CHAPTER II
The athletes, supporters, spectators, and moneymakers began to arrive in an expectant Priene a week before the beginning of the Panionian festival. They flooded in from all parts of Ionia by the hundreds, each arriving for a different reason, with disparate dreams and hopes, and by every imaginable conveyance under Helios.
From mighty Miletus and tiny Myus they came, and from the great city-state of Colophon, where the horse ruled supreme. The artists of Lebedos and the painted Lydia-lovers of Clazomenae arrived. The people of Teos, venturing out of their houses of blue limestone, were there, and the competitors from Erythrae, where the river god Axus is worshipped. The mariners of Chios and Samos, where the temple of Hera is one of the marvels of the Greek world, swaggered in to Priene's port of Naulochus, swearing and spitting. From Phocaea came the athletes who abide by the word of their harbor's seals, and from the wondrous city-state of Ephesus arrived the followers of the many-breasted, strange goddess Artemis.
They swirled into the city on foot, by chariot or by cart, from cockleshell boats and strong, oared ships, and on horseback, donkeyback, or any other back they could manage. The merchants, traders, musicians, artists, and slaves quickly filled the inns to bursting, and communities of brightly-colored tents sprang up along the various twisting roads leading into Priene and Naulochus. Of course, the aristocrats and all the athletes were welcomed into the city homes and outlying estates of Priene's wealthy landowners, but even these spacious buildings were soon straining at the seams.
The Panionion festival with its great games only happens once every four years.
Although not quite as magnificent as the tremendous Olympic games in mainland Greece across the Aegean Sea, there is no contest to equal it in all of the lands under the sway of the Ionic League cities.
It would begin, of course, as did all major festivals, with a procession through the narrow streets of Priene with beautiful young women and handsome local men of good families leading the beasts that would be sacrificed at the Panionion shrine. Following the fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on how you looked at it) animals, which were to be dedicated to the gods, would stride the great athletes of the cities of the League, all eager to compete in the physical contests that would bring glory to their cities and fame to themselves. Then would come the musicians and poets from near and far, just as ready as the athletes to compete for lesser honors and riches.
The actual procession would commence on the morning of the first day of the festival, and so naturally, all who were there to participate or watch and enjoy, arrived beforehand in order to be able to gain accommodations, visit old friends, conduct business, commit minor crimes, and indulge in the hundred and one activities available to large crowds of people in small places. As they arrived and Priene filled up, bursting from within and spreading up and down the coast between itself and its port, I continued to prepare the Panionion grounds for the initial sacrifices and religious programs that were scheduled to occur.
All the enclosing walls of the hilltop altar were sanded and scrubbed down, until not a single carved graffiti word could be noted. I swept the altar floor at least once per day and repaired the southeast corner, where the top block of projecting marble had been chipped by either some clumsy worshipper or by a recalcitrant gift to the gods with sharp hooves or horns. All the statues of the gods in the sacred cave had to be washed, repainted, and generally made ready for admiration, and the cave floor swept and evened, so that enthusiastic visitors would not trip and brain themselves while oohing and ahhing over the likeness of Poseidon or his wife, Amphitrite. I carried in fresh rushes to line the floor and renewed the olive oil of the myriad lamps along the cave walls. Although it was unlikely that the League Council representatives would meet during the festival itself, I also descended onto the bouletarion council structure like a cousin of Aeolus and cleaned it from its cobwebby wooden top to its dusty marble bottom, until the seats gleamed in the morning light. The wildflowers that I transplanted around the sacred grounds from the nooks and crannies of Mount Mycale danced violet, red, yellow, and white in the breezes that continually swirled about the small hill, cave entrance, and council building. In other words, I slaved like a damned barbarian, while my erstwhile senior priest companion enjoyed the leisured business activities of his office. Since we Greeks believed that a gentleman should not have to demean himself in hard physical work, except athletics, I clearly had some way to climb in order to reach this plateau of social acceptance.
Nevertheless, as I dragged my weary frame home toward my father's farm on the afternoon before the day the festival began, I had to admit that the place looked well- organized. If the city magistrates found anything lacking in the preparation of the Panionic shrine, it would not be due to a lack of effort on the part of yours truly.
As I have mentioned, our estate is located to the west of Priene. It is nestled in a small stream valley between the city and the port of Naulochus, but at a slightly higher elevation. Priene itself crouches at the mouth of the Meander River, and thus is in a perfect position to control the trade routes that extend east into the kingdom of Lydia and use the river as their outlet to the Aegean Sea. Priene's merchant vessels, while not anywhere near the status of the ships of Miletus, Samos, or Chios, nonetheless are numerous and keep us well supplied through Naulochus with the goods that make greater Greece the envy of the known world. Confidentially, it is with the blessing of the gods that we have our port city, as the River Meander is so rich with soil swept downstream from the great farmlands of Lydia, that Priene is already experiencing difficulty in remaining on the Aegean coast, as the coast keeps desiring to move westward as the river mouth silts up! Some learned sophists have even predicted that in 200 years Priene will be land-locked and some stades from the edge of the bay, but I believe this is carrying science a little too far. Still, I suppose one should not scoff at what one knows little about.
In any event my father's land is up far enough on the slope of Mount Mycale above the main road, that the tent cities of the festival visitors had not stretched up onto our land. However, by this time the tents extended nearly all the way from the city to the port, and the din and bustle was incredible. There seemed to be every imaginable type of person, animal, cart, and tent at hand, and not just places for the visitors to live in, either. In order to provide the visitors with food, drink, and all other kinds of goods, colorful merchant stalls had sprung up everywhere.
I strode past hawk-eyed traders of all sorts, bawling out their offerings of water and wine to quench your thirst; lamb, mutton, and goat for hungry mouths; herbs and incense to sweeten stifling tent interiors; and tunics, chitons, and cloaks to replace clothing that had become frayed or dirtied during the traveler's journey to the mouth of the Meander. For the ladies, there were brightly colored robes and hair ribbons; knitted sakkos for those who liked to sweep their hair upwards into a netted roll; and numerous examples of the jeweler's art, from rings and ear baubles to necklaces and long, old-fashioned chiton securing pins.
I paused at one stall to drink a kylix of weak wine and water, poured clear and sparkling from a heavy psykter. The tubby, sweating merchant was from Miletus across the bay, he claimed proudly, and was making a killing at this festival. I eyed him narrowly, but refrained from any cutting remarks, as his wine was pleasant and refreshing and I was in a tired and peaceful mood. Flipping him a half-stater coin, I thanked him for the drink and strolled further down the road to where the dirt track branched off to the right, climbing gently up the slope of the pine-covered ridge toward my father's and several other miniscule estates. Here at the small crossroads was a untidy cluster of temporary dwelling places, constructed of pieces of wood, awnings, animal skins, and rope. Several small children were running about with cheerful shrieks, and on a chair in front of one tent lounged an oikema woman, who smiled lazily and waggled her fingers in the age old manner.
“Come, my handsome one, and step into my li
ttle cubicle. You look like you are tense and could use some relaxation. My rates are very reasonable.”
I considered her offer for a moment, but knowing the penurious state of my purse, I shook my head regretfully and continued up the dirt path toward the small estates. She hooted behind me.
The boundaries of my father's farm began about a stade up the dirt path on the left. As you turned off onto a branching path, the native trees and bushes immediately gave way to an olive grove with the respectful and thoughtful olive trees standing in rows that guarded either side of the path. The grove covered a good three acres and was my father's main source of income, since olives and olive oil are the basic food staples of the entire Ionian world. Further up the slope toward the house was an acre of green and healthy grapevines, growing avidly in the spring sunshine with the promise of hundreds of bunches of wine grapes for the fall. Although the best wine in Ionia came from Chios, we could afford this only for the most special occasions, and therefore made do with our own local vintage. In a good year my father even had enough to sell to winemakers in the city, thus earning a few extra silver talents to help the family finances.
When harvesting time approached, my father, I, and the family's two male slaves girded up our loins and toiled manfully in either the olive groves or the vinyards from sunup to sundown. Again, this was not the way that an Ionian gentleman was supposed to live, but hunger and thirst compel one to do strange things not always consistent with one's desired social status.
The house popped into view ahead of me as I rounded a corner above the vineyard, and strode thankfully up onto the porchlike prodomus. Although it was only late spring, Helios' chariot of the sun was beating down ferociously, promising a long, hot summer. With any luck the grape crop would be an excellent one this year, allowing my father to add a few talents to my sister Arlana's dowry in order to tempt the unwary into overlooking her sharp tongue.
Our house was built in the standard fashion of a small country estate -- that is, it was two stories high with the covered prodomus lurching out of the front to welcome visitors, a small three-storied defensive tower hooked to the right side like an afterthought, and a miniscule courtyard in the back, surrounded by a man-high wall that attempted to proclaim that the family of Holicius observed all the proprieties. The walls were of sun-dried mud brick strengthened by timbers, the entire structure resting on a strong stone foundation. Not an overly imposing edifice by any means, but a staunch, plain house, where three generations of my family had grown up. With only minor repairs now and then, it still squatted as solidly as it had 75 years ago, when it was built by my great-grandfather.
At this time of day, I knew the family would be relaxing in the courtyard, so I strolled through the main corridor leading directly back to the rear of the house. At another time of the day, my father might be in the andron room at the front, entertaining, socializing and discussing farming and philosophy with visiting neighbors, and my mother and sisters in their gynaikonitis rooms, spinning or weaving or doing all the myriad of things that really made a plain house into a pleasant home. In the late afternoon, however, we normally gathered in the courtyard, where my sisters tended the family flower garden under my mother's sharp eye.
“No, no, no, it will not do,” my father was protesting fussily, as I walked through the back door into the courtyard. “It will not do at all!”
My mother, Tesessa, frowned at my father in exasperation, and glanced over at my sisters, Arlana and Risalla. The former's sharp features were set in a glare of disdain,
and the latter's rosy, round face looked about to burst into tears.
“Good evening, all,” I chirped cheerfully, and was immediately engulfed in the dirty hands and laughing faces of young girls, as my sisters, Tirah, Tapho, and Elissa, converged upon me from three corners of the garden and flung themselves on me in welcoming abandon. Who needs children of your own, I reflected happily, when little sisters worship at the altar of your feet.
Disentangling myself momentarily, I kissed my mother on her smooth, proffered cheek and embraced my father, who by now was glowering at Tesessa.
“The girls are quite old enough to participate in the festival's opening procession,” exclaimed my mother patiently. “Indeed, this is an appropriate way to have Arlana noticed by a fine, young man of marriageable age.” Arlana shot her a withering look, but kept her counsel to herself for the present.
“But the procession is getting out of hand,” Holicius returned. “The last one ended up with three girls romping in the bushes with 'fine young men.' It was the scandal of the city. Surely you do not want your daughters subjected to that!”
“They will not be subjected to that if you and Bias are constantly on hand. You know as well as I that those girls were not properly attended, and that is what happens when men or women get too caught up in these modern ideas of freedom and irresponsibility.”
“That is true enough, I suppose. But showing off one's daughter is not the way to get her betrothed. I must seek out our old neighbors and make arrangements for Arlana's future with one of their young sons. It is just not correct to have her 'noticed' at a procession.”
My father's last statement was apparently more than Arlana could bear, and she rounded on him in furious indignation. Peering through Elissa's golden curls, as I held her on my lap, I not for the first time contentedly thanked the gods that I was a brother and not a father.
“I have no desire to be 'noticed' by any 'man', “she hissed, her voice
thick with scorn, particularly on the word 'man.' “Flaunting your body in that disgusting procession is for lesser women, not for me!” I considered quipping that she did not have much of a body to flaunt, but wisely kept my counsel to myself.
“Oh, no,” wailed Risalla, who at fourteen years of age, was quite prepared to flaunt her robust body whenever possible. “I want to march in the procession! It is not fair that I should not be blessed by Poseidon just because Arlana does not want a man!”
Arlana whirled to face Risalla. "And what do you know of men, you little piglet? The only men you have ever met are father, our slaves, and our illustrious brother!" Her verbal arrow bounced harmlessly off my thick hide, and I smiled innocently at her.
Risalla jumped to her feet, and flung herself on my father, nearly bowling him over. “Father, do not let her speak to me so! Please, please, please let me march in the procession. I want to help pour the wine for the athletes! Please, please!”
Holicius was a slightly built man, and not much taller than his rapidly growing third daughter. He certainly did not weigh as much. Noting that he appeared to be having a hard time standing upright with Risalla wound about him, I rose to my feet, unpeelled her like a vine from a trellis, and gave her a gentle shove away from him.
“Go help your sister in the kitchen,” I suggested to her tearstreaked face. I could see my eldest sister Ulania squinting out from the kitchen door. Risalla flounced over to the kitchen, set apart from the house in the left side of the courtyard wall, to aid in the preparation of the dorpon meal with Ulania and our one female slave, Selcra.
“Thank you, my son,” said Holicius, carefully readjusting his chiton and sitting back down on his wooden bench. He turned back to Arlana.
“Although your assessment of the procession is not very respectful, I agree with your desire not to march in it,” he intoned ponderously to her. “I will make proper arrangements for a husband for you when the time is right, not because some rogue meets
you in the street.”
“You will make no arrangements for me, father,” she spat at him. “I will never let a man take me, unless it is one whom I can control!” With this retort, she grabbed Tirah with one hand and Tapho with the other, and stamped off furiously to the far side of the courtyard to dig energetically at some offending weeds in the flowerbed. My mother looked calmly at my father, and bestowed a serene smile on him. Both she and I knew that he would
almost certainly give in to Risalla and let her march in the procession, but would make it seem like his idea. The gods only knew what Arlana would do. My father sighed, and eyed me cautiously.
“So all the religious grounds are in readiness for tomorrow's opening, my son?” he inquired. I grinned back at him. Holicius' firm conviction was that since he had procured the position of minor priest for me, his overall supervision was needed to insure that I did a proper job. Also, this was obviously an excellent way to steer the topic of conversation away from Arlana.
“Yes, Father,” I answered. “Everything is cleaned up, swept down, and shipshape.
I have no doubt that the magistrates will be duly pleased with both the condition of the grounds and the arrangements Crystheus and I have made for tomorrow morning. I am confident that Poseidon Helikonios is already satisfied with our hard work.”
Holicius glanced at me dubiously to insure that I was not speaking flippantly of the city's major deity, continued to smooth out non-existent wrinkles from the folds of his chiton, and went on.
“When I was in the city this morning, magistrate Euphemius told me that all the official delegations of the other league cities have arrived safely. I look forward to speaking with the delegates again.” He plucked importantly at his beard. My father did not know more than a half-dozen men from the other league cities, but liked to believe that he himself was well-known and sought out every four years when the Panionic Games were held in Priene. Certainly a harmless affectation, and one that contented him.
Our female slave, Selcra, brought my father and I kylixes of wine mixed with
water, and indicated that the dorpon would be served soon to us on the dining couches or
klines in the andron. Holicius preferred to observe the proprieties in the evening, so he and I, as the family males, would dine reclining on klines in the front of the house, while my mother and sisters ate in the gynaikonitis at the rear of the house. For the ariston meal at sunrise and the deipnon meal at midday, we were not so formal, and the family ate as a group, with my mother presiding over the whole affair.
“I understand the procession is to begin two hours after sunrise?” Tesessa enquired gently.
“Yes, mother,” I smiled back at her. “That should give us plenty of time to get to the city to see it if we leave shortly after dawn.” In Ionia the days are divided into 12 equal segments of daylight and 12 equal segments of darkness, so that day and night hours are not the same except on the two equinoxes of the year. Since we were now in late spring, the daylight hours were longer than the night hours, giving us a little more time to walk to the city in the morning.
“I'll make sure the girls go to bed early tonight, then,” my mother mused, and fondly took my hand, as I sat next to her on her bench.
Murder At The Panionic Games Page 2
