Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens Read online

  Agathon’s Daughter

  Book One: Hetaera

  by

  Suzanne Tyrpak

  for

  My Favorite Beekeeper

  Contents

  Foreword by Tess Gerritsen

  Author’s Note

  Cast of Characters

  Act One

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Act Two

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Act Three

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Suzanne Tyrpak

  Contact Suzanne

  Copyright

  Foreword

  “Powerful writing makes itself known within a few paragraphs. That’s how quickly I realized that Suzanne Tyrpak is a writer of extraordinary talent, when I read the first chapters of AGATHON’S DAUGHTER during a writing workshop in Maui. I was the instructor, Suzanne was a student, yet I knew immediately that this was not a student’s writing. This was polished, riveting work, lushly descriptive and fraught with tension. I wanted to read the rest of this story. I wanted this to be a book.

  Now that book is here, I’m delighted that other readers can savor the story that I’ve awaited so eagerly over the past few years. AGATHON’S DAUGHTER is a tale told by a writer who deserves your attention, a writer who certainly captured mine.”

  Tess Gerritsen

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  Rizzoli and Isles

  December, 2011

  Note: Agathon’s Daughter: Hetaera, book one of the Agathon’s Daughter trilogy, takes place in Athens, Greece, in 443 B.C.E. During the period known as “Classic Athens” (508 B.C.E. — 332 B.C.E.), Athens was a cultural center for art, philosophy and learning, the birthplace of Sophocles, Pericles, Socrates, and many others who changed history. At this time, rivalry existed between conservative oligarchs, who favored the old aristocracy, and forward-thinking politicians like Pericles who promoted democracy.

  Women lived cloistered lives, could not own property, and received little education. The hetaerae (courtesans or consorts) were the exception. These highly educated women attended symposiums with men and could become extremely influential. Aspasia of Miletus, consort of Pericles, was known as the “first woman of Athens,” and she played a vocal role in Athenian society and politics.

  Agathon’s Daughter is populated by real and fictitious characters. Any similarity to persons living in the past two thousand years is coincidental.

  Cast of Characters

  Agathon of Athens (fictitious) a wealthy statesman

  Aspasia of Miletus hetaera to Pericles (470-400 B.C.E.)

  Calonice (fictitious) a slave in the House of Agathon

  Diodorus of Athens (fictitious) Melaina’s son

  Galenos (fictitious) a slave, steward to Lycurgus

  Georgios (fictitious) a slave, Foreman of the silver mines

  Hestia (fictitious) a slave in the House of Agathon

  Lycurgus of Athens (fictitious) a wealthy statesman, Agathon’s business partner

  Melaina of Athens (fictitious) wife of Agathon, mother of Diodorus

  Odysseus (fictitious) a cat

  Pericles of Athens influential statesman, orator, strategos, (495-429 B.C.E.)

  Socrates a famous Athenian philosopher (469-399 B.C.E.)

  Therapon (fictitious) a slave, steward to Agathon

  Thucydides, son of Melesius a conservative statesman, Classic Athens

  Zosime (fictitious) a slave in the House of Lycurgus

  Act One

  True friend and follower,

  beyond question you prove your loyalty to our house!

  As a thoroughbred of the highest quality, though old,

  does not lose courage in danger, but pricks his ear,

  you urge us forward, our greatest supporter.

  I will tell you, then, what I have determined;

  listen closely to my words, and correct me,

  if I miss the mark.

  —Sophocles, Orestes

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wind swept down from the acropolis, driving dust along the narrow lanes past sleeping houses, slipping through bolted doors into the Master’s bedchamber. On this dismal night, even the House of Agathon offered no barrier against the winged god of death.

  Hestia drew her shawl close around her shoulders, gazed across the chamber. The oil lamp sputtered, casting shadows on the ceiling, and darkness crept across the old man’s face.

  “Come closer,” he called out, clutching at the bedcovers, struggling to lift his head. A rasping cough strangled his voice. He stared at her as if witnessing an apparition.

  “Rest,” she said.

  “I have wronged you.”

  “Never.”

  Hestia dipped a cloth into a bowl of water infused with thyme to stem the fever and mopped her Master’s brow. Since the onset of his illness, the furrows in Agathon’s forehead had grown more pronounced, and lines wrought by years of laughter sagged into a frown. The battle-worn face she loved so well, craggy as the hills of Athens, seemed possessed by a secret grief.

  He regarded her with stark intensity. “If I should die this night—”

  “Don’t speak of death.”

  Groaning, he rolled onto his side. “Do you hear them howling?”

  “Who?”

  “The hounds of Hades. I hear the splash of Charon’s oars; the icy waters of the Styx lap at my feet.”

  Despite the late hour, despite the impending rain, Hestia considered sending for the physician; the remedy Doctor Baraz had prescribed didn’t seem to be working. She moved quickly to the doorway, waking the injury she’d received as an infant. Pain shot through her ankle.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get the Despoina.”

  “Don’t wake my wife. Melaina needs her beauty sleep.” Agathon struggled to sit, his breath shallow and rapid.

  In truth, Hestia felt relief. The prospect of waking the Despoina held all the charm of opening Pandora’s box—except no hope lay hidden at the bottom. Only wrath. Yet, the feverish glitter of Agathon’s eyes made her uneasy. She walked back to the bed and touched his forehead. Heat rushed through her fingers, the pulse of life escaping him.

  “You’re burning up.”

  “If only I could sleep.” Agathon closed his eyes, but he looked far from peaceful.

  Hestia wiped her eyes, warding off her tears.

  Melaina claimed it was disrespectful for a slave to show emotion. Slaves, Melaina said, were meant to blend into the furnishings, stay hidden in corners, like a chamber pot. Despite her effort to stop them, tears escaped her eyes. How could she prevent herself from crying for the one person in this world who had shown her kindness? The person who had saved her life.

  Agathon’s eyelids fluttered open, and the soul she l
oved peered out. “Get some sleep,” he said.

  “If I sleep who will care for you?”

  “You’re a good girl, Hestia. A bit strong-willed, but intelligent.”

  His words brought more tears.

  “When the rains are over,” she said, attempting to compose herself. “And as soon as you regain your strength, we’ll visit the acropolis; make an offering at the Pantheon.”

  “Pour me some wine.”

  “Perhaps you need another dose of the physician’s medicine.”

  “No more. It tastes bitter.”

  “The Despoina opened an amphora of your favorite wine. I’ll add some honey to the wine and you won’t notice the medicine.”

  “Don’t treat me like a woman—”

  Hestia knew better than to argue.

  Pain bit her ankle; it always did at this late hour. Favoring her left foot, she reached the sideboard. She poured wine from an earthen pitcher into a drinking cup then added water and a dollop of honey—the last of the supply she had gathered in the autumn. Soon it would be time to reopen the hives and discover if the bees had survived the winter—but now that Diodorus had returned from military service the bees would be his chore. Hestia admired Agathon’s son; Diodorus care about important things like the natural world, philosophy and mathematics. She glanced at Agathon to make certain he wasn’t watching before reaching for the vial of tincture. She dosed the wine liberally. Limping toward the bed, she offered him the cup.

  “Your ankle pains you,” he said. She busied herself straightening the bedcovers. “Hestia, look at me.”

  His face was blotchy, ravaged by fever. Though the physician insisted his illness wasn’t plague, the servants whispered otherwise. Day and night they lit fires and made offerings to the household gods, mumbling excuses why they couldn’t sit with him. Laundry needed to be done, bread had to be baked, spring cleaning was past due. Even the Master’s wife kept her distance. Hestia saw no lesions, no swollen glands, no sign of plague—yet Agathon’s condition worsened.

  “Drink,” she said, “and you’ll feel better.”

  “Stop fussing. Sit.”

  She drew a goatskin stool close to the bed and sat, hands folded in her lap.

  Agathon sipped the wine, made a sour face, then set the cup on the bedside table. He reached for her hand, small within his sturdy paw, and squeezed her fingers. “Remember the day we climbed the Hill of Nymphs?”

  Not long ago, after another stormy night, she and Agathon had ventured out to wander through the sacred olive grove. Sunlight danced through rain-drenched leaves.

  “I remember,” she said. “I asked you what Socrates says of love.”

  “And I said you’re too young to ponder that subject.”

  “Seventeen is hardly young, Master.”

  “Time passes swiftly.” A frown tugged at Agathon’s mouth. He reached for the cup of wine, but didn’t drink. “According to Socrates, there are two varieties of love—the higher leads to harmony, the lower to destruction.”

  “How can you tell the difference?”

  “If you can answer that, my darling girl, you’re wiser than Socrates.” His eyes appeared troubled. “Can you find it in your heart to love an old warhorse like me?”

  Hestia stared at her lap, unsure of what he wanted. Unsure of how to answer.

  “My question upsets you.” He grabbed the cup of wine and drank. His eyes peered at her above the cup’s rim. “Give me your honest opinion—at this late hour of my life, can my soul be purified?”

  “Your soul is pure. Your life has been exemplary—”

  “No.”

  She interlocked her fingers, observing their redness and how the knuckles blanched. Weighing her words, she said, “I believe all souls to be eternal. Therefore, the hour can never be too late for a soul’s redemption.”

  “By the gods,” he said softly, “you’re a match for any man, any philosopher, even Socrates.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I speak the truth. You take after your mother, golden curls, and eyes as blue as the Aegean.”

  “My mother preferred me dead.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The Despoina.”

  “Melaina?” Agathon shook his head.

  “Your wife says my mother chained me to a hill—left me, as an infant, to die of exposure.”

  Agathon took a gulp of wine, his hand shaking. A cough took hold, deep and guttural. He tried to hand the cup to Hestia, but the wine spilled. A crimson stain crept across the bedcover—not only wine, but blood.

  Hestia removed the cup from his trembling hand, her own shaking as well. Her eyes met Agathon’s and she gazed into his heart. The cup slipped from her hand, crashed on the tile floor, and shattered.

  “You knew my mother, didn’t you?” Her gaze reached deeper, unlocking his secrets. “You loved her.”

  “Yes.” He stared at her, stricken.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “Tell you what?”

  She released him from her gaze.

  Bending to collect pieces of the broken cup, she sorted through disparate emotions—sorrow for her Master’s illness, anger at his reticence, loneliness. As she stood, she felt light-headed, as if she were falling into a dark well. Who would find her? Who would notice she had gone?

  His voice came from far away, calling her into the present.

  “I’ll get another cup,” she said.

  She moved toward the sideboard, felt his eyes follow her. The amphora felt slick against her palms. Her back to him, she poured medicine into the wine, added a large spoon of honey. She wanted him to sleep, wanted him to close his eyes—so she couldn’t see into his heart.

  She handed him the cup, and Agathon drank deeply, his face flushing as the medicine took its course.

  He wiped his mouth, settled into his cushions.

  “Her name was Olympia.”

  “Olympia,” Hestia said, the name forming on her tongue, swelling like a wave and crashing in her gut.

  “Give me that box.” Agathon pointed to the bedside table.

  She handed him a bronze box inlaid with colored stones.

  Agathon opened the lid, drew out a ring. Gold glittered in the lamplight, sending shivers through Hestia. He pressed the ring into her palm, and a flood of images followed, each vying for her attention: a man crowned by a diadem, a woman dressed in flowing robes. The man slipped the ring on the woman’s finger. The ring was worth more than a slave could hope to earn in a lifetime. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, Hestia marveled at the workmanship. Twin serpents intertwined to form the symbol of eternity, ruby eyes flashing fire.

  “Read the inscription.”

  “To Olympia from Agathon,” Hestia read. And then a month, “Boedromion.”

  “A golden day in autumn, a day sacred to Dionysius—the day of your conception.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Have you not guessed?”

  She stared into his eyes, afraid to speak the truth she saw.

  Agathon reached for her hand, but she recoiled, her thoughts and feelings churning. When she spoke, her voice came out as a whisper. “I am your—”

  “Daughter.”

  “And my mother?”

  “Died giving birth to you. I was here, in Athens, when I received the news.” Agathon sank back into the cushions.

  Hestia turned the ring in her palm, feeling the weight of the gold, the weight of Agathon’s words. Of course, she’d been abandoned, a bastard and a girl. Unwanted children were often left out in the elements to expire.

  “Why did you save me?”

  “I couldn’t bear to see you die. I sought you out, plucked you from your chains.”

  “And kept me as your slave.”

  “I couldn’t claim you as my own. Melaina wouldn’t…”

  Her eyes met his. His face seemed to be melting, like a wax mask left out in the sun. His mouth moved, but his words were drowned in the roar of ques
tions rushing through her mind. She wasn’t the first bastard to be born to a wealthy Master, not the first child to be unclaimed. It was a common story. But she had trusted Agathon. Gorge rose to her mouth, molten rage that stung her throat. She swallowed, forcing down her anger.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “Forgive an old man.”

  Blue veins lined his hands, carrying his blood. Her blood. The blood she had been denied.

  “Who was she, my mother? A slave?”

  “A goddess. She belonged to no man.” Agathon sighed heavily, closed his eyes.

  Hestia studied his ravaged face and saw her own. She reached for his shoulder, shook him. “Olympia who? From where?”

  He mumbled something.

  The shutters clattered. The wind had ripped them open. She glanced at the high window. Clouds drifted over the moon, smothering its light.

  She turned back to Agathon, knelt beside his bed. Tears streaming down her face, she pressed her cheek against his chest, listened for his heartbeat, and heard only the rattle of the shutters.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dawn brought the wail of servants, but Melaina shed no tears for her dead husband.

  After consuming a substantial meal of goat cheese and barley bread, she rinsed her hands in the washbasin and splashed her face. Leaning over the water, she pulled the corners of her eyes, tightening the fine, webbed lines. Thanks to a paste of lead and limestone, which she applied religiously, her hair remained jet-black. Despite her fading beauty men still found her appealing, and she expected Agathon’s wealth to enhance her attractiveness. According to the law she would inherit nothing. Even her dowry, still held in trust, would be controlled by her son. But Diodorus was an idealist. He had no mind for business, no desire to advance himself. He had proved himself as a soldier, serving as a hoplite in the Spartan uprising; but Agathon had ruined their son’s desire for practical pursuits, encouraging the boy (though he was twenty Melaina refused to call him a man) to follow Socrates—a half-crazed philosopher who wandered barefoot around the agora spouting gibberish. When Diodorus wasn’t spewing nonsense he spent his time studying insects, rocks and other worthless objects.