“To save your life.”
“It is your life that is in danger. When the lord of the house returns . . .”
“When he returns, I think it would be wise if neither of us were here any longer,” I suggested.
“So this is a kidnapping?”
I sighed. “The sooner you stop acting like an idiot, the sooner we can leave. Do you have anything to wear other than the armor?”
“I don’t wish to leave,” she said stubbornly. For someone who was hired to play the role of a goddess before the entire city of Athens, she was remarkably guileless.
“What did he promise you?”
“Just this. I am a god to these people. I can have whatever I want.”
“Then you truly are an idiot.”
“Hey!”
“Listen to me. Pisistratus made a great show of presenting himself aligned with the god of this city, and he did it only to gain power. In a few days, he will be declared tyrant. What do you suppose will happen next?”
“I will rule at his side,” she said hesitantly. She had an enormously cute pout, which I was trying very hard to ignore.
“Suppose you do. What happens in ten years, when the Athenians realize their god has aged?”
“I . . . I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
“I guarantee you Pisistratus has. Does he strike you as the sort of man who would willingly take that risk? No? Does he strike you as the sort of man who would willingly share his power with anyone, much less a strumpet from the north who is privately in his employ?”
“I . . .”
“Keeping you even this long is a great risk. I could have been here to kill you. Can you imagine the reaction of the people of the city if they discovered their supposed god could be felled so easily?”
“You’re frightening me.”
“You should be frightened. Not because I intend to kill you; I don’t. But Pisistratus will as soon as it’s convenient. He’ll do it quietly, and rid himself of your body as discreetly as possible. It will be as if Athena simply returned to her seat on Olympus, happy that her chosen one ruled her city. Do you understand now?”
“I do,” she said quietly.
“Good. Again; do you have any other clothing here?”
“Yes. But before I go anywhere with you . . .” She raised her perfect chin and affected her regal manner just briefly. “Who are you? And why are you doing this?”
“I am known in these lands as Epaphios. And I am doing this because you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
She looked at me, and I noticed her eyes were a stormy blue. “I will go with you. But don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You also called me a strumpet.”
“Will you get dressed?” I heard the door swing open behind me, and knew we’d already run out of time. I spun around.
Pisistratus did not cut an imposing figure. Somewhat smallish and tubby, it was clear that the warrior blood that ran in his family had gone dry long before reaching him, possibly replaced by snake venom. But the two men behind him looked like they had plenty of warrior in them to spare.
“Epaphios Choreios!” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Taking audience with the goddess. Perhaps you’d like to join us. In private.”
He stared at me for a long second, and then waved his hand dismissively. The guards shut the doors and left us alone.
“You have something you wish to discuss?” he asked me.
“A negotiation, tyrant of Athens.” Incidentally, ‘tyrant’ was not an insult at that time. The Greek word is tyrannos, and it means non-hereditary king.
He didn’t look very happy. “I am listening.”
I had to tread carefully. Pisistratus was a smart man. It was his only good quality. His weakness was an ego the size of the Aegean. “Let me first commend you for acquiring the services of Athena herself. Truly, a remarkable feat.”
“Pah! She’s a slave. I bought her from her father six months ago. Of all in Attic, you would know this. Do not patronize me.”
“Fair enough. Nevertheless, well-played.”
“Thank you.”
“And if she is no more than a slave to you, I would look to buy her services for myself.”
“Hey!” Athena piped in.
“Be quiet,” I said urgently.
“Yes,” Pisistratus concurred. “Silence yourself. Or I’ll have you put to the sword.” To me he asked, “What use has one such as you for her? You have many women, provided the tales are accurate.”
“They are. But this one has caught my eye. Would you deny me?”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You would pay for her?”
“I would.”
“In what form? As tyrant I have no need for any currency you might offer.”
“You have already suggested the method of payment.”
“Have I?”
“You are not yet tyrant, Pisistratus, and I of all people should know when I am gazing upon a false god. Do you suppose my declaring so, loudly, before the assembly itself, might sway opinion?”
“And suppose I decide not to let you leave my home alive!” he bit back.
“Don’t be foolish,” I said calmly. “You have no man here who can best me. Certainly you are no match.”
Pisistratus was painfully aware that he was unguarded in a room with me, and that I’d maneuvered myself between him and the door as we talked.
“But I know you, Thyoneus,” he said, using another one of my names. You would not believe how many names an immortal can pick up over time. “You do not intervene.”
“I don’t, but I can.”
He deflated visibly. “What do you propose?”
“Just what I was planning before you interrupted. Let me leave with her. I’ll keep her countenance hidden until well beyond the gates.”
“That is not enough,” he said firmly, but quietly.
“What else?”
“You need to swear to me you will not return in my lifetime. Promise that, and you both may go. I will even have a curtained chariot ride you out.”
I pretended to think about it, even though this was basically the deal I was hoping for. “All right. I have been away from the satyros of the woods for too long anyway.”
“Satyrs?” Athena said. “Are you kidding?”
“Shut up and get dressed,” I suggested.
Pisistratus offered his hand, and we shook on it.
“You know,” he said, “I was hoping you simply wouldn’t be in Athens for this. I only needed a few days. I suppose the fates saw otherwise.”
“Pray that the fates have nothing worse in mind for you. Pray also that your stewardship of Athens meets my approval. I do love this city, and only grudgingly leave it to the likes of you.”
His expression grew hard. I guess he thought we were sharing a moment. “You abide by your promise.”
“I will. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching.”
* * *
Athena didn’t speak again until we were alone in the chariot.
“I’ve heard three names for you so far,” she said. “What sort of man goes by as many as three names?”
“I have more than three. To most of the Athenian citizens, I’m Epaphios Choreios. To the hill tribes I’ve also been called Thyoneus.”
“And which one should I call you?”
“Whichever one sounds the best to your ears is fine.”
I considered asking her what her real name was, but Athena seemed so perfect, it didn’t matter; I’d much rather have kept on calling her that.
The chariot tilted downward with the road I knew would be leading us out of the city. To our left would have been the home of Linnaeus, who so recently implored me to get directly involved in the affairs of the state. It was a shame I’d just brokered my way out of town without getting a chance to wish him well.
“He was afraid of you,” Athena said.
<
br /> “Who, Pisistratus? He’s afraid of a lot of things.”
“He walked in with two armored guards. You’re dressed in cloth with a bag and a wood staff. Yet you threatened him into bargaining with you. Why would he be so frightened?”
I smiled. “You’re trying to figure me out. Does this mean you’re not going to run off as soon as we’re out of sight of Athens?”
“I have nowhere particular to run to,” she said. “But I’d like to know why he was so afraid when he clearly had the tactical upper hand.”
“And whether you should be afraid as well?”
“That, too.”
“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” I said, peeking out the curtain for one last look at the city. “But Pisistratus did, because he believed I could have bested both his men and himself.”
“Could you have?”
“Probably, yes. And the warrior goddess Athena, too, if I had to.”
She reached up and pulled the curtain closed, and looked me in the eye. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“All right,” I nodded, softening my tone. “There are more names. The satyrs call me Philopaigmos.”
“I’m not a satyr.”
“Also Botryophoros to some, and Lyseus, and Iakchos, and to a few I’m Thriambos. And there are dozens more. But the name the slaves and low Athenians know me by, the one you’re likely to have heard before, is Dionysos.”
* * *
I should point out that pretending to be a god is almost always a really bad idea, and I absolutely do not recommend it. Eventually someone comes around asking for enemy smiting and crop growing and whatnot, and then you have a problem. But sometimes you can get away with it okay.
Dionysian mythology includes references to the god who comes, i.e. a guy that walks around the earth all the time instead of hanging out on Olympus. That same guy introduced wine and turned up on the final day of the Mystery Ceremonies and befriended the satyrs and so on.
That was all me.
But godhood was sort of flexible to the Greeks, who borrowed good god ideas from everybody. Their flexibility meant I could be considered only one incarnation of the god; I was never expected to do anything unequivocally supernatural.
Still, it’s not something I’m all that proud of.
* * *
Athena blinked several times. “The Dionysos?”
I fixed my gaze on her lips. “I haven’t come across anyone else using the name.”
“I’m having some trouble believing that.”
“I understand. But maybe now you can appreciate how Pisistratus could get away with claiming to have Athena at his disposal. In a way, the predicament I just got you out of is my fault.”
Athena leaned back and mulled over the notion. “He said you’re known to have plenty of women with you.”
“I’ve had my share. But most of them go mad eventually. I’m not sure why.”
“Are you particularly maddening?”
I smiled. “Not as far as I know.”
“And will I go mad?”
“Possibly. If you’d like, I can just return you to your village instead.”
“No,” she said, smiling. She had a brilliant smile, and I made a note to try and get her to do that more often. “I think I might enjoy risking madness to travel with an actual god. Besides, my family sold me; if you bring me back, there they’ll just sell me again.”
“Well, you have been warned.”
“Indeed I have.” She reached out to touch my knee. “My god.”
* * *
I wish I could say Athena avoided the curse of madness that seemed to strike everyone who spent too much time around me in those days, but she didn’t. (It would be a century before I figured out the cause.) But up until she tried to kill me with a knitting needle, we had a spectacular time together. I ended up leaving her with the satyros, who were happy to have her, madness or no.
As for Pisistratus, he and his descendents ruled Athens in my absence until his entire family was exiled by a fed-up populace. By then they were finally ready for long-dead Solon’s democracy.
DION: I WOULD GO TO ATHENS. FOR IT IS ONLY IN ATHENS THAT I MAY SPEND ALL MORN ARGUING REAL TRUTHS WITH A PHILOSOPHER, ALL AFTERNOON WATCHING CLEVER LIES FROM A DRAMATURG, AND ALL NIGHT DRINKING LIES INTO TRUTHS WITH A SENATOR.
From the dialogues of Silenus the Younger. Text corrected and translated by Ariadne
My first few days in Athens were spent just trying to figure out what had happened to the city. To that end, I bought a cheap tour book and an even cheaper city map and then walked around a lot, from Filopappou Hill to Likavitos, Kolonos to Syngrou Park. And then I returned to my little hotel room on Athinas Street and drank myself silly.
Coming to Athens had been a mistake. All I’d managed to accomplish was to deepen the depression I was already fighting—being a short flight away from Clara did not help this at all— while allowing the trail I was following to run cold.
There were no satyrs in sight. I’m one of the few humans on the planet who could easily identify one at a glance, and I was more than moderately certain I’d not seen one in my travails. If they were still around—and I was nearly certain they were—either they weren’t common or they weren’t in Athens.
With the help of the hotel desk, I secured a tour bus trip to modern Eleusis—now called Elefsina, which is a decidedly less graceful name. I spent the day wandering around the ruins of the Telesterion temple, and listening to a graduate student mispronounce words that used to mean a great deal to a goodly number of her ancestors. As always, the details of the sacred rites were butchered, filtered through the suppositions of modern archaeology.
It was the first time I’d been to the Telesterion without expecting a cup of kykeon at some point. Kykeon was what the adherents drank for a large portion of the nine-day ceremony. It was similar to beer, but with a few extra additives that induced hallucinations, an aspect I personally never got to experience because of my unique body chemistry. There have been numerous concerted efforts to recreate kykeon since those days, efforts I know could not possibly have succeeded because of one particular additive that may or may not exist anymore. My tour guide claimed it was poppy seeds. I actually bit my tongue.
The cave—the Ploutonion—was the only thing still standing. It was supposed to be the place where Demeter’s daughter, Persephone, returned to Hades and as such, it served a major function in the larger Mystery Ceremonies. I couldn’t imagine conducting the rites using the cave and then marching around the ruins. If the cult was indeed still active, it wasn’t active in Eleusis.
As I rode the bus back into the city and prepared for another evening of blind drunkenness, I considered that I was thinking about this all wrong. The last days of the cult were contemporaneous with the rise of the Christian faith. One thing the Christians did well—and they did a lot of things well—was create a thoroughly mobile religion. It’s hard to think of them that way now with all the churches everywhere, but in the beginning they were as secretive and decentralized as anybody. Put a bunch of Jesus worshippers together, and they could make any place sacred for as long as they needed to. Whereas if you wanted to do away with the mystery cults—as the Romans did—all you had to do was bar the adherents from accessing the places they considered sacred. So if the cult went underground, it had to be a version of the cult unlike anything with which I was familiar; it had to become mobile.
That meant they could be anywhere. They didn’t have to be in Greece at all.
* * *
The Hotel Attalos has a good bar with a bartender named Stavros whose company I rather enjoyed, especially after three or four drinks. I don’t think Stavros knew exactly what to make of me.
Since I’d arrived in Athens without any luggage, I had purchased a few sets of clothing that identified me as a local, rather than a tourist. This caused confusion everywhere I went, because when one is dressed like a native and speaking Greek, one does not generally ask for directions. Li
kewise, in the hotel, other guests routinely kept assuming I knew where everything was.
Stavros was aware that I was a guest and that it was my first time in (modern) Athens, so he didn’t know what to do with the fact that I spoke his language as well as he did, and that when I was drunk I told him details about his own city he didn’t know himself. Consequently, we spent a lot of time talking. Stavros was determined to figure me out.
“And how was Eleusis?” he asked me.
I was on my fourth glass of ouzo, which was when I usually became conversational. “Ruins,” I answered. “Terrible. Used to be a beautiful place.”
“Was it?” he asked. “When was that?”
I smiled. “Thousands would come from all across Attic into the city of Athens. And on the fourteenth day of Boedromion, they would walk the Sacred Path, cross the Bridge of Rhiti, and go see the priestesses of Eleusis. The procession would last an entire day, and all who could make the walk were welcome: male and female, citizen and slave, human and . . . well. All were welcome. It was beautiful. Today? I took a bus.”
Stavros smiled. “Very romantic, Mr. Lenaios. You sound like you were there.”
I was traveling under the name Greg Lenaios. I figured claiming Greek lineage would answer some questions regarding my fluency. “I was. Today, I mean.”
“In the days of the pagans,” he clarified.
“Pagans,” I scoffed. “You Catholic, Stavros?”
“Greek Orthodox,” he answered. “Somewhat.”
I grinned. Stavros was twenty-five and thoroughly enjoyed his life as a bartender in a hotel that has an ample supply of attractive American women looking for a little action on the side during their vacation. Darkly handsome, he defined the word swarthy. He was probably not the most devout Christian around. “Pagan wasn’t always a bad word,” I explained. “It’s all a matter of perspective.”
“You speak with longing,” he said, refilling my glass. “I think perhaps you were born in the wrong age.”
“There’s more truth in that than you know.” I raised my glass in an exaggerated toast. “Anyway, I think I’ll be leaving here soon.”
“Where to?” he asked. “You fit in so nicely. I was preparing to recommend a realtor.”
Hellenic Immortal Page 15