Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  Fourteen years later, Althaia’s dreams still haunted her. A dreaded marriage to her cousin Lycon finally gave her father a male heir, but she knew the old mantis was right. The gods wanted something more. They wanted atonement. Maybe using her skills to find Charis’s killer would finally satisfy them. Maybe helping someone in need would get rid of the nightmares once and for all.

  But this dream was not a nightmare. This dream was something altogether different. Her heart still thudded in her chest.

  “There is a man,” she said and then looked away.

  Without a word, Theron got up and opened the shutters. Cold damp air washed across his face and spilled into the room. Heavy clouds squatted above the mountain tops and sprawled across the valley. “It is stifling in here. A bit of fresh air will make you feel better.”

  “Looks like a storm,” she said.

  He shut one of the shutters but left the other one cracked open. “I received a message from Heraklios. He wants me to meet him at his office, but I didn’t want to leave until you were awake.”

  “I’ll get my cloak.” Althaia pushed the blanket off and tried to stand. She wobbled on her feet and sat back down.

  He turned to face her. “I’m taking Praxis.”

  “But I’m the one who examined Charis,” she protested.

  “Philon and Kleomon will be there. They don’t know you examined the body, and I plan to keep it that way. At least until we know more about the trinket you found.”

  He was right. Even is she didn’t want to admit it, the prospect of facing Philon and Kleomon was not one she relished. “So, what time is it?” she asked.

  “Midafternoon.” Theron sat down again. He reached out and took Althaia’s hands in his. “Dreams are funny things,” he said. “Sometimes they show us aspects of ourselves the waking eye is not able or does not want to see. Sometimes they are like a theater in which the mind stages elaborate tragedies. From these we can gain insights about our innermost fears and desires. And sometimes they are just dreams. Sometimes, they mean nothing.”

  “But how is one to tell the difference?”

  “Time? Distance? I don’t know,” he admitted. “Sometimes you never know.”

  “He seemed so real,” she whispered. “The man in the dream, I mean. Flesh and blood. I could feel … it was … I mean … it was as if….” Her voice caught in her throat. “As if he was here with me, touching me.”

  “But he is not. As long as Praxis and I breathe, we will make sure you are safe.”

  “I know that,” Althaia said. “That is not what scares me.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t want to be kept safe. Not from him.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Heraklios’ office was large and generously appointed with a wide window that offered a view of the Temple. There was an impressive wooden desk, thick rugs to cover the stone floor, several braziers to keep away the chill, large torch stands to keep the room lit even in the darkest night, and two ornate high-backed chairs that Philon and Kleomon now occupied. Praxis and Theron stood in the middle of the room watching while Heraklios harangued the two priests from the comfort of a well worn soldier’s three-legged camp stool.

  “How many times must I repeat myself?” Heraklios sounded as if he were dead tired of the refrain. “You get to run your temple your way, and as long as you don’t cause me trouble, I look the other way. But I am in charge of everything else. And that means when someone shows up to claim a body found in the theater—not in the temple—you send a messenger for me. You do not just hand the body over.”

  Theron exchanged a glance with Praxis and said, “Philon, you said it was the girl’s mother who claimed the body. Was there not a male relative with her? A brother?” Theron recalled his sister’s words: Phoibe sent her consort Georgios to Charis’s village to notify her brother. Both her parents are dead and she had no other living family.

  “No. Only Georgios, Phoibe’s consort.”

  “This Georgios, is he the same one that trains over at the gymnasium? The pankratiasts?” Heraklios asked.

  “The same,” Kleomon said. “And it proves the priestesses are involved. They want their sacrificial offering back. Phoibe wouldn’t send her lover to get the body otherwise. Ignorant peasant. The man practically accused me of murder to my face,” the old priest huffed.

  “Just two weeks ago he was a brilliant champion when you bet on him to win his last competititon.” Utter contempt flashed across Philon’s face as he spoke, and Theron wondered why the relationship between the two men seemed so poisonous.

  “Just two weeks ago, we hadn’t had a murder in the—” Kleomon said.

  “This is troubling,” Theron said, interrupting the priests’ squabbling. “What about her brother?”

  “What about him?” Philon asked.

  “I expected him to claim the body.”

  “It is a man’s job, but perhaps he was away from home and couldn’t come. Why? What are you thinking?” Heraklios asked.

  “That whoever claimed the body, it was certainly not anyone in her family.”

  “Why do you say that?” Kleomon said. “The mother was with Georgios.”

  “Her mother is dead. The girl’s bother is her only surviving family.”

  “Impossible! How do you know this? Georgios would not dare lie to the priests of Apollon.”

  “Describe the woman,” Theron commanded.

  “There is little to describe,” Philon answered. “She kept her face covered as if in mourning and her cloak was pulled up over her hair.”

  “Did she speak?” Theron asked.

  “Not a word,” Kleomon said, as he turned toward Philon. “It was you who wanted to be rid of the body. It was your decision to let them have it, and now it appears you have handed it over to Phoibe, and who knows what twisted rites those women will perform over it.”

  Philon’s jaw clenched, his face flushed slightly, and his voice was low and even. “Kleomon, my friend, your general contempt for the female sex has clouded your thinking. We too honor the mother goddess and broadcasting your distaste for whatever rites the priestesses choose to perform in her name can only bring dishonor on us, on the Sacred Precinct, and on Apollon. I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself from now on.”

  Heraklios sighed and shook his head. “So there you have it, Theron. The body is gone. Claimed by someone posing as her mother—most likely one of Phoibe’s followers. She probably let Georgios do all the talking so her voice would not be recognized. But unless we want to go retrieve it, cart it back here, and hold it here until her brother appears, there’s nothing more to be done. If her brother does appear and seeks official help bringing her murderer to justice, we will do what we can to help him. But until that time, the matter is closed.”

  “Now, we must concentrate on re-sanctifying the theater,” Philon said.

  “On that, at least, we agree,” Kleomon said. “The sooner we rid the Sacred Precinct of the stench of death, the better.”

  “How soon can you be prepared to conduct the ceremony?” Herklios asked.

  “In three days time, we honor the death and resurrection of Dionysos,” Philon answered, ignoring Kleomon’s icy glare. “It is a favorite rite of Kleomon’s as you can tell. We will be prepared to rededicate the theater at the same time.”

  “Excellent,” Heraklios clapped his hands and stood. “That should make ol’ Menandros happy. But are you certain you can be ready by then?”

  “Of course.” Philon waved his hand as if to dismiss Heraklios’s concerns.

  “We’ll have the traditional music, plays, competitions? The people of Delphi will expect a show.”

  “Because of the short time-frame, it will be a more subdued affair, but we’ll give the playwright a ceremony that will satisfy his actors—and the public,” Philon said as he stood to go. He draped his cloak around him and looked down at Kleomon. The older priest, a grimace on his face, pushed himself up out of his chair as if ever
y bone in his body ached.

  “That’s all we can ask for,” Heraklios said as he opened the door wide. “Good day, gentlemen. In three days time, this murder will be nothing more than a bad memory, and we shall all be enjoying the pleasures of a celebration. Let us pray we can put this whole matter behind us.”

  Philon swept through the door imperiously as Kleomon waddled behind, and Theron and Praxis exchanged glances. “If prayer alone kept trouble at bay, the world would be a different place,” Theron muttered.

  Words of wisdom from the famed philosopher,” Heraklios said with a laugh, and slapped Theron on the back. “How long are you in Dephi?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, said, “Before you head back to Athens, we must drink to old times and the king’s health. Philip would not forgive me if I did not entertain you like one of the family.”

  Theron started to reply, but one of Heraklios’s aides, a young soldier with an honest face and an efficient manner, hurried down the long corridor and said,“Sir, there’s a man out in the portico. He insists on seeing you.”

  “What does he want?” Heraklios asked.

  “There’s been an accident. An old woman found in a ravine.”

  Heraklios turned to Theron and Praxis. “It’s inevitable. Every season we find a few old men or women—even a youngster now and again—who slip on an icy path and end up at the bottom of a ravine. The locals come to us because they know I’ll dispatch a soldier or two to drag the body out. A nasty business, but it’s part of the job.” He turned back to his aide. “Can’t you take care of him?”

  “He insists on seeing you.”

  Heraklios sighed. “Okay, take me to him.”

  Theron and Praxis followed Heraklios and his aide out to the portico where a weather-beaten peasant and a young boy waited. Outside, the sky was dark and heavy, and a thick mist seemed to hover in the air like a swarm. In the distance, the hooded figures of Philon and Kleomon trudged back toward the Sacred Precinct, their cloaks hanging heavily in the damp.

  “Tell the general what you found,” the aide commanded.

  The little boy looked up at the man, who nodded in encouragement, and said, “My brother and I were tending our sheep along the edge of the ravine behind our shepherd’s hut when I first saw her.”

  “Who did you see?” Heraklios asked.

  “The old lady. She’s got a gold cloak and it stood out against the rocks. She was in the ravine. I think she fell from the outcrop above the creek. I left my brother with the flock and climbed down to see if she was still alive.”

  “And?”

  The boy lowered his head. “She opened her eyes and she tried to speak, but I couldn’t hear her. Her voice was too weak, but I tried to help her sit up. And then … there wasn’t anything I could do, so I went to find my father.” The boy looked up at his father, then back at Heraklios.

  Heraklios squatted down before the boy. “Did you know her? Had you ever seen her before?”

  “No. She was old. Older than my grandmother. But she looked rich, fancy.”

  “Rich, how?”

  “Her cloak was fine spun, embroidered with shimmery threads like I never saw before, and she had lots of jewelry. Gold, and big stones.”

  “Gold, you say,” Heraklios stood, his knees creaking and glanced at Theron before he turned to the boy’s father, “Did you go down into the ravine?”

  “I was already on my way to town when the boy caught up with me. We thought it best to come straight here instead of going back. My other son is still there, watching over the body to make sure no one comes along to disturb it—or rob it.”

  “Can you show my men exactly where you found her?” Heraklios asked the boy.

  “The ravine runs down below our shepherd’s hut. South of Delphi, off the road to Krissa.”

  He looked down at the boy, and clasped a strong hand on his bony shoulder. “You did a brave thing, young man, going down into that ravine by yourself. I’m sure your father is proud, and the old woman’s family will be grateful. Who knows? There may even be a reward.” He took his aide aside and said, just within Theron’s hearing, “Take these two out to the stable and requisition a cart. Find my sister’s son and have him take a couple of men to get the body. Tell him I want them back here as soon as possible. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  As the aide ushered the man and his son toward the stable, Heraklios turned back to Theron and Praxis. “What is the world coming to? What kind of family would let an old woman wander around unescorted on a day like this?"

  The news of a rich old woman at the bottom of a ravine set off alarm bells, but Theron couldn’t say exactly why. He didn’t ignore his intuition lightly, but there was no reason to suspect the old woman had anything to do with Charis.

  “I guess your men don’t need any help,” Praxis said. Must be hearing the same alarm bells, Theron thought.

  “My men?” Heraklios raised an eyebrow. “They need lots of help. But I think they can handle pulling an old lady out of a ditch.” He eyed both Praxis and Theron. “Why? You two looking for a new mystery now there is nothing more to be done about Charis?”

  Theron smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve heard the last from Charis.”

  “Ha! I just hope to Zeus I don’t ever hear from that Georgios. I’d prostrate myself before a Persian prince just to make sure I didn’t get on his bad side. You ever hear of him?”

  “Not before today. Is he any good?”

  “He’s a favorite for a laurel wreath in the next Pythian Games. Maybe even at Olympia. If you’ve got time, you should watch him train before you leave. One thing’s for sure, though, we won’t hear from the girl. The dead do not speak to the living, my friend.”

  “Maybe that’s because the living don’t take the time to listen,” Theron said.

  “This old lady may have a story to tell,” Heraklios muttered.

  “What do you mean?” Praxis asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” Heraklios said. “You had lunch yet?”

  “No,” Theron answered, watching Heraklios carefully. “We were going to stop at the Dolphin’s Cove to get something on our way back to Menandros’s. Want to join us?”

  Heraklios snickered. “The Cove, huh? I’d better pass.”

  “It has quite a reputation apparently,” Praxis said.

  “Diokles and I have a healthy respect for each other. My men are regulars, but it’s best for me not to patronize the place personally.”

  “Rumor has it the two of you had a confrontation at the temple storehouse last night,” Praxis said.

  “We all have to keep up appearances. Especially Diokles. A man of the people and all that. He’s a wily one. Got his fingers in most every purse around here. But we keep an eye on him, and make sure he doesn’t cause too much trouble. Besides, every town needs a place for the men to vent, get away from their wives and lovers, taste a few foreign delicacies, if you know what I mean. As long as Diokles doesn’t get out of line, we leave him alone.”

  “And if he does?” Theron asked.

  “Why would he?” Heraklios asked.

  “I don’t know, Theron said. “Do you think he could shed some light on who might have killed Charis? Every town boasts a man who knows what’s what. Seems like we might be able to learn something from him.”

  “I tell you that investigation is over. But you’ll like Diokles. No matter what he gets himself into, he always manages to come out on the right side of the law—and with a few more drachmas in his purse. If you stop in, try the lamb stew. It’s the best I’ve ever had, and make sure he gives you the best wine in the house. Tell him I said to charge it to my nephew’s account.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The main room of The Cove was large and welcoming, although the light was dim and lamps were needed to brighten the rainy day. A long bar ran against one side of the room and people bustled in the kitchen beyond it. A young girl swept the floor and another dusted the staircase. Theron and Praxis settled in at a table
near the fireplace and ordered wine, cheese and bread from a lovely young boy who couldn’t keep his eyes off Praxis.

  “Is Diokles around?” Theron asked the boy.

  “He’s down in Kirra.”

  “He picked a wet day to travel.”

  “He went down first thing this morning, before the weather turned. Is there anything I can tempt either of you with?” The boy leaned provocatively over the table.

  “Is he coming back? We’d like to meet him.”

  “I don’t know. Probably. He seldom stays long.”

  “Seems like the mountain paths would be pretty dangerous on a day like today,”

  Praxis said.

  “Not for Diokles. He could travel those paths with his eyes shut.” The boy brushed up against Praxis. “Even though he’s not here, he would want me to make you as comfortable as possible. Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get for you?”

  “There is nothing else we desire at present.” Praxis added. He fished a coin out of his purse and sent him on his way.

  “I don’t know why you pay them for batting their eyes at you,” Theron said, watching the boy disappear into the back room.

  “Sometimes it’s the only way to get rid of them.” Praxis “Besides, a boy’s got to make a living. And remember,” he said softly, “if it wasn’t for Lysandros, that could have been me.”

  Praxis tried not to wonder where he might have ended up if it weren’t for Lysandros. But sometimes he couldn’t help it. All in all, his life had turned out well. There was little to complain about and sometimes it was easy to forget that, while he’d been born a free man, he’d spent most of his life a slave. But lately, he’d had trouble putting it out of his mind.

  He had hoped, dreamed, prayed that Lysandros would free him upon his death, but that hadn’t happened. And so he’d gone back to ignoring the little voice in his head that yearned to be his own man. That had worked for a while, but it all changed the morning he saw Nephthys on the auction block in Piraeus. He was walking by on the way to one of their dockside warehouses when he happened to look up and see her standing on the platform, men milling around, picking up her skirts, running their hands up and down her legs, feeling her hair, opening her mouth to examine her teeth. He’d stopped and stared, and then she slowly raised her face and met his gaze. He had seen thousands of slaves unloaded and sold in the market, and he’d bought more than a few for Lysandros, but at that moment a lightning bolt splintered his chest and settled as a smoldering coil in his gut. He recognized the look in her eyes, felt the fear and the sadness, the helplessness, and knew he had to save her. He still hadn’t had the courage to ask how she came to be on the auction block; all he knew was that she could read and write in Egyptian, Greek, and Phoencian and that she obviously had not been born into slavery. He didn’t need to ask what had happened on the slavers’ boat—he could see it in the way she stared off into the distance, in the way she wrapped her arms around herself. He no longer wanted to save her, protect her. He wanted to love her completely—love her as only a free man could.