by Tessa Afshar
The girl peeked quickly at the steward and shook her head no.
“He has no power to hurt you. Not ever again. I give you my promise. Now tell me the truth. Has he hit you before?”
The girl gave a quick nod.
“She lies!” the steward howled.
Justus sprang to his feet. “Speak one more word without permission and I will make you regret it.” He turned his attention to the girl. “Have you seen him hit others?”
She lifted large brown eyes, liquid with tears and dread, and stared at him mutely.
“Be brave. Be truthful, and you shall have nothing to fear from him. I will protect you.” Justus’s voice was soft, brimming with fatherly comfort. I felt my chest squeeze tight as I watched his gentleness with the girl.
“He only hits us with his hands, master. Never with a whip.”
“You see? I told you I did not beat them.” The steward straightened his twisted tunic.
Justus ground his teeth, his jawbone protruding. Without moving a single muscle, he exuded threat. The steward recoiled.
“Consider yourself unemployed. If I were you, I would leave Corinth. You will find it hard to find work in this city. I will see to that.”
My father, who had been speaking with friends, joined our circle. “Wasn’t that your steward who just raced out of here, Justus?”
“Not any longer.” Justus pulled a hand through his hair and blew out a long breath. He patted the girl on the head. “Shall we go home, Niobe?”
We joined them on their walk home, and Justus recounted to my father how he had caught the steward striking Niobe. “I do not put up with the mistreatment of my slaves,” he said. “No one will raise a hand against a helpless woman in my house.”
It took me a moment to realize that I was crying. I dashed the tears from my face and tried to crush the rush of emotion that was choking me. Justus had protected her. He had considered her worthy of a fight and made sure of her safety. He had done for a slave what my own mother had refused to do for me.
CHAPTER 8
CLAUDIA THE YOUNGER lived in the smallest house located at the farthest edge of a fashionable neighborhood near the agora. Five boisterous sisters made the place too cramped for comfort. I tried to avoid visiting there as often as I could, which suited my friend. We fell into a habit of spending several days a week at my house.
In spite of the time we spent in each other’s company, it was by sheer accident that I discovered Claudia’s secret shame. I had just received a package from my brother, and it was with no small amount of pride that I showed Claudia the scroll Dionysius had sent me. Stretched across my bed, she sat up and looked at it askance. “What is it?”
“Book one of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I love the first line. ‘I intend to speak of forms changed into new entities.’” I waved a hand to stress the words. “‘Changed into new entities.’ Doesn’t that give you hope for this life? Hope that we can be changed, transformed into something new, something better? Do you want to read it with me?”
She hung her head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can barely read. Ovid is beyond me.”
I studied her red face in surprise. I had heard Claudia the Elder read a sophisticated though rude poem at a party. She read with passable facility. “I thought you and your sisters were literate.”
“Father forked out enough silver to pay for the education of my two eldest sisters. After that, his funds ran out. He was too busy to teach us himself, and my mother too overworked to pay the matter any heed.” She set the scroll aside.
“The Stoic philosopher Musonius Rufus argues eloquently for the education of women.”
Claudia held up her palms in surrender. “I have no quarrel with you or Musonius Rufus. I wish I could read. I have simply never had the opportunity to learn.” She hesitated. “My sister calls me ignorant, and that is what I am, though it shames me to admit it.”
“Then I shall teach you,” I said.
That was when we discovered Claudia’s second talent. Her mind proved nimble for grammar and languages. She consumed everything I taught her with ravenous hunger.
An almost incandescent satisfaction consumed me as I taught my friend. I loved the knowledge that, day by day, I was helping to change her life. My new endeavor could not have come at a better time.
Without consulting me, Theo had made a momentous decision. He had accepted an invitation to work for Justus and his father, leaving him little time for me. When he could, he still trained with me for the Isthmian Games, though he had grown obsessed with Justus’s horses and spent a great deal of his spare hours in the stables, learning what he could about chariot races.
My time with Claudia helped to fill the hole Theo’s absence had left in my life. It was not a fair exchange. Theo had become a part of me, the one foundation that did not crumble. I had never known life without his constancy and affection. Claudia’s companionship helped to dull the ache.
A new routine established itself in our lives. In the mornings I taught Claudia. In the afternoons I trained for the stadion. I had not given up on the dream of proving my worth to Diantha and Claudia the Elder, as well as all of Corinth, along with my mother and grandfather. And, well, everyone.
Diantha and Claudia the Elder and the rest of their friends continued to make their disdain of me palpable whenever we met in public. I found that the sting of their cruelty did not grow dull with time, especially since their opinion held great sway, and influenced others of my generation to follow suit.
The Dianthas and Claudias of this world ruled my heart with too much ease. The hurt of my old life lingered so that I felt the cut of every rejection with a greater resounding sharpness than it deserved. Claudia the Younger became my one haven.
One morning, she arrived at our house, two other girls in tow. “This is Claudia the Fourth.” She introduced me to a girl with violet eyes and Claudia the Younger’s dainty physique. “As you may have guessed, she is my fourth sister. And this—” she indicated the girl with curly blonde hair and dimpled cheeks—“is my cousin Junia.”
“Welcome,” I said, at a loss. Claudia was the only female friend I had. I was not accustomed to visits from strangers.
Claudia the Fourth straightened the skirt of her faded tunic. “Claudia the Younger says you would be willing to teach us to read and to study philosophy.”
I gave my friend a wide-eyed look. She grinned and shrugged. Junia dimpled at me, showing a row of admirably straight teeth. “Please, Ariadne. Would you teach us?”
“Do you really want to learn?”
Three heads began bobbing at the same time. I bit my nail. “Fine,” I said. “But I am calling you Fourth.” I pointed at Claudia’s older sister. “By the time I say the whole thing, I will be too old to teach anyone.”
And that was how I began my own school for women.
Taharqa the Kushite, the sailor who had saved us on the Whirring Wings and delivered us to Father’s door when we first arrived from Athens, had fallen into the habit of visiting us whenever his travels brought him to Corinth. He had become a favorite with the whole household. That afternoon, he showed up unannounced.
“Taharqa!” I cried in welcome when I spied him.
“You look like a proper lady,” he said, pointing to my hair, which had grown out and now fell partway down my back. “That is goood.”
“I will be eighteen in a month.”
“Truly? I thought that since you run so fast, time might not be able to catch you. I see it has ensnared you the way it does the rest of us.”
Drawn to the sound of our voices, Father came to the vestibule. “Taharqa! I rejoice to see your ugly face.”
The Kushite, who had an undeniably handsome visage, grinned and placed an affectionate hand on Father’s shoulder. “Galenos, my friend. You are as old and withered as ever.” His grin wavered and he looked at his feet. “I fear I bring you poor news.”
“My son?”
My he
art sank. Taharqa sometimes carried messages between Father and Dionysius, and had come to know my brother well.
Taharqa shook his head. “He is well.”
“Then it is nothing that cannot be undone,” Father said, leading us into his tablinum. He served Taharqa and himself a cup of his best Spanish wine once we had settled down. “Now tell me. What is this ill news you bear?”
“Did you not tell me that you had purchased a share in the ship Paralus?”
“I have.”
“A large share?”
“Most of the ship and its cargo belong to me. A new venture.”
“I fear it has gone down.”
Father took a sharp breath. “Are you certain?”
“There is no doubt, Galenos. I spoke with one of the sailors who survived the wreck. He said the ship hit an unexpected squall and was driven against rocks. It was smashed to bits. Most of the men and the cargo it carried sank within moments. Only a handful of sailors survived, and that was by a miracle.”
“A complete loss, then.” Father’s hands shook as he placed his cup back on the table.
“I fear so. A monstrous casualty in life and goods. Will you . . . be all right?”
I sat up straighter at Taharqa’s tone. His question carried an edge that hinted at more than a casual inquiry regarding my father’s well-being.
Father tented his hands and looked out the window. “It was foolish of me to risk such a sum. Sea trade is hazardous business.”
“It could have happened to anyone,” Taharqa said. “It could have happened to me.”
“But you are not the one who spent your savings on a perilous venture.”
I gulped. Father loathed speaking of money. He avoided every reference to expenses and accounts. The situation must be dire indeed for him to sink into such a discussion.
When Theo arrived home that evening, I told him the account of the ship’s loss. He sagged onto a couch, knuckles pressing into his knees. “That is grave news. Galenos told me how much he had put into the purchase of the Paralus. I don’t know how he will recover, or even meet expenses for the rest of the year.”
“Is it that bad?”
Theo nodded. “Your father will be frantic.” He dragged his hand through his hair. “I have saved a bit of money. He can have all of it. But it won’t be near enough to save him, I fear.”
A week melted into two. Father did not bring up the Paralus again, and when Theo and I tried to broach the subject, he swept our questions aside. I worried silently, wondering how to address our financial difficulties. One night, as I lay sleepless in my bed, a faint and subtle sound in the courtyard drew me to the window. A host of innocent things might have caused it: the rustling of a curtain, a prowling cat, wind moving through a tree. But something about it felt out of place.
My lamp had burned out, and I had not bothered to relight it. Used to the darkness, my eyes quickly spanned the distance as I looked into the courtyard through the narrow window of my chamber. I thought I detected movement. There! A man dressed in a dark, short tunic and cropped military trousers was moving furtively across our atrium.
A thief! Something about the way he moved seemed familiar. I realized he was not coming in, but had left the house through a side door. Had he already robbed us? He must have been stealthy indeed to do so, undetected. Without thinking, I crawled onto the parapet, tucked my tunic into my belt, and began to climb down the fluted column abutting my chamber. The man turned when I jumped to the ground. I shifted into the shadows with a quick move. He could not see me, but I saw him for a fraction of a moment. That was enough. I recognized him at once.
It was my father.
Why would he sneak out of his own house when there was a perfectly good front door available? I told myself it was no affair of mine. If the man had private assignations, who was I to object?
Father slithered out through the courtyard gate, closing it softly behind him. I paused. Then I thought of the quarrel with my mother and how our family had splintered because of some secret Father kept. I resolved with sudden determination to discover what it was. Rising out of my hiding place, I rushed to the gate and opened it, but my father had long since disappeared.
The next day I forgot all about Father’s strange departure from our house when something even more confounding consumed my attention. Dionysius showed up at our doorstep, unannounced.
It was our custom to eat supper fashionably early, and by the time the first course was on the table, Dionysius appeared in our midst, a big grin splitting his face. I screamed with delight and bolted toward him. Theo, who by rare coincidence had stayed home for dinner that evening, joined me in squeezing my brother until he yelped. My father sat frozen on the couch, his eyes all but swallowing my brother.
Dionysius disentangled himself from Theo and me and sprinted to him. The two melded in an embrace I shall never forget. It was as if the gods had turned back the clock and Dionysius were a little boy again, burrowing inside Father’s arms, finding safety and belonging there.
“I missed you,” Dionysius said. “I could not bear to stay away one more day.”
“My son.” Normally loquacious, Father seemed to have lost all his words save those two. He repeated them over and over. I waited until Dionysius turned his face to me and then ran to join them. In the midst of our joy, I sensed something missing and realized that Theo was not with us. He was rooted to the spot where I had left him. His face had a crumpled look to it, as if he wanted to cry.
I motioned him over, and Dionysius, realizing his absence, called for him. Theo came, but he sat apart from us, on the couch that faced ours.
“How did you convince Dexios to allow you to visit?” Father asked, too caught up in the shock of seeing Dionysius to notice Theo’s remoteness.
My brother pulled on an earlobe. “I did not.”
Silence fell. “I see,” Father said.
“I will return tomorrow, before Grandfather explodes. I simply needed to see you, if only for a few hours.”
Father grinned. “I’m glad you came. We shall deal with Dexios’s anger when it comes. It will be worth having you here.”
“You are the best of fathers,” my brother said. I gulped when I looked at Theo. He had turned the color of bones.
Early the next day, before my mother and grandfather could turn the combined force of their considerable hostility toward my father, Dionysius returned to Athens. He promised to smooth Grandfather’s ruffled feathers. His visit had breathed new life into my father. But afterward, I noticed Theo spent even less time with us.
Two weeks later, our fortunes took an unexpected turn. Father received a sizable profit from a modest investment he had made the previous year. I was too young to understand how so significant a sum of money could be gained from so trifling an investment. But in truth, I did not care. What mattered to me was that the cloying air of defeat that had clung to Father since the sinking of the Paralus was lifted.
Our salvation from impending poverty coincided with an exciting event that had the city abuzz for months. Theo brought us the news. “Have you heard that the new praefectus, Gaius Orestes, was robbed recently?”
We were sitting in the courtyard and eating with desultory appetites. Summer had come with a heavy hand that year and the heat carried with it the stench of garbage and an oppressive humidity that made breathing hard.
I fanned myself between bites of fruit. “Orestes? Isn’t he the official who became unpopular within three months of arriving here?”
Father popped an olive in his mouth. “Matters are dire indeed when the auditor needs an auditor. Orestes treats the state treasury like his personal inheritance. Worse yet, he makes the lives of his subordinates a waking nightmare.”
“They have their revenge now.” Theo grabbed his chalice and gulped down spring water in large mouthfuls. “Someone robbed him last night. Apparently the thief did not even leave him a pin to hold his toga in place.”
I grinned. “That is a tragedy.
”
Togas were an awkward garment to manage. If not for the social statement they made, no man would ever willingly wear one. Only a Roman citizen like my father had the privilege of arraying himself in its bulky lengths. My father’s dresser pressed the folds of his toga for hours, using delicate wooden squares to make the pleats look neat before pinning them on his shoulder. A man was not supposed to use a pin on his toga, but the mass of fabric on the left arm grew cumbersome, and most men used them for convenience.
“Here is where the story turns into a comedy,” Theo said. “Orestes’s wife, who had been bathing, came in just as the thief was about to leave her chamber. In her surprise, she dropped her towel.”
I put down the fig I had dangled in front of my mouth. “What happened?”
“The thief turned his back respectfully, and restored the towel to the lady with his eyes averted.”
I giggled. “She must have been disappointed.”
“Ariadne!” Father said, sounding shocked.
The women of Corinth had an unfortunate reputation, one most of us had not earned justly. The world used the term “Corinthian girl” to refer to women of a certain profession. This inference came from the many cult prostitutes who served in the temples, especially the ones belonging to Aphrodite. In truth, the average Corinthian girl was as chaste as any other. If my father was an example to go by, Corinthian parents were as vigilant of their daughters’ virtue as the rest of Graecia or Italia.
“Your pardon. What did the lady do then, Theo?”
“Apparently, she was so impressed by her nocturnal visitor’s manners that she complimented him. ‘You are courteous for a thief,’ she told him. ‘I am a thief of things, my lady; I do not rob virtue,’ he said.”
I roared with laughter. “Did she not try to stop him? Scream the house down?”
“By the time she raised the alarm, the culprit had flown too far afield to be captured.”
“What did he look like, this thief?”
“No one knows. He wore a mask. According to the lady, he had the cultured accents of a man familiar with Homer. The city has already dubbed him the Honorable Thief.”
