by Gary Corby
“I needed that money,” he said. “I got kids and not enough work.”
“You can rent it to the Dionysia crowd,” I said. “There are hundreds of people camped outside the walls, maybe thousands. I’ll bet there’s a family out there that would pay you plenty.”
He brightened. “Say, that’s a good idea. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Do you mind if we take a look at the room?”
“No way,” he said at once.
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s not your room for a start.”
“We only want to look at the things Romanos kept there,” Diotima said.
“His things don’t belong to you either,” he pointed out.
Of all the landlords in Athens, Romanos had to rent a room from the only honest one. Remembering the landlord’s comment about needing money, I said, “What if we were to buy those things from you?”
That put a different complexion on it. I could see the thoughts running through the landlord’s mind. I decided to help him out.
I said, “If a tenant doesn’t pay his rent, or if he never returns, the landlord’s entitled to sell whatever belongings remain, to pay for back rent. Right?”
“That’s the law,” the landlord agreed.
“Well I’m pretty sure Romanos won’t be returning,” I said. “So he owes you rent, right?”
“That’s true.”
“I’m offering to buy the things that you’d be allowed to sell anyway,” I said. “That’s logical, isn’t it?”
The honest landlord decided it was logical. We agreed a price that made me wince. I made a mental note to add it to the bill I sent Pericles.
The landlord showed us up to collect our new belongings. He didn’t even stay to watch what we took.
Diotima and I pulled on a rough wooden door that opened into a rough wooden room. There was a bed, a table, a chair, and a chest. It wasn’t the sort of place you invited friends to for a sophisticated symposium.
“I wonder what Romanos was doing here?” Diotima asked.
“Maybe he wanted the privacy,” I said, thinking of the crowded house the Phrygians inhabited.
We had bought everything inside the room that wasn’t furniture. So far, that came to nothing, but for some ceramic cups and plates on the table and an old lamp that smelt of rancid oil. A single small, shuttered window looked out over the street. The shutter squeaked when we opened it.
“It’s dismal,” Diotima said.
“Yes,” I said. “But if I was a bachelor in a house full of families, I wouldn’t mind somewhere like this where I could get away from everyone else.”
“It must be a man thing then, because I wouldn’t,” Diotima said. She looked at me quizzically. “You don’t have a place like this hidden somewhere, do you Nico?”
“No,” I said. I’d spent long enough trying to get Diotima into my home. I wasn’t about to escape now that I’d finally succeeded.
We continued the search. There were a chamber pot pushed under the bed. Diotima found it. It was half full. The contents sloshed over her hand when she pulled it out.
“Gaah!” She pushed it back under. The contents sloshed again. She wiped her hand on her chiton.
“Careful with that!” I said. “We own the wee in that pot. It cost us a small fortune.”
“You’re welcome to it then,” she said.
“Is there anything else under the bed?”
“Cobwebs and small spiders.”
“We own those too.”
The chest proved more fruitful. It was the sort of chest that officers took with them on campaign, worn enough to have been through several wars.
“Why would an actor own a campaign chest?” I said.
“Oh Nico, isn’t it obvious?’ Diotima said. “He was an actor. This is his touring chest. It’s what he took with him when he joined a company that was traveling from town to town.”
Diotima was right. It was obvious.
Sitting on top of all the clothes were several masks. One was a comedy mask, the face distorted into grotesque features. The other two were tragedy masks, one for a man, one for a woman’s role.
Diotima pulled out these masks. She held them up to the light and said, “I wonder …”
She placed them on her lap.
Beneath the masks were clothes.
We pulled them out, one by one. Each was recognizable as a stage costume. The top costume was obviously for kingly roles, with its elegant gold patterns. The next one down was a regulation generic costume that would do for many characters. Under that, the bright, gaudy, flamboyant costume of a comic.
Diotima said, “Oh, yes, Romanos did do some comedy, didn’t he?”
“He was a working actor,” I replied. “He probably did whatever he got paid to do.”
After we’d pulled out the clothing we found wax tablets and some papyrus. Diotima snatched at these. We spread them out on the table and, when we ran out of room, across the floor as well. Diotima and I crouched down, side by side, to read.
We only needed to read a bit to know what we were looking at. Here were the documents that proved the real Lakon had died. In our hands was a copy of the young man’s funeral stele; a statement of the tragic events, as related by a local and written down by Romanos; and a statement from the head man of the deme of Rhamnus that Lakon was deceased.
We had everything we needed to prove that Romanos was blackmailing the Lakon we knew.
“If we’d found this room first, we wouldn’t have had to travel all the way to Rhamnus,” I moaned.
“What’s done is done,” Diotima said. “It’s easy to see why he kept this away from his family. He didn’t want them to know he was a blackmailer.” Then she added, “There’s more on the wax tablets.”
So there was. Facts and figures, notes about the cost of barley, lists of wine vendors who sold in the agora, and frequent references to beer.
Diotima turned the tablets this way and that, as if she could somehow find more evidence. “He cares about beer so much that he’s written down everything he knows about it. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes it does,” I said. “These are business notes. I’d say that Romanos was planning to sell beer.”
SCENE 34
THE RITES OF SABAZIOS
THERE WAS PLENTY of opportunity to ask about the beer, because this was the night of the ceremony Petros and Maia had invited us to attend. Petros had given us instructions to meet them at the Diochares Gate, which is in the eastern wall. I took this to mean the rites of Sabazios were to be conducted outside the city. Many Hellene rites were conducted in the forests too, so there was nothing remarkable in that.
Going east was a good choice. To the south one came quickly to Piraeus, the beach at Phaleron, and a lot of people. To the north were the landed estates, whose owners would not take kindly to strangers damaging their orchards—I could only imagine what Theokritos would say to anyone who trampled his grapevines. West of Athens was the major thoroughfare to the rest of Hellas, with many small towns and cities.
Thus any Athenian who wanted privacy for his devotions went to the forests and glades in the east. The followers of Sabazios were no different.
The Sabazians were already congregated when we arrived. We were greeted with warm, friendly words, even from those we didn’t know. I apologized, because I thought we must be late, but they said they were waiting for several more families, though I noted there were no children. There were perhaps a hundred and fifty or two hundred of them, which surprised me. That was many times the number who lived in Diotima’s house. What surprised me more was that some of the men and women who greeted us spoke with Athenian accents.
“Sabazios has more devotees in Athens than those of us from Phrygia,” Petros said, when I asked him about it. “Every year our numbers grow.”
A few hundred followers wasn’t much to speak of in Athens, which is the largest city in Hellas. There were other barbarian religions with much greater a
ppeal, particularly the deities from Egypt. Even so, the crowd that had assembled was respectable.
A small group joined us, more greetings were exchanged, and we set off along one of the paths that lead into the forests. Everyone seemed to know where they were going.
We stopped at a glade, after a pleasant, cool walk. People sat down on the comfortable grass. Everything was prepared when we arrived. The vat of beer that we had last seen at Diotima’s house was in the middle of the clearing. I wondered how they had carried it here. Then I noticed the grass growing up about the edges. This vat had been here for some time. The Sabazians had two vats. They needed only transport the beer in standard amphorae.
And transport it they had. Because the vat was full to the brim. Torches had been set up all around the edge of the glade. Their light was more than enough to show the drink.
The light somehow shone particularly brightly upon the Hand of Sabazios. It practically glowed, no doubt because the bronze of which it was made had been polished to perfection. The hand was raised high for all to see; the column on which it stood had no other function.
“Other than the Hand, I see no altar,” Diotima said to Petros. “Isn’t there to be a sacrifice?”
“There will indeed be,” Petros said, smiling. “But not the sort you’re thinking of.”
Among the men who had walked with us were several who carried musical instruments: more drums than Hellenes would use, plus long flutes. They began to play. The music was strongly rhythmic.
People around us got to their feet and formed a line.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Now?” Petros said. “Now we dance.”
I stood. Diotima put out her hand and I pulled her to her feet. We joined the line of dancers.
It was like the komos dance that we Hellenes perform in moments of victory, only whereas we would have held on to the partner in front, the Sabazians danced freely, whirling and gyrating as they wished, as long as they followed the leader. I was embarrassed to join in at first. Then I realized no one was taking the least notice of me, and I copied the other dancers. The music was so strong that it was almost impossible not to move in time to the drums. Diotima got into the spirit of it at once. She whirled and twirled with the best of them.
The circle of the dance began by tracing the edge of the glade. On each cycle we moved closer to the center. On the next pass a woman stood by the line. She was passing out straws. Each dancer stopped just long enough to grab a straw before moving on. When my turn came I saw that the woman with the straws was Maia. She smiled at me. To Diotima she shouted a greeting above the loud music.
The dancing was thirsty work, but they had a cure for that. The line had compressed tight now, but elongated into an oval. At one end the vat became the turning post. As Diotima and I approached I saw every head before us dip down in turn and every straw go into the drink. The dancers sucked as much beer as they could before the dance took them away once more.
I held up the straw and shouted to Petros, who was two ahead of me in the line, “You know, this stuff could grow on you.”
Petros laughed.
I don’t know how long we danced to that incredible, mesmeric music. Maybe it was half the night. I do know that by the time I thought to notice, the vat was less than half full. How much beer had we each drunk? At that moment I was too happy to care. The compressed line meant we were rubbing against each other. Between Petros and me was a woman with red hair and ample breasts. She rubbed them against me and laughed and looked mischievously into my eyes every time she whirled.
I worried about Diotima seeing this, then I notice that she was doing the same thing, not only to me, but to the man in line behind her. Diotima was usually the most prim and decorous woman in Athens. What was my wife thinking?
I was about to put a stop to it when the music suddenly ceased. Everybody collapsed in a heap where they were. I should have been exhausted, but I was too excited by the drink and the dance. Because we’d been following the line, the panting devotees formed a circle about the vat and the Hand of Sabazios. We all lay back in the cool, reviving grass.
A different music started up, this one of castanets and tambourines. At first there was only the music, then a woman appeared from the darkness beyond the Hand of Sabazios. She danced into view. I thought at first the music came from her, because she held something in each hand. Then I thought they were sticks she held, because they were long and thin. Then one of them moved, and I realized the woman held live snakes.
I hadn’t recognized the woman at first. Firstly because the snakes grabbed one’s attention, secondly because the lady wore nothing but a skirt. Her breasts bounced in time to the wild dance. It took some while before I thought to look up at her face. When I did, I got a shock.
I said, “Petros, is that your wife?”
“Did I not mention that? Maia is a priestess of Sabazios. Here in Athens, she is the priestess of our god. There is no other like her.”
There certainly wasn’t.
Maia, now completely naked, danced within the circle. She held the writhing vipers high above her head, one in each hand. In her frenzy she chanted the same words over and over, “Euoi saboi! Euoi saboi!” Maia was caught up in religious ecstasy. I wondered if she even knew where she was.
The audience chanted in time to the beat, “Euoi saboi! Euoi saboi!” They were totally caught up in the moment.
One of the snakes bent over and bit Maia solidly on the arm.
I clutched Petros’s arm. “Petros, the vipers have bitten Maia!”
“Their fangs have been pulled,” he said calmly. “They cannot harm her.”
Maia barely noticed. I saw when she came close that her eyes were almost rolled up. She gyrated in a way that had the attention of every man in the clearing, and probably half the women too.
Somehow Maia found Petros. She bent over him, her breasts swaying and with a wild snake to each side of him. I had to lean back to avoid a viper in my face.
Petros knew what she wanted. He got to his feet and joined her in the dance. That lasted until Maia wrapped her arms around Petros, still gyrating. At some point while I’d been watching her, he had shed his clothes. It was obvious he was enjoying the attention. Maia pulled Petros down on top of her.
All about us, the followers of Sabazios were doing the same thing. We were surrounded by heaving bodies and cries of ecstasy.
There were men who went to symposia for the flute girls, or for the girls who euphemistically called themselves flute girls. I was not one of them. For one thing, Diotima had proven a very passionate woman; for another, my best and only real friend Timodemus was besotted with his own wife. When we visited each others’ homes we’d even been known to take our wives along with us.
I wondered what to do.
Diotima solved the problem for me. She stared at me as if she’d never seen me before. She licked her red lips and I knew she was tasting the last drops of the beer. Then she threw herself at me and ripped off my clothes.
DIOTIMA AND I awoke in each other’s arms and, almost, the arms of the couples all around us. We looked into each other’s eyes, at close range. We were both thinking about what had happened.
I said, “Whatever they put in this beer, we need to get some of it into our wine.”
Diotima shifted closer, to avoid the couple behind. They too were waking to the dawn.
“I’m not so sure, Nico. If they did, people would never get any work done.”
The feel of her warm breasts against my chest elicited the usual response. Diotima felt it happening.
“Again?” she murmured.
“How many times is that?”
“I lost count.”
“One more for good luck.” I was ready and raring to go. I positioned myself beside her.
“Did you enjoy it?” a voice behind me asked.
It was Petros.
“Yes, we did, thank you very much,” I said from the prone position.
> I stood up. Diotima hurriedly pulled clothes about her.
I added, “But Petros, the Sabazians will have to stop these rites.”
Petros looked surprised. “I don’t understand. Don’t Athenian men indulge in orgies all the time?”
“Yes, but not with our wives! That would be immoral. Seriously, Petros, if the Athenians find out you followers of Sabazios behave like this, you’re going to be in big trouble.”
“This we know. It’s why we perform our rites outside the city, where none will notice. Also, in the grove we have more room to … er … spread.”
All about us, entwined bodies were waking up.
“I can see what you mean,” I said. Then, recollecting why we’d come, I said, “Did Romanos participate in these rites?”
“Of course he did.” Petros looked puzzled.
“And Romanos knew the effect of beer on happy, cavorting people,” I said.
“It’s not the beer that causes the orgy,” Maia said. She had walked over to us as we spoke to her husband. “It is the spirit of Sabazios. He is the god of the harvest. He makes all things fruitful. When Sabazios enters into you, then you too become fruitful.” Maia shrugged. “Some people resist the God. For others, they find it difficult to let the god come to them, even when they are willing. For such people, beer is the sacred drink that opens the door to the God.”
“Your brother must have known this about the beer,” Diotima said.
“Yes,” Maia agreed.
“Then why was he planning to sell it?” I asked.
“Sell it? You must be confused,” Petros said. “We have no such plan.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” I said.
“No, we’re planning to give it away,” Petros went on. “To everyone in Athens.”
Maia smiled the smile of a religious fanatic who knew everything she did was for a divine cause. “Isn’t it wonderful? We will spread the sacred word of Sabazios. With free beer!”
SCENE 35
PROFESSIONAL INDISCRETIONS
THEOKRITOS, THE HIGH Priest of Dionysos, looked askance at Diotima. “You, a priestess of Artemis, partook in the orgiastic rites of this barbarian god Sabazios?”
