HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods

by Coffey, J. A.

  My mouth dropped open in disbelief. I’d risen before sunrise to get an early start!

  His hand shot out and he slapped me across both cheeks. “Close that insolent mouth. No food tomorrow, either.”

  The sting of his palm seared away my righteous anger. I glared at him, but didn’t speak.

  Iadmon, like few well-to-do masters, had ordered that we be given adequate meals instead of the leftover scraps. I suspected it was more out of his love for Aesop, than for decency sake. Some of the other slaves I’d met at the well were not half so fortunate. But what good are food and luck when you’re starved into submission?

  I went hungry often. The scent of stewed bull-fish and crabs filled me with anguish. I tried to be dutiful, honestly I did. But somehow there was always another pot of piss or vomit to be gathered from the nightly parties and gatherings. I swear Cook must have emptied his bladder more than the goats gave milk, for how else do you explain the filled vessel that I’d only just returned?

  If I slept past the cock’s crow, I was beaten with a willow sapling until crimson cuts ribboned my back and legs. Sometimes Cook beat me for no other reason than I was a Thracian woman and unprotected. My hands grew raw and chapped and my back constantly ached from either bending or an unwarranted switching. I saw Aesop’s jaw clench when I winced during a simple offering ceremony--one of the few luxuries the household staff was allowed to attend. His eyes darted towards the cook, but he said nothing.

  I learned to keep my mouth closed and my ears open. Better this, than to starve to death on a mountainside. My infrequent meals would sustain me better than exposure to men and wild beasts, and at least I had shelter from the elements.

  My only blessing was that the others could not stand my stench, so I was given a very small alcove all to myself. My sleeping mat was a worn straw pallet, but it was all my own, free of snoring, gassy bodies. At night, I curled into a miserable ball and tried to picture my mother’s face. I yearned to feel my father’s warm embrace, but only the bite of the stone against my back comforted me. I drifted to sleep often too weary and hungry to even dream.

  Live. Well, at least I could fulfill one of my father’s wishes. I would live. I had to survive, if I ever wished to regain my freedom.

  In the next months, Cook’s attentions grew worse. He caught me several times going about my business. At times, I swore he sought me out. I began to dread the sound of his footfalls. What purpose would he have to accost me when there was any number of much more pleasantly scented women about the house? But, there he was…with rough hands and mean eyes.

  At the end of one year, I’d reached utter humiliation. My stained chiton started to pull across my breasts, a sure sign they were growing. My beatings lessened, but now the cook would pinch and grope me whenever I was nearby. I went to the other women to beg help, but as I turned the corner, I saw him grab the buttock of Lyphinna, one of Iadmon’s concubines. She bobbled and almost dropped a tray of olive oil and combs, but righted herself in time. She said nothing and did not even look his way as she left the open air kitchen.

  I caught up with her in the hall. “Cook cannot do that. He touches us whenever and however he pleases. We should tell the master.”

  “Hush, girl,” Lyphinna grunted and cast a dark glance behind her. “We have no status here. Such is the man’s right of dominance.”

  “It is not his right to fondle me,” I claimed. “Even I know marriage is forbidden amongst slaves!”

  She laughed. “Marriage? Ha, you are a stupid girl!”

  “I am not stupid! I am temple trained for a god’s pleasure not some filthy Greek!”

  Lyphinna turned her eyes on me. I have seen such eyes many times, in the faces of those who have been slaves for most of their lives. They were without compassion, without hope--without any emotion at all. Her expression remained as blank as the stone walls surrounding us and just as hard.

  “Pray to your gods, then. Go on, pray.” She turned slowly and continued down the hall. “See if they answer you.”

  “I will,” I said to her retreating figure. But I wondered if Dionysus would hear the prayers of an outcast.

  The next week, Lyphinna returned late from the well. She set a large amphora of water on the floor as soon as she entered the house, instead of in its customary spot. The sight of her stopped me in my tracks.

  Her face and neck were scored with red welts and one of her large brown eyes was almost swollen shut. Her chiton had been torn away from her upper body on the left side, and she held it over her breasts with a trembling hand. She had a bleeding gash in her shoulder joint, just above her breast. The wound looked suspiciously like teeth marks, set close and deep, though from what kind of animal, I could not say.

  I set down my pots and ran to help her. Why did the others not move?

  “Lyphinna?” I gasped. My hands froze in mid-reach. I was afraid to touch her. She was trembling all over and I thought for certain she would collapse.

  Instead, she brushed my hands away and wiped the bloody spittle from her lips with the back of her quaking hand. Then she tottered down the hall, as if each step was trod upon broken shards of pottery.

  “Lyphinna,” I said again. I stared around the room, as one by one the others began to move. One of the men shook his head and picked up an amphora before going out to the stables.

  “Go back to your chamber pots, girl. There is nothing you can do.” I did not see who spoke. I did not have to.

  In a daze of despair and regret, I picked up my chamber pot and went out the side yard towards the refuse pile. As I left the rear courtyard, I saw Cook come in, brushing dust from the front of his short chiton. He stopped and looked at me for a moment, like a wolf trying to determine if he should expend the effort to catch his prey. My eyes flew from him to the house and back. I began to shake. The contents of the pot sloshed over the edges and soaked the front of my chiton.

  The cook curled his lip.

  “No meal tonight,” he grunted and went into the house.

  *** ***

  When Aesop walked in the next morning and found me pinned against a column, and Cook with his hand on my breast, his bushy brows furrowed like dark clouds gathering before a storm. Aesop gave Cook a scolding about the rights of slave property and sent me to the women’s quarters to darn and weave from now on. Thus my chamber pot duties ended, and all because Cook found my breasts worthy.

  I was so grateful, I didn’t care.

  My fingers peeled and blistered from carding wool and twisting it to be spun, but the tasks were superior in comparison to emptying piss, so I did not complain. Weaving was not the greater glory of dance or song, true, but better this than to die alone and unloved in the streets of Abdera. It was a trade skill, and a useful one at that. Perhaps I could take in extra coins to buy my freedom.

  I dreamed nightly of Mara, my father and, of course, my precious mother. How many of these low tasks did she perform at the temple, so that I might have been trained? I was selfish not to have seen her disgrace. Was this how she felt--forced to the lowest drudgery at the temple where once she’d been a prize? I had been blind in so many ways.

  In the months that followed, I kept well out of Cook’s way, or made certain Aesop was within hearing. It meant I had to sneak cheese and bread to my alcove at night, or go hungry, but that was a small price to pay to reduce Cook’s attentions to me. It was not Cook’s notice that I most secretly hoped to gain, for he was also a slave and therefore could be of no use to me.

  After two months, I noticed a goodly amount of frothy spew in the chamber pots, most of them near the women’s quarters. When I commented on Lyphinna’s pale and sweating face, I was told to hush. Two weeks later the news was confirmed. Lyphinna was with child. Normally such would be cause for joy, but for a concubine or slave it is dreadful news. We are not only forbidden to marry, we are not allowed to nurture children. Lyphinna’s babe would be sold or left out in the elements to die--its fate for Iadmon, our master, to decide.
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  “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.

  Chapter Nine

  “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 t
he 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.