Gary Corby: Death Ex Machina

The statue of the God was in his place for the festival. Before the Dionysia begins, the cult statue of Dionysos is taken from his nearby temple and settled on stage, so that Dionysos can observe the plays in his honor.

The High Priest of Dionysos was a middle-aged man named Theokritos, with a round belly and a bald patch. His affable looks belied his business-like approach to priestly affairs.

The first act of Theokritos the High Priest was to bow before the God. He then turned back to the altar, where Diotima stood waiting, with a goat on a tether.

The rest of us sat on the audience benches. All the actors of all the plays were present, both the comedies and the tragedies, and the singers of the choral performances, plus the choregoi and the three tragic playwrights for this Dionysia-Aeschylus, Sophocles, and another man named Chorilos. I had gathered them all, with help from Pericles, to make sure everyone saw the cleansing.

I myself sat beside my father-in-law, Pythax, who was chief of the Scythian Guard of Athens, but who was with us this day in his role as proud father. This was Diotima’s first official ceremony since becoming a married woman. When Pythax had heard that his daughter would be performing before the combined artistic dignitaries of Athens, nothing could keep him away. He watched as closely as anyone, a slight smile on his lips.

Theokritos offered the blade to the goat. The goat stared at the sharp knife for a long moment, while everyone held their breath. Then the animal seemed to nod its head.

A collective sigh of relief swept across the audience.

The hand that held the blade swept across the goat’s throat. Blood poured quickly into a bowl held by Diotima beneath the wound. Both she and the High Priest were spattered, but both were far too professional to flinch. The goat stood stock still for longer than I thought possible. Then its legs buckled. Diotima and the High Priest were ready. Diotima lowered the bowl as the sacrifice fell. Theokritos had his arms wrapped around the animal so that it came to earth gently.

“It was a good sacrifice,” someone behind me said. “The victim went willingly.”

Voices all about echoed the same sentiment. The sacrifice had been as perfect as could be. I breathed a silent thanks to Sophocles for recommending this priest. He was excellent.

Theokritos waved to his attendants. Three men hurried from amongst us to take the deceased goat, one at each end to carry the animal by the legs and another in the middle to take the weight. These three hurried out of the theater. They would take the animal to the Temple of Dionysos, a mere hundred paces to the southwest. A butcher and a hot brazier waited there, to cook the sacrifice.

The meat would be given to those poor of Athens who asked for it, to feed families whose children would not otherwise see meat this month.

The sacrifice to Dionysos was complete. Now it was Diotima’s turn. Theokritos stood back.

Diotima placed the bowl of blood upon the altar. The bowl was full right to the brim. Some of the blood sloshed over the side as she set it down. It formed a small puddle upon the altar.

Diotima raised her arms. The sleeves of her chiton fell back to bunch at her shoulders and expose the skin. Her hands and wrists were red with blood. It trickled down her arms.

“Hear me, Lady Artemis of the Hunt, I am your priestess Diotima,” she said. “Artemis, daughter of Zeus, who rejoices in the chase and the kill, who shoots the arrow from your golden bow. Hunt with me, Goddess, to cast from this place the malign influence that inhabits it.”

Diotima lowered her arms. She picked up the bowl.

“Far-shooting Artemis, I hold the blood of sacrifice to your kinsman Dionysos, he whose place is profaned. Let this blood mark the boundary, Lady Artemis, swift Huntress, you whose father mighty Zeus gave permission to kill at your pleasure: let all within these bounds who oppose your kinsman Dionysos be your rightful prey.”

At these words Diotima lowered the bowl and tipped it, ever so slightly. A thin stream of blood began to fall. At once Diotima began to walk around the entire theater, dribbling blood into the dust as she went. The entire audience followed behind, to see the deed done.

Diotima crossed the ground between stage and audience, then turned to walk down the side, pouring all the while. When the theater was at her back she turned again to walk parallel to the backstage area, before returning to the front, where she ended at the altar. The last of the blood dripped from the bowl at the moment the two ends of the red line met. The theater was bordered in blood.

Diotima put the bowl on the altar. She wiped the sweat from her eyes, inadvertently smearing blood across her brow.

Slaves hurried forward to take the bowl and, at her nod of permission, carried it away to be cleaned.

The ceremony was over. Men stood to mill about and talk. Diotima walked over to me and smiled.

“How did I do?” she asked.

“Excellent,” I said. I wanted to kiss her, but it would have scandalized the old men about us. Not even Pythax would have approved. This was not the time to upset people.

Everyone had gathered in clusters to talk about the ceremony. They spoke to each other in a friendly, relaxed, confident tone that had been entirely absent in the theater yesterday.

Sophocles broke away from one of these groups and came across to speak to us. “The ceremony went well,” he said.

I said, “No ghost in its right mind is going to wait for the Huntress to come calling.”

Sophocles stroked his beard and smiled in satisfaction.

“I believe you are correct. Already the men ask when rehearsals can resume. I told them we begin at once. I must see to arrangements.”

Sophocles hurried off.

Another man emerged from the largest group of chatterers. It was Theokritos, the High Priest of Dionysos.

“You did exceptionally well for such a young lady,” he said to Diotima.

“Thank you, sir.” Diotima fell into the demure pose she reserved for middle-aged men who thought they were smarter than she.

Theokritos wasn’t fooled for an instant. “No need to play that game with me,” he said. “I can see you know your business. Where have you served?” he asked, meaning, in which temples had Diotima served the Goddess, for it was obvious that Diotima was temple trained.

“The Temple of Artemis Agroptera here in Athens, and the Artemision at Ephesus,” Diotima said.

“The Artemision!” Theokritos was impressed, as well he might be. The Artemision was the most prestigious temple in the entire world.

Theokritos said, “The Temple of Dionysos could use a good priestess. We have places available. I don’t suppose you’d consider switching allegiance?”

“Thank you sir, but I serve Artemis,” Diotima said.

“Well, the Huntress gains where the god of wine loses,” he said, cheerfully. “You’ll let me know if you change your mind.”

With those words and a nod, Theokritos gathered his slaves and departed.

Pythax had stood to the side. He had heard the words of Theokritos with pride for his daughter.

“Well done, lass,” Pythax said, when Theokritos had left. To my surprise he gave Diotima a hug, in public. Pythax was not a demonstrative man, unless you counted the way his guards demonstrated their clubs whenever they caught a thief.

“It was a lucky thing the goat was so complacent,” I said to Diotima.

“That would be due to the large amount of poppy juice I fed it this morning,” Diotima said. “The goat didn’t feel a thing.”

The nature of the smoke rising not far to the southwest changed. An aroma of barbecue wafted across the theater. It reminded me of lunch and made me hungry. The other men thought the same. They quickly departed, in twos and threes, no doubt to their homes for an early bite. One of the last to leave, on his own, was a young man. I had noticed him before, when he sat at the back of the audience. He had watched the ritual with an expression that struck me as rather intense.