Ichor and Ambrosia

Most of the venture south down the west coast of Sifnos was spent in silence, listening to the scribble of Baltsaros’ reed and the shouts of the crewmen outside. Every now and again, a slave girl would come to offer a drink or a snack, but Myrrhine denied everything despite Acacius’ rumbling belly.

They docked in Kitriani only a few hours later; the winds were blowing strong, howling through the rolling hills and the sparse trees of the small island. Back then, Kitriani was much larger, nearly half the size of Sifnos, with rolling hills and low valleys. “Do you own all of this?” Myrrhine asked as Baltsaros, Acacius, some slaves, and herself made their way down the ramps and on to the docks in a small procession.

“Oh, no — of course not,” Baltsaros said. “I only own these docks and that manse on the hill.” He pointed to a large, stone house sitting on a hill and stone foundation toward the center of the island. It was large, even from the distance, with protruding towers on the four corners and a bridge over a dip in the landscape that led to a large garden surrounded by walls on all four sides. The party came to the end of the docks now, down the steps and into the rocky sand. “If you would be so kind as to wait here while to get my crew together, I would be so grateful,” Baltsaros said then. He kissed Myrrhine’s hand, and tussled Acacius’ hair, then began his way back to the ship. Despite his weight, his stride seemed effortless, almost too big for himself.

“Pull down the sails!” they could hear him shout, even standing as far away as they were. “Scrub the deck, clean the cabin. When you are done, don your finest attire and join me for the for the feast tonight. I want tonight to be a night of cheer and joy, is that understood?”

Baltsaros made his way back after that, and, with he and his many slaves, the young boy and his master made their way to the great man’s estate. It was only a short walk, and the building was much larger and much more beautiful up close; twin statues of Hermes stood tall on the path, winged sandals on their feet, one leg raised behind them and both reaching out toward each other to make an arched way over the path under which the party passed; flowerbeds and gardens lined the perimeter, sprouting all kinds of colors and heights around the landscape. All were dark and wilting with the chilly weather of November, only to match the gray shadow the clouds cast on the white stone of Baltsaros’ walls. As Acacius came closer and closer to the walls of the manse, he saw that the estate was actually inside them, that the door they approached was a gate that, once through it, led them to a vibrant courtyard filled with picnic tables, lanterns, decorative statues, and small ponds filled with various kinds of fish. Slaves rushed around, carrying platters and plate and pitchers, moving chairs and building tents for the occasion. Across the courtyard, down a cobbled pat lined with lampposts and garden plots, stood a staircase that led to the front doors of Baltsaros’ manse.

“This is my yard,” Baltsaros said to his guests as he walked. “My home will be free-reign to whomever may come tonight.” The party stopped in the middle of a path that wound through a garden of tall grasses and flowers, so tall that Acacius couldn’t see over them. Baltsaros looked at his slaves wearing their chiton robes and peplos and said, “Go arrange the dining hall for the feast. Make sure all the food will be ready for tonight.” The women nodded and scurried past him, escaping down the path, leaving Acacius and Myrrhine alone with the man. “As for you two,” he smiled, “I will have my seamstresses escort you to their workshop upstairs to make your garments, unless you have any objections?”

Neither of them said anything, so Baltsaros clapped his hands and immediately three women came to sweep the pair away. They pushed past the great Baltsaros, out of the tall garden and up the steep stone steps and through the large wooden double doors. They entered in a long vestibule with a flight of spiraling stairs leading to the second floor, and two arched doorways on either side that led to various rooms in the home. The women pushed Acacius and Myrrhine up the steps and into a large room at the end of the hall; the workshop was well-lit by candles and lanterns, with a large window looking eastward to the hills and the sea. Immediately, they begun taking various measurements and paring pairs of fabrics together. More seamstresses joined in the workshop, and Acacius was crowded by women; one held a pair of blue and gold, then another brought a green fabric trimmed with silver. More were looked at, too; orange with yellow, brown with white, purple with black, indigo and red. The girls finally settled on a vibrant dark blue with white trim for Myrrhine, and a white-yellow for Acacius.

While the tailors sewed their garb, other slaves ushered the two across the hall to a room slightly smaller than the workshop. A large basin dominated the center of the room, filled with steaming-hot water. There, the two were bathed; their hair was washed with soaps and scented oils, and the dirt and grime from their daily work was scrubbed away.

As the sun had begun to set, their attire was finally finished, the woman and her slave finally donned their newly-sewn attire. For Myrrhine, the seamstresses had crafted an elegant peplos robe with the blue fabric and lined the inside with gray. When she slipped in, they set a matching gray shawl over her shoulders. For Acacius, the women made a knee-length chiton fastened at one shoulder and belted at the waist. Once he was dressed, and looking at himself in the polished copper mirror, one of the slaves laid a crown of laurels around his head. His fingers went to the black numeral on his forehead, and he wondered what the gala attendants would think of him; he would be a slave in a noble’s clothes. How insane did that sound?

“You both look fantastic!” Baltsaros bellowed when the slaves ushered the two of them into the dining hall. He himself had changed into an elegant pearl-white chiton robe over a vibrant crimson under-robe. He took Myrrhine’s hand in his and kissed it, saying, “The beautiful Myrrhine.” Then he pat Acacius head and told him, “You’re a strong boy! You wear the linens well.”

“We thank you, mister Baltsaros. When will the feast begin?” she asked, but before the great merchant lord could answer, the doors in the long vestibule burst open, ad through it entered a large party of attendants, lords, women, and children who all donned elegant robes, laurel crowns, various metals, and dazzling jewels.

As they entered and took their seats, Baltsaros introduced his guests to Myrrhine and Acacius; there was the beautiful lady Arete and her guardsman, Lord Romanos and to sons, Lord Hyppolytus and his daughter Helia, and many, many more; there were so many guests that the slaves were ordered to bring in a second table into the dining room, and even all the tables and seats outside in the courtyard were taken. Acacius often spotted people here and there who stood with plates in their hands once the kitchen staff began serving the courses: the first course was a round of spiced wine and honey mead for everyone, served with sweet bread, figs, goat cheese, and grapes with yogurt. Even though Myrrhine and Acacius had a place at the same table of Baltsaros, surrounded by some of his closest friends and trade partners who chattered nonstop, the two remained silent for much of their meal. Every now and again, one would have to reply to a neighbor, but the two of them kept their heads low and were never bothered.

Acacius could feel their stares on him; the average person on Sifnos may not have owned slaves, but these people — wealthy people — did. They knew what his numeral meant, and he was the only one at the table, sitting at a place of honor, who wore it. They looked at him with frowns of disgust and then turned their heads high as if they were somehow better than him. He couldn’t help it; the ink was borne into his skin, and although the marking would fade over time, it would never disappear.