Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  “Yes, we rational Hellenes are immune to superstition.” The touch of sarcasm in his voice made Althaia wonder if he was mocking her. She glared at him. “So back to the man in the dream.”

  “There’s nothing more to tell. I don’t remember anything else.”

  Theron turned back toward the window and Althaia pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders and joined him. To the east, over the rooftops, she could just catch the edge of the gymnasium and the gleaming temples and treasuries in the Sacred Precinct of Athena. To the west, the valley unfolded below her, a carpet of green cascading down to the water’s edge. The city of Kirra, Delphi’s port, glowed like a white pearl next to the sapphire inlet off the Gulf of Corinth.

  “A charming little town for pirates,” Althaia said.

  “What?”

  “Kirra,” she pointed. “Remember all the tales of heroes, monsters, pirates, and stolen treasures that you and Papa used to tell me?”

  He smiled. “You would charge around the house with a stick and try to kidnap Praxis as he was doing his chores.”

  “I imagined I was an Amazonian warrior, and he was a prince who had been kidnapped and sold into slavery. I found out his secret identity and wanted to ransom him for treasure. He always played along until one day I told him that the princess was in love with her captive and that he had to marry me.” She grew quiet.

  “I remember.” Theron watched her, tried to read her mood. “It’s been hard on you and Praxis, the waiting, wondering why your father wanted us here Delphi on the anniversary of his death. But it will soon be over, and everything will make sense.” In addition to tutoring Althaia, Theron had been a long-time advisor to her father and had promised he would stay with Althaia until Lysandros’ last wishes had been fulfilled.

  “It’s hard to believe you’ve been able to keep Papa’s secret a whole year.”

  “A year?” Theron shook his head and headed for the door. “That’s nothing, my dear. I’ve got secrets I’ve kept for a lifetime. Now get dressed. Praxis has already left and we’re keeping Menandros waiting.”

  “Theron, how is he, Praxis? I’m around him every day, but I feel I hardly know him anymore. He’s changed since Papa died. He was always quiet, but now….”

  “Perhaps Nephthys will cheer him up.” Theron chuckled.

  Althaia turned and looked back out the window.

  “It’s hard to let go of a dream, isn’t it?” Theron said.

  She blushed. “Childhood dreams die hard, but for Aphrodite’s sake, I’m a married woman, now. Maybe Nephthys is exactly what Praxis needs.”

  Whenever Althaia thought of Nephthys, a vague sense of jealousy washed over her. Many, mostly men who wanted to marry her for her father’s money, had called Althaia beautiful, but she didn’t feel particularly beautiful when Nephthys was near. Where Althaia was short, Nephthys was tall. Where Althaia was strong boned, Nephthys was as slim as a river reed. Where Nephthys’ skin looked as if it had been painted with autumn sunlight, Althaia’s looked as if it had been carved from alabaster. Althaia had always prided herself on her ability to keep up with Praxis, to ride and swim as if she were a boy. She never thought of herself as ungainly or awkward, but ever since Praxis bought Nephthys, she felt like a waddling goose next to a stalking heron.

  Not that Nephthys stalked. She didn’t have to. Praxis stalked her—or at least watched her every move whenever he had the chance. Althaia had long ago abandoned the childish dream of marrying Praxis—wealthy Athenian maidens didn’t marry slaves, no matter how much they were treated like part of the family—but that that didn’t mean she relished the idea of him being with someone else.

  “What do you need, Althaia of Athens?” Theron asked.

  Althaia turned to face her old friend. “I need to stop mourning. Start living again.”

  Theron turned his eyes back toward the clear blue sky out the window. “It’s a fine day to start a new life.”

  Chapter Three

  Phoibe stood waist-deep in the icy Kastalian Spring, her himation floating around her like a red cloud. Her feet were numb, she could barely feel her legs, and she knew her skin would soon be as red as flame from the cold. Her eyes were closed, lips moving silently, automatically reciting the sacred liturgy as Melanippe of Dodona, priestess of Zeus Naios, God of the Springs, and Gaia, Mother of All, crushed the laurel and kannabis leaves and sprinkled them into the fire. The air in the grove was clear and cold, and as the pungent smoke rose from the coals, it mixed with scents of myrtle, laurel, cypress and pine, of moist earth and the first hints of spring. Phoibe breathed in deeply. Where is Charis?

  She opened her eyes to a world as ancient as time and yet now born anew. Dawn broke and light moved through the treetops, speckling the ground with shadow. She rippled her fingers across the clear surface and watched her reflection bob and weave on the water. How long had the sacred spring of Kastalia flowed? How many had bathed in the waters of Gaia? More than anyone could count. Maybe more than the gods could count. For endless generations, Phoibe’s family had lived and farmed on the plain between Arachova and Delphi. The water, the stones, the very dirt beneath her feet, was like her blood, her bones, her flesh.

  But she was different from the others in her family. And she was different now from that night, over twenty years ago, when she was named and chosen as an apprentice to the Pythia of the Oracle of Gaia. When she was taken from her family and given to the goddess.

  She’d heard the story a thousand times. How Sofia, the old Pythia of Gaia, had dropped her into the cistern and how she had surfaced several heart-wrenching moments later, sputtering, eyes wide, fat little arms flailing against the water. After her mother, Rhea, dried, warmed and comforted her at her breast, Sofia had taken her in her arms, opened her fists and traced the lines on her plump palms. Then Sofia had closed her eyes and said:

  This child shall be called Phoibe, like the Titan of old,

  Apollon’s own grandmother.

  She will see the Oracles of Apollon and Gaia united

  or she will see them destroyed

  and the Sacred Precinct claimed by yet another.

  Phoibe smiled when she thought of how the priestesses claimed the snakes tattooed on Sofia’s arms had come to life, writhing across her skin as if in celebration—or fear—of the woman’s words. Now Sofia had crossed the Styx. The apprenticeship was over and she, Phoibe of Arachova, was the newly named Pythia of Gaia, high priestess of the most powerful oracle of all. But where is Charis? My friend, my confidant. My handmaid should be here with me. Where is she?

  In the whole history of her line, Phoibe’s people had always worshiped the Mother. Now, she would be Mother to them all. The incarnation of the goddess on earth. She would never marry as her mother and grandmother and grandmother before her had. She would never sit by the hearth waiting for a husband to return from war, waiting for sons to come back one by one, wounded or worse, waiting on the harvest, waiting for grandchildren. Waiting to die. She would not wait on history to overtake her. She would make history.

  She looked around the glade, at the priestesses attending her, depending on her. She would not let them down. She would not be like Sofia. She would lead the people back to the Mother, away from the idolatry of gold and silver, away from the worship of war and the strength of steel, the taste of glory and death on the battlefield and back to the worship of the fruits of the Mother’s womb, of sacred springs and sweet wine and warm bread and life. The new Pythia of Gaia would no longer bend to the will of the priests of Apollon, corrupt men who drugged and enslaved their own priestess, the Pythia of Apollon, and reaped the rewards of their avarice by bringing ruin down upon the whole of the Sacred Precinct. She, Phoibe, as the new Pythia of Gaia would change everything. She could see it all. Sofia had foretold it. Melanippe had confirmed it. And now it would come to pass.

  She turned and pushed her numb feet through the water, placing them one in front of the other, climbing the stone steps until Theodora and Eumel
ia met her and stripped off her wet garments. The two priestesses cupped their hands as Melannippe’s handmaiden, Kalliope, poured scented oil into their palms from an alabastron that had been heating on the fire. They rubbed the oil on Phoibe’s shivering skin to warm her, slipped a new chiton over her head, bound it with a braided belt and wrapped a finely woven woolen himation around her shoulders. Then Theodora placed the laurel wreath upon her brow, led her to the warmth of the fire and helped her sit.

  Melanippe stood over Phoibe, her hand shaking with age, her eyes filmy and gray. “Sofia is no more. She is one with the Mother. You are now Sofia. You are now every pythia who has come before and who will ever come after. You have studied the secrets of the oracle, learned the healing lore of the land, and bathed in the sacred spring. Now you must drink.” She sprinkled more of the crushed leaves into a cup, closed her eyes in prayer, and then handed the cup to Theodora. “Take this to the Mother’s mouth so that Phoibe may drink of the sacred water. The water of life, the breath of life, the word of life. Mouth to mouth, the Mother to her daughter.”

  Theodora held the cup under the fissure where the water flowed cold and pure from the rock face and then handed it to Phoibe. And Phoibe drank. But where was Charis?

  Chapter Four

  With his sturdy legs planted firmly, Menandros’s broad girth blocked the doorway. “We must wait but a moment. I want you to see it when the light is just so.” His eyes twinkled with excitement in a ruddy face that was as round as a platter. The playwright looked like a proud father about to introduce his first-born son to the world as he swept his arm up toward the ridge of trees on the crest of the rise cradling the theater. “Soon Apollon’s rays will break above those trees and Delphi’s sacred theater will be bathed in the god’s rapturous morning light. And just wait till you see our new altar. It is made of pure white marble and the sunlight makes it shimmer like gold.”

  “It must be a sight to behold.” Althaia smiled. “Did you know my father always supported a playwright for the Dionysia?”

  Menandros’s head bobbed and his cheeks turned red. “I had heard that, yes. And I was hoping that … well …”

  Theron laughed, put his arm around Menandros’s fleshy shoulders and squeezed. “A poet at a loss of words. Better find your tongue, old friend, or Lysandros’s daughter may lose faith in your talents.”

  “Well … um … I’m disappointed that your Praxis is not here for the tour as well,” Menandros stammered, and turned back to Althaia. “I understand he is instrumental in managing your father’s estate.”

  “Never fear,” Althaia said. “Praxis will join us momentarily. He met an old friend for breakfast. Perhaps you know him. Palamedes. He’s a temple artisan.”

  Menandros stopped and turned to appraise her. “By Apollon’s arrows, a temple artisan? Palamedes is not just any old potter. He may be the best in all Hellas. Your painters in Athens have nothing on him.” Menandros boasted as if he was personally responsible for Palamedes’s abundant talents.” I own several of his pieces. Originals. Not like those copies they sell in the gift shops or hawk along the Sacred Way. But how did your slave come to know him?”

  “My father arranged for them to meet on my first trip to Delphi,” Althaia said. “Father paid Palamedes to write to Praxis, to help him learn to read and write in his native tongue.”

  “Ah, your man is a Syrian then,” Menandros said, not waiting for confirmation. “He would have had a very good teacher in Palamedes. As a matter of fact, the great man has been teaching my houseboy to draw and even do a little pottery.”

  “My father—”

  “Stop!” Menandros exclaimed. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s time.” He stepped out of the way. “After you, my dear. You will now see for yourself that there is no theater more beautiful—or more deserving of support—in all Hellas.”

  Althaia cast a quick backward glance at Theron and then stepped through the arched doorway, over the threshold, and out onto the smooth paving stones of the round orchestra. It was indeed an impressive site. She squinted and shaded her eyes as she took in the sweeping rows of audience benches nestled into the cavernous hillside.

  Menandros sighed in delight and turned to Theron. “I knew she would be impressed.”

  “By the gods!” Althaia gasped.

  “Yes,” Menandros said, as pleased with himself as if he’d just downed a fine kylix of wine, “the gods have indeed favored Delphi above all other sacred places.”

  “Shut up.” Theron brushed past Menandros and caught up to Althaia as she rushed toward center of the orchestra.

  “What?” Menandros, his brow furrowed in confusion, squinted into the sunlight and followed in Theron’s wake. Then he saw his new thymeli, the sacred altar where libations and sacrifices were offered to Dionysos before every performance, and he staggered back as if he’d run headlong into a wall. Then he steadied himself and walked toward the altar as Althaia, clutching Theron’s arm, slowly circled it.

  Naked and draped upon it was the dead body of a young woman. She lay on her back, arms splayed off to each side, legs spread wide. A viper lay draped between her legs, its tail dangling toward the ground and its bashed-in head resting on a smear of blood between her breasts. Her head was tipped backward off the edge of the altar and her empty eyes stared upside down at nothing—at everything. A mass of long, tangled hair hung limp, the tips a whisper away from the paving stones. A stiff breeze picked up the woman’s curls and twisted them toward Althaia like Medusa’s grasping serpents.

  Menandros shuddered and Theron wrapped his arm around Althaia’s shoulders. She leaned into him and whispered, “Nephthys was right. There is evil in Delphi.”

  Chapter Five

  Standing on opposite sides of the altar, the woman’s body between them, Althaia met Theron’s gaze. “Other than some bruising on her arms and marks on her cheekbone, there are no signs of a struggle. Have you discovered anything?”

  “No,” Theron answered. “What little blood there is comes from the viper, and there are no signs of any external wound.”

  “Can we not turn her over? There is straw in her hair, and—”

  “We dare not move her until the priests arrive. We don’t want to incur their wrath before we’ve even met them.”

  Menandros, who had been pacing back and forth, stopped and stared. “What kind of man would do a thing like this?”

  “As a playwright you should know mankind has made a regular practice of doing ‘things like this,’” Theron said. “Murder is, unfortunately, all too common among men,” Theron said.

  “No, I mean who could desecrate a sacred altar like this?”

  “Menandros, please,” Theron cast a quick glance at Althaia who had lifted the woman’s hair and was bent over attempting to examine the back of her head, “a young woman is dead.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. It is unfortunate, terrible even, but the sacred theater and this holy altar have been defiled. Who would risk the wrath of the gods in such a brazen way?”

  “Someone who does not fear them,” Althaia said, looking up.

  “Even men who fear the gods are capable of killing their fellow man,” Theron said.

  “Whoever did this might as well have killed me!” Menandros said as he set about pacing again. “Do you realize the pilgrimage season is almost upon us? When word gets out there’s been a murder in the Sacred Precinct, we’ll have to re-sanctify the altar. The whole theater. Possibly the whole precinct. Not since the last Sacred War have we seen death within these walls. My actors won’t perform here without a purification ceremony. Theron,” Menandros stopped and clutched his friend’s arm. “No one will come to a theater of the dead.”

  “I’m certain Apollon’s priests will be more than happy to put on a grand show of re-sanctifying your theater. We should be more concerned about who this woman is and how she ended up here,” Theron admonished, turning as Praxis reentered the theater. Praxis had arrived just after Althaia found the body, and Theron imme
diately sent him to alert the guards from the Amphiktyonik League, the association of city states with administrative authority over the holy site, and to find Philon and Kleomon, the senior priests of the Sacred Precinct and Temple of Apollon.

  Praxis had been Althaia’s father’s slave for as long as she could remember and had always been treated more like a son than a servant. He had been groomed to serve as overseer of Lysandros’ estate and bodyguard for Althaia whenever she traveled. Although she had inherited him upon her father’s death, Althaia considered him a part of her family. But their relationship had changed since her father’s death and she did not understand why—or what to do about it.

  Now, with his broad chest heaving with exertion, he took his place back at Althaia’s side. “The priests are on their way and Heraklios, the head of the Amphiktyonik League here, won’t be far behind them,” Praxis said. As he caught his breath, he watched Althaia examining the woman’s head and gave her a dark look. “Don’t tell me you are—”

  “I asked her to look,” Theron interrupted.

  “Look for what?” Menandros said.

  “For anything that might tell us how this woman died.”

  “Have you lost your senses, Theron? Why are you asking her—a woman?” Menandros turned to his, hopefully, future benefactress. “No offense, my dear, but what can you possibly know about such matters?”

  Praxis crossed his arms and looked down disapprovingly at her. She ignored him, dropped the dead woman’s hair, and stood to face Menandros. She was used to being underestimated—not by her father or Praxis or Theron—but by everyone else, including her new husband. “Theron was my tutor, but he was not my only teacher,” she said. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been fascinated by the human body, from statues in the agora to painted people on our pottery. One winter, while we were in Egypt, he arranged for me to study with a priest of Amun-Ra, and I was allowed to observe the mummification process and taught to identify cause of death. I even participated in dissections, or what Theron calls autopsias.” Under normal circumstances, she would never have discussed her interest in human anatomy in front of anyone but Praxis and Theron, but Theron had assured her that Menandros was perfectly safe. She stifled a smile and wondered what compromising information Theron had on his old friend that he could be trusted so implicitly.