by Gary Corby
“Your own people did it,” Anaxinos said.
“We did?” I exclaimed, shocked. I could not recall Athens ever attacking Delos, and if we had surely our city must have been cursed for all eternity. I said as much to Anaxinos.
“You misunderstand,” he said. “The village you see alongside the sanctuary was the original. Priests and priestesses lived there since time immemorial. But then almost ninety years ago, the Athenians received an oracle from the sanctuary at Delphi, where lives the Pythoness who interprets the words of Great Apollo.”
“What were Apollo’s words?” Diotima asked. “I have never heard this story.”
“Apollo commanded the Athenians to perform a catharsis upon Delos; a ritual cleansing. By their own efforts and at their own cost, the Athenians were to cleanse all the dead from within sight of the sanctuary here at Delos.”
“The Oracle at Delphi commanded a change to how things were done on Delos?” I asked.
“It’s the same god, after all,” Anaxinos said. “Both Delos and Delphi serve Apollo. You surely know that Apollo is displeased by death.”
I nodded. Everybody knew that dead bodies were hateful to the sight of Apollo. That was why funerals in Athens were always held before the sun came up, or after it descended.
“Thus it was that your ancestors arrived here in many boats,” Anaxinos said. “They dug up every body in the village cemetery—”
“That must have been fun,” I commented.
“I doubt it,” Anaxinos replied. “The corpses, no matter how old they were, were relocated to the new cemetery here at the south end, out of sight of the sanctuary.”
“Is that when the village was moved too?” Diotima asked.
Anaxinos nodded. “It was also the moment that it became illegal to die or be born on Delos.” Anaxinos sighed. “Fortunately we have the much larger island of Mykonos not far off. If an inhabitant feels one event or the other coming on, then we ferry them off the island.”
“What about emergencies?” I asked.
“For those we have the emergency eject system. You have seen it, surely?”
I nodded. “Damon showed me.”
“It lacks dignity, but it works.”
“The old village was abandoned so long ago, but people still call your village the New Village,” Diotima said.
“We do,” Anaxinos said. “We’ve been living in it for eighty-five years now . . . four generations. Still, I think we’ll be calling it the New Village for centuries to come. The Old Village . . . the abandoned one by the sanctuary, some say that’s been there since the days of King Minos.”
“Is Delos that old?” Diotima asked.
“Nobody can say for sure. Where our Temple of Artemis stands has been a place of worship since the days of Homer’s heroes.” Anaxinos shrugged. “I cannot say, but I can believe. When do you think the gods were born?”
Diotima sat there for a moment, before she realized that the High Priest was waiting for her to answer. “You’re asking me?” she said.
“I am.”
“Er . . .”
“This is an issue of theology, young lady,” Anaxinos said sternly. “If you’re to progress in your profession and your love of the gods, then you must learn to think in these terms.”
“Oh. I am sorry, High Priest, I’ve never thought about it.”
“Consider it now,” Anaxinos ordered. “I particularly want to hear how old you think Apollo and Artemis must be.”
Diotima gave the question some thought.
But I was sure I already knew the answer. I said, “Surely the gods existed at the same time as the world.”
Anaxinos shook his head glumly. “You repeat a common error.”
“I do?”
“He’s right, Nico,” Diotima said. “Keep in mind, Uranus came first. Uranus created the world, married Gaia the Earth, and she gave birth to the Titans. Of those, Kronos the Lord of Time was created at the instant the universe came into being. He married Rhea, and they were the parents of Zeus.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” I said. Now that Diotima had said it, it was obvious. “The gods must be younger than the world.”
“Right,” Diotima said. “Zeus in turn married his sister Hera, but was also on . . . ah, shall we say . . . friendly terms with Leto, and, er . . . a dozen other women. It was Leto who bore Apollo and Artemis. Which means that by the time they were born there were already people walking the earth.”
“Then they must be very young deities,” I said.
“Yes, but Delos is very old.” Diotima looked in confusion to Anaxinos.
“What is old to us can be very young to the gods,” Anaxinos said. “But what you say is true. The God I serve, and the Goddess you serve, are among the youngest in creation.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“It is possible that the sanctuary has been here since the time of their birth.”
“The buildings aren’t that old!” Diotima exclaimed.
“No, they’re not,” Anaxinos said calmly. “But the ones underneath the current temples might be. We know for sure that our temples have been rebuilt, time and again.”
We made our excuses early. Anaxinos, being the perfect host that he was, immediately jumped to his feet. He insisted that one of his slaves escort us to our home, though it was so short a distance.
It was late at night. Something was prodding me in the back.
It was my wife.
“Nico?”
“Hmmf.”
“I can’t sleep. The baby’s moving.”
“Again?”
I rolled over. At home Diotima would have slept in her own room in the women’s quarters, while I, as a married man and the eldest son, had a room of my own in the other wing of the house. But my job took us all over the world, and when we traveled we invariably shared the same room and the same bed. In the dubious inns where we often found ourselves, sleeping together was safest and besides, we liked it.
Usually.
I put a hand on Diotima’s tummy. I could feel the little baby moving about beneath her skin.
“Doesn’t that hurt?” I asked.
“No.”
I reached underneath the bed for the small stub of candle and flint that I had left there. I sat up and lit the candle. In the dark of the night, with the shutters drawn, it gave off enough light to see what was happening.
Diotima was lying on her side. She said it was the most comfortable position.
We both watched fascinated as Diotima’s stomach pushed outwards in different places, time after time. You could almost see the out-dents of little hands.
Whoever was in there was trying very hard to get out.
“I think it’s a boy,” Diotima said.
“What makes you think that?” I asked.
“A girl would be better behaved,” she groaned. “Uh, Nico, my bladder . . .”
“Again?” I repeated.
“If you don’t like it, you can carry the next one.”
We had left a bedpan by the door. I went to retrieve it. Diotima squatted over the pan and did whatever it is women do with bedpans. Then she eased herself back onto the bed. I picked up the pan to empty it outside. I used to leave it till morning, but the smell was a problem in the heat.
I opened the door to see people moving silently across the agora, in the dark, in single file, without torches.
I shut the door as quietly as I could.
“There are people out there,” I said softly. I put down the pan, reached for the candle and snuffed it out.
“It’s past midnight,” Diotima said. She peered at the window. It was shuttered, but we should have seen light through the gaps. “I don’t see their torches.”
“They aren’t carrying any.”
That got her ful
l attention, as it had mine.
“How many?” she asked.
“I saw five,” I told her.
“Coming our way?” she asked. That sort of thing was always a risk in our profession.
“No. Transverse, right to left across the agora. I think they might be heading for the inn.” That idea had only just occurred to me.
“At this time of night?”
“Maybe they’re thirsty.”
Diotima held up a hand and I helped her off the bed. She reached for her chiton and pulled it over her head. She didn’t bother with the belt or sandals. I had already done the same with my exomis. By silent agreement we both reached for the daggers that we kept by our pillows.
“If this turns ugly, you get away,” I told her. “Make for the Athenian camp. They’ll protect you.”
She nodded.
The cottage had only one door. I opened it a crack to peer out. There was no one there that I could see. I opened the door further, just enough to slip out, then realized Diotima would need much more.
The creak of the hinge seemed to echo across the entire village, but apparently that was my imagination, because nobody came our way.
I edged out and stayed low by the door. When I saw no threat I waved a hand through the entrance, and Diotima appeared.
At that moment two doors opened on houses on the other side of the agora. The residents walked out, not in a hurry, but slowly, and quietly. Like the people before, they, too, carried no torch.
Diotima put a quiet hand on my left arm to get my attention. Then she nodded to our left.
Apollo’s Rest was invisible from our cottage. There was no window in the wall that faced that way; but from outside we could see the flicker of light within, from the gaps in the shutters of the building, and from the cracks around the door.
The inn door opened briefly and the people disappeared inside.
More people came from down the road, from the direction of the fisher huts. They, too, slipped into Apollo’s Rest.
“It’s a town meeting,” Diotima whispered in wonder. “Why bother going to such lengths if the whole town’s there?”
“I don’t think the priests are invited,” I whispered back. “If they were, there’d be no need for all this secrecy.”
“Unless whatever secret they’re keeping, they’re hiding from you and me,” Diotima whispered back.
Apollo’s Rest was on the opposite side of the open space to our cottage. We crossed quickly, to reduce the chances of being stumbled upon by a late arrival. We crept toward the inn, careful to keep our backs to the cottage, so that our silhouettes would not stand out. I looked for any guards they might have left outside, but I saw none.
There was a large window around the corner from the door. We went there, just in case someone came outside. The door was firmly shut and all the windows were shuttered, but by creeping up and peering between the wooden slats we were able to see inside.
Diotima and I crouched side by side, with our eyes as close as we could get them to the lowest of the gaps in the side window.
Within was a tableau of the villagers; it might almost have been a mural, the way they were arranged. They sat in a semicircle. Damon stood at one end of the arc, Moira at the other. It was like they were the mother and father of the village. Between them was virtually every villager that Damon had introduced to us. There was not a single priest or priestess to be seen, excepting Meren, who sat amongst them.
At the center of the semicircle was the bar, and at the bar was a man, one of the fishermen, with a beer in his left hand. His right hand he waved about as he held forth to the crowd. From the way he moved I guessed he’d already had at least one mug of wine.
“The killing has endangered us all,” he said.
“That’s hardly our fault,” Moira said. “We must endure the inquiries. Then we can get on with our lives.”
“Aye, and what if they find out?” the man with the wine said. “What will happen to us?”
He drank from his cup, drained it, and refilled.
“The priests don’t suspect,” Meren said, from where she sat. “If they did, I’m sure I’d know of it.”
“How?” the man demanded. “Do the priests tell you all their secrets?”
“No, but you can tell,” Meren said. “The way they talk, the way their eyes move when we’re about. They don’t know. If they did, they’d be watching us all more carefully.”
“What of the investigators?” another asked. “The Athenian priestess and the other.”
“They have no idea what is going on,” Damon said. “I’ve seen to that.”
“This detective-priestess is a great danger,” the man with the wine insisted.
“I don’t see why,” Damon replied, with his usual reasonable and mild tone. “The priestess is inconvenient, to be sure, but no more than that.”
They were talking about Diotima. I was mildly offended that I wasn’t inconvenient too.
“Then we’re in the clear,” the second man said.
“For now,” Damon agreed.
The man who had been speaking sat down, which he did by dropping onto a crowded bench and making room by force. Then he suddenly stood up again and lurched toward the door. Inasmuch as he had been drinking non-stop and was likely already onto his third wine, the reason was clear enough.
Moira took the floor. She held a wax tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other. She made a final note on the tablet before she began to speak.
“Let’s move on to the finances,” she said. “The gift fund is in good shape, but contributions are due.”
There were groans all round.
“Oh, come now,” she said, without heat, indeed she sounded good-natured. I got the impression this was the usual response. “You know we owe the Goddess for our good fortune.”
“Not exactly good fortune at the moment,” someone complained.
“Hey, are you warm?” Damon asked sternly.
“Sure,” said the complainant. He sounded defensive.
“Then it’s good fortune, isn’t it?” Damon said.
A stream of urine suddenly splattered between me and Diotima. I started; so did she. We had both been so intent on what we were seeing that we hadn’t noticed the drunk fisherman walk up from behind and raise his tunic. Now he was peeing on us.
“Hey!” he exclaimed. He couldn’t have failed to see us.
A hand grabbed me around the neck. It was a rough hand, covered in callouses. From the way she struggled I knew Diotima was caught too.
“Let go!” That was Diotima.
He might have been drunk, but this fellow was very strong. I thought about fighting back, but then realized I couldn’t fight the entire village. Through the cracks I could see every head inside had turned in our direction.
I felt myself raised up and was marched toward the door, out of which the villagers were streaming.
“Look what I found!” our captor bellowed.
“Shhh,” Moira said. “Bring them inside.”
Diotima and I were pushed within. We stood in the center of their circle. The villagers stared at us with blank expressions. It was more unnerving than if they’d been angry.
“All right, so you have us,” I said. “Do what you will with me, but don’t hurt Diotima.”
They looked surprised.
“She’s a priestess of Artemis,” Moira said. “We can’t hurt her.”
Every head nodded in agreement.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Then you’re going to let us go,” I said.
“Oh, we can’t do that,” Damon said. He turned to his fellow villagers. “What do you think?”
There was thoughtful silence for a moment. Then someone said, “Maybe if we transport them somewhere far away?”
“What?
” I said, alarmed.
“You’d tell.”
“Tell what?” I said. “That the villagers meet at the tavern in the dead of night? It’s weird, but it’s not a crime.”
“Nico, there’s something they’re hiding,” Diotima said. She turned to Damon. “Tell me, what is it you don’t want the priests to know?”
Damon threw his arms up in the air in a gesture of exasperation. “See? That’s exactly the problem, you with all your questions. You know too much. I like the transport idea. Maybe if we put you on a boat to . . . oh, I don’t know . . . maybe through the Pillars of Heracles? You’d never get back from there.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. “If you haven’t committed a crime then you have nothing to fear.”
“You’d be wrong about that,” Damon commented mildly.
“What then? Is this about the theft of the treasure?”
One of the men spat on the floor. “Who cares about that?” he said. “We certainly don’t.”
“He’s right,” Damon said. “The treasure is only money. We’re worried about something much more holy.”
“What then?”
“I get it,” Diotima said. “Moira talked about a gift fund.”
Damon nodded. “Diotima has it. You asked before what it is that we don’t want the priests to know.”
“Yes.”
“Ask again,” he said.
“All right,” Diotima said. “What are you hiding that is so serious it must be desperately protected from our priests?”
Damon laughed in that simple way of his. “It’s very simple, Nico and Diotima.”
He swept his arm across the assembly.
“We are the Hyperboreans.”
The Hyperborean Problem
“It began long ago, in the days of my great-great-grandfather,” Damon said. “He was the chief of our people. Our priestess, who was called Karin, came to him one day and announced that she had received a vision sent by our Goddess. The Goddess spoke to Karin and told her that in the land of the Hellenes she was worshipped with the name Artemis. She commanded Karin to carry gifts of worship to her faraway temple.”