Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  “You can’t let that fat old priest get to you.”

  Althaia shuddered and drew the throw closer around her shoulders. She looked up at him and smiled.

  “You know me too well.”

  “He’s likely mad. No sane man would imply Theron had anything to do with the murder.”

  “I know, I know. The mere idea is ridiculous. But what if the rest of what he said was true? What if the young woman’s death was some sort of sacrifice?”

  “You said it yourself. Sacrifices require blood and there was no blood.”

  “Then how did she die?”

  “I don’t—” Praxis started.

  “Did you notice the slight bluish tint to her skin, around her mouth and eyes?” Althaia interrupted, thinking out loud. What was it Inaros taught me about strangulation? “Suffocation?” Praxis sat back on his heels and listened. “And there were bruises on her face, but people don’t die from bruises, do they?” She looked up.

  “No,” Praxis said.

  “Of course not. And why would the killer strip her body and place her just so on the altar? What was the message he wanted to send? Did he force himself on her? Did he violate her before—?” Althaia stopped, shuddered and shook her head vigorously. “No, I didn’t see any blood or bruising on her thighs. If only I’d had more time…” she trailed off.

  Praxis stood quickly and ran his fingers through his unruly hair as Nephthys appeared with a platter of dried fruits, a loaf of steaming brown bread and a jug of warmed wine. “Master Theron asked that I bring you refreshments, and Menandros’s larder is well stocked.” Nephthys placed the platter on a long low table next to the brazier. Althaia absently plucked a fig from the platter and stuck it in her mouth as she turned her attention back to the flickering embers. Nephthys poured a cup of wine and set it on the table in front of her mistress, then poured another, cupped it in her hands, and presented it to Praxis like a priestess offering libations to a god. He placed his hands over hers and brought the cup to his lips, never taking his eyes from Nephthys’ face. She looked up at him and shaft of desire—more than desire, longing and tenderness, too—splintered his heart.

  “Ahem,” Theron cleared his throat as he entered the room. Nephthys startled, pulled away and sloshed wine over the rim of the cup as Praxis glared at the source of the intrusion. But he came back to himself. Now was not the time for Nephthys.

  Nephthys poured another glass and started to hand it to Theron when Menandros’s houseboy, Zenon, stuck his head in the room.

  “Master Theron? There’s a man here to see you. He says he carries an urgent message.”

  “So soon,” Theron muttered.

  Theron turned slowly, with a sort of deliberateness Praxis had seen too many times on the battlefield when he had fought alongside Lysandros. Theron glanced at Althaia and caught Praxis’ eyes. There was a touch of sadness in Theron’s gaze that Praxis recognized. It was a look that, he suspected, was too often in his own eyes. The look one has when you’ve been staring too long out the window at nothing, at everything. At the past. Thinking how strange it is that no matter how hard you try to leave one life behind to start another, the first always haunts you. Always finds you.

  “Soon? What do you mean? Who is it?” Althaia asked.

  “He says his name is Nikomachos of Dodona,” Zenon piped up, “and that the message is confidential—for Master Theron’s eyes only.”

  Theron took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Send him in.”

  “You don’t seem surprised,” Praxis observed. “I’m guessing this is no old friend coming to call.”

  “I’ve never met him, but I know who he is and I think I know who sent him.”

  “Hail, Theron of Thessaly,” Nikomachos said as he crossed the threshold into the andron. The man quickly took in the room and all its contents, including, Praxis noted, a moment too long spent on Althaia. He reached out to clasp Theron’s outstretched hand. “The message I carry is intended for your eyes only.”

  “Nikomachos of Dodona. You are Melanippe’s son.”

  “I have that privilege.” His eyes swept over the room again and lingering again on Althaia. “But the nature of the message I carry—”

  “Don’t worry,” Theron interrupted. “The time for keeping secrets from friends is over.”

  “Then you know who—”

  “Yes. I’m just surprised it came so quickly.”

  “She is here, in Delphi. Our informant in the Sacred Precinct overhead Philon’s guards describe a man from Thessaly, the son of a priestess, traveling with a woman from Athens”—his eyes flicked over toward Althaia again—“and staying with the playwright. She suspected it might be you, and asked me to speak with you. Please know that, to the extent possible, she has followed your career over the years. I grew up hearing stories about you.”

  “As I have followed hers.” Theron said, smiling a wistful smile the likes of which Praxis had never seen before. Praxis and Theron had regaled each other with stories of conquests in battle and in bed during their long years traveling together in the service of Althaia’s father. Theron had always been a great storyteller, but there were places and parts of his past he had never shared. Now Praxis was beginning to suspect that his past, or at least a piece of it, was in Delphi.

  Praxis was suddenly keenly aware that Althaia could not keep her eyes from Nikomachos. It was Praxis’s job—his life’s work—to keep Althaia out of trouble. That had never been an easy task—trouble seemed to find Althaia as easily as mystery and intrigue found Theron. He could feel in his bones that there was nothing good about the way she was looking at this man. As she stood to join Theron, Praxis followed her gaze, trying to see what she was seeing. Nikomachos was not quite as tall as either he or Theron, but he was certainly as well-built. It would be a difficult fight if it came to that. The man’s hair was the color of burnished bronze and his face was dominated by startling green eyes, full lips, and a strong jaw line that was clean-shaven in the style the young Alexander of Makedon was making fashionable everywhere but Athens. There wasn’t anything particular about him that he didn’t like, other than the way he glanced at Althaia and the way she held his gaze, but Praxis decided he didn’t want this Nikomachos of Dodona spending too much time near his matron.

  Nikomachos held out a scroll bound by a green ribbon and a wax seal. Theron stared at it, but did not reach out to take it.

  “Let me introduce my employer, Althaia of Athens, and my friend, Praxis of Syria,” he said, as if delaying the moment he had to grasp the scroll in his hand.

  “I am glad to make the acquaintance of your friends.” Nikomachos directed his comments to Praxis, as propriety dictated, but his gaze strayed back toward Althaia. Praxis drew himself up in height and took a step closer. As if he knew he’d been caught, Nikomachos squared his shoulders and returned his full attention to Theron. He thrust the scroll toward Theron again, and finally Theron took it, turning it over to examine the wax seal.

  “Is it true you discovered the body?” Nikomachos asked. “That it was … that she was … naked … in the theater? On the altar of Dionysos?”

  Praxis saw a shadow pass over Nikomachos’s face. The dead woman and this man were friends, or maybe more than friends. He’d put good money on that wager. Another reason to keep Althaia as far away from him as possible.

  “Althaia saw the body first,” Theron said.

  Nikomachos’s eyes widened and he looked at Althaia with obvious interest.

  “You found her in the theater?” Nikomachos clenched the handle of his dagger and Praxis saw Althaia stop herself from reaching out to the man. What is she thinking?

  “Yes,” she said. “Stretched out like a lover, as if she were offering herself to Dionysos himself.” Like a lover? Zeus’s balls, this is not good. Praxis had to stop himself from grabbing her shoulders and shaking her until she remembered she was a prominent matron of Athens with a reputation to consider. She never did care much for the rules of prorpiety,
but his life depended on her following them. If she were caught in an adulterous relationship, Lycon would blame him for the scandal and shame it would bring upon the family. It could mean disgrace—or worse. Lycon was already none too happy with the freedom Althaia gave him and would be more than eager to sell him to the highest bidder the first chance he got.

  Nikomachos’s brow knotted and the muscles along his jaw twitched.

  “You knew her.” Althaia’s voice was soft and low.

  “I did,” Nikomachos whispered. Nikomachos stared at the tiled mosaic on the floor as if he could not meet Althaia’s eyes. At least he is taking care.

  “Who was she?” Theron asked, breaking the strange spell. Is he oblivious to Althaia’s behavior? Praxis wondered. There must be something powerfully interesting in that scroll, he thought. But then again, Theron didn’t care much for rules and takes delight in flouting the bounds of propriety. Too often, Theron turned a blind eye or even encouraged her wild behavior instead of helping to rein it in.

  “Her name was Charis,” Nikomachos said, his voice ragged. “Over the years, my mother traveled often to Delphi, and when she could not come herself, I came in her stead. Charis was a loyal and beloved attendant to Phoibe, and I saw her often when I was visiting. It is a great shock for Phoibe.” He looked up at Theron.

  Who is Phoibe? Praxis felt he was missing some crucial piece of the conversation.

  “A murder is a shock to everyone but the murderer,” Theron observed, his finger still rubbing the wax seal.

  “Naked … in the theater,” Nikomachos repeated. “Unbelievable.” He cleared his throat. Theron still had not broken the seal. “Should I leave you to read your message in private? She asked me to stay in case you wanted to send a reply.” And who is this message from? Who is it this woman that is here in Delphi?

  “Stay,” Theron said. In a sudden flourish, Theron untied the ribbon and broke the seal. He unrolled the scroll and stared at the careful script, his lips moving as he read silently. Althaia, Praxis, Nephthys, and Nikomachos watched in silence. After a moment, he let it roll back up in his hand and turned to Nikomachos.

  “Nikos, huh?”

  “It is what my friends call me.”

  “Well, Nikos, tell her I will be there.”

  Nikos turned to leave, but not before he cast one more glance back toward Althaia. Praxis scowled as Althaia met the man’s gaze openly, boldly.

  “Let me show you out,” Praxis said, stepping up to escort Nikos. He’d kick him through the door and bolt it behind him if he thought that would help keep the two away from each other until they returned to Athens. But given the way Nikos and Althaia looked at each other, he doubted his job would be that easy.

  Chapter ten

  “If it’s suspense you’re going for, you’ve achieved your goal,” Althaia said. “What is all this about?” She sat across the table from Theron, her throw wrapped snugly around her shoulders. The scroll lay between them. Praxis dragged a chair toward the table and joined them.

  Theron replied with a sigh and a sad, knowing smile. The kind of smile reserved for occasions when there is nothing left to do but smile as you surrender to the fates.

  “Well, well. This is a first. I’ve never seen you at a loss for words,” Praxis said.

  “My friend,” Theron began, “in all our years, all our adventures together, we’ve seldom spoken of our childhoods. But it seems that painful memories can only remain buried for so long. Yesterday, of course, determines who we are today, and as much as we might like to leave the past behind, it always dogs our heels, snapping and yelping even as we try to outrun it. We served Lysandros of Athens and now we serve his daughter. Me, willingly. You, well, life is not always just. But when I broke the seal on this scroll, my past became my present. And by the nature of our relationships, how we are all tied together in our unconventional little family, it became your present as well. Now, I’d like to savor this last moment of freedom before the dog finally catches up and clamps down hard.”

  “Whatever is in the scroll, Theron, you will always have my love and friendship.” Althaia searched her tutor’s face, placed her hand over his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Oh, it’s not that bad. Just … complicated. Especially in light of this morning. The girl.”

  “Perhaps old Kleomon isn’t quite as addled as we thought,” Praxis mused.

  “Perhaps, indeed.” Theron took a deep breath and handed the scroll to Althaia. “Read it. Aloud.”

  She cleared her throat and began:

  “Brother —”

  She looked up, astonished.

  “Go on.” Theron leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  “Brother,

  How many years have passed since last we sneaked into the hills to swim in our favorite stream and share a lunch of bread and honey? Too many. I will never forget the last time I saw your face. You did not come for Mother’s funeral and so I did not expect to see you at Father’s. And yet as I looked across his pyre, through the flames and smoke of the offering, I found your eyes. My eyes. We are as one. We did not speak that day and you, like the flames, were as quickly gone as if you were an apparition. Perhaps, I thought, I had conjured you out of my dreams. It had been so long.

  Your reputation, whether deserved or not, has brought you to the attention of the newly anointed Pythia of Gaia. She does not yet know your name, but I suspected, as did Melanippe, that the man from Thessaly at the theater this morning was none other than my own Theron. A few simple inquiries confirmed my suspicions and led me to you.

  Brother, suspicion and ambition gnaw at the heart of Gaia’s young pythia and she hopes to enlist your aid in seeking swift retribution for the girl who, as you may have guessed, was one of our own. We are divided and I fear everything is at stake. You will soon receive a message begging your attendance at a gathering tomorrow midmorning at the Korycian Cave.

  I will be there and I hope to see you at last. Please send word if you will come. You can trust Nikos.

  — Thea”

  “Not addled at all,” Praxis said.

  “Wait, I don’t understand,” Althaia said. “You have a sister?”

  “Theodora,” Theron said, his voice barely audible. He opened his eyes and stared into the fire. “My twin.”

  “A twin sister! Why did you never tell me you had a sister? A twin? All these years, you never said a word.”

  “I wanted to tell you many times, believe me. But I hadn’t spoken about her for so long that sometimes she didn’t even seem real anymore. As if I had cobbled together the story of a family from bits and pieces of other people’s lives.”

  “But why? Why did you never talk about it?

  “Why does anyone keep secrets?”

  “To hide from ourselves,” Praxis said. “But it seldom works.”

  “And I am getting old….”

  “You’re not old,” Althaia grumbled. She hated this talk of memories. She had her own memories to overcome. Memories that kept her awake at night or that swept her into nightmares from which she could barely wake. Memories that both Theron and Praxis knew about. And for all the times she had shared her darkest fears with Theron, or asked about his childhood, or pressed Praxis to tell her how he came to be a slave, for all the times she had been as transparent as the Aegean Sea on a brilliant summer’s day, these two men, the only family she had left, had kept the secrets of their pasts to themselves. How much of yourself can you give to another without getting anything in return? Was she nothing more to them than an employer and a master? The betrayal burned and she looked away to hide the flame in her cheeks.

  “Not ancient, perhaps,” Theron went on, “but older, and since my father’s funeral, I have not seen my sister’s face. Now, with all this ….”

  Praxis studied his old friend. “Why have you avoided her all these years? And what has this to do with the girl at the theater?”

  “Kleomon was right. My mother was a priestess of Gaia. When
she died, my sister took her place.”

  Althaia pushed her anger aside and steadied her voice. “Of course all Hellenes worship the mother goddess, but I didn’t know there were still priestesses dedicated to her cult here in Delphi. Do not the priests of Apollon run the Sacred Precinct?”

  “Besides the Pythia, there are only eight priestesses left who are dedicated to Gaia, and few people visit the sacred places anymore. There were never any temples, just groves or caves. That’s why Delphi is so important. The Korycian Cave and the Spring of Ge are the most sacred places for the cult. Except for the exact position of the oracle, of course.”

  “Did you know she would be here?” Althaia asked, her voice hollow, fearful of what his answer might be. “Is that why you were anxious to come to Delphi?” Had he wanted to come because he hoped to be reunited with his sister—his twin sister. After all these years, would he go to his sister, become a part of her life, leave Athens behind? Her hurt and frustration drained away, leaving her empty, lonely. What would she do if she lost Theron or Praxis? She would be alone. Alone in a houseful of slaves with a husband who hardly acknowledged she existed, in a city that refused to recognize that an educated woman merited even the most basic rights of citizenship, amidst a controlling group of domineering uncles, meddling aunts, and mindless cousins who thought a busy day was worrying about which ribbons to wear in their hair, telling cook what to buy at the market, and weaving a new blanket for the next baby on the way. No, she could not lose Theron or Praxis.