HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods

by Coffey, J. A.

  I thought I might vomit.

  My knees shook like willow limbs as I was led to the foot of the stairs. I glanced down the line at the black Nubians, the almond-eyed Persians captured during their last unsuccessful campaign, and the more familiar Greeks, Spartans, and Moesians on display. Most were men, although there were a handful of tired women and even a few children.

  The children made my heart even heavier.

  A trader with a thick wooden staff sauntered behind his stock. He positioned their bodies for best display, even going so far as to prod between the shoulder blades of an aged, worn man so his shoulders might square and thus make him appear fit.

  “He’ll be sent to toil in the silver mines,” whispered the old Samothraki.

  “How do you know?” I asked, in spite of my fear.

  “The mine owners buy those that no other master will keep. They work them to death in the tunnels.” He whistled through the gap in bottom teeth.

  I thought he might be afraid for his own fate, but didn’t ask.

  “You are a pretty thing,” he said. “My daughter was pretty like you. She went to a good household. Do you know Greek law claims a slave can earn enough coin to buy back their freedom? But not in the mines.” He gave me a meaningful look. “Never in the mines.”

  Coin was coin, for a slave trader. I could not help but think that if anyone knew of my crimes, I, too, might be sent to the mines. I hated the thought of working in the deep, silent tunnels under the mountains. Halls so much like the cursed temple that stole my mother and brother from me.

  I could not die unloved and forgotten under the earth. I would not. Whatever it took, I swore, I would not.

  Live free, my father had wished.

  His words echoed in my head. I saw my mother’s face and I swore I could smell the sweet scent of her skin. I don’t know exactly how my thoughts turned from death to regaining my life. But with that thought planted firmly in my mind, I was led onto the platform.

  As soon as my sandaled feet hit the rough timber planks, I thrust my shoulders back, as Lukra had taught me. I swayed across the wooden stage, tipped my chin and stared unabashedly at the crowd before me.

  There were so many in the marketplace. Wealthy Greek men, with their curled hair. Some scarce out of boyhood with the smooth cheeks of babes and others with shaggy beards, well-oiled and perfumed. Even a few jeweled women, with house slaves and scribes in tow--widows to whom moral conventions did not restrict to their homes. I sighed inwardly. Perhaps a wealthy woman would have need for me. I knew enough to serve a lady’s household.

  I tried to catch their eyes, to show them that I knew enough of womanly things to be a good purchase.

  “What are you doing? Lower your eyes!” whispered the old Samothraki.

  I didn’t. It seemed ever to be my nature to not do as I must.

  Well, I would meet my fate with my head lifted. Interested citizens intent on purchase of a new slave gathered at the wooden platform, their heads on level with my knees. I forced myself to unclench my fingers from my chiton and stand still, and even felt a moment’s thanks for Cyrus’ self-serving gift of a bath and clean clothes.

  The two silent boys were bought first, by a hardened man wearing official robes. Once their price was met, the buyer eyed me, leaning close to peer at the shard around my neck. He grimaced, and moved away shaking his head. Then, went the old Samothraki, to a woman, no less. His eyes flickered once in my direction as he stooped to pick up a heavy basket of the woman’s belongings. Cyrus stood to my left, in a knot of other traders hawking their stock. His eyes narrowed and stroked his stubbled chin in a way that made my knees quake, until a voice drew my attention.

  “See here, Iadmon. A trembling Thracian flower,” hooted a man, standing near the stocks.

  He was dressed richly, if not well. The dark shade of wool draped on his shoulders did nothing to complement him, for he was short and pale in every regard. He called to a white-haired man with elegantly pleated robes and an exceedingly ugly personal servant whose features I recognized as vaguely Thracian.

  The elderly man glanced at me and looked away in disinterest.

  “I have no need for such, at present, Tyrsius,” he said. He turned his back and continued conversing with a horse trader. The ugly servant gazed at me with an unreadable expression.

  “Hoo hoo, what a face!” Tyrsius, the man in front of me, called to no one in particular. “I think I shall buy her and give poor Lydia a respite.”

  He staggered over to the stairs and onto the platform, slopping wine over the edge of a bronze goblet at every step. Other patrons averted their eyes, clearly embarrassed by his public drunkenness. When he reached me, he squinted his eyes and peered at the shard on my chest.

  “Great Zeus, what a price! Surely this can’t be right.” He stumbled and I shifted my position to prevent him from trodding on my foot.

  Cyrus strutted onto the platform. “She is untouched, good citizen. Temple trained and, as you can see, a beauty.”

  The man looked at me again. “Untouched, you say? How can this be true? Is not a Thracian woman synonymous with ‘slave’?”

  I felt my cheeks flush.

  It was true; many city-states raided our villages to steal away Thracian women, for the Greeks have ever nurtured a love for that which is lovely and elegant. They equated the number of Thracian ‘flowers’ adorning Grecian homes as a measure of status. And now, the moment was here. I was to be sold and to this pig of a man.

  I couldn’t bear it!

  By now a crowd had gathered at my feet. Buyers haggling over sturdy men had stopped to eye the noisome man in front of me. Everywhere, my eyes searched for some good and proper woman to take me into her household. But, there were none.

  “I assure you, she is pure,” Cyrus insisted. I could tell the gathering throng had heightened his excitement. He fairly rubbed his hands together in expectation.

  Even the elderly man, Iadmon, and his ugly Thracian servant concluded their business with the horse trader and drew nearer to the platform.

  I stood there, and did my best not to fidget under the scrutiny of so many eyes. Slavery or death, I wondered. Those not fit for better service would be sent to die in the mines. Die alone and in the dark. Which would be worse, I wondered.

  I was nervous and so very afraid. My mind flitted for something unconnected to me, something mundane on which to ponder, that I might calm my racing heart. I found I could not keep my eyes from the Thracian servant.

  He had a misshapen face, like fresh clay left to sag. His head was set at an odd tilt, as if something within him was broken, once, but his eyes were keen and sharp as a blade. I forced myself again to unclench my fingers from the fabric of my chiton. His gaze flickered to my hands and his brows lifted well into the folds of his forehead. He stared at me for some long moments while the drunken man fumbled with his sack of coins and haggled with Cyrus.

  “A Thracian flower, indeed,” rumbled the Thracian. “What say you, Iadmon? Is she a fine piece to be sweated over by these foolish boys, like a pack of dogs over a bone?”

  I had never heard such a voice before, nor ever since. Not even Merikos rivaled this man for depth and complexity of tone. He spoke softly, and yet it seemed his words carried over the noise and cacophony of the agora. Though he did not address his master with reverence, it seemed to matter little to Iadmon. I wondered what could be between a master and his personal servant that such liberties were taken in public.

  Iadmon shrugged. “Another riddle, dear Aesop?”

  Aesop smiled broadly, transforming his face into a modicum of attractiveness. “Merely a question to muse, this time. Does not your wife have need of some new domestic?”

  The back of my neck prickled. He played with Iadmon, much the way Merikos and I had bantered words during my lessons. Could I gain the interest of this Iadmon as I had my former tutor? Surely this elderly gent’s wife would not abuse me as the drunken fool before me intended.

  “L
eave off, Aesop,” slurred Tyrsius, drawing out his purse from beneath his robes. “Give the girl over to her fate.”

  “Fate?” Aesop replied. “Ah, now there’s a question to be pondered.”

  Iadmon crossed his arms before his chest as if enjoying what was to come.

  “What is fate, after all? Are we not all, men and women, made from the same clay?” charmed Aesop. The crowd chuckled with laughter.

  Tyrsius tried to interject, but Iadmon waved him away with a stylish hand.

  “What noise is this, Aesop?” said Iadmon. “You propose that men of all nations should be treated with the same privileges as the citizens of our beloved Greece?”

  Aesop inclined his head and the corners of his eyes crinkled into deeper ruts in the fleshy skin around his cheeks.

  “A spotted cur is the same as a black, is it not? Do they not all snarl and snap in fear, or bark when threatened?” he responded. The crowd murmured, and a few nodded. “Can you best judge a dog by the color of its coat or by the nature of his behavior?”

  Iadmon stroked his grizzled chin, clearly encouraging his attendant’s rebuttal.

  Cold clarity flooded over me. This was no game they played at. I did not know yet, what these two bantered, but I knew the rules. To answer each question, in turn with another rhetorical question. An answer that posed a response only through speculation, not absolutes. They spoke in riddles, but I could glean somewhat of what was being said beneath the play of words. I had but one moment in which to make myself worthy of their attention, or relegate myself to the anonymity of a flower fit to be plucked.

  I cleared my throat, swallowing the hard lump of anxiety lodged just below my chin. I must phrase my response carefully. Enough to gain interest, but not enough to humiliate either party, for what if Tyrsius should buy me after all? No man will tolerate a woman who will make him look a fool.

  “And which will best determine the fate of that beast?” I ventured. “Nature? Or the care by which the animal is received?”

  All three men, and a good portion of the crowd, gaped at my response, more so I think because a woman dared to speak than the cleverness of my phrase. Cyrus’ cheeks mottled with an angry red stain. The drunken Tyrsius stared at me with a slackened jaw.

  Save me, I thought. I should never have spoken.

  They would neither of them have me, now. I knotted my icy fingers into my chiton. Better to be a plucked flower than to toil unto death in the mines. I shifted my feet and waited for the worst to come.

  Then, inexplicably, Aesop laughed.

  It was a loud, rich, booming laugh, one that startled the crowd with the breadth of it. Iadmon glanced at his servant and then he too began to snigger. Soon, it was a full blown chuckle and the whole crowd laughed until they cried, all save Tyrsius, who wheeled from person to person shouting.

  “What? What is it?”

  Aesop laughed even harder. Even I could not stop a smile from touching my lips. Iadmon roared and slapped his attendant on the back with glee. And Cyrus glared at me with such fury; I thought he would kill me on the spot. Indeed, he raised his hand to strike me a blow.

  “Hold,” gasped Iadmon. He wiped at the tears running from his twinkling eyes. “Do not strike her. She has done her sex much good this day. And Tyrsius is a fool who drinks too deeply from the wine cart seller’s horn. Aesop, pay the man her fee and see that she is brought round to our home before any other ‘dogs’ gather.”

  Quick as a wink, Aesop sobered and tossed a bag of coins to Cyrus. I think he planned this from the start, to be so ready with purse in hand.

  “Wait,” Tyrsius protested feebly. “She was to be mine!”

  But the deed was done.

  “Come, girl.” Aesop took my arm and led me to the tally master. “Sign your mark to the tablet to record your sale. Can you write?”

  I nodded dumbly.

  “Good,” said Aesop. “Be quick about it before that buffoon says another word. Unless you were hoping to have Tyrsius’ affections? To elevate yourself through his bedchamber?”

  “No.” I shook my head vehemently.

  “Humph.” Aesop stroked his beard. “Then you do have some wit about you. Let’s go home. We shall see what a little care can do for you, as well.”

  Chapter Eight

  My new home, as it turned out, was a rented dwelling in the finest district of Abdera. Iadmon was a philosopher of sorts and quite wealthy. His wife ran his main household on the island of Samos, but for now, Iadmon traveled with Aesop in search of higher learning. His son, Young Iadmon, we rarely saw although I heard he visited on occasion.

  Aesop introduced me to the other slaves and concubines, most of their names I promptly forgot. I hoped I wouldn’t need to learn them. Now that I was safely away from the stock markets, I planned to run away within the week, perhaps back to Perperek. With the press of so many bodies in the city, I could be long gone before they even noticed I was missing.

  The question at hand was where to run. I trusted no one and my family was dead. Still determined, I secreted flat bread and a few olives from our midday meals into the folds of my chiton while I plotted my escape. I’d need food to make the journey, and it would take time to find an unused waterskin. After the second day in Iadmon’s household, Aesop asked me to accompany him to the agora. It was an unusual request.

  When we turned the corner, I saw several large men beating a young slave boy in the streets. He wailed in pain. Again and again their fists struck, sending the boy to his knees. I couldn’t bear it.

  “What goes here?” I cried. “Aesop, make them stop.”

  But Aesop would not.

  He watched, face impassive as granite, as a man clubbed the boy with a stout stick. When the slave boy’s bloody, bruised face struck the stones at my feet, I squealed and turned my face to Aesop’s broad shoulder, until at last, Aesop drew me away.

  “What did he do?” I asked. My hands began to tremble.

  “He ran, Doricha.” Aesop looked at me for a very long time. “He ran.”

  I stopped sneaking bread during meals.

  *** ***

  The rest of the week, Aesop taught me much about the life of a Greek slave. I must never use my given name in front of my master. Iadmon was to assign me one. Until then, the other slaves took to calling me “girl”, except for Aesop, who enjoyed some special status among us.

  There were twelve slaves in the house of Iadmon--seven women and five men, one of which was the cook. Two female concubines attended Iadmon’s personal grooming. There were men for the yard, the animals, and to work the wine and olive presses, but such domestics were not for me.

  I was assigned the lowliest of household tasks--cleaning the privies and chamber pots. The many pots must be collected from various parts of the house and taken outside. I tossed the contents onto the huge refuse pile near the back alley, usually spattering my chiton in the process, especially if the wind blew in from the sea. Then I had to rinse and dry the pots, and return them to their positions. After I began my chores, most of the others avoided me.

  Huge, shit-sucking black flies swarmed my eyes and mouth as I drew nearer the refuse heap. How I loathe insects! I kept my lips pressed in a firm grimace and tried not to breathe until I could move a few steps away--only to be forced to return several times throughout the day and night to repeat the process anew.

  It was worse when it rained, which was often during the storm season. Then the refuse pile became an oozing puddle of foul rivulets and squirming, pale maggots. I bathed dutifully every morning and evening, but the scent of decay clung to my hair and my skin. I felt like death itself, both inside my heart and out. I reeked. The others kept their distance, which was no hardship for me. I could not trust anyone, anymore. What did I care if they wanted conversation?

  After the shock of my second week of slavery passed, my stomach burned with Aidne’s treachery and Merikos’ betrayal. If they’d dared to journey to Abdera, I swear, I would have killed them upon sight. My rig
ht hand prickled and burned as my healing tattoos festered. I suspected it was from the filth they were submerged in daily.

  I screamed when the healer lanced my red streaked, swollen blisters. I was on fire! He poured wine on the wounds and wrapped them in a poultice. It made little difference, the following day I was back at my chores, although I did them with my good hand as much as I could. I wrapped and rewrapped my sores with clean linens each night before I dropped into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

  Finally my wounds healed. The old, achingly familiar blue patterns of Dionysus danced across the backs of my hands. If the other slaves knew what my marks meant, they never said. Such a pattern would be revered in Thrace, but these ignorant barbarians did not recognize the god’s touch on my skin. I wanted to go home. I ached for my mother’s smile and my father’s embrace. I’d give my hair to see Mara again and feared the worst for her.

  I begged the other slaves for news whenever they returned from the agora. “Were there any Thracian girls there? Did you see a girl, with hair of gold, at the slave market?”

  “There are always girls like that,” they scoffed and fanned their hands in front of their noses. Had Mara been sold after I left? I kept after the others, hungry for any tidbit of news. When one of the men grew frustrated with my pestering and shoved me so hard I fell to the ground, I stopped asking for news. I was a slave. What good would the knowledge do me anyway?

  My life was an endless cycle of flinging excrement and gagging from the stench. Still, it was better than mining or working in the fields beside the men. Anything was better than that. As there was no lady of the house, Cook oversaw the division of chores--for everyone except Aesop, who reported only to Iadmon. Well, if Aesop could rise to such a state, so could I. I needed only to prove myself worthy.

  What a futile wish!

  “You have been lazing in the sun,” Cook shouted, even though I’d emptied the last pots as fast as I could. “No meal for you tonight!”