Death Ex Machina (27 page)

THE HIGH PRIEST

I
HAD TO GO to Sophocles next morning, to ask where I might find his friend Theokritos, the High Priest of Dionysos.

Sophocles smiled and said, “Where do you think you’d find a priest of Dionysos? At a winery of course.”

Theokritos’s estate lay to the north, along the route to Decelea, which meant that his land was as inland as you can get and still be in Attica.

It took me most of the morning to walk there, and I knew I would spend most of the afternoon walking back home. Not for the first time I wished for a good horse, but alas, our family wasn’t rich enough to afford one. At least the road was a major route, wide enough that two carts could pass each other unhindered. It made travel faster.

The estate of Theokritos, when I arrived, was a revelation. I had never imagined that any farm could be so immaculate, so well-ordered. The
horos
stones that marked the border of his land were painted fresh white, and every one bore the name Theokritos in clear letters, which was how I knew I’d come to the right place. The orchards were extensive. Some slave with a scythe had walked over all of it, cutting back long grasses and weeds. It gave the property a look as manicured as any wellborn lady.

The grapevines stood at attention, like soldiers in their ranks. The arms of their vines were strung out to either side. The posture of the plants was so reminiscent of the standard army
maneuver—the one in which every man holds out his arms to evenly space the lines—that I instantly thought of Theokritos’s grapevines as being like an army in phalanx. The plants were old and gnarled, grizzled veterans who’d seen one war too many.

There were so many rows of plants that I couldn’t count them. Slaves walked back and forth along the rows. They stopped at each plant and poked their fingers in each one. I stopped one of the slaves and asked him what they were doing.

“Inspecting the vines for pests, sir,” the man replied, as if it were obvious.

Theokritos had set his slaves to personally grooming each one of the thousands of vines on his land. At the theater I had thought of Theokritos as a jovial fellow. On his home ground he appeared to be a nitpicking sort of man.

I asked the slave where I might find his master. He pointed me to a large wooden shed in the distance.

The shed held a vast array of amphorae. They were stacked up high along every wall and each was tightly plugged. I had no doubt they all held wine.

Theokritos had his back to me when I entered. He was intently watching what was happening in the middle of the room, where there was a very wide vat. The vat held grapes, the tops of which I could see over the edge. A wooden device above the vat was lowering an enormous stone upon a flat, circular board. The board looked made to exactly fit the space into which it was being lowered. Men with long poles stood about the edge. Some of the partially crushed fruit tried to escape over the sides and they were scraping it back into the mix.

The wooden slats around the sides bulged under the pressure.

I recognized the vat and the machine. I had used a much smaller version on my own tiny farm.

Theokritos turned to me as I walked in. He was puzzled for
a moment, then said, “Greetings. You are Nicolaos, aren’t you? The agent.”

“Yes.”

“I remember your wife well. She did good work during the theater ceremony. Pity about that actor.”

I said, “Yes. I’m sorry to bother you, Theokritos. I can see you’re busy. But I need to ask you some questions.” Then, because I was truly impressed, I added, “That’s a huge press.”

Theokritos looked at me questioningly. “You know about wine making?” he asked. “You recognize a wine press. Are you a vintner?”

I said, “No, but I make some olive oil.”

I explained to Theokritos that I owned a small plot on which we grew olives and kept chickens. Each year I borrowed Pericles’s press to turn the olives into oil, which we sold in the agora. It was a very small business indeed. I ended with the words that I was fascinated by his winery.

“These are the early pickings,” he said. “We always do a small pressing at the start of the harvest, to see how the fruit is coming along. I find the flavor of early pressed wine quite distinctive.”

That vat was a
small
pressing?

Theokritos spoke about how the press worked. He talked with all the animation of an enthusiast. Sophocles had told me that the High Priest of Dionysos was an expert vintner. He would get no arguments from me; I was convinced.

When he was finished, Theokritos moved on to the rest of the operation. The High Priest of Dionysos took me by the arm and led me out to view his estates. I might have been an honored guest, not a troublesome agent.

Theokritos took me to the highest point of his land, from which we could see all the rest. It was an impressive sight. He spoke knowledgeably about soil, sunlight, and rain. He enumerated the dangers of too much rain or too little. He discussed
drainage and how to collect fruit, and of the overwhelming importance that the slaves not bruise it. He showed me the proper way to handle large loads of fruit.

I paid close attention to the words of Theokritos. I thought to myself I would like to have a place like this one day.

There was even a small temple. It stood upon the hill to which Theokritos had led me. I boggled at this. Theokritos was the only man I knew who kept a temple on his land. It didn’t look new either. I asked him about this.

“My father was High Priest before me,” Theokritos explained. “He thought a temple to the god of wine would be perfect overlooking a fine vineyard. I find myself agreeing with him.”

His enthusiasm for every aspect of wine making was infectious. I found myself imagining what it would be like to be a wine maker. But a man who can’t afford a horse definitely can’t afford a winery.

By this time Theokritos had led me back into the shed, where he ordered a slave to break out a small amphora of one of each wine he kept stored. Theokritos had the slave pour a cup from each. He then practically ordered me to relax on one of his couches and to drink his wine, one cup after the next, to appreciate the different flavors.

As we drank I said, “Theokritos, I must ask you some questions.”

“Certainly.”

“I understand that you are the patron of some metics,” I said.

“Yes, I am,” he agreed readily enough.

“How did that come about?” I asked.

“From my association with the theater,” Theokritos said. “I am, as you know, devoted to Dionysos. Not only in wine, but in
all
his aspects. The theater is very dear to me. I’ve been a supporter ever since I assumed the position of High Priest.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“When I was a young man. I inherited the title at an early age, as I did these estates.”

“I see.”

“Some years ago, I was approached by one of the actors—Romanos, in fact, the one who died. He told me his family wanted to come to Athens. They would need a patron. He asked would I oblige.”

“So you did,” I said.

“I asked a lot of questions first! I needed to know that they were not wanted criminals, that they were people of good character, that I would not regret my generosity in becoming their patron.”

“Of course.”

“I also reserved the right to withdraw after I’d interviewed them. As it happened, they seemed fine people and I was happy to lend my support. I haven’t had cause to regret it. No one’s complained to me about the Phrygians.”

“You’re on good terms with them then,” I said.

“I haven’t spoken to them since,” Theokritos said.

“You haven’t?”

“There’s no reason why I should,” he said. “Sponsorship isn’t a sign of friendship, young man. It merely means that a responsible member of the community has checked out the applicants and found them worthy of a place in Athenian society.”

He poured me another cup of wine, then took another for himself, both in generous proportions. I was beginning to understand where Theokritos’s pot belly came from.

“I wonder that Romanos didn’t ask his own patron to support his relatives,” I said, as I sipped the wine. It was superb.

“I believe the patron had died,” Theokritos said.

“I have another request for you, Theokritos,” I said. “Before Romanos was killed there was the actor whose leg was broken. His name is Phellis.”

“Yes? I hope he’s recovering.”

“That’s the problem,” I said. I explained the situation, as I had before to Thodis and Pericles.

When I finished, Theokritos gave me what had become the standard reply. “Surely this is a problem for the play’s choregos,” he said.

“I put the question to Thodis first,” I said. “He denies any responsibility for the play’s actors.”

Theokritos scowled. “The more I hear of this Thodis, the less I like him. His part in the conference at Pericles’s home was hardly praiseworthy.”

I said nothing.

Theokritos put the tips of his finger together and leaned back in his dining couch. “I suppose it might be argued that the actor was injured in the course of service to the god Dionysos. To that end he might be supported on a temporary basis from temple funds.”

“That would be most generous, sir,” I said gratefully.

“But I’m afraid it’s impossible,” he finished.

“Oh. Why?” I asked. For a moment I’d thought Theokritos would save Phellis.

“Young man, if the temple supports Phellis, who I agree is more than worthy, then by this time tomorrow every actor in Athens will have stubbed his toe and will be claiming compensation out of the temple’s treasury.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Theokritos was right. No Athenian in his right mind would pass up the chance for free money.

“The worship of Dionysos is too important to let this pass,” Theokritos said. “A way must be found.” He paused, then said, “What is the name of this doctor?”

“Melpon.”

Theokritos scribbled the name on an ostrakon. “I will speak to him,” he said. “Perhaps something can be arranged. If
nothing else I can approach the other winemakers. If everyone contributes then all things become possible.”

“Would they help?”

“Wine is the sacred drink of Dionysos. Did you know it’s almost impossible to make wine without sacrificing to the God at every step? It’s in their interests to keep the God happy. There’s an association of vintners. As High Priest of Dionysos I have the honor to be their leader. They love wine and the god of wine as much as I do. If I suggest to my fellow vintners that Phellis was injured in the service of Dionysos I feel sure they will come to the party. It might be as simple as offering this Melpon a few amphorae of wine from each of our vineyards. A treasure in itself.”

“Thank you, sir. If it’s anything like what we’ve been drinking, he’ll jump at the chance,” I said. “Your excellent wine has washed out the taste of that other drink.”

“What’s this?” he said.

I told Theokritos of the strange drink of the Phrygians.

Theokritos looked as if he’d swallowed something particularly vile.

“Beer. Revolting stuff. It’ll never catch on in Athens.”

“They seem to like it in Phrygia,” I pointed out.

“Yes, well. It’s good enough for barbarians, I dare say.” Theokritos looked put out. “Real men drink wine,” he said.

I DIDN’T HAVE to walk back home. By the time we had finished talking I’d drunk so much of Theokritos’s wine that I couldn’t have made it. Theokritos insisted I take his personal cart, and a slave to drive it. It was only when we were halfway back, and I’d sobered up sufficiently to notice, that I saw that Theokritos had ordered his slaves to replug the small amphorae from which we’d been drinking and load them on the back. They were his gift to me.

My head began to pound, as it always did after I’d drunk
too much. Every time this happened, I swore I’d never drink again.

To get my mind off my pounding head, I asked the driver about Theokritos. It’s not normally the done thing to question a slave about his owner, but I wanted to know.

“The master is a great man,” the slave said without hesitation.

“From the look of the estate, I thought he might be very demanding,” I said.

“He is,” the slave agreed. “He demands perfection. But he rewards our diligence. You saw the temple on his lands?”

“Yes.”

“Twice every month the master sacrifices at that temple, always the finest lamb. When he does, he insists that we all eat the meat of the sacrifice, even we slaves. Have you ever heard of a master who
insists
that his slaves eat meat? He
says
it’s because a well fed slave can work harder, but
I think
it’s because he’s a humane man. Once I even saw him take a good portion to my daughter, when it was her birthday. He gave it to her with his own hands. He told her it was a birthday gift from the God.”

“You have a daughter?” I said, amazed. It is rare for a slave to be permitted to have children.

“I have a wife!” he said proudly. “We have
three
children.”

He could not have been happier.

The cart deposited me at my home, by which time I felt slightly better but no doubt looked the worse for wear.

Diotima greeted me at the doorstep with news that I really didn’t want to hear.

“You have a message from Pericles,” she said. “He wants to see you.”

She frowned at me, at the cart, and at the wine amphorae that the slave gently deposited on the ground beside the door. He gave me a friendly wave and drove off home to his family.

I knew Diotima wasn’t pleased at the state I was in, but she said nothing, but for a single suggestion. “Perhaps you might like to get rid of the stale wine smell before you go?”

“DO YOU KNOW what date it is today?” Pericles asked, the moment I arrived at his house.

“It’s the ninth of Elaphebolion,” I said instantly. He hadn’t offered me a drink, but if he had, I would have declined.

Pericles said angrily, “If you don’t get a move on, it’s going to be the ninth of Elaphebolion for the rest of our lives.”

“I’m doing my best,” I told him. “These things take time.”