Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens (7 page)

“I assure you, I’m not. Your father spent money recklessly.” The man’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Diodorus. “And as Master of the House of Agathon, you’ve inherited your father’s debts. You must pay them or face ruin.”

“Of course I’ll pay all debts, as soon as—”

“With what?”

Diodorus hesitated before speaking, afraid of what he would learn. “Surely,” he said, searching for words, “my father left enough to cover what he owes.”

“No.”

Diodorus shook his head, attempting to comprehend his situation. “What am I to do?”

“Work for me.”

“Work? What kind of work?” Diodorus looked askance at Lycurgus. A job was something he had not considered. He’d assumed, like his father, he’d live off of investments and his properties.

“I’m offering you a business proposition.” Lycurgus cleared his throat. “Though I hate to admit it, my bones have grown weary. I have no children, no son to take over my half of the business. I need fresh blood, a young man with energy. I’ll pay you well. And, if you excel, you’ll inherit everything.”

“What, exactly, is the business?”

“Trade. Importing and exporting. You’ll have the opportunity to travel, mostly to southeast Attica, but other places too.”

“Egypt?”

“Possibly.”

Diodorus brightened. “I’ve heard about the pyramids. Have you seen them? Is there really an expanse of sand as vast as the sea?”

Lycurgus patted Diordorus’s knee. “I see you have interest, my boy. The business is financially rewarding, and there’s opportunity for growth. But let’s not discuss the details now. As you mentioned, today is a day of reverence.” Lycurgus stood, and so did Diodorus. “Come to dinner at my house tomorrow.”

“I will.”

“Then it’s settled.” Lycurgus placed his hand Diodorus’s back. “Are you willing to leave Athens soon?”

“I don’t see why not.” The prospect of travel fired Diodorus, as did the prospect of escaping his mother and her dreams of politics. He imagined Melaina’s shock when he informed her that he’d be leaving home. “Of course, my mother will object.”

“Will she?” Lycurgus smiled, displaying yellowed teeth. “Then you’ll have to stand up to her, won’t you? Your mother doesn’t rule the house. You’re Master now.”

Diodorus nodded. Still, the prospect of confronting Melaina daunted him.

H
olding an oil lamp, Melaina found her way through the kitchen. The cook and scullery slaves had finished cleaning and the room stood empty. At the back, near the larder, she descended the stone steps leading to the root cellar. The key slipped into the lock and the door swung open.

Closing the door behind her, she stood on the landing, glad to be alone. She took a deep breath, attempting to calm herself. Agathon’s funeral had been trying. Ululations still rang in her ears. Placing a hand on her chest, she willed her heart to slow and thanked the gods that the guests had finally departed. The ringing in her ears faded.

A smile played on her lips. Despite her run-in with Hestia, the day had been successful. Lycurgus had been charming and agreeable. Her idea of convincing Diodorus that the House of Agathon was deep in debt had been a stroke of genius, if she said so herself.

Removing her son from Athens would provide the time she needed—time to let things settle, to make arrangements, especially in regard to the estate. Of course, she would solicit the help of Lycurgus, and together they would be unstoppable. She imagined accompanying him to the Great Dionysia, sitting by his side along with all the leading citizens of Athens. Diodorus had no head for finances. Like Agathon, he would waste money on worthless causes. In any case, she was doing Diodorus a favor, removing him from Hestia. Given a chance, the girl would destroy his future.

Holding her lamp high so light spilled down the ladder, Melaina peered into the dark cellar. Wood was expensive, but now that Agathon no longer controlled the till, she planned to build a stairway. Placing her foot on the ladder’s first rung, she shuddered at the creak.

Despite the day’s success, doubt nagged her. She wondered if she had shown herself to her best advantage. Throwing stones at Hestia might have been an overreaction, but the girl drove her to extremes. Hestia must possess some kind of magical power to escape a locked chest. In any case, she’d proved herself to be disobedient. Surely, Lycurgus had no qualms about punishing a wayward slave. He had never been a man of moderation. Not like Agathon. Lycurgus was a man of action.

Still, he had made no mention of marriage. Disappointing, but Melaina felt certain his proposal would come soon.

Meanwhile, she needed to make certain she’d left no incriminating evidence.

She descended the ladder and dust motes rushed toward her from the dark. The fourth rung wobbled beneath her sandal, not enough to cause alarm, but she hurried down the next five, relieved when her foot touched the hard dirt floor. The ladder’s disrepair provided one advantage: privacy. Slaves feared the descent, and Melaina preferred to keep her lair undisturbed.

The chamber wrapped around her like a womb. From this darkness sprung all nourishment. Double-handled amphorae containing oil and wine stood along the walls and sacks of barley were piled to the ceiling.

Opening a side door, she ducked under the lintel and entered her workroom. Her sanctuary. Clusters of herbs hung from ceiling beams. The scent of freshly cut mint and spicy cinnamon enveloped her. She drew the smell into her lungs as if she hadn’t breathed for days, and the tightness in her chest uncoiled.

She set the lamp on a table scored with cuts. Her knives, razor-sharp the way she liked them, gleamed. She surveyed the shelves of earthen jars—at first glance, a jumble of containers, but she had a system. The most potent herbs resided on the highest shelf, making access to them difficult. She dragged a stool across the floor; lifting the hem of her chiton, she climbed. A bundle of rosemary dangled from the rafters. Pushing it aside, her hand brushed a cluster of mandragora root, not to be confused with parsnips. If boiled, the resulting tonic would produce a stupor, but mandragora could also be used as an aphrodisiac. She noted that it might provide a useful potion for Lycurgus.

She turned her attention to a red-clay pyxis lacking dust, an indication that the jar had been recently moved. Melaina’s reading was limited, but she recognized the label for Hyoscyamus niger
,
better known as hog’s bean. Though hog’s bean could be poisonous, she used the weed on a regular basis. Applied with vinegar the leaves would dissipate a headache; fumes emitted by burning the stalks eased chilblains and ointment made from the flowers soothed gout. But if ingested, hog’s bean set the heart racing, produced fever, delirium, and death. She opened the lid. Only a few petals remained. Reminding herself to replenish her supply, she replaced the clay pot.

To avoid the curiosity of prying eyes, the possibility of someone noticing which herbs had been recently used, she decided to do some cleaning.

Sweeping away cobwebs, she reached for another pyxis. Using her robe, she wiped dust from the lid and stared at the inscription. Belladonna
.
Dampness had swollen the container. With a sharp twist, she wrenched it open. She ran her fingers through dried berries, sweet tasting and filled with inky juice when she’d picked them last summer, now shriveled to husks. Three berries steeped in goat’s milk would be sufficient to send a grown man into trance.

She replaced the pyxis and reached for the next: a favorite useful for inducing sleep. The lid opened easily. A strong odor met her nostrils. Many found the scent repugnant, but she found the smell of valerian woodsy and not unpleasant. The dried flowers tasted bitter, but when she made her tinctures she masked the taste with honey.

A creak startled her, and she nearly dropped the jar. Quickly, she replaced it and scrambled from the stool. Opening the door, she held the lamp and peered at the ladder.

“Who’s there?” she called.

“Your son.”

“Diodorus,” she said, attempting a light-hearted tone. “If you want wine, why not send a servant?”

“It’s not wine I seek.”

The ladder groaned under his weight as he descended. “Better have this ladder repaired,” he said. “One of these days, a rung is going to snap.”

“I plan to build a stairway.”

“You’d better wait on that expense.”

“You sound like Agathon.”

Melaina glanced toward her workroom. She needed no probing eyes, especially eyes as sharp as her son’s. Shutting the door behind her, she held the lamp high so light fell onto Diodorus.

“For the gods’ sake, lower the lamp, Mother. You’re blinding me.”

His expression appeared ominous.

Forcing a smile, Melaina said, “What’s so urgent?”

“What are you doing down here?”

“Just puttering with my herbs.”

“At this hour?” Diodorus grabbed the lamp from Melaina’s hand, moved past her, and kicked open the door of her workroom.

“No need to be rough.”

Lamp light swung through the dark, casting shadows. Diodorus stood before the shelves, staring at the jars of herbs.

“I can guess what you’ve been up to.” He turned to face Melaina, his teeth clenched, the square of his jaw accentuated by his trimmed beard. Everyday, he looked more like his father.

Melaina backed away from him, away from the lamp’s glare, slipping through the doorway into the cellar. Groping the wall, she bumped into an amphora of olive oil. The urn teetered. Golden liquid gushed onto the dirt floor.

Diodorus followed her, the lamp steady in his hand.

Shielding her eyes, Melaina laughed nervously.

“Clumsy me.” Avoiding the oily puddle, she started toward the ladder. “I’ll call for Therapon to clean this mess.”

Diodorus caught her wrist. “What are you concocting, Mother?”

“Let go of me.”

“Not until you answer a few questions.” He forced Melaina back into her workroom, pushing her against the battered table. “You drugged Hestia and locked her in a chest.”

“She’s a liar.”

“Therapon told me. Luckily, he found her.”

So that was how the girl escaped—that old goat of a slave. The table’s edge pressed into Melaina’s back. Diodorus towered over her, waiting for a response.

“You’re hurting me,” she said. He didn’t budge. She ran her tongue over her lips, noticing that they were dry. Choosing her words, she said, “As Despoina of the house, it’s my duty to discipline the servants as I see fit.”

“So you locked her in a cedar chest? That’s unacceptable.”

“She’s a thief.”

“Tell me about this ring, Mother.” Diodorus reached for Melaina’s hand. “It doesn’t agree with you. See how it’s turned your finger black?”

“Perhaps the metal’s cheap.”

“Why did you take it from the girl?”

“It’s she who took the ring. You question my word over a slave’s? You may be Master of this house, but I will always be your mother.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Listen to your mother’s wisdom. Your feelings for Hestia are all the more reason to remove her from this house. If that girl remains here, both of you will be destroyed.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I only want what’s best for you.”

Melaina touched his face—the curve of his cheekbone, so like his father’s—and traced her fingertips over the roughness of his beard. Pulling his face down to hers, she kissed his lips.

Diodorus wiped his mouth.

He moved around the battered table. Melaina felt as if an ocean lay between them. From her island, she watched her son drift out to sea. Without her guidance, he would soon be lost.

“I hardly know you anymore,” she said.

“I’ve grown up.” Her knives, lined neatly on the table, glistened in the lamplight. Diodorus picked up a machaira, a slender blade used for sacrifice, and turned it in his hand. “I am Master of this house and I say Hestia remains.”

“Careful or you’ll cut yourself.”

“Don’t change the subject, Mother.”

“Nothing binds like blood.”

He jabbed the machaira into the table. It stood between them like a warning.

Melaina reached for it. The mother-of-pearl handle fit neatly in her fist. The knife was her favorite, the one she’d used to gather herbs for Agathon’s anointing. She ran her forefinger along the honed blade and felt no pain.

Her son’s hand closed over hers and blood dripped onto the table. She released the knife and it clattered to the floor.

“Why would Hestia claim that ring belonged to her mother?” Diodorus asked.

“I have no idea.”

The intertwining snakes glinted on Melaina’s finger. She longed to scream,
Because Hestia is Agathon’s bastard!
But that would only bind her son tighter to the girl.

Instead, she said, “I saved that girl’s life, brought her into the house when she was a baby, coddled her, raised her beyond her station, and thievery is my repayment. By all rights, I should exile her to the mills, let her grind wheat day and night and wear her fingers down to stubs. But, showing clemency—”

“You drugged Hestia and locked her in a box. When she escaped, you stoned her. A young woman who’s served you all her life. My father favored her. Perhaps he
did
give her that ring. Perhaps you’re jealous.”

“Jealous of a thief? A slave who doesn’t know her place?” Melaina gazed steadily at her son until she saw his resolve falter. Then she softened her tone. “Why concern yourself with petty household disputes, especially at this hour? We’ll discuss this in the morning.” She touched his beard. “So like your father.”

“Tell me about him.”

“What is it you want to know?” Melaina’s heart jumped to her throat. She wondered how much he knew, how much he had guessed.

“You seem nervous, Mother.”

“Do I?” She brushed away a strand of hair and noticed her forehead felt damp. Perspiration soaked the back of her chiton.

“Tell me about my father’s debts.”

Melaina released her breath, unaware that she’d been holding it. So, Lycurgus had played his part, and their little drama was developing according to the script. “What debts?”