“I can manage her.”
“Good.” Lysandra clapped her hands lightly. “We’ll have the ceremony. After it’s over, you’ll take charge of Melisto. See if you can comb her hair.” She made a fluid and commanding gesture. Sosias stepped back to allow her to pass. Lysandra headed down the stairs, followed by the slaves.
Melisto knew how a new slave was made part of the household. She edged past her mother and arrived at the altar of Hestia before the adults did. The Thracian woman knelt before the altar while a bowl of dried fruit and nuts was poured over her head. This act would please Hestia, goddess of the hearth, who would make the new servant fruitful in her service.
Melisto kept her eyes on the dried fruit. She was especially fond of figs. These belonged to the goddess, but she could palm one or two and eat them when no one was looking.
“We will call you Thratta,” Lysandra told the slave woman, “because you are a Thracian woman.”
The slave woman said nothing.
“You’ll go to the fountain house in the morning and fetch water. You’ll help with the wool work and take charge of the child.” Lysandra nodded toward Melisto. “Her father makes a pet of her, and she’s been badly spoiled.”
At the mention of her father, Melisto glowed. She adored her father. Arkadios was a busy man, a citizen and a soldier; he was away during the day and went to banquets in the evening. Melisto seldom saw him. But when she did, he tossed her in the air and swung her in circles; he let her climb on him and listened when she chattered. Melisto knew, because her mother complained of it, that few men loved their daughters as Arkadios doted on her.
“You’ll sleep upstairs,” Lysandra told the slave woman. “Come. I’ll show you.”
She led the way up the stairs. The other two slaves turned to watch them go. Melisto snatched up two fistfuls of dried fruit, darted to the open door, and trotted out into the courtyard. Freedom! She loved the courtyard, where there were animals to watch: birds and insects and a tortoise as big as her father’s bronze helmet. In one shady corner of the courtyard, she was digging a hole. When it was deep enough, she would fill it with water and make a pool.
In an instant she was down on her knees, grubbing in the dirt. She worked energetically, patting the excavated earth into a mound and pounding it hard. The hole was wide and deep: a little more work, and she would be able to sit in it. When the slave woman emerged from the house, Melisto scowled and shrank back into the shadows.
The slave woman saw her. She was carrying a comb, a sponge, and a large water jar. But to Melisto’s surprise, she made no approach. She sat down on a block of stone and lifted the water jug to her mouth. It was a pitcher made for pouring, not drinking, and as the woman drank, the water splashed down her face, wetting her neck and the front of her gown.
Melisto watched intently. She had never seen anyone drink so much. It struck her that the woman must be very thirsty. She remembered that Sosias had said she hadn’t eaten. Melisto picked up her last fig. It was coated with dirt from the hole, but she would not have hesitated to eat it herself.
The woman poured water on the sponge and washed her face. She squeezed the sponge so that water squirted down her arms. Once she had dried her hands on her dress, she turned her eyes on Melisto.
Prompted by an impulse she didn’t understand, Melisto went forward and held out the fig.
The woman accepted it mechanically. She brushed off the dirt and put it in her mouth. She chewed slowly; Melisto could hear the grit against her teeth. After she swallowed, the woman picked up the comb.
Melisto shifted her weight to her back foot, poised to flee. But she was not quick enough. The woman caught her hands.
“I’m going to comb the knots out of your hair. I’m going to hold your hair in clumps, very tight, and comb out the ends. That way, it won’t hurt. Do you understand?”
“No,” said Melisto. She lowered her head like a bull about to charge.
“Now,” said the woman. She swung Melisto around, pinning her between her knees. She took a handful of Melisto’s matted hair.
Melisto flinched. She thought of shrieking — she could scream loud enough to make everyone in the house put their hands over their ears — but something in the woman’s silence dumbfounded her. She submitted, shifting her weight from foot to foot as the woman eased the mats out of her hair. The slave woman’s hands were deft and sure, lifting the damp locks away from her hot neck. Melisto hunched one shoulder in pleasure. When the braids were finished, she allowed Thratta to turn her around and wipe her face with the sponge.
Melisto spoke boldly. “I want to sit in your lap.”
The slave woman moved her head: No.
Melisto paid no attention. She crawled up on the woman’s knees, leaned back, and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
The Thracian woman smelled bad. There were the ordinary smells of sweat and wool, but beyond that was another odor that the animal in Melisto found disturbing. She shifted, wrinkling her nose. Her eyes fell to the woman’s arms. “What’s that?” she asked, rubbing the row of Vs with
