stopping at a tavern. After that, the evening was a blur.
Diodorus couldn’t stop thinking about Hestia. He had dreamed of her all night. But when morning came, she had been nowhere to be found.
He ran his fingers through his hair, felt a lump. His head felt as if it were being squeezed by a vice. The sway of the oxcart didn’t help. He rubbed his forehead. Each bump caused a sharp pain.
Somehow, he’d gotten through the morning. Servants had packed his clothing, and the cook had supplied him with baskets of food. He sat beside the driver—a burly man twice his size—trying to piece together what had happened the night before. The driver cracked his whip, but it had little effect on the ox, and the cart continued to bump along slowly. Diodorus glanced at the guards keeping pace behind them.
“Why are they here?” he asked the driver.
“Insurance.”
“For the supplies?”
The driver glanced at Diodorus, his expression surly. “Don’t want to lose anything during transport.”
Diodorus felt like a boy being escorted to school by a pedagogas to ensure his safe arrival, except these men appeared to be hired brutes.
The walled road to the port of Piraeus was less than four miles, but the journey seemed to take forever. The road, filled with ruts and jagged stones, was too rough for the speed of a chariot. Most people made the trip on foot, some rode on donkeys. By mule, the trip would take just over an hour, but an oxcart could not be hurried. The more the driver whipped the animal, the less progress they seemed to make.
This gave Diodorus time to think as he sat, slumped and half asleep, beside the driver. The night had been filled with dreams, filled with Hestia. Pieces began to surface. The smell of her hair, the taste of her skin. The dream seemed so real. He sat up straight, his senses suddenly sharp.
It hadn’t been a dream.
He remembered telling Hestia he loved her, remembered his mother shouting.
“Go back,” he told the driver. “I need to return to Athens.”
The man shook his head. “No going back.”
“Then let me off. I’ll walk.”
“I can’t let you do that.” Flexing his massive biceps, the driver cracked the whip again. “The Master gave me strict orders. You’d best sit back and enjoy the ride.”
“I said stop.” Diodorus grabbed the reins and brought the oxcart to a halt. He jumped from the cart, and the guards met him.
“Move,” he said, attempting to sidestep them.
Their spears pointed at his gut.
“Get back in the cart,” the driver said.
Diodorus assessed his situation. His head screamed and his legs felt weak. Even if he reached into his boot and found his dagger, he was no match for these three men. Lycurgus held him prisoner. Seething at the realization, he took his seat beside the driver.
The wagon jerked along, carrying him to his destiny.
He tried to piece together exactly what had happened. He remembered signing papers, remembered agreeing to work for Lycurgus. Blinded by wine and trust, he’d signed away his life and now he couldn’t break the contract. He wished Agathon were there to guide him. But Agathon had been the one to land him in this trouble, driving the family into debt. In reality, Diodorus realized, he’d become an indentured servant.
He shook his head, hoping to clear it.
However he studied the situation, his choices were limited. If he chose to run, he would be forced to flee Athens or face imprisonment, a trial, and, ultimately, banishment. No closer to paying off his debt, he would be forced to spend years away not just from Athens, but anywhere in Attica. Years away from Hestia. His only course, it seemed, was to move forward and serve his time working for Lycurgus. In one year, he would return to Athens and claim Hestia.
Claim her as what? His hetaera?
Pieces of the night floated back to him. He had taken Hestia’s virginity, pledged to marry her. But how could he marry her if she were not Athenian? Perhaps she was.
Diodorus couldn’t stop thinking about Hestia. He had dreamed of her all night. But when morning came, she had been nowhere to be found.
He ran his fingers through his hair, felt a lump. His head felt as if it were being squeezed by a vice. The sway of the oxcart didn’t help. He rubbed his forehead. Each bump caused a sharp pain.
Somehow, he’d gotten through the morning. Servants had packed his clothing, and the cook had supplied him with baskets of food. He sat beside the driver—a burly man twice his size—trying to piece together what had happened the night before. The driver cracked his whip, but it had little effect on the ox, and the cart continued to bump along slowly. Diodorus glanced at the guards keeping pace behind them.
“Why are they here?” he asked the driver.
“Insurance.”
“For the supplies?”
The driver glanced at Diodorus, his expression surly. “Don’t want to lose anything during transport.”
Diodorus felt like a boy being escorted to school by a pedagogas to ensure his safe arrival, except these men appeared to be hired brutes.
The walled road to the port of Piraeus was less than four miles, but the journey seemed to take forever. The road, filled with ruts and jagged stones, was too rough for the speed of a chariot. Most people made the trip on foot, some rode on donkeys. By mule, the trip would take just over an hour, but an oxcart could not be hurried. The more the driver whipped the animal, the less progress they seemed to make.
This gave Diodorus time to think as he sat, slumped and half asleep, beside the driver. The night had been filled with dreams, filled with Hestia. Pieces began to surface. The smell of her hair, the taste of her skin. The dream seemed so real. He sat up straight, his senses suddenly sharp.
It hadn’t been a dream.
He remembered telling Hestia he loved her, remembered his mother shouting.
“Go back,” he told the driver. “I need to return to Athens.”
The man shook his head. “No going back.”
“Then let me off. I’ll walk.”
“I can’t let you do that.” Flexing his massive biceps, the driver cracked the whip again. “The Master gave me strict orders. You’d best sit back and enjoy the ride.”
“I said stop.” Diodorus grabbed the reins and brought the oxcart to a halt. He jumped from the cart, and the guards met him.
“Move,” he said, attempting to sidestep them.
Their spears pointed at his gut.
“Get back in the cart,” the driver said.
Diodorus assessed his situation. His head screamed and his legs felt weak. Even if he reached into his boot and found his dagger, he was no match for these three men. Lycurgus held him prisoner. Seething at the realization, he took his seat beside the driver.
The wagon jerked along, carrying him to his destiny.
He tried to piece together exactly what had happened. He remembered signing papers, remembered agreeing to work for Lycurgus. Blinded by wine and trust, he’d signed away his life and now he couldn’t break the contract. He wished Agathon were there to guide him. But Agathon had been the one to land him in this trouble, driving the family into debt. In reality, Diodorus realized, he’d become an indentured servant.
He shook his head, hoping to clear it.
However he studied the situation, his choices were limited. If he chose to run, he would be forced to flee Athens or face imprisonment, a trial, and, ultimately, banishment. No closer to paying off his debt, he would be forced to spend years away not just from Athens, but anywhere in Attica. Years away from Hestia. His only course, it seemed, was to move forward and serve his time working for Lycurgus. In one year, he would return to Athens and claim Hestia.
Claim her as what? His hetaera?
Pieces of the night floated back to him. He had taken Hestia’s virginity, pledged to marry her. But how could he marry her if she were not Athenian? Perhaps she was.
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