straight to a magistrate. I hoped they’d enjoyed their riot, because now they would each be paying a very substantial fine to the state. The ones caught inside would be paying compensation to Xanthippus for the damage. It would probably drive most of them into bankruptcy, which meant Xanthippus could legally sell them as slaves to recoup his losses. I wondered whether he would take that drastic step, which would make him even more unpopular with the people than he already was, or whether he would absorb his loss so as to be seen as magnanimous. Personally, looking at the damage they’d done, I’d have shipped them straight to the slave market at Piraeus.
I didn’t read the papers until I had them safely back home. Unfortunately none of them was a receipt for payment of a new bow. Most of them were notes or bills of the usual household kind. One did look different though. I read it again. It was an old order for a box of fragrant herbs. That didn’t sound like Xanthippus to me; he had no women in his household. The handwriting appeared different too. I turned it over. Scribbled on the back, in the same handwriting as the front, was a note. “I will meet you at the Areopagus at dawn.” I stuffed that note back into my tunic and went back out onto the streets.
The temple of Artemis Agrotera, the Huntress, is to the southeast of the Agora, across the river in the deme of Agrai. The way took me down Tripod Road, one of the busiest roads in Athens and always crowded, despite being so broad that two large horses could pass each other and not touch. Not that there was room for the horses; as usual, Tripod Road was overflowing with merchants and their donkeys, and men traveling to or from home. The donkeys were kicking up an uncomfortable amount of dust, so that my nose itched. Every now and then one would brush by me, and its rough coat would leave a smear on the material of my chitoniskos.
Bordering both sides, like soldiers standing to attention, were the many bronze tripods that give the road its name, too numerous to count without making an effort I had never bothered with. Each tripod was a simple bowl, held aloft by three legs, with a chain running between the midpoints of the legs to hold them in place; each stood upon a stone base, some tall and ornate, some low and elegant, each different in design or style. Most of these monuments were so old that they had tarnished with neglect and gone green. Others were well cared for, and a couple were shiny new. No matter its condition, each proclaimed a victory in the choral competition at the Great Dionysia. Every tribe enters a chorus of boys and of men for the choral event, and the choregos who produces the winning performance is awarded the bronze tripod with which to record his triumph. He places it along this road, so men forever after will be able to read of his success from the plaque he attaches, which records the name of the choregos, his tribe, the name of the poet, and the name of the musician who accompanied the singing on the aulus pipes.
I noticed one tripod so old it had fallen over, and that no passerby had stopped to put it right. I picked it up, being careful not to cut myself on the broken, corroded leg that had caused the fall, and reset it as best I could, though even when I finished it was still somewhat at a lean. I tried to read the plaque to see who had won this victory, but the words had faded to nothing. Such is fame.
I passed the turnoff to the right that would have taken me to the Theater of Dionysos and continued to the Illisos River crossing, where there was a low stone bridge.
The dry stone wall that marked the border of the temple sanctuary was in poor condition. I stepped over the tumbled stones and asked for Diotima of Mantinea by name and waited for her to arrive. A man was sacrificing upon the altar which stood in the sunshine at the foot of the steps to the temple. A dozen or so men and women were watching the rite. When he turned, I saw it was the Polemarch, the archon in charge of everything to do with the city’s many metics.
“Nicolaos!” Diotima stood beside me. She wore a full-length chiton of fine, light linen that stretched all the way to her ankles, clasped at the shoulders with the decorations of a priestess, brooches in the figure of Artemis and her deer. She had tied a belt around her waist and a rope beneath her breasts and wore a silver necklace. Both sides of her dress were open and patterned down the hems with intricate design in blues and greens. Her dark hair was tied back and held with a bronze clasp, which didn’t stop the curls from escaping. All of a sudden I was very aware of my heart beating fast. She smiled warmly.
“What’s he doing here?” I asked, to get the subject right away from what I was thinking.
“The Polemarch? He’s the sponsor of this temple.”
“The Polemarch, not the Basileus? I thought the Basileus is the official in charge of ceremonies and rites?”
Diotima nodded. “You’re correct. This is an exception. They tell me the Polemarch has been in charge of this temple since time immemorial, for some important reason that happened so long ago, everyone’s forgotten what it is, but no one dares change the rule for fear Artemis might be offended. For all we know, maybe it was the Goddess herself who decreed it.”
The Polemarch held down the sacrifice, which was a goat, while speaking the prayer. The goat must have felt her doom, for she bucked and tried to run. I thought the Polemarch had her under control, but then the animal twisted under his hand and slipped away.
“After it!”
The goat ran straight for the orchard beyond. Two attendants jumped in front of her. She tried to bounce around them but one dived and got an arm over her back and dragged her down. The people sighed in relief. For a sacrifice to escape would be the worst possible luck. The attendants grabbed her by the feet and hauled her upside down back to the altar, where the Polemarch stood waiting, embarrassed.
This time there was no mistake. The attendants held the animal in place while the Polemarch pulled back her head and made a quick, practiced slash. The blood splashed into a bowl held below the throat by one of the attendants, yet still the goat kicked in a vain attempt to escape with her life.
“The sacrifice did not go willingly,” Diotima observed. “It is a bad sign.”
“Does that surprise you, given what is happening?”
“No.”
The Polemarch washed his hands in a basin. A junior priestess closed in on the carcass with two men alongside. They carried the animal to the rear of the temple, where it would be butchered and roasted. The meat of a sacrifice is never wasted, not in a city where there are too many mouths to feed and not enough food. The Polemarch was a hard-looking man with a square face, short hair, and intense blue eyes. He stopped as he passed and looked at us closely.
“Diotima,” he said shortly. She nodded.
“You are Nicolaos,” he stated. I agreed, puzzled how he recognized me. “Come to see me later today, for a chat.” He stalked out of the sanctuary without saying another word, heading the way I’d come, back toward the Agora.
Diotima said, “That’s strange. An invitation to chat with the Polemarch is as good as a summons, and it’s not as if he has nothing better to do.”
“I saw the Eponymous Archon this morning. He must have told the Polemarch, but I can’t imagine why.”
“What did you want to see him for?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Have you visited this temple before?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then let me show you around!” Diotima said. She took my arm and led me to the fore steps.
The outside walls were covered in plaster that had been recently applied, and painted in bright colors. Unfortunately, the paint couldn’t hide all the cracks in the underlying mud brick of which the temple was built. Straight wooden columns swept around all four sides. They held up the wooden roof, which was in the normal temple style, sloping to both sides. The building was so old it originally had had no decoration at all within the metope, the triangular forepart that the roof formed. Someone had climbed up and attached a terra-cotta plaque that displayed the Goddess hunting. The Temple of Artemis didn’t look particularly special to me, or rather, it may have been a special temple, but despite their best efforts it was in a sad state of disrepair.
Diotima said, “This is an ancient temple. The Goddess Artemis herself hunted on this very ground when she came to Athens from Delos. The area has been a sacred hunting ground ever since. Our temple survived the Persians, I suppose because it’s so far out of town and on the south side of the river.”
“Would you like a new one?” I asked.
“I think it would be nice, but I don’t know what the High Priestess would say. I’ve generally found whatever I think, the women in charge think the opposite. But who wouldn’t want a new temple?” Diotima sighed. Then she
