by Marie Savage
“Your personal guards will follow orders from my men.”
“Kleomon and I are perfectly capable of handling the woman’s body. Just now we were preparing to remove it to the storeroom for safekeeping. If no one claims her, we will make sure she receives a proper burial.”
“But who is—” Menandros started.
Heraklios exhaled expansively, cutting the playwright off. “Philon, you’re welcome to keep the body in the storeroom until it is claimed, but my sentries will be posted outside to guard it and I will, of course, oversee the investigation into her death. By the way, anyone know who she is?”
Heraklios stared at the two priests, but neither said a word. “Well, once word gets out someone will claim her. If not, then you two can do your duty and handle the pyre and burial.”
“For a thousand years we have done our duty.” Philon’s voice was tight.
“And for a thousand years, the Amphiktyonic League has provided protection so you priests can perform you duties. If anyone or anything interferes with the administration of the Sacred Precinct or Sacred Lands,” Heraklios said, “the League will take all steps necessary to eliminate that threat.”
“Of course, the League has responsibility in times of grave threat,” Philon agreed with ice in his voice. “But, the murder of a single young woman doesn’t rise to that level.”
Heraklios was tired of Philon’s interference in his work. He didn’t trust either priest and knew for a fact they were both as corrupt as, well, as he was. But getting first choice of the best whores and the best wine at the Dolphin’s Cove was a far cry from what he suspected Philon and Kleomon were up to. Presumptious, pompous priests! He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from spitting to ward off the evil eye. “I wasn’t talking about the girl,” he growled.
For a moment, it seemed as if Zeus had turned Philon to stone. He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t take a breath. Then the moment passed and he appeared relaxed, in control. “Since you seem to have this investigation well in hand, we humble priests will leave you to it. I will send one of my guards up to oversee removal of the body. Please keep us informed of your investigation’s progress.”
Kleomon opened his mouth to speak, but Philon gripped his arm and guided the glowering priest toward the door of the theater.
Heraklios called out, “You two sure you have no idea who this girl is?”
Before disappearing through the doorway, Philon turned. “The investigation is in your capable hands now, Heraklios.”
Heraklios watched them go, then turned to Theron and snorted. “Priests and bureaucrats—I don’t know which is worse. Now, you ready to undertake the task of bringing this young woman’s murderer to justice?”
“Me? I thank you for your confidence,” Theron said, “but—”
Heraklios leaned in. “To be frank, I’m shorthanded at the moment and could use your help. I’ve got a new group of psiloi in and they’re too busy exercising their cocks to train with their spears.” He walked around the altar. “Looks to me like someone’s sending someone a message, and I think you’re just the man to figure out who’s who and what’s what.”
“As I told Philon and Kleomon,” Theron protested, “we’ve come to Delphi on a mission of a personal nature—to fulfill Althaia’s father’s final wishes.”
Heraklios threw back his head and laughed. “By Zeus’s beard, man, I’d wager a year’s pay that old Lysandros will still be dead after the murderer is found.”
Theron opened his mouth, but Heraklios clutched his elbow and guided him toward the body on the altar.
“Now,” Heraklios pressed, “why don’t you give me your expert assessment of the situation.”
Theron looked up questioningly at Althaia and she shrugged in answer. She glanced at Praxis and as their eyes met, she knew it was a foregone conclusion. They both knew that when Theron was presented with a problem to solve, nothing could stand in his way. And it couldn’t hurt to wait a few more days to find the answers to their own mystery. Besides, Althaia thought, she could certainly use a little excitement. Her life had changed dramatically after losing the protection of her indulgent father. Athenian society suddenly expected her to grow up and act like a respectable matron even though her husband couldn’t care less whether she came or went—as long as her money was within his easy reach. Praxis had slowly changed from best friend and childhood confidant to distant bodyguard, and Theron was busier than ever working with Praxis to manage her father’s vast estate. A little adventure could be good for the soul.
“I don’t have an expert assessment—at least not yet,” Theron answered. “I do think whoever did this wants us to think it was a sacrifice. Why else strip her naked and leave the body on the altar of Dionysos? It’s clear that Kleomon is taking the bait—or old Kleomon is providing the bait.”
“Surely, you don’t think he’s involved,” Menandros exclaimed.
“He seemed awfully eager to point the finger at the priestesses of Gaia—or anyone associated with them,” Theron replied. “And the priests have unfettered access to the Sacred Precinct. He, or someone he knows, could have left the body here.”
“Is it true? What he said about you?” Menandros asked. “I’ve known you a long time and it seems odd that such a skeptic and admirer of atomists like Leucippus and Democritus could be the son of a priestess.”
“None of us can escape our history, my friend, but at least we have some say about our destiny,” Theron replied.
“The Fates might argue with you on that point.” Heraklios laughed. “But one thing is for sure, we all have family members we’d rather not claim. As for the priestesses, I know there are a few folks scattered here and there who still practice the old ways. I say let them. You’re not going to find me saying anything bad about any god or goddess—I’d just as soon have them all on my side. But, as far as I know, Apollon long ago replaced the old beliefs here in Delphi.” Heraklios said.
“That may be true,” Althaia spoke up. “But, that is not what the murderer wants us to believe.”
“The cult lives on in Delphi,” Theron whispered. “Of that, I am certain.”
Chapter Seven
Georgios raced up the hillside, his leather sandals barely touching the rock-strewn path. I should not have left her, he thought. Even though he had never heard such a brutal cry pass Phoibe’s lips, he knew it was her voice. And he knew something was terribly wrong. He pushed past her retinue of protesting handmaidens and burst through the door to find her on the floor, wailing, tearing at her clothes and hair. Theodora of Pytheion, one of the other priestesses, was trying to comfort her, but Phoibe was inconsolable, thrashing at her like a wild thing.
I’m here,” he said as he dropped to the floor beside her, wrapping his arms around her thin frame, drawing her tight against his chest. Theodora knelt beside him. “It’s Charis.” Her voice was tired. “Dead. Murdered. That’s why she wasn’t at the naming ceremony.”
Georgios nodded, but didn’t really understand. Charis dead? Murdered? Perhaps the gods really did answer prayers. Half a dozen names flew through his mind, names of people who could very well have had a hand in ushering Phoibe’s handmaiden across the river Acheron and into the Underworld, people who would not grieve Charis’s passing. He would be one of them. As much as he loved Phoibe, he had no love for her best friend, her closest attendant. How many times had he warned Phoibe about Charis? Delphi was rife with rumors about her, but Phoibe would listen to none of them. And so he had eventually learned to keep his mouth shut. Now Charis was dead, and he wondered who had finally rid the world of her manipulating and scheming. He had to grit his teeth to keep a grim smile from taking shape on his lips. Finally Phoibe would be free of Charis’s influence. Finally, her mind would clear and she would return to herself. He held Phoibe even closer. “I’m here,” he whispered again and again until her eyes found his face.
He was tired of keeping his distance, of playing by Gaia’s—or Charis’s—rules. Over the last
several months, Phoibe had tried to keep up appearances, tried to be strong. But he could see the signs. The sickness. He was afraid it would kill her just as it had killed Sofia, the Pythia of Gaia before Phoibe. Charis brushed away his worries and said she was taking care of Phoibe herself. That she had been trained in the healing arts, but Georgios knew Phoibe was getting worse. Before the naming ceremony, he had even approached the other priestesses as they arrived in Delphi. Melanippe of Dodona wouldn’t even see him, but several of the others at least listened. Theodora had asked him to describe Phoibe’s symptoms, scratching them onto a wax tablet as he spoke. He’d had to clasp his hands in his lap to keep them still, and more than once had to blink back tears. As a pankriatist, he had been pummeled many times in the gymnasium and had always clamored to his feet and gone back for more. He never stopped fighting, and the fact that he was a favorite for the next Olympic games was a testament more to his determination than to his skill. But the thought of losing Phoibe was like a lance through the heart, and he wondered how, if the worst happened, he could ever get on his feet again.
Phoibe pulled away. Her eyes were rimmed red and her face was blotchy and streaked.
“Her body was found this morning at the theater.” She clutched at Georgios’s cloak.
“How do you know this already? It is morning still.”
“One of our spies from the temple sent word. I told you something was wrong when she didn’t come to the naming ceremony last night,” Phoibe sobbed. “She was to stand with me. To hold the sacred barley bowl and pour the libations.”
He studied her face, but said nothing. What was there to say?
“I depended on her,” Phoibe said, finally calming her tears. “Who will stand beside me now? Since the first day I came to Delphi, she was there for me. You know how lonely I was. How much I wanted to go home. I tried to be brave, but I wasn’t. I was scared. Scared of the Pythia. Scared of the visions. But whenever I cried at night, Charis would crawl under the covers with me. When I had a bad vision, when I couldn’t talk for hours after, she would appear with a piece of gastrin dripping with honey or a loaf of bread still warm from the oven. Like a conjurer, she always found a way to bring me exactly what I needed, exactly what I wanted. She loved me and without her, I would not be Pythia today.”
Her words stripped him bare, flaying the flesh from his bones as he realized Charis’ love had meant more to Phoibe than his own. He wanted to cry out that he had been there for her, too. That they had been there for each other, the orphan boy with a talent for fighting and the promising young priestess with the gift of sight. They had stolen away together as often as possible and she had told him about learning how to be a priestess and he had told her about learning to throw a man twice his size to the ground. They had shared their secrets, and as they got older, they shared their bodies and pledged that they would never leave each other. He thought they meant everything to each other, but now….
He knew Phoibe was the culmination of all her family’s hopes. Since time began, her ancestors had worshiped Gaia above all. They made their sacrifices at the Korycian Cave. They supported the priestesses with offerings of meat, bread, oil and what little silver they could spare. And they stayed as far away as possible from the corrupt practices of the priests at the Temple of Apollon. He understood and respected what she was, what she would become. And he knew that there was a part of her that belonged to the goddess, a part he could never have. He could accept that. But he couldn’t accept sharing her with Charis. Charis had been there from the beginning, too. Always trying to undermine him. Always manipulating Phoibe. He shook himself as if waking from a dream. He did not to need to be jealous of Charis. Not anymore.
“Who would want to kill her?” he asked.
“Philon and Kleomon,” Phoibe whispered hoarsely. “They killed her as a warning to me.”
“You can’t mean that,” he said and shot a glance up at Theodora.
“Of course I mean it! Who else could it be? They know the prophecy. I’ll never understand why, but Sofia told Philon. Now she’s dead, and Philon knows he can’t control me as he did her.”
“He didn’t control her, Phoibe,” Theodora spoke up.
“What do you know about it?” Phoibe wiped her eyes and scrambled to her feet. “You weren’t here all those years. Sofia was a stupid, gullible woman. Charis saw them together. More than once. And more than friends.” Phoibe shuddered.
“She had no right to spy on them,” Georgios said, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He pushed himself up, towering over Phoibe.
“She had every right. She was my handmaiden! She knew it was my destiny to become Pythia of Gaia, so it was her duty to protect me and protect the oracle—even from Gaia’s own misguided priestess.” Phoibe choked back a sob. “Philon and Kleomon know and fear the prophecy. Year after year, we go on. Even as their power is waning, even as fewer and fewer travel to Delphi to seek the Oracle of Apollon’s guidance, our followers remain true. They resort to drugging their pathetic pythia while we seek and find new sacred chasms for Gaia’s pneuma. Apollon’s voice grows faint. His power dims. And if the god’s power dims, the priests’ power dims.”
Georgios drew in a breath and chose his words carefully. “Phoibe, the Oracle of Gaia is no threat to the famous Oracle of Apollon. Prophecy or no. If the priest’s power is waning, it is not because of you. There must be another explanation.”
Phoibe spun around. “There is no other explanation! Charis was stripped naked, murdered and left like a sacrificial offering on Dionysos’ altar. She may even have been raped. And there was a snake … Oh, Gaia! I am told there was a dead snake laid out on her belly from between her legs to her breasts. What else are we to think?”
Georgios kept his voice even. “It doesn’t make sense. What would Philon and Kleomon have to gain from murdering Charis? She was nothing to them.”
“Don’t you see? This has nothing to do with Charis. She is—she was—simply a piece in a game of power. Two oracles claiming one sacred ground. Like any game, it cannot go on forever. There must be a winner.”
“Murder is no game.” he whispered. Even with Charis gone, he could hear Phoibe speaking her words.
Phoibe continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “They will end it or I will end it. In Gaia’s name, I swear. That was the prophecy, was it not? That I would see the two oracles joined or I would see them destroyed?”
“You would destroy the sacred Oracle of Gaia to revenge Charis?” Theodora challenged.
“Of course not! The Oracle of Gaia can never be destroyed. Sofia did not understand the prophecy. She chose not to understand it because she was blind. Her friendship with Philon—even with Apollon’s Pythia—prevented her from seeing the truth. She chose to believe we could all go on claiming the same sacred ground forever. But Charis understood. She believed in me. She believed I will reclaim the Sacred Precinct that was stolen from us. That Gaia’s Oracle will be reborn, stronger and more powerful than ever before. For his crimes against the goddess, we will send Apollon far beyond the Vale of Tempe and this time he will not return.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. Apollon’s Oracle is strong; the priests are among the most powerful men in all Hellas. We are weak; our numbers are few,” Theodora protested. Her heart was heavy with worry and doubt. Could Phoibe replace Sofia? Would she be able to withstand the pressures from within and without—from the gift of sight and the manipulations of those who would have her be nothing more than a political pawn?
“You cannot challenge them and win.” Georgios added, thankful Theodora had the courage to speak up, to challenge Phoibe. He hoped that even if Phoibe wouldn’t listen to him, she would listen to Theodora. She needed another priestess to guide her. Someone other than Charis, someone other than that damned witch from Dodona.
“I know perfectly well what I am saying. This is what I was born for. This is why I was chosen.”
“It’s the priestess of Dodona,” Theodora
said, her voice measured, cautious. “She and Charis have filled your head with these ideas.”
“As the eldest priestess of the Oracle of Zeus and Gaia in Dodona, Melanippe has long wielded great power in the lives of men. Even Alexander of Makedon sought her wise counsel.”
“She was wise in her youth, but there are many who believe the years have turned her thoughts as rancid as the summer sun turns uncured meat.” Theodora said. “You must tread carefully around her. Her influence over your thoughts troubles me.”
“You should be more troubled by the fact that Charis is dead. If the priests are not responsible for her death, tell me who is, Theodora? You profess to know my thoughts; perhaps you know the killer’s thoughts, too.”
“Phoibe—” Georgios started.
“I know you would caution me to hold my tongue,” Phoibe said as she pulled away from Georgios and swayed unsteadily on her feet. “But I am the Pythia of Gaia, and I will not be talked down to by other priestesses, no matter how many years they wear on their brow.”
Georgios stood and took her hand in his even as she tried to pull away. “It is because you are the Pythia of Gaia now that, more than ever before, you must take care to act with caution and wisdom. To accuse the priests of Apollon of murder is not a thing to be done lightly and certainly not a thing to be done on the counsel of an old woman whose mind is bent by more than years.”
Phoibe pulled her hand away and twisted the gold ring on her finger. “This ring,” she said finally, “is a symbol of my position.” She slid it from her finger and pressed it into Georgios’ palm. It was but a glittering trifle against the wide landscape of his roughened skin. He said nothing, and she picked it up again and held it up for Theodora to see, as if the older priestess had never seen the ancient ring before.
“Two intertwined serpents. The symbol of Gaia’s guardian, the drakon Apollon slew with a hundred arrows, and me, her Pythia.”