HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods (10 page)

“How horrid the life of a slave is,” I whispered
to no one in particular. Lyphinna had just fled the morning meal after taking
one look at the raw, salted onions and bread. The sounds of her retching rent
the air. I never wanted children. First my mother’s death and now this…I would
go to my grave a virgin, like Bendis, or the Greek goddess Athena, who was
herself a virgin warrior.

Aesop stared at me for a long time before he
raised his cup to his lips. I shivered and wondered if he could read my
thoughts.

The next morning, which marked the sixth season of
my service to Iadmon, Aesop reviewed my progress and pronounced me fit to serve
at banquets, which meant I was to enjoy a small salary. My heart trilled, for
my weaving skills had never progressed beyond the rudiments of carding and
spinning.

“A man wants to see a pretty face and figure as he
enjoys his wine,” was Aesop’s rationale. Well, there would be any number of
‘two-obol girls’ willing to hitch up their skirts and serve the pleasures of a
rich man’s banquet. They could oft be called from the brothels and streets. Still,
it had been so long since someone found me worthy, I could not help but smile.

So, for the next few months, I served at raucous
banquets, informal celebrations and the receptions Iadmon held for Aesop, who
dispersed his ‘wisdoms’ with an acerbic tongue. Ha! If only I should have been
a man and free, I would have spoken just the same.

Many times, I was sent to fetch goods from the
agora
.
I learned to haggle quite well. More often than not, I returned home with my
supplies and a good deal of coin, some of which Iadmon let me keep. After the
misery of my first year, I dreamed now of the day when I might buy back my
freedom.

My wages, of course, were quite small. I comforted
myself with the thought that at least Iadmon never visited my chambers at
night. I’d heard the other women gossiping at the well where the entire city of
Abdera drew its water. The tales they told made me cringe with disgust. As much
as I wanted to feel the passion of Dionysus which I’d experienced with Mara, my
curiosity did not extend to bearing babes who would never know me. I missed my
near-sister, with her quick wit and comforting arms.

Lyphinna’s babe came late one evening, on the
night my life changed.

A wicked storm raged outside. Thunder rattled the
ceiling beams and lightning bolts sizzled across the sky. Rain fell in a
relentless deluge, forcing us to abandon the open air kitchen and eat meals
from our preserves of dried fish along with uncooked fruits and vegetables. There
was no meat and very little bread.

Lyphinna had been in labor all day. With the
steady rain, we’d been trapped in the house as she screamed and moaned. Even
Cook seemed anxious, although it was probably the weather and his ruined quail
eggs.

We gathered in the weaving room until the birth
was over. I fussed over a particularly stubborn clump in my wool, as I had
never been particularly skilled with making thread.

“Fie,” I grumbled at the tangled mess. One of the
other women took it from me before I ruined it with my tugging.

Lyphinna’s shrieks rose and ebbed in quick
succession. Something was happening now! All went still for a moment. I waited,
scarcely daring to draw breath. Had she died? Had they cut her as they had my
mother? Then I heard it. The lusty wail of an infant. I glanced around the
room, unable to keep the ghost of a smile from touching my lips. One of the
women murmured something and kissed her knuckle. We waited some more. No one
came.

I sighed, cross and weary of damp cold air and the
noise coming from the next room. I needed to stretch my legs. Restless, I moved
into the hallway to get my tattered
peplos
, my shawl, from my
alcove. At least it would keep away some of the chill.

“I’ve never had a son,” Cook’s voice trailed down
the hallway, despite the fact that he spoke softly. “If it were a girl, I’d say
leave it for the wolves…but, Aesop, surely you can understand. Give me the boy.
I’ll send him to my sister and her husband to foster.”

“Your son will be a slave, as you are.” Aesop’s
voice was firm.

I crept a step closer.

“
Please
, Aesop,” Cook wheedled.

Aesop sighed, after a long pause. “I will ask. But,
it is for Iadmon to say.” He did not sound pleased.

I leaned against the cold, stone wall and pressed
my hand to my stomach. An image of Cook’s calculating smirk flashed before my
eyes, followed by Lyphinna’s bruised face. Gods forgive me, but at that moment
I was overwhelmed with guilty relief. He’d raped Lyphinna, but it could just as
easily have been me.

The following morning I slept in by accident. I’d
spent the night tossing and turning, so as dawn broke, I was still abed. My
shoulders and neck were stiff from sleeping in the chilled, rain- damp air, and
I rubbed my gritty eyes as I went to the kitchen for the morning meal. Hopefully,
everyone else had as uneasy a night--I didn’t want to face Cook alone, not
after what I’d overheard last night.

Cook was gone. In his place was squat woman with
graying hair and a lined face. She looked gruff, but nodded pleasantly as she
handed me a hunk of fresh cheese-smeared bread and a pair of small, dried
apple.

“Where’s Cook?” I asked, nibbling at my breakfast.

“Gone.” The woman grunted. “I’m here, now.”

So, Aesop had finally seen to Cook. I smiled at
her, not even caring where her predecessor was now. Hopefully rotting in some
dank prison, the rutting pig. Wherever he resided now, it was no doubt too kind
for him. Relief made me happier than I’d been in years.

“Good,” I said and meant it.

“Call me Kailoise,” said the new cook.

Though her words were abrupt, I soon found out she
had a kind heart and patient hand when it came to me, although she rarely
spoke. Her affection towards me was shown in other ways, such as an extra
portion of meat or fish, or a small sweet found waiting in my alcove.

My days as a slave became less of a nightmare. After
Lyphinna was sold, it seemed my position was secure. I did not live free, but
at least I no longer lived in terror. I now had Lyphinna’s chores, to keep me
occupied. I attended Iadmon’s dress, pleating his robes with precision and
trimming his white whiskered chin, in addition to serving at meals and
symposiums. I took to it well enough, I daresay, even Aesop remarked on my new
vigor. His praise gladdened my heart.

Aesop was not free, for all that he acted thus. Considered
something of an oddity by the rest of the house staff, he was exceedingly
clever and well spoken, traits that earned him the nickname of the ‘Fabulist’. Learned
men gathered each morning after the assembly, to spout questions at one another
and try their best to thrill Aesop with their wit and humor. They rarely did
so. Not even Young Iadmon who had recently returned from Syracuse to live in
the house of his father.

Young Iadmon, the master’s son, was a boy scarce
older than myself. And while his features were youthful and fine, inside he
seemed as dark as the storm shadows that blew in from the sea. We, all of us
slaves, avoided him when we could, praising the gods that his father had
assigned a male concubine to groom and dress him, for he was known to give an
unprovoked beating.

Still, I glimpsed a life of wonder during those
symposiums with Aesop. Any respectable woman in the household would have been
sent from the chamber, but as a slave, my presence was tolerated. I poured
watered wine into the communal friendship bowl, as I was told only a drunkard
or a Thracian would dare to drink it pure, and watched the men furrow their
brows as they puzzled over the meanings of Aesop’s tales.

Soon, I found the Fabulist just as charming as his
tales. I’d thought Aesop ugly and misshapen upon our first meeting. But as the
seasons passed, I found myself drawn by his wit and charm. His countenance
improved, or perhaps it was just my getting used to him that made him so. More
months passed in a regular cycle of endless drudgery and toil, which was
nothing like the greater glory for which I had been trained. My only respite,
it seemed, was to exercise my mind.

Once, I almost dropped a platter of figs down the
front of Citizen Aeschylus when I realized I had reasoned out the question
before any of the others. I caught Young Iadmon, the master’s son, staring at
me, and I feared he’d discovered my secret. I vowed to keep my attention on my
tasks, but the lure of Aesop’s fables was too great to withstand.

I pondered over tales of oxen and ass, tortoise,
hares, and yes, even dogs. It became almost a game with me, to see if my
thoughts were of a turn, or better than, the wealthy patrons I served. I began
to love calculation and philosophy, anything to keep me from musing on the loss
of my family and Mara.

And then one evening, glorious beauty and the hope
for my salvation came to visit.

A pair of women, languid, and resplendent in their
perfumes and adornments, dined with Iadmon and his son. They were perfectly groomed,
and dined with delicate precision, knowing precisely the fashionable crook of
the correct finger with which to catch up a crab or fish or meat from the
communal plates, and reclining gently on the left elbow, as I’d seen Iadmon
himself do.

I’d scarcely seen my master’s son since he’d
caught me listening in to Aesop’s wisdoms, for my tasks kept me much occupied
in his father’s quarters or in the marketplace. But tonight, I attended the
lovely women during the feast. I felt their limpid eyes on me, and heard the
intellect with which they jested and the music of their laughter. How long had
it been since I’d laughed so freely myself? Surely not since my life in the
village, before I knew of death and treachery.

“Who are they,” I asked, as one of the women took
up the lyre to play.

“They are
Hetaerae
,” Kailoise
whispered reverently, coming up behind me to take an emptied platter of stuffed
sow’s womb, a dish for which she was particularly noted, from my limp grasp.

“
Hetaerae
?” I asked.

“A special class of companions. They are more than
common whores. They are courtesans educated in the arts of pleasure and womanly
arts. This pair hails from Athens. The master has paid a pretty price for the
both of them.”

“They are lovely,” I said.

“A
hetaera
likes old wine, but not
old men.” She quipped and I smothered a giggle. “Perhaps this will be well for
our household.” Kailoise speculated. “For your sake, I pray it might be.”

I slipped away to follow her to the kitchen for a
fresh dish of cakes and to beg more details.

Hetaerae
, Kailoise reported, were
renowned for their grace, beauty and talent, and, even more fascinating, their
intelligence. Far removed from the common
pornai
, who roam the
open streets or sex stalls and sell their bodies,
hetaerae
are
revered. Grecian women have no place in society except to bear children and
keep a household, but
hetaerae
were not only allowed to attend
public events, they were honored at them. More than one
hetaera
was reputed to have political influence with high ranking politicians, as much
as the Bacchae held sway over the spirits of the gods in Thrace.

I wondered if my temple training made me a worthy
candidate in the eyes of the
hetaerae
, or if a Thracian woman
could even dare to aspire to such greatness. Carefully, I watched each motion
of their hands and toss of the head, vowing I would emulate them. I would much
rather spend my time in pleasant company, pampered and appreciated, than
closeted from all social contact. These women bantered with Iadmon and son, as
well as any man in the symposiums. Perhaps I could get one of the women alone
at the night’s end and ask how it might be done.

I never got the chance.

At the evening’s end, the pair of
hetaerae
disappeared with Young Iadmon, in a common practice of sexual tutelage for
young men. Later, I found a knotted
peplos
, half-hidden under the
courtyard bushes. It was so lovely and so very fine. Surely, they would miss
it. I gathered the shawl in my hands and sat on a stool near the front gates, so
that I might return it to its rightful owner.

But, I did not see the
hetaerae
leave in the morning, and indeed, they never returned to Iadmon’s household
again. That did not bode well for Young Iadmon’s sexual prowess, but as he was
reported to have a mean temper, I did not trouble myself over the loss. I
concealed the finely woven shawl, still scented with sweet perfume, in my
sleeping alcove. It reminded me of Mara, and made me feel a little less alone.

I thanked the gods Young Iadmon departed for Minos
soon after that night. We did not see him off, but Kailoise reported on his
comings and goings, which was oft a welcome warning. For now, it was enough
that he was gone. Another span of weeks passed without change in the monotony
of my chores and the familiar bustle of the city. Still, at least I had more
time to myself. With Young Iadmon away, our master entertained less frequently,
so I was relegated to weaving once again, though it bored me to tears.

The other women worked in silence, so I began to
make up my own tales, repeating them over and over as I thrust the shuttle from
one end of the loom to the other. I wondered what Aesop would think of the
fables I had spun. And I wondered too, about that day long ago in the stocks,
when he intervened to save me from a drunken fool. Aesop was cordial to me, as
much as he could be, given our situation. The other slaves gossiped about his
status in the household, but I paid no mind to them. After all, he was the
Fabulist. Still, I wondered why he had troubled himself to influence Iadmon’s
notice of me that day in the slave stocks.

Why should he risk himself, for me?

At last, I could bear it no longer. I’ve never
been a patient creature. I felt I must speak out. So, the day came when I dared
ask Aesop a question of my own. We slaves had just finished our morning meal in
the dark hours before my true chores began.

“You are different these days, Doricha,” he said,
as we cleared our rough communal platter. “You dined most elegantly this
morning.”

“I have always been a quick study,” I replied,
wiping the crumbs from the table into my hand and tossing them into the fire. “And
we Thracians have a love of that which is beautiful.”

Aesop considered me for a moment. “That we do,” he
agreed.

“Aesop, why did you lead Iadmon to purchase me?” I
asked when all the others had filed out to begin the day.

“I led him?” Aesop responded in his usual
questioning fashion. He stroked his stubbled chin.

“Come now,” I whispered and peered over my shoulder.
“There is no one about. You and I both know how much Iadmon values your advice.
It was your words that spared me from the mines, as much as his coin.”

Aesop considered me for a moment. “You are
Thracian,” he replied and turned away, as if that was explanation enough.

I shook my head. “No. There were others there. Why
me?”

Aesop smiled. “Let me tell you a tale.”

I sighed. “As you wish.”

“An Ant went to the bank of a river to quench its
thirst, and being carried away by the rush of the stream, was on the point of
drowning. A Dove sitting on a tree overhanging the water plucked a leaf and let
it fall into the stream close to her. The Ant climbed onto it and floated in
safety to the bank. Shortly afterwards, a bird catcher crept under the tree. He
laid his lime-twigs for the Dove, which sat in the branches. The Ant perceived
his design and stung him in the foot. In pain, the bird catcher threw down the
twigs, and the noise made the Dove take wing.”

I stared at him.
This
was the reason
for my life being spared the torments of the mines? What had an insect and a
bird to do with me?

“I do not understand,” I sulked. “You did not give
a proper answer.”

Aesop rose and cleared his empty bowl from the
table. He handed it to me for washing. “Give it thought, if you have any. You
will have your answer.”

*** ***

And that was the way of Aesop’s tutoring. In the
four years I spent in the house of Iadmon, I absorbed bits of information. I
served the men watered wine, whilst they spoke of higher purposes and the fate
of man. I learned to be casual in my observations, else I should be sent from
the room. But Aesop knew I listened. Knew, and nurtured my hunger for his words
until I begged him to teach me in earnest.

“Please, Aesop,” I cajoled.

“Bah! I cannot teach a girl. You have even less
sense about you than a woman.”

“You don’t believe that,” I said, with a pert
smile. “I am simply a dog of another coat.”

Aesop laughed at my jest. My heart flooded with
pride that I could do what so few men could--amuse the great Fabulist.

“And how will you pay?” he asked.

“Pay?” I echoed. I hadn’t thought of payment.

“Yes, Doricha. How will you repay me for filling
your mind with knowledge that befits a king?”

My heart sank. I had nothing of value to give save
the few coins I’d saved from clever haggling. And those I hoarded to buy back
my freedom.

“You teach the others, the men who visit Iadmon,”
I retorted. “They do not pay.”

Aesop crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “My
master bids me to teach them. Tell me, what do you offer, Little Flower?”

My thoughts centered on that word, ‘flower’. Aesop
did not use words lightly.

So, a Thracian flower to be plucked.

“I will wash and cook for you,” I ventured,
knowing it was useless. “And mend your garments.”

Aesop reached out and touched a strand of my hair.
“You will do that anyway. You are a slave and a woman.”

An unpleasant feeling twisted my stomach. I
thought of Merikos suddenly and the time he’d put his hand on my breast. My
cheeks burned.

“I have never known a man,” I whispered. Aesop did
not respond. He stared at me with unreadable eyes. “But I…I know what it is,
what you want.”

“Do you?” Aesop asked. I jumped at the sound of
his voice.

“Yes,” I licked my lips nervously. I wasn’t
exactly sure how it was to be done, save for the animals in the courtyard
rutting violently. An image of the Bacchanal flashed in my mind. A pair of pale
slender legs flapping like butterfly wings.

Again, Aesop stared at me. Stared until I shifted
in my spot.

At last, something unreadable flickered in his
gaze. “Dance for me.”

“Wha-at?” I asked.

“It has been many years since I’ve seen a Thracian
woman dance. I would lay odds you are exceptionally fine at it.” He eyed my
hands. “Very fine indeed.”

“I cannot dance,” I protested. My heart was heavy
with memories of the temple, of my happiness there so swiftly shattered. I had
not practiced any of Lukra’s lessons for nearly three years. I couldn’t dance
for him!

Aesop gathered my hands together and turned them
palm down. The betraying blue tattoos danced along my nervous flesh.

“A man is not wise, who assumes his clothing will
disguise his nature. This is doubly so for a woman. You cannot hide your
training any more than you can disguise the natural grace of your figure.”