I had to go to Sophocles next morning, to ask where I might find his friend Theokritos, the High Priest of Dionysos.
Sophocles smiled and said, “Where do you think you’d find a priest of Dionysos? At a winery of course.”
Theokritos’s estate lay to the north, along the route to Decelea, which meant that his land was as inland as you can get and still be in Attica.
It took me most of the morning to walk there, and I knew I would spend most of the afternoon walking back home. Not for the first time I wished for a good horse, but alas, our family wasn’t rich enough to afford one. At least the road was a major route, wide enough that two carts could pass each other unhindered. It made travel faster.
The estate of Theokritos, when I arrived, was a revelation. I had never imagined that any farm could be so immaculate, so well-ordered. The horos stones that marked the border of his land were painted fresh white, and every one bore the name Theokritos in clear letters, which was how I knew I’d come to the right place. The orchards were extensive. Some slave with a scythe had walked over all of it, cutting back long grasses and weeds. It gave the property a look as manicured as any wellborn lady.
The grapevines stood at attention, like soldiers in their ranks. The arms of their vines were strung out to either side. The posture of the plants was so reminiscent of the standard army maneuver-the one in which every man holds out his arms to evenly space the lines-that I instantly thought of Theokritos’s grapevines as being like an army in phalanx. The plants were old and gnarled, grizzled veterans who’d seen one war too many.
There were so many rows of plants that I couldn’t count them. Slaves walked back and forth along the rows. They stopped at each plant and poked their fingers in each one. I stopped one of the slaves and asked him what they were doing.
“Inspecting the vines for pests, sir,” the man replied, as if it were obvious.
Theokritos had set his slaves to personally grooming each one of the thousands of vines on his land. At the theater I had thought of Theokritos as a jovial fellow. On his home ground he appeared to be a nitpicking sort of man.
I asked the slave where I might find his master. He pointed me to a large wooden shed in the distance.
The shed held a vast array of amphorae. They were stacked up high along every wall and each was tightly plugged. I had no doubt they all held wine.
Theokritos had his back to me when I entered. He was intently watching what was happening in the middle of the room, where there was a very wide vat. The vat held grapes, the tops of which I could see over the edge. A wooden device above the vat was lowering an enormous stone upon a flat, circular board. The board looked made to exactly fit the space into which it was being lowered. Men with long poles stood about the edge. Some of the partially crushed fruit tried to escape over the sides and they were scraping it back into the mix.
The wooden slats around the sides bulged under the pressure.
I recognized the vat and the machine. I had used a much smaller version on my own tiny farm.
Theokritos turned to me as I walked in. He was puzzled for a moment, then said, “Greetings. You are Nicolaos, aren’t you? The agent.”
“Yes.”
“I remember your wife well. She did good work during the theater ceremony. Pity about that actor.”
I said, “Yes. I’m sorry to bother you, Theokritos. I can see you’re busy. But I need to ask you some questions.” Then, because I was truly impressed, I added, “That’s a huge press.”
Theokritos looked at me questioningly. “You know about wine making?” he asked. “You recognize a wine press. Are you a vintner?”
I said, “No, but I make some olive oil.”
I explained to Theokritos that I owned a small plot on which we grew olives and kept chickens. Each year I borrowed Pericles’s press to turn the olives into oil, which we sold in the agora. It was a very small business indeed. I ended with the words that I was fascinated by his winery.
“These are the early pickings,” he said. “We always do a small pressing at the start of the harvest, to see how the fruit is coming along. I find the flavor of early pressed wine quite distinctive.”
That vat was a small pressing?
Theokritos spoke about how the press worked. He talked with all the animation of an enthusiast. Sophocles had told me that the High Priest of Dionysos was an expert vintner. He would get no arguments from me; I was convinced.
When he was finished, Theokritos moved on to the rest of the operation. The High Priest of Dionysos took me by the arm and led me out to view his estates. I might have been an honored guest, not a troublesome agent.
Theokritos took me to the highest point of his land, from which we could see all the rest. It was an impressive sight. He spoke knowledgeably about soil, sunlight, and rain. He enumerated the dangers of too much rain or too little. He discussed drainage and how to collect fruit, and of the overwhelming importance that the slaves not bruise it. He showed me the proper way to handle large loads of fruit.
I paid close attention to the words of Theokritos. I thought to myself I would like to have a place like this one day.
There was even a small temple. It stood upon the hill to which Theokritos had led me. I boggled at this. Theokritos was the only man I knew who kept a temple on his land. It didn’t look new either. I asked him about this.
“My father was High Priest before me,” Theokritos explained. “He thought a temple to the god of wine would be perfect overlooking a fine vineyard. I find myself agreeing with him.”
His enthusiasm for every aspect of wine making was infectious. I found myself imagining what it would be like to be a wine maker. But a man who can’t afford a horse definitely can’t afford a winery.
By this time Theokritos had led me back into the shed, where he ordered a slave to break out a small amphora of one of each wine he kept stored. Theokritos had the slave pour a cup from each. He then practically ordered me to relax on one of his couches and to drink his wine, one cup after the next, to appreciate the different flavors.
As we drank I said, “Theokritos, I must ask you some questions.”
“Certainly.”
“I understand that you are the patron of some metics,” I said.
“Yes, I am,” he agreed readily enough.
“How did that come about?” I asked.
“From my association with the theater,” Theokritos said. “I am, as you know, devoted to Dionysos. Not only in wine, but in all his aspects. The theater is very dear to me. I’ve been a supporter ever since I assumed the position of High Priest.”
“When was that?” I asked.
“When I was a young man. I inherited the title at an early age, as I did these estates.”
“I see.”
“Some years ago, I was approached by one of the actors-Romanos, in fact, the one who died. He told me his family wanted to come to Athens. They would need a patron. He asked would I oblige.”
“So you did,” I said.
“I asked a lot of questions first! I needed to know that they were not wanted criminals, that they were people of good character, that I would not regret my generosity in becoming their patron.”
“Of course.”
“I also reserved the right to withdraw after I’d interviewed them. As it happened, they seemed fine people and I was happy to lend my support. I haven’t had cause to regret it. No one’s complained to me about the Phrygians.”
“You’re on good terms with them then,” I said.
“I haven’t spoken to them since,” Theokritos said.
“You haven’t?”
“There’s no reason why I should,” he said. “Sponsorship isn’t a sign of friendship, young man. It merely means that a responsible member of the community has checked out the applicants and found them worthy of a place in Athenian society.”
He poured me another cup of wine, then took another for himself, both in generous proportions. I was beginning to understand where Theokritos’s pot belly came from.