Free Hetaera--Suspense in Ancient Athens by Suzanne Tyrpak Page B

and a trio of scantily clad women danced into the room, flutes lifted to their scarlet lips, their eyes rimmed with kohl. A girl with dark curls led the pack, her muscles defined beneath her glistening skin.
    Despite his efforts not to, Diodorus felt himself respond. He grabbed his bowl and quickly drained it, hoping to quell the rising flames, but the wine only fueled his fire.
    The meeting had left him irritable, as had talking about Hestia. Perhaps he should take her, as Lycurgus suggested. After all, she was his property. Shaking the thought from his head, he watched the dancers, admiring the way they swayed their bodies, their hips jingling with belts of coins, their bodies exuding scent.
    The one with black curls would do.
    Their eyes met, and she snaked toward him, her body undulating.
    “I’m Zosime,” she whispered in his ear, her ample breasts brushing his lips.
    His tongue sought her nipple, and a bolt of heat ran through his groin. He slid his hands along her oil-slicked hips. Feeling the strength of her thighs, he imagined the girl must be a Spartan.
    “Are you a warrior?” he asked.
    “I’d rather play than fight,” she said.
    A skilled entertainer, Zosime slipped her hand beneath his chiton in search of his unfettered instrument. Unable to resist his need, Diodorus gave in to her. Reclining on the couch, he breathed her musk. She played his flute with expert skill, her lips soft and her tongue agile. Settling herself on his lap, she arched her back and moaned—a well rehearsed rendition of ecstasy.
    But, throughout the girl’s performance, his thoughts remained fixed on Hestia.

    Hestia lay on her straw pallet, listening to her bedmate’s steady breathing. Calonice’s face, dark as ebony and scarred with markings of her tribe, appeared peaceful as she slept.
    But Hestia found no escape in dreams. Images of Agathon’s funeral haunted her. Smoke from the burnt offerings lingered in her nostrils, and the mourners’ wails rang in her ears. Touching the cut on her chest, rent by Melaina’s stone, she flinched. The Despoina bore her no love; that much was clear. Athenian law demanded that even slaves be tried before facing punishment of death by stoning, but Melaina had no respect for law.
    Hestia touched the wound again and felt pain within her heart. Perhaps it would be best if she were sold, perhaps she would be safer. If nothing else, she would be saved from loving Diodorus. Saved from incest. Granted, he was her half-brother, and they didn’t share the same mother. Though society might frown upon their coupling, legally they could.
    She felt a gentle touch.
    “What’s wrong?” Calonice asked.
    “Nothing, Callie.”
    “You kicked me.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    Calonice reached her thin arms around Hestia, holding her in an embrace. “In my homeland there is a river, and the sound of her rushing water is Mother Ala crying with both joy and sorrow.”
    “Who is Mother Ala?”
    “She who gives life to all beings. Ala shows herself as the crescent moon. When night is darkest the crescent moon rises from the underworld to mark a new beginning.”
    “A new beginning.” Hestia felt the warmth of Calonice beside her. She thought about Melaina and what she’d done, not just to her, but to Agathon. She had no proof, and even if she did, nothing would bring him back. She had been happier before he said he was her father, happier to think herself a lucky slave rather than a luckless daughter. She had told no one. Not even Calonice.
    “Do you love him?”
    “Who?”
    “You know who,” Calonice said. “I see the way you look at him, and I see how he looks at you.”
    “I can’t love him, Callie.”
    “Why not?”
    “It would be wrong.”
    “In my homeland they say love is always right.”
    Hestia lay still, thinking about Diodorus, thinking about love. She glanced at Calonice. The girl’s eyes had closed. Asleep, she looked like a child. Calonice knew what it was to be lonely. Pirates had