The Fox Knows Many Things: An Athena Fox Adventure

by Mike Sweeney

  And then I paused. It hadn’t struck me until this moment. Oh, of course the significance of the name hadn’t been lost on anyone. It was probably why my sponsors had voted for me to go here in the first place. But if Edith Hamilton had taught me anything, it was that the Greek gods were jealous gods. The Ancient Greeks had a word for someone who would stand in the most sacred spot of the chosen city, almost inside the very temple, and call themselves by the name of the goddess thereof. That word was “Hell no.”

  I swallowed and said it anyhow. “Here on the Acropolis in Athens, Greece, this is Athena Fox.”

  There totally wasn’t a chill breeze at just that moment. Nope. Not even slightly.

  I parted with Biro after the usual wrap-up; Dropbox details, payment arrangements, etc. He still wanted a crack at the edit and I told him to get back to Drea and see what they could hammer out between them. The sun was breaking through now, and the crowds had grown considerably.

  I’d been up here long enough to start seeing the Acropolis in a new light. Maxfield Parrish it wasn’t; no lush greenery, no lounging nymphs. Honestly, it looked more like a construction site. The Parthenon itself was almost skeletal, the roof and interior gone. All of the buildings were wreathed in scaffolding and protective fencing. Between them, and all over the wide surface of the Acropolis were fragments of stone. Row after row of stacked bits of column and entablature separated by scraps of wood and decorated with cryptic numbers in colored paint. There was even a construction shack, and a cute little mine cart arrangement with a short length of rail. Marble was heavy.

  Oddly, it didn’t take the romance out of it. Instead it added a different romance, that of investigation and discovery. Archaeology. This was part of the most amazing ongoing restoration in the world. A giant confusing puzzle box in which half the pieces were missing and all of them were damaged. 3D scanning and lots and lots of archaeological detective work had gone on. They’d found pieces in the rubble that had been shoveled into landfill before the Ottomans got here. Of course a lot more pieces ended up in the pile when a Venetian cannon made either an unlucky or lucky shot, depending on whether you were prioritizing military success or the preservation of an artistic triumph.

  My boot skidded and I reversed course, choosing to go around the particularly rough spot I’d found. “Don’t touch the marble!” a docent was yelling from somewhere. They were some very fit looking people, looking more military than park service. Maybe they were? This was only the most important national monument in Greece. Or maybe I was reading too much into their alert eyes and frequent barking commands and this was all because a regional supervisor had just dropped by on a surprise inspection. Or maybe far too many people were touching the marble. I didn’t have the context yet.

  I felt so out of my depth here. I was entirely self-taught, not a real historian by any real measure. Really, this was all Drea’s fault.

  She’d been my de facto business manager since she caught me that one morning in the shared kitchen struggling with my Schedule C’s. I’d taken the camera outdoors a couple of times already. First was Fort Point, the cute little masonry Civil War fort tucked under an arch of the Golden Gate Bridge, filled with more cramped gray corridors than the last release of Doom. Made a change from acting in front of the chroma-key backdrop.

  Next trip was out to the aircraft carrier USS Hornet. It had had a long and industrious career from the Pacific War up to Vietnam, including being recovery ship for the Apollo 11 astronauts. This time Drea had made some phone calls in advance and I got a personal tour through all sorts of not-open-to-the-public spaces with an equally vintage ex Navy guy just full of interesting stories of his own.

  That got my channel a big uptick in eyeballs, and the monetization was starting to mean something. And that’s when Drea had her bright idea. She suggested asking my fans to fund a trip to somewhere more exotic. To my surprise, the Patreon was a huge success. And what did they pick?

  Where else.

  It was still cool enough that I valued the leather jacket. I hoped I wouldn’t regret it as the day warmed up. I was headed back towards the Propylaea, skirting the almost invisible rubble of the pre-Persian War Temple of Athena, Porch of the Caryatids on my right. Oh, listen to me. As if I actually knew this stuff.

  When the results came in and I started researching flights I learned about a little something called the “shoulder season.” Turns out late fall was a great time to go because the crowds were down but the weather was still good. But you couldn’t wait too long; at the end of October flights got really sparse and the prices shot up into the stratosphere to join those remaining planes. I learned this, mind you, in September.

  So two very hurried weeks of studying and packing, and here I was.

  The Propylaea is and was the grand entrance. Once a long staircase between rows of columns and an entire waiting room/forecourt/art gallery where people could get ritually cleansed and catch their breaths from the climb, it was being rebuilt bit by bit from original bits that had been found as much as a mile away and new bits cut from the same quarry Pericles had ordered from. It was still a spectacular entry, one that revealed just how high up over Athens the whole affair was, and was extremely photogenic.

  “Sorry!” I said, ducking to keep from photo-bombing a cute couple with iPhones on twin selfie sticks. They grinned back. I don’t know what it was, but even with all the cameras out people were being aware, and courteous. Contrast that with my hometown, where even a pair of earbuds turned a fellow San Franciscan into a walking menace.

  “Don’t touch the marble!” came a feminine shout from somewhere below. The docents were earning their pay.

  It happened so neatly it could have been choreographed. A tall young man with wavy hair long enough for an anime character was lining up a shot of his friends when a playful gust of wind flipped his hair into his eyes. He shoved it back with a hand, a girl in a hiking outfit ducked under the sudden elbow, she head-butted me — and my left boot hit air.

  Someone screamed. I was stumbling, my feet only vaguely under me, down a steep section of missing stair towards the low wall that totally wasn’t going to stop me from hurtling right off the side of the Acropolis. I remembered looking almost straight down into the Odeon on the walk up. Sure, I’d once fancied a life on the stage, but that didn’t mean I wanted it to end in a broken heap on those same stones.

  What would Athena Fox do? There was only one thing one could do. This was going to hurt.

  I touched the marble.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ACTUALLY, WHAT I did was drop shoulder and roll. Instead of toppling off the top of the Acropolis, I slammed into a sturdy Doric column hard enough that the world turned gray. I tasted blood, and there was a humming in the air. A humming that slowly refined itself into fast, extremely angry, Greek.

  I blearily opened my eyes. Felt at my forehead, then higher up in the hairline. Blood, but there wasn’t a lot of it. There was a very large looking docent striding towards me with hands outstretched as if he was going to yank me to my feet and maybe take another crack at hurling me off the monument.

  The French girl from earlier jumped in. She started yelling back in Greek that to my ear sounded a lot less practiced but it was much louder and seemingly twice as fast. The young man had reached my side as well, and he and an abashed Anime Hair were doing what they could to support me as I made an effort to stand. Biro was still up here: he was at the fringe of the crowd, just putting away his camera.

  I got to my feet, carefully stepped back on to the stair and away from the innocent marble I’d so offended. I held out my hands placatingly. What had the French girl said earlier? “Syngnómi,” I said. I hoped it meant what I thought it meant. “Syngnómi.”

  I don’t know if that actually helped but the docents — more had arrived by this point — were calming down. The French couple were still in discussion with them, lots of pointing and acted-out gestures. Biro was looking embarrassed, even guilty. I drew away from the othe
rs to mollify him. “I fell,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t anywhere near me. Now get to your class before you get in trouble.”

  “That was fast thinking,” the young girl said as he left.

  The who now? I blinked blearily. Someone new had been added to my retinue. There was a girl of eight or ten standing there, dark hair and those classic sculpted features of a Greek girl and pale gray eyes. Dressed like a typical ‘tween in white leggings and an oversized top and too many bracelets. I glanced upwards. The French guy shot me a look, making sure I wasn’t going to leave without them.

  “You said your name was Athena.”

  “Err, yes,” I said.

  “That’s interesting,” the girl said artlessly. “Homer got it right, you know. In The Odyssey. People hear Athena is the goddess of wisdom in war and they think she’s like some great general. That’s not what wisdom meant, not then. No, she likes Odysseus because he’s tricky and clever. Like her.”

  “I’ve been meaning to read that,” I admitted guiltily. I had the new Emily Wilson translation loaded up on Kindle but I hadn’t had a chance to open it yet.

  “She’s my favorite character,” the girl said, still with that oddly flat affect. “Are you clever?” she asked.

  I shrugged, uncomfortable. “Not really,” I said. “Look,” I said suddenly, “you’re kinda weirding me out. If the next thing you say is, ‘Come play with us,’ I am running back down this hill.”

  The girl laughed at that. She was suddenly a lot warmer. “The book was better,” she confided. “And you are clever,” she said. “Tonight, be Athena Fox. I think it will be…interesting.”

  “Tonight?” I gaped. “Oh, right. I do have a thing…” I blinked. She was already retreating. Okay, the day had officially gotten weird.

  Now I was down to one pair of new friends. These, however, proved impossible to get rid of. “You might have a concussion. Someone needs to be with you.” Her name was Océane. Pronounced with a “seh,” not a “she.” I had to ask her to spell it. His name was Philippe.

  “Like Alexander’s father,” I said. When I was tired or hungry I tended to free-associate. Actually, no. I tended to do that all the time. I was usually better about saying it all aloud. “My name is Penny Bright. And yes, grade school was hell.”

  We made it down the steeper part of the various stairs and paths without me falling again. I took notice, this time around, of the scatter of Roman and Byzantine ruins added to the Ancient Greek. It was heavily wooded, and despite all the foot traffic, felt peaceful and rustic. This impression didn’t last when we hit city streets.

  “Monastiraki,” Océane said. “This is the place you go to look for bargains. I myself prefer the Plaka,” she pointed to the East, “It is as they say in the holy shadow of the Acropolis and it seems to us more of a neighborhood, more authentic.”

  “You speak Greek,” I said, à propos of nothing.

  “I am learning to read it,” she said. “It is not so unusual to learn Greek and Latin.”

  “Classical Greek is different, though, isn’t it?”

  “It is very different!” she laughed. “I am learning because I hope to one day be able to read the postwar literature. Dimitrios Hatzis, but of course Kazantzakis.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know of them. The only Greek I know is ‘kaliméra.’”

  Océane smiled. “That is already more than many can say. I believe in every country that you visit, you must learn how to say ‘hello’ and ‘thank you.’ You are already the half way there.”

  “Thank you being…?”

  “Efharistó,” she said. “Do not worry about how it is to be spelled. You must use the Greek alphabet it you wish to be accurate.”

  “Efhistar…” I tried. I usually had a good ear for this sort of thing. “Efharistó,” I said.

  “Parakaló!” Océane laughed.

  We were now on an exceptionally narrow cobbled street; I’d call it foot traffic only except for the scooters I saw parked along one side. The other side was an iron fence and I could see intriguing architecture on the other side.

  “The agora is there,” Océane told me.

  “Ooh! Can we go, can we go?”

  “After we eat!” the couple chided me.

  They led me straight to a big awning with a green stripe, outside tables behind a low barrier, menu displayed on a music stand by the entrance. “I like the baklava,” Océane confided. “We came here on our first day and we keep coming back.”

  “Baklava? Oh, right,” I said as we were seated. “Bakeries on every corner in Paris, right?”

  “Pâtisserie? Perhaps in Montmartre. You have visited Paris?”

  “I’ve visited nowhere.”

  “You’ve been to Athens,” she said. She frowned in thought. “The pickpockets are worse in Paris, but one always needs to be careful when one travels. You should learn to wear your bag crosswise, as I do. And do not the phone in the back pocket.”

  “Never do,” I said. “That’s why I love work jeans and cargo pockets.”

  “Do not wear those in Paris, either.” She put on a dainty shudder.

  Océane addressed the waiter by name. Andreas was cheerful and outgoing and his blue eyes sparkled. We ordered all at once, drinks and dessert; apparently that was how it was done. On their recommendation, I had the Sea Bream. They got a grilled vegetable plate with hummus for the table, along with garlic bread and dolmas. And dakos, which were apparently Cretan; some sort of hard wheat cracker softened with olive oil and topped with fresh-cut tomatoes and feta cheese. Plus more olives. Always with the olives.

  “Kali orexi!” Andreas wished us as he delivered it all.

  “Which means?” I asked Océane.

  “Enjoy!”

  “Not ‘bon appétit?’”

  Océane grinned. “Your French is good.”

  “She means,” Philippe leaned over, “Your accent doesn’t make her want to throw things.”

  “That’s all the French I know but thank you anyway,” I told them both. “Our dialect coach claimed I had a good ear. I was in theatre,” I explained. “In high school.”

  “I have a new one for you,” Andreas said then. “Káthe prágma ston kairó tou, ki o koliós ton Ávgousto.”

  “Oh, dear.” Océane worked it out. “I can read some, but speaking is so hard. It means, all on time and — what is koliós? — For Augustus…no, in August.”

  “Koliós is mackerel,” Andreas said. “Everything in its time and the mackerel in August.”

  “Wait…it’s a saying?” The two of them nodded. “Everything in its proper time?” Andreas nodded this time.

  “I have another one for you,” she told Andreas in return. “We say ‘Les carottes sont cuites.’ It means ‘It can not be changed.’”

  “Carrots?” I echoed.

  “‘The carrots are cooked,’ yes.”

  “Oh!” I’d finally got it. “Like ‘piece of cake,’ or ‘cool as a cucumber.’”

  “Yes, except ours have more cooking in them.”

  Andreas left and we settled in. Waiters here didn’t hover. Neither of my companions were in a hurry, either. “On the continent,” Océane pronounced, “a meal is a joy, not a chore to be gotten through as quickly as possible.” Eventually the last crumbs were gone — it took me a bit to get to grips with the dakos but I think I could become a convert — then she got the attention of our waiter. He showed up with the bill, a big smile, and squares of baklava for all of us. Océane waved me off and paid for us.

  The entrance to the Athenian Agora was right across the street. I’d gotten the package ticket at the Acropolis; a good deal, and it saved having to wait in line. Inside the fence, it was open and airy with wide freshly graveled paths, ruins of all description rising from the green grass. It lacked only the fountains. And a few nymphs. Couldn’t forget the nymphs.

  Two large intact buildings stood out; the Stoa of Attalos, which was a rebuild from the '50s and contained the museum,
and the Hephaisteion. The temple to Hephaestus, the lame god of blacksmiths and potters, was a compact Doric structure that had somehow survived almost completely intact from the classical age. We of course went there first, and I helped with the obligatory pictures of my new friends.

  “Aw,” I said. “I’d heard there was an active dig at the Stoa Poilike. But it is on the other side of Adrianou.” Which was the street our restaurant had been on. Couldn’t even see it from here. There were trees in the way, plus a sort of trench the rail line ran through.

  “The Stoa Poilike is where Zeno taught,” Philippe volunteered. “It gave the name to the Stoic school.”

  “Philippe studied philosophy,” Océane smiled at him.

  “And you studied Greek.” I guess that was more common on the Continent; what they used to call a Classical Education.

  “I can not speak it, however,” Océane demurred.

  “Unless you really need to.” She’d really laid into that docent atop the Acropolis. “So…what else can you say about Zeno?”

  “Well,” Philippe said. “You can’t understand the Stoics without understanding the Cynics. Zeno learned from Diogenes.”

  “Diogenes? The guy with the lantern?”

  “Yes. He lived in the agora. In a large pithos or tub. Diogenes is…” Philippe looked up into the sky. He had a cute jawline. They both did. “…hard to explain,” he said at last. “He had an ascetic philosophy. Broke his only bowl when he saw a boy drinking water from his cupped hands. Cried out that he’d been a fool for carrying around excess baggage all along.”

  “Right. That Diogenes.” I hadn’t read much philosophy, but I was a sucker for a good story. “He met Alexander the Great in Athens.”

  “Actually, in Corinth. Or so the story says.”