Arrival

It is illegal to die on the sacred isle of Delos. It is also illegal to give birth there. I wasn’t worried about death, but of childbirth we were in some danger, for my wife was heavily pregnant.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I asked Diotima anxiously.

“Yes, of course I am,” she replied in exasperation. “You’ve asked the same thing a hundred times, Nico. You can stop now.”

I would have to stop anyway, because the boat on which we traveled, Paralos, was about to touch land. I grabbed Diotima’s arm, in case she fell over when the trireme came alongside the dock.

Delos was an island so small that you could walk around its coast in a day. Yet the long pier that protruded from her warm sands would have done credit to a major naval yard. In addition to being the birthplace of two gods, Delos was also the headquarters of the Delian League, the mutual defense alliance of the Hellenes, and it was here that the League’s treasury was kept. It was perfectly normal for warships to visit, and for Delos to need port facilities that could host a major vessel, such as the one on which we stood.

Paralos was a trireme designed for war, yet kitted out with fittings of gold. Her scrubbed deck shone in the brilliant sun and there were colorful ribbons threaded into the ropes that the sailors used. Her crew, down to the lowest oarsman, could have attended a party without having to change clothes, so fine and gaudy were their outfits. Her captain was one of the most fashionable men in Athens. This was the first time I’d ever been on a warship and felt underdressed.

For Paralos was a very special navy boat. Her task was to carry sacred offerings wherever they needed to go, and to represent Athens on religious occasions wherever an Athenian might properly worship the gods. Paralos might belong to the fleet, but her orders originated with the temples.

It was on temple business that Diotima and I traveled. Every year the Athenians sent expensive offerings to Delos, in honor of the divine twins, Apollo and Artemis. This year, when the lots had been cast to determine which priestess should accompany the offerings, the job had fallen to Diotima, who had been a priestess of Artemis since she was sixteen.

“Stand by to dock,” the steersman called from his position of power by the tiller.

“Oars in,” the port and starboard officers called almost in unison.

The men pulled in oars.

The boat slid alongside so gently that it almost stopped itself.

It was like an elegant show that the crew had done many times before. I had been on serious warships, where each of these maneuvers would have been accompanied by much swearing and roughness. On Paralos, all was serenity. Except for me.

I glanced nervously over my shoulder at the ships lined up behind us. It was a large fleet. Fifty triremes. Fifty serious triremes from Athens, with Pericles at their head. A fleet that size could take on the navy of any other city and expect to win.

The priests and priestesses of Delos would be pleased to see Diotima and the gifts she brought.

They would be less thrilled when they heard what Pericles had to say.