be ripped from the only home she knew, to be locked in a filthy cell, to be sold to the highest bidder like an animal. The things he’d said, the way he’d touched her, obviously meant nothing. After all, what was she but a slave, a girl to be used and thrown away?
She had to stop thinking about him.
Noises interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up.
The cell held four other women. Two spoke in a language Hestia recognized as Persian. Another lay on the rotting straw, curled in a fetal position, sobbing inconsolably. The fourth woman had latched onto the cell’s iron bars, rattling them like a wild beast. She caught Hestia watching her and spat out an obscenity.
A single window, too high to offer a view, provided scant air. The mud brick building, where prisoners and slaves were held, stood in the southwest corner of the agora—stark contrast to the gleaming buildings of state. Dim light filtered through the narrow window. Except for the barred door, there was no escape. A bucket stood in the corner, where the women might relieve themselves; otherwise the cell was bare. It stank of sweat and excrement.
Hestia closed her eyes, and darkness brought back memories. His lips on hers, the feel of his skin, memories so sweet she couldn’t bear them. Her eyes opened. This cell was her reality. She ran her fingers over her shaved scalp, remembering how he had run his fingers through her hair, and felt a stab of sorrow. The pain of the whip seemed dull in comparison.
If she had told him that she was his half-sister, would that have made a difference? Would he have believed her? Why would he? She had no proof. Agathon’s ramblings might have been a dying man’s feverish hallucinations.
Avoiding the gaze of her cellmates, she stared at the floor, felt the weight of the clay tablet which hung around her neck. It stated: household slave, literate, sewing, spinning, damaged foot, virgin. Melaina had sworn that Hestia retained her maidenhead, wanted to believe it true. Hestia smiled at the irony. Her new Master, whoever he might be, would be disappointed.
Tablets dangled from each of the women’s necks citing their strengths and weaknesses, as was required by law, but only Hestia could read them. The two Persians had served as prostitutes and now, past their prime, would be sold for very little. If luck favored them, they might serve as kitchen slaves. The sobbing mother, though no longer a virgin, was young enough to bring a good price. These days in Athens, though, slaves were abundant and cheap.
Hestia stole a glance at the lunatic. She failed to get close enough to read the tablet, but the woman seemed unfit to serve in any household. If not sold privately, the state would ship her off to work in fields or worse, the silver mines.
The woman rattled the bars.
A guard approached the cell and shouted, “Quiet.”
The guard’s face was hideously scarred and when Hestia’s eyes met his, she saw a tortured soul. He carried a pot of barley gruel, the tasteless slop they ate for every meal.
“Feeding time,” he said.
“They want to poison us!” The crazed woman’s voice echoed through the block of cells, riling other captives to shout and bang on bars.
Another man, with a belly like a melon, stomped toward their cell. His chiton was made of fine fabric and earrings jingled in his ears. Hestia recognized the slave monger. He carried a barbed whip, and he would not hesitate to use it.
“Settle down!” He cracked the whip.
Ignoring him, or perhaps oblivious, the crazed woman continued rattling the bars.
The slave monger brought the whip down, lashing at her hands, and left her fingers bleeding.
The woman howled.
“Animal,” the slave monger said.
Reaching into the bucket of excrement, the woman came up with a handful and hurled it at the slave monger.
“Bitch!”
The slave monger’s face turned bright red and he gasped heavily. Feces ran down the front of his fine chiton, and he began to heave as if
She had to stop thinking about him.
Noises interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up.
The cell held four other women. Two spoke in a language Hestia recognized as Persian. Another lay on the rotting straw, curled in a fetal position, sobbing inconsolably. The fourth woman had latched onto the cell’s iron bars, rattling them like a wild beast. She caught Hestia watching her and spat out an obscenity.
A single window, too high to offer a view, provided scant air. The mud brick building, where prisoners and slaves were held, stood in the southwest corner of the agora—stark contrast to the gleaming buildings of state. Dim light filtered through the narrow window. Except for the barred door, there was no escape. A bucket stood in the corner, where the women might relieve themselves; otherwise the cell was bare. It stank of sweat and excrement.
Hestia closed her eyes, and darkness brought back memories. His lips on hers, the feel of his skin, memories so sweet she couldn’t bear them. Her eyes opened. This cell was her reality. She ran her fingers over her shaved scalp, remembering how he had run his fingers through her hair, and felt a stab of sorrow. The pain of the whip seemed dull in comparison.
If she had told him that she was his half-sister, would that have made a difference? Would he have believed her? Why would he? She had no proof. Agathon’s ramblings might have been a dying man’s feverish hallucinations.
Avoiding the gaze of her cellmates, she stared at the floor, felt the weight of the clay tablet which hung around her neck. It stated: household slave, literate, sewing, spinning, damaged foot, virgin. Melaina had sworn that Hestia retained her maidenhead, wanted to believe it true. Hestia smiled at the irony. Her new Master, whoever he might be, would be disappointed.
Tablets dangled from each of the women’s necks citing their strengths and weaknesses, as was required by law, but only Hestia could read them. The two Persians had served as prostitutes and now, past their prime, would be sold for very little. If luck favored them, they might serve as kitchen slaves. The sobbing mother, though no longer a virgin, was young enough to bring a good price. These days in Athens, though, slaves were abundant and cheap.
Hestia stole a glance at the lunatic. She failed to get close enough to read the tablet, but the woman seemed unfit to serve in any household. If not sold privately, the state would ship her off to work in fields or worse, the silver mines.
The woman rattled the bars.
A guard approached the cell and shouted, “Quiet.”
The guard’s face was hideously scarred and when Hestia’s eyes met his, she saw a tortured soul. He carried a pot of barley gruel, the tasteless slop they ate for every meal.
“Feeding time,” he said.
“They want to poison us!” The crazed woman’s voice echoed through the block of cells, riling other captives to shout and bang on bars.
Another man, with a belly like a melon, stomped toward their cell. His chiton was made of fine fabric and earrings jingled in his ears. Hestia recognized the slave monger. He carried a barbed whip, and he would not hesitate to use it.
“Settle down!” He cracked the whip.
Ignoring him, or perhaps oblivious, the crazed woman continued rattling the bars.
The slave monger brought the whip down, lashing at her hands, and left her fingers bleeding.
The woman howled.
“Animal,” the slave monger said.
Reaching into the bucket of excrement, the woman came up with a handful and hurled it at the slave monger.
“Bitch!”
The slave monger’s face turned bright red and he gasped heavily. Feces ran down the front of his fine chiton, and he began to heave as if
Similar Books
