This drachma was struck in Athens in the summer the Parthenon was finished, from silver that had already lived one life as a spearhead. It bought a white bull for Zeus Olympios, a new lyre string for a boy who sang to Apollo, and an olive branch laid at the feet of Athena Parthenos. It was pressed under the tongue of a sailor named Theron so he could pay the ferryman, and the ferryman, being a practical man, spent it. For two thousand years it drifted from temple to purse to riverbed, and the gods it had been offered to grew quiet. Not dead. Quiet. Waiting for the next currency of devotion. In 2007 it arrived, small enough to fit in a pocket and bright enough to light a face from below. Now the offering is a glance, a scroll, a double tap, and every one of them is counted. The gods, it turns out, never left. They were simply waiting for us to start paying attention again.
Thegodsneverdied.Theyweresimplyout of office—waitingforanewkindoftemple.Thenwebuiltone,smallandglowing,andcarriediteverywhere.
