; she already felt strangled. She knew of remedies to rid herself of an unwanted pregnancy, but whose seed had taken root? Although she told herself she was a fool, the idea of destroying a life conceived with Diodorus was intolerable. If Lycurgus kept his distance she might give birth to the child surreptitiously and pay a wet nurse to keep it. Her mind chased itself in circles. Meanwhile, she kept her secret hidden beneath flowing robes.

Calonice might have guessed, but Hestia hadn’t seen Calonice for weeks. She supposed her friend felt awkward, seeing her surrounded by luxury. Their path had parted and they shared scant common ground. Hestia’s new life bore little resemblance to a slave’s.