Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens Read Online Free Page A

raise the baby as her own, but she’d refused. A mistake, in retrospect. Agathon hired a wet nurse who stood guard over the infant day and night, leaving no opportunity to send the evil Ker to her death.
    Melaina pushed away the memories, focused on her work. With quiet concentration, she added the flower paste to an earthen pot of wine that simmered on the brazier. Taken as a tonic, artemisia acted as a narcotic, inducing sleep. Used to anoint a corpse, the elixir ensured the slumber of the deceased would be eternal; it had the same effect on those still living. As she stirred the brew with a wooden spoon, the vision of her son’s future grew vivid—a golden path leading to the acropolis. She would walk beside him.
    With help, all her dreams were possible. And that help would come from Lycurgus.
    For twenty years, she had held their secret. For twenty years, she’d played the martyr, putting up with the bastard daughter—a constant reminder of Agathon’s infidelity; and her own.
    But that would change.
    She bent over the brazier and blew on the embers, inhaling the artemisia’s intoxicating fumes. Sweat beaded on her forehead, ran into her eyes, and stung. Feeling faint, she removed the concoction from the brazier. Steadying her knees, she searched through her basket and found a stick of rosemary. She held it to the glowing coals. The smoke would dispel evil spirits—dispel Hestia, the Pandora who wreaked havoc on the house.
    Mumbling a prayer to Hecate, Melaina ran the smoldering rosemary over her husband’s corpse. She studied the nose broken in battle, the rough-hewn mouth that seldom spoke to her.
    From a funerary flask, she poured olive oil into an alabaster bowl, then added the artemisia. She dipped a scrap of linen into the oil and ran the cloth over the soles of Agathon’s feet, circling to the left to release him from this world.
    “Go quickly,” she said.
    The doorway’s curtain swayed.
    “Who’s there?” Cloth in hand, Melaina ripped open the curtain.
    Hestia hobbled away, as fast as her lame foot allowed.
    Melaina hurried after her. “I told you to scrub the kitchen hearth. If you’ve finished, the chamber pots need emptying. Remember, I’m your Master now.”
    Hestia turned to face Melaina, her expression defiant.
    “Your son is Master of this house.”
    Melaina’s hand came down on Hestia’s face, leaving a red mark. She hadn’t meant to strike, hadn’t meant to lose herself. She’d meant to exhibit self-control, but the girl was impertinent. Hestia should be falling to her knees, begging forgiveness. Instead, she stood her ground, her eyes—bluer than a bruise—penetrating, invasive.
    Melaina stepped back from the girl, aware of servants watching, listening. Summoning her most commanding voice, she said, “I’m sorry I slapped you, but you drove me to it.”
    The girl rubbed her swelling cheek. “I drove you to hit me? I didn’t know I had such power.”
    Melaina raised her hand again. “I’m warning you. Today I have no patience.”
    “When do you ever have patience?”
    Melaina’s hand shook as she lowered it. Her eyes remained fixed on Hestia. She found it impossible to look away. The girl was a sorceress, just like her whorish mother. “Now that Agathon is dead, you answer to me,” she said. “Blood follows blood, and you take after your mother. But you must change.”
    “According to the Master, my mother was a goddess.”
    Melaina’s throat tightened, her breath catching in her chest. She grabbed Hestia’s wrists, locking her fingers around the delicate bones. She dragged the girl into the curtained annex, pointed at the corpse. “He won’t protect you now.”
    Melaina stood, triumphant, watching with satisfaction as Hestia’s stance grew limp.
    Reaching out her hand, the girl stroked the dead man’s face.
    “Don’t touch him,” Melaina said.
    Hestia bent her head in supplication, tears gleaming in her eyes.
    The display of grief annoyed Melaina. “You will