The Deal

I wasn’t quite sure how to go about bribing someone—until now, no one had ever hired me to do such a thing—but I was fairly sure it didn’t involve making the offer in front of the target’s friends, admirers, colleagues and acquaintances. Geros was surrounded by many people who would fit that description. Somehow I would have to get the priest alone.

In the meantime all I could do was watch and wait for an opportunity. I found a good observation post away from the crowd, upon the steps of the Oikos of the Naxians. The Oikos was the sanctuary’s administration center, built a hundred years ago by the people of Naxos, who back then had been the benefactors of Delos, just as the Athenians were today. The Naxians in their time had made their names immortal, and exceeded all of Hellas in piety, by donating many fine buildings of outstanding merit. One such gift was the Stoa of the Naxians, a beautiful covered portico that adjoined the Oikos and ran to the east.

The Athenians had assembled on the well-trodden field in front of the Stoa of the Naxians, which was the largest open space within the precinct. The four treasury houses lay on the other side of the field. That was where the protestors had set up camp, to block access to the doors. Between the protestors and the Athenians lay the small but elegant Old Temple of Apollo, called by the priests the Poros Temple because it had been built from poros limestone.

Anaxinos and a party of priests stood at the entrance of the partially-built New Temple, beside the Poros Temple. Diotima stood with this group. She saw me alone upon the steps of the Oikos and came to join me.

“Are you all right?” I asked her.

“I’m tired,” she said.

She looked it, which was why I had asked the question. Her face seemed somewhat drawn, though perhaps that was an effect of the inconstant light from the bonfires. Diotima’s black hair was invariably perfect—she favored carefully curled tresses that outlined her lovely neck—but tonight her hair hung limp and unkempt, and her face seemed thin.

I took her hand and helped her to sit down. “I’m not surprised,” I said. “It’s late at night, we woke at dawn, sailed from Athens to Delos, ever since have been caught up in a minor rebellion, and you’re carrying an extra passenger. You should be dead on your feet.”

“I saw you talking to Pericles,” she said. “Could you persuade him to give up this scheme?”

“No, but he’s worried,” I said, avoiding a more complete answer to her question.

“He deserves to be,” Diotima said in derision.

I debated whether to tell Diotima about the mission Pericles had given me, and decided against. This wasn’t the time to worry my wife.

I had never before not shared my work with her, but this situation seemed special. Diotima might not be particularly understanding about Pericles’s methods. The fact that Diotima and Pericles had never gotten along would incline her against his plan right away. Besides which, I had some dim presentiment that she might not approve.

Geros would either reject my offer out of hand, in which case Diotima need never know, or he would accept, in which case the Athenian forces would disappear with the treasury, and Diotima’s special day of dedication would be free of conflict. Surely that would please her.

Thus the best course of action was to convince Geros to acquiesce in the matter of the treasury, without bothering my wife with the details of how that feat had been achieved.

“You should sleep,” I told her.

“I will.” She rubbed her eyes, and yawned. “I suppose you want to stay, to see what happens?”

“Yes. I’ll escort you to the village first, though.”

“I can make it on my own,” Diotima said.

“I’ll escort you anyway.”

“I’m not a cripple, Nico!” She spoke angrily.

My father had warned me, when Diotima announced her pregnancy, that women with child could become a little bit irrational. “You just have to deal with it,” my father had advised.

I hadn’t believed him at the time, but I was starting to see that he was right. Of course my first duty was to look after my pregnant wife—in her current state she was hardly capable of doing it herself—but my perfectly reasonable efforts to protect her from all harm seemed to annoy her. It was inexplicable.

“What if you trip and fall in the dark?” I asked. “How would you get up?”

“What do you think I am?” she demanded. “A beached whale?”

“Well . . .”

“Thank you very much!”

“Can I help?” A voice emerged from the dark.

It was the young priestess who had shown us to our house in the village earlier that day. Meren could not have been older than sixteen, yet already she wore the robes of a fully initiated priestess.

“I heard you mention the village,” she said. “I’m headed that way myself. Would you like some company?”

“Thank you, Meren, that would be lovely,” Diotima said. “Your invitation is beautifully phrased.” My wife shot me a black look.

It seemed to me the young priestess knew the path to the village, as Diotima did not, and that Meren could run for help if anything happened to Diotima. I was content to watch the two of them disappear into the darkness, on their way to the other side of the island.

Meanwhile the standoff had turned into an impromptu party. The bonfires that lit the night were put to another use: villagers placed giant iron tripods over the flames and turned them into barbecues.

There really had been a flock of sheep approaching—Philipos had reported accurately. They proved to be older lambs, destined for the table. Despite the darkness, local shepherds had driven them from a nearby holding pen.

The barbecue proceeded at a great pace. It is the rule of our religion that no red meat can be eaten unless the animal’s life has been given to the gods, but on holy Delos there was no shortage of either altars or priests to sanctify the meals.

The Athenians watched this with growling stomachs. After a while one of the more friendly priests asked the salivating Athenians if they would like a bite of the perfectly roasted lamb. No one turned to Pericles to ask permission. The Athenian army rushed forward—not to battle, but to dinner—and in the blink of an eye the Athenians and the Delians were standing around the giant bonfires, chatting and eating. The Athenians had given up hope of obtaining the treasure—at least, those not in charge had abandoned their mission—while the Delians fed their unwanted visitors with admirable good cheer.

Pericles threw up his arms in a theatrical display of despair. He marched off in a huff, in the direction of the beach and the pier. I supposed he would sleep tonight on Harpy. Anaxinos would surely have offered Pericles a bed, but I doubted Pericles would have accepted generosity in this state of impasse.

Pericles had left, but I saw Philipos had remained. He was as hungry as the rest of us. I wondered about him. Was he like me, someone for whom Pericles had found a use? Or was he one of those useless men who were desperate to be seen in Pericles’s company? There were many such, these days.

When I first met him, Pericles had been an isolated figure. He had made himself the champion of democracy when it had seemed the democratic movement must fail at any moment. Friends for him had been scarce.

But now that the democracy was a huge success, now that Athens was in the ascendant, now that Pericles was universally acclaimed the greatest leader of our time, suddenly every social climber in the city wanted to call him friend. I would see these men in his courtyard whenever I visited his home. Pericles himself was never among them—he was always to be found working in his office upstairs.

I despised the social climbers. Why Pericles tolerated their presence I could not imagine.

Philipos, too, always seemed to be at Pericles’s home. He hung about in the anteroom, beside the steps that led up to the office, like a loyal dog at his master’s door. I had never spoken to him except for polite greetings. Whenever he was absent, it always proved to be because he was off on a task for Pericles, usually something involving the army, for Philipos was a veteran soldier, and Pericles’s official position in Athens was strategos, one of the ten commanders of the armed forces.

Philipos had been a relative nobody until he began his work as assistant to Pericles. Like so many other men, Philipos had benefited from his association with our leader. I was embarrassed to admit to myself that the same could be said of me, though I liked to think that I maintained my independence.

The day’s tension had desperately needed to be dispelled, and that was exactly what the ordinary folk of both sides did without thinking. The Athenians were inadvertently performing the job that Pericles needed: the priests were warming to the invaders. I wondered if that had been Pericles’s plan. Or perhaps the plan of Anaxinos. Was either man that sneaky? I contemplated these deep thoughts as I watched the diners.

Geros was eating with his followers. They seemed to treat him with much respect. It seemed to me that Pericles was right. Geros was the key to the impasse. If he could be persuaded, all else would follow.

The sight of all that food was making me hungry. I was almost ready to abandon my vigil when a voice beside me made me jump.

“I think you’re someone like me.”

I turned to find a tall blond man with the broad shoulders of a laborer. He stood there, smiling at me in a companionable way. Whoever this new arrival was, I’d never heard him coming. Either I’d been concentrating on the scene more than I thought, or this man could move silently.

“What did you say?” I said.

“That you’re like me.”

He spoke in a friendly, casual voice, but I was startled at his words. Was he saying that he was an agent? Had he spotted me for one? If so, how?

“What do you mean?” I asked cautiously.

“I mean you like to stand to the side and watch things happen,” said the tall blond man. “I’ve been watching you, while you watched everyone else. You’re not like the other Athenians. They think too much.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

“People who think a lot get themselves into trouble,” he explained. “But you don’t! You stand apart and you work with your eyes all the time. Would you like some dinner?”

He held out a piece of flat bread, into which had been stuffed onions fried in olive oil, with slivers of succulent lamb. I dislike onions but love lamb. I took the food from his hand gratefully.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Damon. I’m one of the villagers.”

“Not one of the priests?” I asked. “Don’t they come from the village too?”

He shook his head. “Not really. All the priests and priestesses come from other cities. They moved here to serve the Gods.” He paused. “Except for our girl Meren,” he added. “She’s the only local to become a priestess. We’re all real proud of her. The rest of us aren’t that smart.” He laughed. “Someone has to do the real work around here. That’s me and my fellows.”

“I’m Nico,” I said. I transferred the bread to my left hand and offered my right. We shook hands. “Thank you for the food. I wish I could offer you something in return.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged. “Let’s just talk.”

“What about?” I asked.

“How come you’re interested in Geros?”

I almost choked on my lamb. “He’s an interesting man,” I managed to say, after Damon had slapped me on the back and I’d recovered my breath. “Is he the one really in charge?”

“Instead of Anaxinos?” Damon shook his head. “Geros is like one of those irritating grandmothers who refuse to die.” He nudged me with an elbow. “You know the type?”

“I’m not sure . . .”

“The type that hang around forever and demand everything in a querulous voice. They make life miserable for the lady of the house, and they think everything has to be arranged for their convenience. But no one says anything against the old biddy, because she’s the master’s mother, and you’ve got to respect the aged, right?”

Damon stopped speaking. He was obviously waiting for me to agree.

All my grandparents had died when I was young, but I’d been to the home of friends who had exactly that sort of lady. She was usually to be found sitting in the courtyard with her gouty feet up on the best dining couch, shouting orders at all and sundry.

“I know what you mean,” I said to Damon. “What makes Geros so respected that people obey him?”

“He’s been on the island since Zeus was a boy. He knows more about the traditions of Delos than all the other priests combined. If you need to know the right ritual for some obscure event, then Geros is your man.”

“How come he isn’t the High Priest?” I asked, in between mouthfuls of dinner.

Damon shrugged. “It was before my time, but I think he got passed over. Well, you can see why.”

I could. Geros was divisive. Anaxinos was a consensus man. Any committee would take Anaxinos over Geros.

“But Geros seems to be uncontrollable,” I said.

“You got that right,” Damon said with feeling.

“Anaxinos can’t like that too much,” I said.

“He doesn’t.” Damon laughed. “He never says anything in public, but you can tell. When Geros throws one of his tantrums, Anaxinos stands to the side with that false smile on his face and he waits for Geros to calm down. Then Anaxinos carries on as if nothing had happened.”

“Like what’s happening now,” I said.

“Yeah, but this is a bigger tantrum than usual. This time the old priest has got everyone stirred up, and Anaxinos is doing what he always does: standing to the side and waiting for it to pass. Don’t know if it’s gonna work this time, though. You gonna stay out here all night?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I gotta go. Been a long day.” He wiped his greasy hands on his tunic, leaving streaks of olive oil and lamb fat smeared across the fabric. This told me that Damon wasn’t married, because no wife would have forgiven him (as I had discovered the hard way).

As he turned to go, Damon said, “The funny thing about that sort of grandmother is, after they die, everyone’s kind of relieved, but no one’s brave enough to say it.”

The strange villager wandered off into the night.