by Marie Savage
Nephthys reached out and laid her hand on Althaia’s. She sniffed the air. “The air is changing,” Nephthys whispered. “Do you smell it?”
Althaia looked over at the drain; the two eyes were still there, watching silently. She breathed in deeply. The scent of the myrrh was shifting, mixing with something else. She looked down at the fissure in the bare stone floor but couldn’t see anything different. She sniffed again. Overwhelming the clean, fresh scent of myrrh was a sickly sweet smell that reminded her of overripe fruit mixed with the faint scent of rotted eggs. She knew at once it was Apollon’s sacred vapors beginning to waft through the room. Nephthys took the tablet—she hadn’t written anything anyway—and latched it closed and began to wave it in front of their faces like a fan. Nephthys didn’t have to say a word; Althaia knew she had to be quick.
With one hand, Althaia opened the slit wider and with the other, she felt into the tracheal tube. Just below the cut, she could feel something like a small stone. She picked up her scalpel again, extended the slit and used the probe to open the trachea even wider. There, lodged at the base of Charis’ throat, she found a small slippery ball of dull silver attached to fragments of a looped chain.
Althaia pulled the ball and chain fragments from the girl’s throat, wiped it hastily on her chiton and held it up to the lamplight. The ball was a bit larger than the pieces used in a game of draughts—it would have fit snugly in a small child’s palm—and she could clearly see where the links in the chain had been pulled apart.
Nephthys touched the ball with her fingertip and it swung back and forth on the broken chain. They looked at each other and knew they had discovered the object that killed Charis. Tears sprung into Althaia’s eyes. She tried to put the pieces together, to reconstruct the moment of death, but was too overcome by joy and emotion to think straight. She, and she alone, had the skills to discover how Charis died. She and she alone held the clue to the killer’s identity. She wanted to dance, sing even.
She headed for the kithara, but Nephthys stood in her way. Althaia swerved and then stopped. She closed her eyes and raised her face, and inhaled deeply. For some reason, Nephthys was frantically fanning the writing tablet in front of her face. Althaia pushed past her only to have the slave shove the tablet in her belt, grab Althaia’s face with one hand, clamp the other hand over her mouth and lead her through the fabric curtain and into the black of the corridor. Nephthys, cheeks strangely bloated, stood in front of her, nose to nose, breathing in and out extravagantly. Althaia focused on Nephthys face and nodded. She understood, then, that she had fallen under the influence of Apollon’s sacred vapors.
Althaia filled her lungs with the cool, earthy air from the hallway and began breathing in and out in a synchronous rhythm with Nephthys. She knew she must clear her head, finish and get out, but she couldn’t stop staring at Nephthys’ bulging eyes and brown cheeks puffing in and out like some demented Egyptian blowfish bearing down on her from the depths of the sea. She snorted loudly and then clamped her hand over her mouth to suppress the wave of giggles that threatened to sweep both her and the blowfish away. Nephthys pinched Althaia’s cheek hard and clinched her face tight in her hand. Althaia nodded and tried to concentrate all her mental faculties on getting both her and the blowfish out of there.
After a moment, they both took deep breaths and pushed back through the thick curtain into the adyton. Althaia placed the silver ball and chain in her box along with her scalpel and probe and slipped it back into the binding around her waist as Nephthys tightened the tablet in hers. Then she pressed closed the slit of Charis’s throat while Nephthys held the shroud ready to rewrap the body. They looked around the room one last time and signaled to Zenon that they were done. But the drain was now black, empty.
Quickly, Althaia and Nephthys rewrapped the body, and stepped back out into the corridor. They pulled the string taut and worked their way along it in the dark hallway. Althaia wondered what Theron and Praxis would say when she showed them the silver ball. Then she stopped. She felt something—a breeze?—air moved across her face and made the hairs on her arms stand on end. She stopped. Nephthys gripped her tight. She had felt it, too. They waited, not daring to move, to breathe. But there was nothing more. They stepped forward, in unison, and hurried toward Palamedes’s door. When they felt the string dive down toward the floor, they slipped into Palamedes’s room and shut the door behind them.
The lamp was nearly out as they followed the string down to the table leg. Althaia untied it and left it in a little tangled pile on the table. If someone entered his room, no one would know they had been as clever as Theseus and Ariadne in the Minotaur’s labyrinth. Nephthys placed the rug on the other side of the case, just as Palamedes instructed, and they slipped back into the tunnel, found their boots, and pulled the sliding case across the opening. They clasped one hand together and they each held one hand outstretched above their heads to keep from knocking themselves out as the roof got lower and lower. Then, in the pitch black they started down the tunnel toward Praxis.
****
On the far side of the Sacred Precinct, sitting near an open drain, Theron had one hand clapped hard across Zenon’s mouth and another cupped to his own. He whistled three times—three short calls of the Alpine Swift—and then waited for a reply. Soon, two short calls broke the silence followed by a longer trill. Zenon breathed heavily through his nose and rubbed his scraped knees and his wounded bottom. Moments earlier he had emerged from the drainage tunnel, eyes wild as he tried to pantomime Nephthys and Althaia fanning and swooning in the adyton. When Theron did not jump up to mount a rescue, Zenon turned and started back toward the temple. Theron jerked the rope sharply and sat the boy down hard on the ground.
“We wait,” Theron whispered.
“We can’t wait!”
“Did you see them swoon? Did you see them fall?”
“No.”
“Was there anyone else there? Did someone enter the adyton?
“No, but—”
“Did you see Nephthys fanning the vapors from Althaia’s face?”
“Yes.”
“So, they could have reentered the room—after you left.”
“Yes, but—”
“We wait. Just a moment more.”
The world was silent. Then, the faint sound of trickling then rushing water filled the air as the Kassotis Spring began flowing through the drainage system again. Palamedes had waited for Theron’s call indicating Zenon was out of the tunnel and had then unblocked the sacred stream to let it find its way back down into the elaborate drain system under the temple complex.
****
Praxis heard the soft shuffle of hands and knees coming toward him in the tunnel. He cupped his hands around his mouth and hooted. It was the call to signal Theron that Althaia and Nephthys were out.
“Quiet,” Praxis mouthed as he reached into the tunnel and helped Althaia up and out of the way of the opening. Then he knelt and helped Nephthys to her feet.
“Praxis—”
He put his finger to her lips. “Quiet,” he mouthed again. He pushed the stone back in front of the opening where it fit seamlessly into the face of the foundation. Then he motioned for them to follow him through the brambles and they set out to trace their path back to Menandros’s. No one said a word as they moved through empty village streets in the stillness of the night. As they approached Menandros’s street, a dog darted from the shadows and ran in front of them. Nephthys jumped, Praxis drew his blade, and Althaia clamped her hand over her mouth to keep herself from crying out. He shot both of them a dark glare and hurried them forward.
Menandros met them at the door and led them into the andron where couches loaded with fleecy blankets waited. Althaia and Nephthys wrapped blankets around their shoulders and curled up near the well-tended brazier glowing hot with orange and red coals blinking against the evening shadows. Praxis paced back and forth from the living room to the front gate. Menandros found his house slave asleep in a kitchen co
rner and woke her with a gentle kick. Soon cups of warmed wine were passed out, but still no one said a word—not even Menandros. It wasn’t until Theron and Zenon closed and latched the front door behind them that they relaxed and all began talking at once.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Theron grabbed a cup of wine, finished it off in one gulp and looked at Althaia, who sat sporting a wide smile.
Tell us,” he said.
She set the box down on the couch, opened the lid, and held up the silver ball, dangling it from its chain. It gleamed in the lamplight like a miniature moon. “I believe she choked to death on this. I—we,” Althaia looked at Nephthys, “found it lodged in her trachea.”
“Well, this is disappointing.” Menandros’s stylus lay slack in his hand as if he’d forgotten how to use it. “There’s no mystery, no intrigue, no drama in an accident.” He slouched back on his cushions and sighed heavily.
“Don’t get discouraged. I don’t believe we can discount any scenarios just yet,” Theron replied. He took the ball and examined it in the lamplight. “Looks like part of a necklace.”
“That’s what I think,” Althaia said. “The links where it is broken have been pulled apart like it was ripped from the wearer’s neck.”
“I’ve got it!” Menandros sat forward with a flourish. “A suicide. Perhaps her lover gave her the bauble in a pledge of his undying love. They met at night, in secret, to consummate their union and after he had taken her, after he had used her, he spurned her. Threw her away like a dirty rag. She knew she was ruined, and in her grief she ripped his gift from her own neck and swallowed it. ‘I’ll show him!’ she thought as she gagged. ‘I’ll dine on the cold, bitter remnants of our love.’ And then she breathed her last.” Menandros looked around the room. “Now, that would be something, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, that would be something,” Theron said, “something highly unlikely.” He handed the trinket on to Praxis. “What else did you find? There has to be more. If it was just an accident, someone would have reported her death to Heraklios or to the authorities in Delphi.”
“There is more,” Althaia said. “At the theater, we saw the marks on her face and the bruises on her shoulders and arms. In the adyton, we were able to identify chafing on her buttocks, and dried skin and blood under her fingernails. I thought perhaps she was taken against her will—raped—but, there was no indication that the murderer, or that whoever was with her when she breathed her last, sunk that low. There was a struggle, but the ultimate cause of her death was that ball lodged in her throat.”
“It is an unusual piece. I’ve never seen another like it.” Praxis handed the necklace on to Nephthys. “None of it makes sense.” He turned to Althaia. “At the theater, we also noticed hay in her hair.”
“Yes, and in the adyton, I looked again. Hay and dirt.”
Theron took the necklace from Nephthys and held it up to the light again. “There’s no stable in the Sacred Precinct, so she must have been moved. Whether before or after she died is the question.”
“Why would someone want an accidental death to look like a ritual sacrifice?” Althaia said. “What would they have to gain by it? And how did they get away with it? Isn’t the Sacred Precinct guarded at night? Especially since the last Sacred War?”
Theron laughed. “I’m sure it is guarded, but tensions between the native Phokians and the Amphiktyonik League have simmered down and, in my experience, if there is no imminent threat, a man standing guard in the middle of the night is just as likely to be sleeping at his post as he would be if he were snug in his bed.”
“But still, how does one get away with carting a body around in the middle of the night without being seen? Maybe Charis was having an affair with a temple slave—or one of the priests! Maybe she was Philon’s lover!”
“It isn’t out of the realm of possibility, but I don’t see Phoibe’s handmaid, an acolyte of the Pythia of Gaia, being Philon’s lover. It does make sense that whoever was with her enjoys unfettered access to the Sacred Precinct. A temple slave or even a guard. We should get a list of everyone who would have been in the precinct that night. Heraklios will have a list of the guards, and Philon should have a list of all the temple staff.”
“It’s a place to start,” Praxis agreed. “But no matter who killed her or who was with her when she accidentally choked to death, why would they go to the trouble of making a spectacle of her death?”
Menandros stood and rubbed his hands together. “We are going round and round in circles.” He began to pace in a circle around the brazier. “We must approach the problem like a playwright. In the theater, there is a purpose for every prop. We must think of her attacker as the writer, scripting this play. First let us suppose this was no accident. Perhaps the man with whom she struggled—and I’m presuming it was a man although I’ve met more than a few women who I’m sure were perfectly capable of such an act—let’s presume the man intentionally jammed that little orb down her throat, clamped her mouth shut, and watched her die. As a playwright, I find this makes little sense. Where is the drama in such a murder? While it may be devious and the murderer may have all the characteristics of an evil madman, he alone would be privy to his genius. He would never expect the body to be examined and no one would ever discover the murder weapon. I find that scenario unsatisfying because someone who kills in such a creative way must surely be someone who would crave acknowledgment for his accomplishment.” He turned to his audience and waited.
“Go on, master playwright,” Theron obliged him.
“Now let us suppose this was an accident, that this man did not intend to kill her. First there is a scuffle.” Menandros placed his hands around his neck, pantomiming choking. “But, no, wait. Let’s step back a moment.” He began pacing again. “Maybe it is not a scuffle. Maybe it is a bit of rough foreplay. You said there was chafing on her backside, but no sign, er, um, of uh, penetration.” He glanced at Zenon who sat on the floor near the doorway. “There is no accounting for people’s sexual appetites, my boy. What if, in the midst of this, uh, strenuous activity, he gets a bit too rough—or maybe she gets a bit too rough. She bites his neck and instead gets the necklace. She chokes. He doesn’t know what is going on. One minute he’s having a good time and the next his partner is turning blue. And then she is dead. What does he do? If he is her lover, he would go for help. But if he is someone who is not supposed to be her lover, he must not go for help. Instead, he must dispose of the body in a way that will not incriminate him.”
“But why go to all the trouble of laying her out just so on the altar in your theater? Maybe the question is who would be interested in incriminating you,” Theron asked.
“Me?” Menandros looked horrified. “I don’t have any enemies!”
“Then why the altar of Dionysos and not the altar of Chios or anywhere else in the Sacred Precinct or, for that matter, in Delphi itself?”
“By the gods, I don’t know!” Menandros flopped back in his chair.
Praxis stood up. “I say we all sleep on this since we’re right back where we started,”
“Not quite. Now we know how Charis died,” Althaia said.
“And we know that the last person to see Charis alive would never expect that the body would be examined and the trinket retrieved. He—or she—must surely believe that the secrets of Charis’s last moments would go to the grave with her,” Theron added.
“It’s a good thing he’s never met Althaia,” Praxis said, his lips curling in a half smile. “Perhaps poking and probing around dead bodies is a useful endeavor after all.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Althaia lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She was covered in sweat, and the blankets she had kicked off during her nightmare were piled in a tangled mound on the floor. At least Nephthys was already up and gone. She wouldn’t be able to interrogate Althaia again or demand that she go running to some Sibyl in the marketplace for dream interpretation. Especially since this dream was different. Very diff
erent. For one thing, the shadowed figure from the cave was in it and for another, there was a body, not dead, but nearly so. And there was one more thing different about this dream; she remembered it perfectly.
She closed her eyes. She was in the Korycian Cave. The fire was lit, but no one was there but the hooded figure. He stepped from the shadow and held his hand out to her. And she took it. Then he was leading her up toward the gaping black of the inner chamber and she was going—willingly. Her heart pounded, but it wasn’t fear that drove her. It was desire. Then she wasn’t in the cave anymore. A body was lying on the ground, broken, awkward in its death throes. But it wasn’t Charis. It had no face, but it was moaning, trying to say something. She realized it was telling a story, explaining something, but it wasn’t talking to her. It was talking to the man from the cave. And then all she could hear was pounding again. This time it wasn’t her heartbeat. It was the pounding of hooves, and then the flash of light like the glint of a blade. She turned to look behind her—and then she woke.
She sighed and sat up. “Maybe Nephthys is right. If a Sibyl can help me make sense of this one,” she mumbled, “it may well be worth a few drachma.” She forced herself to get up and push open the shutters. It was past daybreak! Why had Theron let her sleep so long? She quickly attended to her toilet, dragged a comb through her unruly hair and threw on her clothes. She hurried downstairs and barged into the andron. It was empty. Where was everybody? Why didn’t Nephthys wake me? Then she heard voices. She followed them down the hall toward the back of the house. She threw open the doors to the kitchen and ran right into Nikos, spilling his glass of water down the front of his chitoniska. Theron and Praxis were right behind him.