Freedom's Memoirs

The memory of that moonlit night is still imprinted on my mind even to my old age. I remember everything; the night guard’s fleshy face, with skin so hard it reminded me of the wooden doll my momma gave me. I remember the glowing tips of my straw torch that guided my way. But most of all I remember the pale, plagued face of my young momma. I remember t as if I were still in the inner gates or Corinth, catching my breath from my long run of escape.

My master, Orpheus, had hosted a flamboyant party in honor of, well, him. He was always a despicable man, competing for attention of others.

My mother had caught the plague eight moons ago and Orpheus had grown considerably crueler since then, ordering helots about, treating neighbors with ridiculous contempt. Since my mother was unable to clean up after the master’s lavish friends, I was to fulfill her duty.

I was tired, a youthful girl at 14 years, and I almost fell asleep at my frayed rag. The bash had lasted long after Apollo’s departure and as I crept into my meager bed of a few woven mats, I turned my grimy face across to see the moon, high in the sky. Instead of watching the moon, my eyes fall on my mother, still asleep at her own cot. Her exhausted eyes were filled with love and sorrow, a melancholy pair.

“Escape,” she commanded me, straining strength and leadership in her scratchy voice, “Tonight, while the guard is drunk at his post. May the 12 gods of Olympia descend upon your soul.” She is fighting the tears either from her soul or the physical pain of the plague. “You’re the only thing I have to leave behind, my Gaea.” I turned away, unable to look at her in this state. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks like a river.

When I woke up the next daybreak, the gods had taken her. Her cheeks her cold to the touch and her eyes were half open. Somehow, I managed to pass through the day without anyone realizing the loss of my dearest momma.

When night fell, I waited until Orpheus was asleep to creep out to the smoldering fire and dipped my bundle of straw in it. The tips flared, and then glowed. That torch was my chance to freedom, and I was going to run with it.

I ran when the night guard dozed off. All of the trip to Corinth, I ran away from the overcrowded shack represent the torment of life in Sparta. I fled past the widower baker’s shop, whose hazelnut bread Orpheus was so besotted with. I felt no regret running out of the gates, a feeling of freedom lifting me up.

But as soon as I reached Corinth, I had lost my ecstasy. I had no money, no food, nor any possessions. I was a hard worker, but how would I find work?

I spent that night sleeping in a haystack, a palace, a temple of rest to me.

When Apollo first drove the sun across the horizon, I had a plan given to me surely by Zeus himself. I went to the oracle.

The oracle was almost like a god himself, I am sure that he was.

He told me of a wealthy man called Bastiaan searching for a housewife. The oracle divinely knew that he paid well and would satisfy my needs. I left the oracle with high hopes of this man Bastiaan.

When I reached the house that matched the oracle’s description, I knocked on the marble doorframe three times, holding my breath in suspense. A kind-looking man, about 40 years old swung open the door saying,” My name is Bastiaan. Who are you?”

My eyes must have been gleaming as I replied, “Bastiaan, sir, my name is Gaea.”

I remember that day vividly, Bastiaan welcoming me in, the start of our many years together. I worked for him for 36 years until yesterday, the day of his death. These are my memoirs so that someday when the gods send for me, all men may know that freedom is a precious thing, never to be wasted.