by Marie Savage
Nephthys refilled his glass and Praxis drained took another long drink. “That’s where Nikos, Theron’s messenger, is staying. In fact, he should be here in just a moment. He was right behind me.”
“The priestess’s son? Coming here?” Althaia heard herself ask as her heart flip-flopped at the sound of Nikos’s name. The idea of a mob outside the storehouse was unnerving, but seeing Nikos again….
Before Praxis had answered, the door swung open and Zenon announced Nikomachos of Dodona. Althaia barely had a chance to adjust her headband or pinch her cheeks before the man was standing just a few feet from her.
“Ah, here he is. Zenon, bring another chair.”
“No need,” Nikos said. “I can only stay a moment.”
“Do you know our host, Menandros the playwright?” Theron asked.
“Not formally.” He greeted Menandros, who sized him up appreciatively as if determining what role to cast him in.
“I ran into Nikos on my way back from the Sacred Precinct,” Praxis continued. “We were able to strike a deal of sorts.”
“How so?” Theron turned to Nikos.
“I understand that Thea and Eumelia sanctioned the examination you proposed. If they are in favor of the idea, then I would like to help you make it happen.”
“What about your mother?” Althaia asked.
A shadow flickered across Nikos’s brow. “I understand she was less than welcoming at the Korycian Cave, but I wouldn’t concern yourself. If Thea thinks what you’re doing is a good idea, then I will do my part to help you.”
Althaia couldn’t sit still while Nikos stood so calmly before her, looking down at her with his bright green eyes. She got up and poked at the fire so she could look across at him, see the full length of him.
“So what is this deal?” Theron asked.
“Praxis explained that you are in need of a diversion so you can get into the storehouse. I believe Diokles and I will be able to give you one. It will not take much to get a few men riled up and ready to confront the priests over the desecration of the Sacred Precinct. Some of the townspeople are clamoring for blood anyway.”
“Diokles?” Althaia asked. “He’s the one who owns that inn. Is he a man to be trusted?”
“The Dolphin’s Cove. I’ve known him most of my life and when I’m in Delphi, I always stay at The Cove.”
“So,” Theron said, “while you create a diversion, we will be able to get Althaia into the storehouse.”
“Exactly,” Nikos said.
“And what do you get in return?” Theron asked.
“I will be your conduit for taking what you learn from the autopsia to Thea and, yes, to my mother. My mother will want—will expect—to know what you find. I hope to give her what information I can. It is part of the role I play for her.”
Theron considered Nikos for a moment. “Does Thea know about this?”
“Not about the diversion, but it was she who told me about the examination.”
“Well then, go make your plans with Diokles. Send a messenger when you are setting out and we will send word back to you when it is all over.”
Nikos’s eyes rested on Althaia. “May the goddess watch over you.” He turned to Theron and Praxis. “I will take your leave then.” And without another word, he disappeared into the corridor.
The room was silent a moment until Theron was sure he heard the front door shut behind Nikos. He got up, went to the door and checked the corridor. He turned to Praxis. “You made a deal with Nikos to provide a diversion so we can get Althaia into the storehouse. And yet you told us the body is no longer in the storehouse.”
“Ah, you are right, my friend,” Praxis wiped the back of his hand across his lips and answered with a sly smile. “It is not in the storehouse. It is in the temple. Where no one would ever think to look for it.”
“In the temple!” Menandros squirmed in his seat and clapped like a child presented with a new toy.
“Are you saying that the body is in—” Theron started.
“—the adyton,” Praxis finished.
“The inner sanctum!” Menandros exclaimed, nearly jumping up and down in his chair. “Oh, even I couldn’t have thought of that.”
Althaia was stunned. Surely, they did not still hope to perform an examination on the body if it rested in the inner sanctum of the Temple of Apollon. How would they even get in there? Entry by anyone but the Pythia and the priests was forbidden.
Theron met Praxis’s eyes. “You did not tell Nikos the body had been moved.”
“I did not see the need to share that information,” Praxis said. “He believes we will be entering the storehouse from a passage inside the temple complex. He does not need to know Althaia will instead be descending into the adyton.”
“Is Palamedes willing to help us even though the body was moved to the adyton?” Theron asked.
“The plan we put together was his idea.”
Althaia’s heart pounded. “By the gods, Praxis, I can’t go in there by myself!”
“Of course not,” he turned to face Nephthys who stood quietly in a corner. “Nephthys is going in with you.
“But, wait!” Through the throbbing noise in her ears, Althaia heard her own voice as if it echoed from a great distance. “Isn’t it a sacrilege—a dead body in the adyton, where the god speaks through the pythia?”
“That’s exactly what Palamedes asked Basileios. The guard said Philon performed rituals on the room itself—to de-sanctify it while the body is in there. Just in case Apollon takes offense that the place is being used as a morgue. When the body is removed, he’ll go back in and re-sanctify it. Since the pythia hasn’t started prophesying yet this season, no one ever goes in there. It’s the safest place.”
“That Philon is a delightfully clever man,” Menandros said.
“I wonder if we should inform Heraklios that the body has been moved,” Theron said.
“Will he be an ally or an impediment to our plans?” Praxis asked. “You are the one intent on having Althaia examine the body. I have devised a plan. It is up to you to decide whether to let the general in on it or not.”
“Perhaps we will be better served if no one outside this room knows of the full extent of our activities.”
Althaia said nothing. She felt like a child trying hard to work out three plus eight and finally deciding she lacked the requisite fingers to solve the equation. It seemed, as far as she could tell, that she was going to be expected to enter the Temple of Apollon, descend to the adyton, and perform an autopsia examination on an associate of the Oracle of Gaia in the very room where the Pythia of Apollon sat on her tripod and drank from the sacred spring of Kassotis, where she chewed her laurel leaves and breathed in the sacred vapors that issued from the earth beneath her feet, the very room where she becomes the mouthpiece of the gods, revealing the word of Zeus and Apollon for kings, princes, tyrants and pilgrims from throughout Greece, where the omphalos, the naval stone of the earth, sat and where Dionysos himself was buried. It was sacrilege. It was madness. It was brilliant.
Chapter Twenty-one
Diokles stepped outside and peered up into the darkness. The stars were so thick it looked like one of his cooks had spilled a bag of salt across the night sky. Kleomon’s boys, along with a crowd of regular troublemakers Diokles kept on the payroll, gathered in front of his doorway. So far, things were going as well as could be expected for a rapidly deteriorating situation. It wasn’t quite time to get the mob moving. It was a small consolation for the mess Nikos had gotten them in, but perhaps there was still an opportunity to make an extra drachma or two for the night before they had to go create this damnable distraction.
“Boys, come on in out of the night air. It’s not quite time for the show.”
“You better make this worth my while,” one voice called out. “I couldn’t care less if they had Hera herself on a slab in the temple storeroom. I’ve got better things to do than aggravate Heraklios.”
“Pollux’s pri
ck, man? What about aggravating Philon? Nothing’s better than that!” Another man said to a chorus of laughter.
“I’ll tell you what’s better than that,” Diokles said. “Chilled wine, warm women, and the opportunity to aggravate Philon. Plus I’ve got fish stew, fresh baked bread, and a blazing fire. And our old friend from Dodona is here. He says he’ll buy a round for everybody.”
“But isn’t his mother one of them?” a voice whispered.
“Who cares as long as he’s buying?” another man said. “Besides, I’ve known Nikos all my life.” He tossed a silver obol high and reached up and plucked it out of the air, holding it up for his friend to see. “The only goddess he worships is on the backside of an Athenian owl—and he’s got plenty of those to keep us in wine all night long.”
“I think he worships the backside of Diokles’s woman, too,” another said.
“I heard that!” Diokles laughed. “You’re buying your own wine, my friend. For the rest of you, Nikomacho’s generosity may not last all night. Better come on in now, and after we all get something to eat and drink, we can march down there and show Philon what we think about him keeping that girl’s body in the temple storehouse.”
“By Zeus’ beard, Diokles, you’ll never change!” someone laughed as they filed through the front door. “You’ll be prying the silver from our fingertips when it’s time for our burial rites!”
“I wouldn’t mind a good cup of wine or two before we go, though.”
“Or a steaming bowl of stew.”
“Or a steamy turn with that new red-headed Illyrian!”
“That’s the spirit!” Diokles said. “Come on in. We’ll give ol’ Philon something to think about after we sate our appetites.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Althaia pulled her cloak around her shoulders and again patted the instrument case bound to her waist. She heard the shouts of the mob coming from above them, farther up the hill and prayed that Nikos could keep the guards occupied. The air had turned cold and it felt like snow. Goat’s bells tinkled somewhere down the hillside as they crept along the deserted street. She could barely breathe. She concentrated on Praxis’ broad shoulders and padded in his wake as Nephthys followed close behind.
Before they had left the house, she had caught Praxis watching her. He’d reached up and tugged at his right earlobe—their private signal that an adventure was about to commence. It was a signal they had not used in years—not since Theron caught on to the fact that Praxis was helping her escape her lessons. She remembered the last time the signal had worked. It was during the summer and they were staying in the country. Theron was leading her through a particularly difficult mathematics lesson. Praxis had delivered a pitcher of water and shortly thereafter, she had excused herself to use the bathroom only to run down to the stables where Praxis waited with two horses bridled and ready to run. They galloped through the vineyard and down to the sea, swam the afternoon away, and returned sunburned and exhausted only to find Theron waiting in the stables. She went to bed without dinner and Praxis spent the night scrubbing tack and shoveling shit.
She had met Praxis’s gaze and smiled. All the years they had shared together blurred into a single image: Her father’s deathbed. Praxis’s tears. The two of them holding her father’s hands as he breathed his last. Lysandros had loved Praxis as dearly as he loved her. It suddenly hit her. Why her father had never taken that final step, why he had never granted Praxis his freedom. Manumission was a simple matter. Masters freed their favored slaves every day. Over the years, she had lectured her father. You know as well as I do, she would argue, a man like Praxis should be bound to no one, owned by no one. Praxis is my concern, her father would reply. But at that moment she knew. Her father never took that step for the same reason she had not taken it once she became Praxis’s master. Her knees buckled and she’d grabbed the back of a chair. Praxis was still a slave because she could not bear to free him, because she could not bear to lose him. She’d stared into his Aegean blue eyes and returned their childhood signal. She had his loyalty and his friendship, but she did not deserve it.
Now she pushed those thoughts aside and made herself think of the task ahead. There was nothing she could do about Praxis now anyway. A dog barked in the distance followed by the screeching yowl of a cat and she felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. After a while, the massive stone walls of the Sacred Precinct loomed before them and a figure stepped from the shadows.
Palamedes. A wordless greeting. The potter looked Althaia and Nephthys over and then turned and led them down a steep hill on what, in some long-forgotten time, might have been a path along the wall. Brambles tugged at her chiton and cloak. Branches scraped against her face and caught in her hair. She stepped sideways, hands braced against the stone to keep from slipping. The ground fell away below them, sloping down until it flattened out at the path that led from town to the lower side gate. Without warning, Palamedes stopped and she bumped hard into his back. He knelt and pushed the tangled branches of a rambling clump of overgrown bushes out of the way to reveal a small opening in the stone wall. A stone, perfectly fitted to the hole, had been pushed out of the way.
Palamedes dropped to his knees and disappeared through the opening. Althaia turned to Praxis. He took her hand, squeezed it and motioned her on. She unclasped her cloak and handed it to him. She hiked up the hem of her chiton, tucked it into her belt, lowered herself to the ground and crawled into the black. It was as if she’d gone blind. She put her hand before her face and wiggled her fingers. Nothing. She could hear Palamedes scuffling ahead of her and Nephthys scuffling behind. Rats, she thought. We’re like unwanted rats scurrying along unseen corridors. By the gods, she shivered, I hope we’re the only rats in here!
Chapter Twenty-three
“Approach no further!” A guard warned the crowd as a man on a lively dappled grey stallion rode forward. Heraklios. If Nikos hadn’t been so nervous about the whole affair, he would have laughed out loud, but as it was all he could muster was a grim smile. He had to admit, though, Heraklios certainly had style. And he was obviously prepared. He must have had his own informers at The Cove.
The general was dressed as if he’d come from a meeting with the king. No one needed to ask whether or not he was Makedonían—but if they did, they’d likely be treated to a lengthy genealogical discourse on how he and Philip were practically blood brothers. As if Heraklios’s own personage wasn’t impressive enough, he was flanked by a line of six fully armed Makedonían hoplites. Nikos knew that for Heraklios there was more than a dead girl at stake. The general had to put on a good show and discourage the mob; otherwise he’d appear weak. Growing up among the priestesses of Dodona, Nikos had had plenty of experience with the Argead dynasty, and he knew Heraklios couldn’t risk some spoiled Delphinian politician complaining to Philip that the Sacred Precinct was not being administered properly. If there was one thing King Phillip did not tolerate, it was weakness.
“The ground upon which you tread is sacred,” Heraklios declared. “Put away your torches and come back tomorrow in the light of day.”
“This ground is no more sacred than my pigsty,” a voice rang out from the gathering.
“It’s a blasted storehouse! We’re not treading on temple grounds,” another voiced yelled.
Built just outside the walls of the Sacred Precinct, the long, low wooden building Heraklios guarded so extravagantly was used to warehouse food and supplies for those who served Apollon. Connected to the precinct by an underground tunnel, the storehouse enabled goods to be delivered to and from the temple without clattering, clanking carts disturbing visitors along the Sacred Way.
“We’re glad to go, Heraklios, as soon as you give us the girl,” Diokles said. He and Nikos stood in the front ranks of the crowd.
“Wherever the gods are served, the ground is sacred,” Heraklios’s voice boomed.
“Come now, what are you protecting? The Pythia’s stock of sacred chickpeas?” The crowd laughed and
cheered Diokles on. “It is to please Apollon that we seek the girl’s body. If Apollon’s priests give refuge to the remains of such a heretic, I, for one, fear for our future!” The crowd yelled in agreement.
Nikos listened as Diokles and Heraklios traded barbs until the wide wooden doors swung open and the mournful strains of a lyre plucked to perfection poured out from within. Heraklios’ soldiers parted as two hooded temple attendants stepped forward. With upraised arms they held filigreed lamps whose eerie shadows glowed and glittered on the polished helmets, breastplates and greaves of the hoplites. Behind them stood Philon.
The senior priest of the Temple of Apollon was in full regalia. A sparkling, jewel-studded gold diadem fashioned in the shape of a laurel wreath crowned Philon’s brow. Around his shoulders, he wore a flowing robe dyed deep crimson and woven through with silver threads that shimmered in the lamplight. In his right hand, he carried Apollon’s bow, adorned with serpents entwined around olivewood limbs, and on his outstretched left arm, the sharp talons of the god’s sacred black crow clutched an oxhide gauntlet. The crow, black as pitch with eyes blacker still, stared menacingly at the crowd. Seldom were these treasures displayed to any but the most powerful men of Hellas—or those with the heaviest purses. There was a low murmuring among the men as they stumbled over themselves in a rush to back away. Only two men remained unmoved—Diokles at the front of the crowd and Nikos at his side. Along with Heraklios, Philon was certainly intent on putting on a show Delphinians would talk about for weeks.
“Philon, did you dress up just for us? If we had known this was to be a formal occasion, we would have all worn our best cloaks and boots.”
“No matter what you are wearing, you will not gain entry to either the storehouse or the temple.”
“We don’t need to go in as long as you bring the girl out. Right, boys?” Diokles turned to the men behind him, who were again gathering their courage.