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The palace of Proteus was a far cry from the cave on Mount Nysa where Dionysos had spent his formative years. When he'd arrived on Pharos, his ship steered to the island more by the wiles of Boreas than by any ability of the helmsman, Dionysos had been annoyed. Egypt was where he'd wanted to go, after he'd heard tales of a great river that ran backwards, where cats were worshipped and where women made water standing up.
Instead, the black ship beached itself on the shores of Pharos, the island that lay just shy of the Nile Delta. Its king, Proteus, came out to meet him in person, and greeted him with every respect due to a son of Zeus: albeit a son of Zeus who laboured under the punishment of jealous Hera.
Dionysos' memory of his past was shaky. Fragments of recollection came to him at odd times, like snatches of a half-forgotten dream. Some of the things he remembered were surely fantasy, images wrought of the madness he suffered, but when he spoke of these memories to his followers, sometimes they would tell him it was not fantasy but the truth.
Dionysos couldn't remember why he'd set out on his wanderings. Whenever he asked the satyrs and Maenads who followed him so assiduously, they gave him always the same answer: "We travel to spread the truth!"
"The truth of what?" he would ask, his brow furrowing in confusion.
His followers would protest, pleading with him not to frown for fear it would mar his beauty and render his countenance dissolute. Only when he was calm would they make their reply: "The truth brought by the vine!"
His black ship was laden with amphorae, each one holding a different wine. From Mykonos came a strong, astringent white. From Naxos, he had a red, thick and syrupy, almost unpalatable unless it was watered down. And from Thera: a glorious full-bodied black, rich with the taste of the volcano. These were just the wines gathered from the Circling Islands. Dionysos had a host of other vintages culled from the lands of the Middle Sea, and each wine was his own creation.
The amphorae were stowed in the prow and along the ship's bows. His followers had breached several during their voyage, but still the wine flowed without cease. Dionysos was the wellspring of wine: his blood, the juice of the grape. Wherever he was made welcome, he would take an amphora of the wine best suited to the personality of his host. At Pharos, he selected a wine of Thrace that tasted of the wilderness and the mountains.
Leaving his followers to their own drunken, debauched devices, he descended from the ship, carrying the amphora cradled in his arms like a babe.
Proteus waited. He was not, as Dionysos had expected, a wizened old man with a hoary beard and pale, red-rimmed eyes. Neither was he as gaudily noble as Zeus, or as quietly elegant as his beloved grandmother, Rhea. She had aged well, vanishing in the golden time of the old gods, sustained by her Mysteries. One day, Dionysos knew, he would be initiated into them. But not yet: not so soon. He had to make his own way in the world first, and he had to learn his own truths by which all gods measure mankind and one another.
Proteus, the Old Man of the Sea, was unlike any other god he'd met. Tall and handsome, but with age worn through him, the way the sea shapes a rock into a pebble and thence to a grain of sand, Proteus wore his many years with dignity. His skin was tight, but his smile was soft and his eyes young and bright.
He looked at Dionysos with pleasure: the anticipation of news from far-flung places and an admiration to which Dionysos, well aware of his beauty but not yet certain enough to trade on it, was accustomed.
Proteus ordered his servants to attend to his guest's every need. Dionysos was shown to a room overlooking the Delta. The narrow stretch of water between island and mainland made him want to be done with the politeness demanded of xenia. He wanted to be free to wander, untrammelled, through the desert land. He wondered how the vine would fare in such a country: if the resultant wine would taste dry and arid, or if the black soil disgorged by the inundation of the Nile would render it full and rich.
He took the amphora down to dinner. Under the curious gaze of Proteus, he banished the servants and poured the wine himself. He offered the first cup to his host, sitting quietly upon his couch as he waited for a reaction.
Proteus drank. He did so slowly, thoughtfully. His lips glistened and his eyes hooded as he felt the effects, and then he smiled.
Dionysos poured more wine, this time for them both.
"This is a glorious wine, Dionysos, almost akin to the heavenly nectar drunk by the Olympians." Proteus held up his goblet, swirling the dark liquid around the golden bowl to release its scent. He looked sidelong at his guest. "There are rumours, you know: rumours that with this new drink, this wine, you seek to become a second Prometheus for humankind."
Dionysos managed a smile. "The gift of fire is perhaps more useful than the gift of fermented grapes."
"One could argue that, indeed. But there are some who would not be convinced."
"Are you one of them?"
Proteus shrugged, a slight movement that rustled the band of gold-threaded linen he wore over his shoulders. "I try to avoid controversy. My opinion is scarcely valid in the wider scheme of things."
"You are the Old Man of the Sea, one of the wisest of the old gods," Dionysos protested. "How can your opinion carry no weight when you know everything?"
"That's precisely why I cannot have an opinion."
Dionysos sat back on his couch and tucked his feet beneath him "Very well. So your remark that I was a new Prometheus..."
"Purely an observation, dear boy. Think nothing of it."
It was impossible for him to do that. Dionysos snorted. "I grant there is a certain similarity. Something happened in Attika that made me wonder at what I was doing. The comparison with Prometheus was there at the edge of my mind. But it is not a tale for the dinner-table."
Proteus raised his eyebrows, waiting.
Dionysos sighed and put down his cup. "Before I left on my travels, I wanted to pass on the secret of viticulture. Training the vines, pressing the grapes, creating from the richness of the crop a drink unparalleled... It is not that I fear menial tasks, but I believed that humankind should learn this art for themselves."
"Indeed," Proteus murmured, his expression neutral.
"My choice fell on a peasant of the Attic plains, Ikarios by name," Dionysos continued. "He was like the vine himself, strong and sturdy, skin as dark as the grape from his years of labour in the fields. He had a daughter, young and comely, called Erigone. They were simple people. In their hands, the gift I gave them would not be abused.
"Ikarios was quick to learn. The men of Attika do not easily trust strangers, but he respected me for all that my disguise was that of a Phoenician sailor. We planted vines and I made them grow, much faster than their natural rate. He understood then that I was no mere sailor, but still he treated me with the same respect. He did not fear the gods - why should he? He had done nothing wrong."
"Ah," Proteus interrupted, "I sense hubris."
"I did not think it was." Dionysos gazed into his cup. The surface of the wine shivered. "But just because a man does nothing wrong, it does not mean he is innocent. Ikarios' only crime was to hold me in the same regard as any other man, even when he knew I was a god. I am not so haughty that I find this disrespectful, but to those watching me, it was seen as an insult."
"Lady Hera is jealous," Proteus observed. "She may despise your existence, but, to her, it is more grievous that your godhead was ignored. It reflects badly on her husband, faithless though he is. But, please: I would hear the end of this."
Dionysos took a sip of the wine, letting its taste rest on his tongue for a moment. It reminded him of home. Whenever he drank it, he could almost believe he was transported back to Mount Nysa. He wondered what image, if any, it conjured for Proteus, but he did not want to ask.
"Ikarios gathered in the crop," he continued, "assisted by his daughter. They pressed the grapes, and in due time, they produced wine. They took it into the village to share with their neighbours. At first, the wine was greeted with enthusiasm. Such a drink had never been tasted before, and the effects it had were exciting and unusual. Soon, everyone was happy.
"But then they overindulged, and happiness turned sour. Men began to clutch their heads and bellies; they vomited where they stood. A cry arose: Ikarios has poisoned us! And so," Dionysos paused, "and so they killed him. They took him to the fountain and forced him to drink the pure spring water until his body could no longer hold it and it spewed from him. He drowned."
Proteus set down his cup, but kept its bowl cradled in his palms.
"The next day, Erigone searched for her father. None of the villagers could recall what had become of him. They had sore heads; their memories of the night before were hazy and indistinct, and yet they remembered the freedom the wine had offered. They asked Erigone for more wine.
"She found Ikarios at last, floating facedown in the fountain. Horrified by the damage wrought by the wine and grieving for her father, Erigone hanged herself.
"And thus," Dionysos finished softly, "wine and death are inseparable companions amongst mankind. Prometheus' gift of fire ended with his perpetual torment, but it made life better for humans. I am not sure that my gift can make the same claim."
"But wine could make a man forget he was cold and had no fire," Proteus said. "A man heady with your gift can forget many things. Just look at your followers. How many of them know who they are?"
"They are Bacchants."
"Yes. They define themselves through you. Conformity, not individuality. A mass sacrifice to the vine." Proteus tilted his head, regarding his guest thoughtfully. "That is a powerful gift, son of Zeus. Powerful, and dangerous. Perhaps more dangerous than fire: for when Prometheus was punished, Zeus punished humankind, too. He sent Epimetheus, the brother of Prometheus, a beautiful woman - and with her came a box..."
"Pandora." Dionysos grimaced and took another sip of his wine as if to rid himself of the taste of that name.
"Your wine is like Pandora's box. Drink enough of it, and it evokes many emotions: love, joy, lust, anger, misery, hope. Which of those is the true state of a man? Does wine release inner truth, or does it cloud perception with falsehood?"
Dionysos sighed. "I meant for it only to bring joy and to ease heartache."
"Prometheus was the same," Proteus said, but not unkindly. "Humans are created idealistic, but gods?"
"I hope that, when I am the same age as you, I will be able to wear my jaded nature with as much elegance and ease as you do now."
Proteus laughed. "You won't."
"You are so certain?"
"Of course. Have you drunk so much of your own wine that you forget I have the gift of prophecy?" Proteus's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Usually I do not give away my prophecies without a fight, but for you, I am willing to offer it freely - if you wish for a prophecy, that is. You should be aware, my lord Dionysos, that you carry the selfsame gift within you, although you are not yet tested enough in the world to make oracular pronouncements. But it will come."
Dionysos considered. He did not think he wanted to know what his future held, not when he remembered so little of the past. Besides, he knew he was afflicted by madness: when he was in his right mind, perhaps he would return and question Proteus again. Until then, he asked the first question that came to him.
"The villagers in Attika - were they right in calling my wine a poison?"
Proteus held his gaze, his expression intent as if the answer came from deep within him. "In the future, it will be claimed that only in drunkenness do men speak the truth. Your prophecies, dear one, will come through wine, and wine makes one forget the truths that are told. It will be a curse as well as a boon."
Dionysos felt disappointed. "Then truth is poison."
"That is why you suffer now." Proteus held out his goblet. "Pour me another."