Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (3 page)

The young slave, a boy of about fourteen, kept his gaze focused on the floor. The older glanced to where Melaina pointed and started toward it with the bucket.

“Wait,” Melaina said. “Have you seen my son?”

“The Master went out early, Despoina.”

Hearing the slave refer to Diodorus as Master threw Melaina off. “My son,” she said, taking a moment to recover, “the Master went out where?”

“I don’t know.”

“He wore a hat and boots,” the younger slave said.

“Boots?”

“Yes, Despoina.”

“Get back to work,” her tone sounded sharper than intended.

So, instead of offering her support, Diodorus had gone out, in boots, of all things—probably traipsing through the countryside, instead of honoring his mother.

Had a son ever been so selfish?

His place was here, with her. The guests would be arriving and she needed him.

Wringing her hands, Melaina wandered the perimeter of the courtyard. Sunlight played across the paving stones, and the walls offered protection from the wind. Now that Agathon was gone, she saw no reason why the courtyard couldn’t be put to better use than as a gymnasium and place for men to congregate. She imagined tearing up the slabs of stone to create a protected garden for her herbs.

But first she had to bury Agathon.

Doctor Baraz had been summoned in the middle of the night, waking Melaina from slumber. No wonder she felt a bit tired this morning; she hated having her sleep interrupted. The doctor had declared the cause of death was hemorrhage. Too late for bloodletting, Melaina thought, unless posthumous leeching might benefit Agathon in the afterlife. Like most Athenians, Melaina didn’t care for Persians on principle—after all, they’d nearly destroyed the city—but she had to admit they excelled as physicians. Doctor Baraz had taught her many things about remedies and herbs. Best of all, he refrained from asking too many questions.

Agathon’s corpse had been removed to a curtained antechamber adjacent to the entrance of the house. He rested on a bier, draped with a checkered cloth, his feet facing the door to allow his soul a swift departure. His head had been encircled with crimson anemones. According to legend, when Adonis—the mortal youth adored by Aphrodite—was slain by a wild boar, the bereft goddess sprinkled nectar on her lover’s lifeless body and windflowers sprang from his blood.

Melaina stared uneasily at the remains of her husband. The dead don’t speak, she assured herself. If Agathon had guessed her secret, it no longer mattered. She slipped a coin into his mouth, payment for Charon, and placed a coin on each eye. Securing a strip of linen under his chin, she tied it tight, so his jaw would remain shut.

The task of preparing the corpse fell to her. Agathon’s sisters would have helped, but Melaina couldn’t tolerate their meddling, their endless chatter. She preferred to work in solitude before they arrived. She washed the corpse with seawater, humming as she worked, her thoughts turned to a brighter future. Now that Agathon was gone she had full reign over the house, the storeroom and the wine cellar. As soon as custom allowed, she would speak to Diodorus, encourage him to hold a lavish symposium. Her heart quickened at the thought of her son entertaining the leading citizens of Athens. A nod from Pericles could ensure his future in politics. The idea of Pericles visiting her house, drinking at her table, set Melaina’s heart racing. She reminded herself that the house belonged to Diodorus, and women weren’t invited to symposiums. Not respectable women.

She gave Agathon’s leg a final swipe with a damp cloth. Servants would dress him in funeral robes and crown him with a gold diadem. But first she must anoint his body to ensure that his soul departed.

Collecting her basket, she walked through the recessed entryway where slaves were sweeping the mosaic floor and hanging wreaths of myrtle over the lintels. Athena peered down from the frescoed ceiling: independent, strong, sprung full-grown from the head of Zeus, a battle-cry upon her lips. Melaina reminded herself to offer a substantial sacrifice to Athena—a goddess worthy of devotion—in honor of her husband’s death, and as insurance for her own future.

“Good morning, Despoina.”

She nodded at Therapon, an old fool of a slave.

He lifted the front door’s iron bolt, his arms quivering, as if the bolt’s weight were too much for him. Melaina breathed in the crisp air of early spring. She descended the steps that led to the narrow street, busy at this hour with workmen pushing carts and pedestrians on their way to the agora. Turning away from the street, she walked to the back of the house.

Agathon’s dogs, whining for their Master, waited by the stables. Not sleek hounds a person might take pride in, but strays and mongrels like the rest of Agathon’s household. Beyond the stable the terrain became arid hills and scrub. Kicking away the dogs, Melaina entered her garden. Not a patch of kitchen herbs like the one maintained in the courtyard, not a plot of vegetables useful for cooking, but a deciare measuring ten by ten meters, and brimming with medicinal herbs and flowers. The sun peeked over the terracotta rooftop, warming her back, burning off the morning dew, and releasing the pungent scent of rosemary. With satisfaction, Melaina regarded the array of plants she’d coaxed from the rocky soil. Although her garden wouldn’t reach its full glory for a month or two, last night’s downpour had done her plants a lot of good. She checked the rain barrels, glad to note the replenished supply of water.

Using a finely honed knife, she cut fragrant sprigs of thyme for purification, lavender for protection. Herbs used in ritual had to be treated with deference. She knelt beside a bushy row of yellow flowers and set her basket on the paving stones. Artemisia, named for the goddess of the moon, would allow Agathon’s soul safe passage to the underworld. She cut handfuls of the yellow blooms and set them in her basket.

Groaning as she stood, these days her bones ached in the mornings.

Ignoring the keening dogs, she re-entered the house.

Her son’s house, not Agathon’s.

She removed her muddy sandals, handed them to Therapon, and padded across the entryway’s mosaic—an intricate design of red, yellow, blue, and white stones, depicting an array of sea creatures—one of the finest in Athens. Her heart swelled with pride. Diodorus was now Master of the House of Agathon. His fortune, and hers, shone brighter than a comet.

Spots danced before Melaina’s eyes as she slipped through the curtains and stepped into the annex. Compared to the courtyard, the workroom seemed dark. She considered calling a slave to bring an oil lamp, but decided against it. She preferred no interference. No well-meant mumblings of condolence, no reflections on the swiftness of her husband’s death.

No unwanted observations.

Setting her basket on a table, she glanced at her husband’s corpse. His eyes flashed and her heart jumped. Pressing a hand against her chest, she told herself it was nothing, just the play of light on the coins.

Again, she wondered if he’d guessed her secret.

Using a pestle, she mashed the greenish-yellow artemisia flowers against the mortar’s rough stone, releasing their unpleasant odor. But the smell didn’t bother her.

Herbs were reliable, unlike people. People could be unpredictable.

She thought of Hestia. Thanks to Agathon, the girl didn’t know her place.

Melaina dipped her finger into the flower paste and brought it to her lips. She recoiled at its bitterness, recoiled at the memory of her marriage. She had come to Agathon at age fourteen—the usual age. He was twenty years her senior, a hero returned from the wars. She’d known nothing of the world and even less of men. She had tried to be a good wife, tried to please him. She ran an efficient household, kept the larders well stocked. But they’d had little in common. More often than not, he found reason to travel far from home. Like Jason had done to Medea, Agathon had strayed, leaving Melaina for another woman. But what recourse did she have? A woman’s word held little weight against a man’s.

Small wonder she had come to rely on another. At first, Lycurgus had sent messengers, offering in Agathon’s absence to be of service regarding financial matters. Initially, Melaina refused his help. But Agathon’s departures grew more frequent, and the bills kept mounting. Weeks turned into months. Meanwhile, Lycurgus remained persistent—and delightfully charming. Though a woman of her stature was forbidden male visitors, it was deemed acceptable for her to meet with her Kurios. A woman could engage in no transactions involving property valued over a week’s supply of barley. Someone had to pay the bills, see to business in her husband’s absence.

Naturally, she’d come to rely on Lycurgus. And, like a Spartan wife, unable to conceive with her own husband, she’d bedded her husband’s closest friend.

Having been away for six months, Agathon returned to find Melaina four months gone with child. Of course, she’d claimed the child was his, padding her belly to appear further along and avoiding his caresses. Agathon never questioned his paternity. Diodorus arrived two months later than expected, and Melaina paid the midwife well to claim his birth an anomaly.

She might have spared herself the trouble, spared herself the expense of bribery, because Agathon hardly noticed her. He spent his time lost in ideas, constantly scribbling and reading or giving money to the poor. Yet, sometimes she sensed he’d guessed the truth. Sometimes she caught him staring at the boy—wondering, perhaps, at his sculpted nose and high forehead, so different than his own. But if Agathon suspected the child wasn’t his, he remained silent. After all, Melaina had produced the mandatory heir, leaving her husband free to roam. And roam he did. After the boy’s birth, claiming to have business in the north, Agathon embarked on yet another extended journey.

Melaina crushed more artemisia with her pestle, pounding the fern-like leaves into a pulp, mashing the yellow flowers, as she thought about her marriage.

After a year of absence Agathon returned—not alone, but bearing an infant in swaddling. His whore’s. He’d pleaded with Melaina, begged her to raise the baby as her own, but she’d refused. A mistake, in retrospect. Agathon hired a wet nurse who stood guard over the infant day and night, leaving no opportunity to send the evil Ker to her death.

Melaina pushed away the memories, focused on her work. With quiet concentration, she added the flower paste to an earthen pot of wine that simmered on the brazier. Taken as a tonic, artemisia acted as a narcotic, inducing sleep. Used to anoint a corpse, the elixir ensured the slumber of the deceased would be eternal; it had the same effect on those still living. As she stirred the brew with a wooden spoon, the vision of her son’s future grew vivid—a golden path leading to the acropolis. She would walk beside him.

With help, all her dreams were possible. And that help would come from Lycurgus.

For twenty years, she had held their secret. For twenty years, she’d played the martyr, putting up with the bastard daughter—a constant reminder of Agathon’s infidelity; and her own.

But that would change.

She bent over the brazier and blew on the embers, inhaling the artemisia’s intoxicating fumes. Sweat beaded on her forehead, ran into her eyes, and stung. Feeling faint, she removed the concoction from the brazier. Steadying her knees, she searched through her basket and found a stick of rosemary. She held it to the glowing coals. The smoke would dispel evil spirits—dispel Hestia, the Pandora who wreaked havoc on the house.

Mumbling a prayer to Hecate, Melaina ran the smoldering rosemary over her husband’s corpse. She studied the nose broken in battle, the rough-hewn mouth that seldom spoke to her.

From a funerary flask, she poured olive oil into an alabaster bowl, then added the artemisia. She dipped a scrap of linen into the oil and ran the cloth over the soles of Agathon’s feet, circling to the left to release him from this world.

“Go quickly,” she said.

The doorway’s curtain swayed.

“Who’s there?” Cloth in hand, Melaina ripped open the curtain.

Hestia hobbled away, as fast as her lame foot allowed.

Melaina hurried after her. “I told you to scrub the kitchen hearth. If you’ve finished, the chamber pots need emptying. Remember, I’m your Master now.”

Hestia turned to face Melaina, her expression defiant.

“Your son is Master of this house.”

Melaina’s hand came down on Hestia’s face, leaving a red mark. She hadn’t meant to strike, hadn’t meant to lose herself. She’d meant to exhibit self-control, but the girl was impertinent. Hestia should be falling to her knees, begging forgiveness. Instead, she stood her ground, her eyes—bluer than a bruise—penetrating, invasive.

Melaina stepped back from the girl, aware of servants watching, listening. Summoning her most commanding voice, she said, “I’m sorry I slapped you, but you drove me to it.”

The girl rubbed her swelling cheek. “I drove you to hit me? I didn’t know I had such power.”

Melaina raised her hand again. “I’m warning you. Today I have no patience.”

“When do you ever have patience?”

Melaina’s hand shook as she lowered it. Her eyes remained fixed on Hestia. She found it impossible to look away. The girl was a sorceress, just like her whorish mother. “Now that Agathon is dead, you answer to me,” she said. “Blood follows blood, and you take after your mother. But you must change.”

“According to the Master, my mother was a goddess.”

Melaina’s throat tightened, her breath catching in her chest. She grabbed Hestia’s wrists, locking her fingers around the delicate bones. She dragged the girl into the curtained annex, pointed at the corpse. “He won’t protect you now.”

Melaina stood, triumphant, watching with satisfaction as Hestia’s stance grew limp.

Reaching out her hand, the girl stroked the dead man’s face.

“Don’t touch him,” Melaina said.

Hestia bent her head in supplication, tears gleaming in her eyes.

The display of grief annoyed Melaina. “You will leave this house after my husband’s funeral.”

“My father’s funeral.”

“What did you say?”