This is my home – a city shoved away on the coast of the Euxine Pont, with white marble temples and streets and walls made of stone which absorb the warmth of the summer sun. I’ve lived here long and there isn’t a cobble left that I haven’t set my foot on. The stones have shell embedded in them, and their mother-of-pearl makes our city sparkle in the sun.

Alas, the cobbles in front of my temple do not sparkle! And how could they, with this nuisance of a tree that grows bigger and bigger, right before my temple! The marble is always sticky with the juice of the mulberries, and it is covered in stains, like dried ink, which will never be cleaned properly. I asked the men responsible for the temple’s maintenance to cut it down. Nothing good comes out of this tree!, I said. Just filth and goo! Actually, they countered, it brings forth a lot of fruit, and it is sacred too. It’s as sacred as an old door prop, I tell you. It just happened to sprout in front of the temple years ago, and if we don’t cut it down, the temple will forever look like a muddied house, and this is not something the Goddess would like.

I am Zouke, priestess of Cybele, the Great Mother of the Gods, guardian of fertility and life. I haven’t a clue as to how ancient Dionysopolis is but I know that it had been standing for a long time before the arrival of our present rulers, the Romans. The temple which I’m responsible for dates back at least seven or eight generations; our city is even older. It is called Dionysopolis to honour the god whose face is joy and oblivion, but sadness too, hidden in the wine. Some people still remember it as Krounoi, The Founts. This was its name when only the Greeks and my Thracian ancestors, the Krobyzoi, roamed these white hills.

And now… All kinds abound.

In the temple, we priestesses mix incense with lavender and light it, then we make offerings of grapes, and figs, and olives, and mulberry. These fruits symbolize the generosity of the Great Mother. We place them on an altar covered with elaborate depictions of the Goddess – she’s young, a mother and a guardian, holding ears of wheat and snakes in her hands. She is life eternal. She is the element of nature.

Every morning, I check that all is in good order: that her statue is clean of dust, the incense is lit and burning steadily, the young priestesses are busy learning new chants and prayers. A job not easy, a vocation that takes years of training to master. And it seems that my teachers’ teachers taught them well, for when the earth shook some time ago, and swallowed houses and temples alike, along with the entire neighbouring city of Bizone, our white city and the Great Mother’s temple were spared. But back then there was no mulberry tree on the entrance to soil the marble, most certainly!

The days pass faster now. Life is constant change. There’s talk about some weird beliefs, a new thing that comes our way all the way from Judaea, a new god who preaches about love and peace. Let him preach! But some say that we are expected to forget about our own gods and rituals. I had a dream about it – a dark river flooded our fields and temples. I listen to these rumours in fear and confusion. How could we forget the Goddess that is mother to all that lives? Would there come a time when our processions and offerings are prohibited, and our temple – in ruin?

I am scared, and I am angry. Could this be the reason why I feel so annoyed by the mulberry tree recently? Why this tireless thought of having it cut down never ceases to buzz about in my head? But what if by cutting it down I open the gates to our city to these unknown new gods?

Our life is woven by the winds of trade. Our port welcomes ships from Thasos, Heraclea, Sinope, and even further away; they bring amphoras with wine, olive oil, all kinds of pots and all kinds of spices. In return they carry away wheat from our fertile lands, honey, wax and hides. And people too, Thracian and Scythian slaves captured in battle. Our city is an amalgam of languages, fashions and gods, Greek, Thracian, even Egyptian.

The temple of the Pontic Mother stands near by the port, on the highest spot in the city, its stairs leading down the city terraces. People say it was built a long time ago, when our ancestors were still under the shadow of the Macedonian kings. Its entrance faces east, to the sunrise; the face of the Goddess, sitting on her throne, with a lion at her feet, is the first thing the sun caresses with its beams in the morning.

Every spring, on the eighth day of Taureon, the month that comes first in the calendar of the great Greek city of Miletus, we celebrate nature’s comeback. It is a time of joy and revival when the streets become alive with processions, and the scent of spices and sweet wine drifts in the air above the crowds. There isn’t a single moment to spare then, there’s so much to be done! Together with the women of the city, we go and pick the most beautiful flowers – the poppies of the fields, the irises from the banks of the streams, the violets at the foot of the shady cliffs. We weave them into wreaths for the Goddess and the altar of the temple. Then, it is time for the offerings – lambs with wool white like the foam of the sea, and pigeons whose throaty cooing comes one with our prayers. But first, before sunrise, I need to sweep away the mulberries and wash the stains they’ve left, so that we make a good impression!

The procession weaves along the narrow streets, terrace after terrace, until it reaches the temple. Children carry baskets with flowers: lilies-of-the-valley, lavender, roses, and the air is heavy with the scent of rosemary and thyme. I lead the procession, my chiton reaching all the way down to my ankles, a veil over my hair, as per the custom of our fathers. In my hands, I hold a vial of wine, and the women of the city form a circle around me, like a living crown. I give them cake and sweetened wine, and I leave some for the council too – it’s a special occasion. I am filled with pride: I follow the tradition of my Thracian great grandmothers who used to call upon the Mother to protect the land’s fertility and the women’s wombs.

My husband, the priest of Dionysus, is by my side during the high festivities. The wine and the land… his god and my goddess are two faces of the same beginnings. We both are well aware that without their blessings the port will be deserted and the fields will be left dry and withered.

Still, I can’t stop nagging about the mulberry tree. Cut it down, for the gods’ sake! These stains will chase our visitors away, I say to the maintenance guys. But they wouldn’t listen. By the looks of it, they can’t hear me, can’t see me. Is it because I’m old? Oh, had I been young and beautiful, as I was when they made my sculpture and placed it next to the goddess… It would have been different then, surely.

Yes, this is another reason for me to hold this temple dear – my effigy is here. What an honour that was, all those years ago! As I look up, I see the relief of the Goddess, and then myself too, a young priestess, dressed in a long chiton, veiled, with my hand reaching over the altar. The Mother is next to me, impressive, holding a vial and a tympan, guarded by the lion that protects us. Oh, the times back then! The relief was the work of the city stone carver. At dawn, he whispered to me about other worlds where people were not bound by so many laws and customs. He said that when he caressed me it felt as if he was caressing the Goddess’s skin and it invigorated his hands. I was enchanted by his skill, to grant eternity through stone. Could there be a greater gift? I will be long gone but my soul will still be here, carved in the stone. However, I didn’t leave with him; I was stopped by fear. Not the fear of leaving my husband Theagenes, no. It was the fear to leave my Goddess behind.

And now here I am, nagging on and on about the cursed mulberry tree, the new gods, the changing world… I fear that I might be the last priestess to look after this temple. The others are afraid, and the young can’t even be bothered to learn the rites. Why waste our time when new things are coming?, they ask. But I keep insisting, for I am certain – as soon as we cut down that tree, the temple will glow, and the Great Mother will grant us her protection.

And we will keep looking at the Euxine Pont, the Hospitable Sea, from high up on the cliffs. The sea, too, has its name changed. Before, it was known as ‘the Inhospitable Sea’ due to the storms that raged in it, the fogs and the insidious currents. But we who live here know that there is no conscientious evil lurking beneath the waves; the sea is like Dionysus – it is generous if you honour it, and merciless if you ignore it.

Did I tell you that I was Zouke, daughter of Heraclides, and wife of Theagenes, son of Moschion, priest of Dionysus the Founder? Soon I will complete the fourth decade of my life. Here I am, an old, annoying nagger who is, however, loyal to the Pontic Mother, guardian of life and land, even though I can feel the new world peeking in over the doorstep, through the leaves of the mulberry tree. I find its shade depressing but still at times I reach up, I pick a fruit and savour its sweetness, even though it taints my fingers black.

Will the temple live on? And if it doesn’t, how about the mulberry tree?

I am Zouke, daughter of Heraclides, and wife of Theagenes, priest of Dionysus. I live in Dionysopolis, at the edge of the world, where the oaks meet the shores of the sea and the wind carries the scent of lavender and roses.

I thank you for our life, Great Pontic Mother! Bless all who remember and all who forget. May the sea preserve your name for eternity!

Author: Paoulina Micheva
Translation in English: Alexander "Sancho" Marinov