Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  “When you find him, send him to Delphi. His momma will be waiting.”

  “You don’t understand,” Althaia started.

  “I understand perfectly,” Half-an-ear grinned and Althaia’s stomach flip-flopped. “I saw the way you looked at that necklace, those rings. I’m sure they’re worth a fortune. Looks to me like you didn’t have time to steal her jewels before your lover bashed her head in. Don’t take too much hard thinking to figure he’s down there trying to hide whatever we might find by light of day.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous,” Althaia sputtered, unable to comprehend what the man had just said.

  “How else you two come to be out here?” Half-an-ear retorted.

  “What are you saying? We didn’t kill her! You have no idea who you’re dealing with, who this woman is,” Althaia stood her ground.

  “I could give a gryphon’s prick who she is. Our orders were to retrieve the body and take it back to Delphi. Then you two show up and claim you have news of a missing person. You claim Heraklios knows you. You claim he sent you to join us, to identify the body. But you have no proof. You can’t ride in here and pull the wool over my eyes like that damn fool, pretty-boy lieutenant down their swooning over your lover. If Heraklios sent you, you would’ve had written orders. But you don’t.” He sneered and licked his lips.

  “How dare you talk to me like that? He is not my lover, we most certainly did not kill her and we are not after her jewels.”

  “I’m willing to believe any story you want….” Half-an-ear took a step toward her.

  “It’s not up to you. It’s up to the lieutenant.” Althaia was not going to let this ignorant, filthy man intimidate her.

  “You see the lieutenant here?”

  She turned to The Skinny One standing over by the edge of the ravine. “Call the lieutenant back up here,” she demanded.

  “Hoo boy! That’s a bold one for you,” Half-an-ear laughed and slapped his thigh. “A woman giving orders to a Makedonían soldier. Can’t wait to tell that one back at barracks tonight.”

  “I’ll get him myself,” she said and started toward the ravine. Half-an-ear blocked her way and took another step closer.

  “You make a sound, and you’ll be sorrier than you can imagine.”

  Althaia stepped backward. She could feel the flat board of the wagon’s side wall against her back.

  “Truth is you’re lying,” he said. He chuckled and glanced over his shoulder toward The Skinny One who looked down into the ravine and then nodded. “But I’m willing to believe any story you want to spin—for a favor,” he rasped and pulled his chiton up to his waist with one hand and grabbed himself with the other.

  “Stay away from me,” Althaia growled, willing herself to hold his stare.

  “No.” He advanced on her, stroking himself with slow, deliberate movements. “You make a noise and we just say we caught you trying to take them baubles right off the old lady’s fingers.” He laughed, a low, guttural laugh that made the bile rise in Althaia’s throat and her knees buckle beneath her. “Then when your lover comes running up here, we say we think he’s coming to attack us. My friend over there’s not very smart, but he knows how to stick a dagger in a man’s belly. We Makedoníans don’t much like folks who murder defenseless old ladies. And seeing how he’s a slave—that’s right, I saw his brand, may be faded, but it’s still there—loverboy’ll be punished but good.”

  Althaia thought of the first time she fell off a horse. It was the pretty little mare Praxis gentled for her. She remembered lying on the ground, all the breath knocked out of her. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Now, it was the same. But this was a man, not a mare, and she was too terrified to open her mouth, too terrified to call Praxis for help. Too terrified Praxis would die if she did.

  She struggled to find her voice. “We didn’t kill her, ask Heraklios.”

  “But you give me what I want—” he whispered, then planted his mouth on hers, pushing his hot tongue through her clenched teeth. Her knees gave way, but the pressure of his body held her up against the wagon, even as the torch she’d wedged in the corner toppled to the ground. He pulled back and looked into her eyes. Smiling hungrily, he cupped her breast in his hand and squeezed hard. “—and I let you take a trinket or two off the old lady and let your friend live. You keep your mouth shut. I keep my mouth shut. We all go home happy.”

  “Please don’t do this,” she begged, struggling to make her mind work, to sort out what was happening. The ground seemed to spin out from under her when Half-an-ear grunted, pushed her cloak aside, and thrust his hand between her legs nearly lifting her off the ground. His breath smelled of bad teeth, sour wine and day-old onions, and she willed herself not to faint. But he was right. She was lying. There were no written orders. Heraklios had no idea they were there. And she would do anything to make sure Praxis did not meet a dagger in the dark as he climbed back up out of the ravine.

  He pressed against her and pushed her chiton up to her waist. I must not scream, she told herself, and maybe Praxis will live. I will not scream. I will not … The blood pounded in her ears like galloping hoof beats as Half-an-ear’s mouth clamped down on hers. She squeezed her eyes shut and steeled herself for what she knew was coming next. And she began to pray. Please. Please. She prayed for Praxis to hurry up from the ravine to protect her, and she prayed for him to stay down in the ravine so she could protect him. She prayed that every rumor she had ever heard about Theron was true and that he would carve Half-an-ear up and feed him to the wolves, raw, and that he would know how to purge the man’s seed from her body before it took root. She prayed that the skinny, pockmarked soldier laughing in the distance would never see the sunrise. And she prayed that her father would forgive her for not keeping a knife in her boot like he always told her to.

  She heard a gasp and felt the weight of Half-an-ear’s body fall slack against her. Had she fainted? Was it over already? She slid down to the ground and he rolled off her. There were hoof beats, footsteps, voices. Someone was yelling. She opened her eyes. Half-an-ear lay beside her, face down, with a still-quivering dagger sticking out from between his shoulder blades. Near the edge of the ravine, someone leapt from a horse and tackled The Skinny One as he tried to run. She could see the glint of steel against that bastard’s scrawny neck and, at that moment, wanted nothing more than to see that glint disappear.

  And then she saw him. Nikos. Jumping down from his horse and running toward her, his cloak trailing behind like a wave. He knelt beside her and held out his hand. And it hit her. Nikos had been the hooded man in the cave. The crumpled body was his mother, trying to explain, trying to tell him something. The pounding hoof beats, the glint of the blade. It was all Nikos. Just like in the dream.

  “It’s you,” she whispered as he gathered her in his arms. Then, as the emotion of the moment and the knowledge she was safe washed over her, she wondered: Does he know? Does he know it’s his mother in the wagon?

  And where is Praxis?

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Since he and Praxis had just been at The Cove, Theron skipped it and made the rounds of the other inns and taverns in town. Even though no one had seen him all day, most people Theron asked either knew Nikos personally or knew him by reputation. And it was Nikos’s reputation that, by the end of his search, had Theron determined to keep Nikos as far away from Althaia as possible. Theron didn’t begrudge any man the right to spend his money on pleasures of the flesh, but the rumors were rife that Nikos didn’t have to spend his money, that more than one innocent maid, or even bored matron, had fallen for his supposed charms. He’d known too many men who made a hobby of seducing and abandoning lovely young maidens and matrons alike. For some soldiers, mercenaries for hire like he had been, a beautiful face, beckoning arms, and warm legs wrapped around your waist were the only thing that kept a man sane. Some kept camp wives. Some looked for a new home port wherever they pitched their tent. For men like that, they just needed a safe place where the
y didn’t have to think about killing—or being killed.

  But some men didn’t look for comfort or companionship, they looked for release. Physical, emotional, it didn't matter. They’d take a woman and break her just like they’d break a horse. Only difference was, they’d keep the horse and walk away from the woman.

  A man like that was the last thing Althaia needed. A life of loneliness as Lycon’s wife would be better than being one more in a long line of used goods. The more he thought about Nikos and the way he looked at Althaia—and the way she looked back—the more he worried about the dream she’d had that afternoon when he’d walked in and overheard more than he’d ever admit, the more he was thankful they weren’t going to be in Delphi long. Once they were back in Athens, whatever Althaia thought she felt for Nikos wouldn’t matter.

  ***

  Eventually Theron made his way back to The Cove, took an empty table, ordered some wine and sat back to watch and wait. If Nikos didn’t show up soon, he would return to Menandros’s and then head up to the farmhouse. It was full dark now and he hoped that if it was Melanippe in the ravine, Praxis and Althaia would already be escorting the body up to the farmhouse. Or perhaps it wasn’t Melanippe after all. No, the priestess was dead. He knew it in his gut, and he knew it wasn’t an accident.

  He took a long draught from his cup and looked around the room. Heraklios’ opinion of the food and wine must be shared by more than a few of Delphi’s residents. The place was full. He wondered about the men and women of Delphi—those who lived off the land and those who lived off the Sacred Precinct. According to the ancient myths, both men and gods had fought battles over the sacred mountainside and the vast, fertile plain that lay in its shadow. So much bloodshed, so many lives lost, for what? Power? Money? What was one more dead girl, one more priestess? Even if he could find the killer, or killers, what would it change in the long run? Life would continue as it always had with pilgrims traveling days and sometimes weeks from across Hellas to pay for the privilege of asking a single question of a woman they would never set eyes on. Another priestess who gives her life over to the gods. Just like my mother, he thought. Just like Nikos’s mother.

  He finished his wine and made his way over to the long table separating the main room from the kitchen. Five or six men were lined up along its length sharing wine, bread and a pungent hot fish soup. A young woman with flashing, charcoal-lined eyes, henna-dyed hair, and ample, inviting breasts stood behind the table mixing water into a large krater of wine and laughing at the men who seemed to be taking bets on who would bed her first that evening.

  “You’re wasting your time tonight, gentleman. I’m spoken for,” she said.

  “Diokles will never know,” one of the men said with a conspiratorial look. “None of us will tell!” He whispered loud enough for all to hear.

  “It’s not Diokles she’s waiting for,” another said.

  “Yes, the man with all the pretty silver owls!” The whole group laughed.

  “His silver owls are very lovely, aren’t they,” she laughed. “Almost as lovely as he is!”

  “I’d just like to know where he gets them all,” another said. “Escorting mama here and there doesn’t seem to be a very profitable livelihood if you ask me.”

  “If you really want to know where he gets it, you could ask Diokles—or even old Kleomon. But if you prefer to keep your anatomy intact, it’s a wiser move to keep your questions to yourself.”

  “Excuse me,” Theron interrupted the banter. “I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for someone who is supposed to be staying here—Nikomachos of Dodona.”

  The group erupted in laughter. “You’ve come to the right place, stranger. This little lady is aching to find him, too!”

  “If you’ve come to pay a debt, you might find him in later,” another voice joined in. “If you’ve come to collect a debt, well, you’ll have better luck waiting for Zeus to show up and buy a round of drinks for the house!”

  “Are you expecting him tonight?” Theron asked.

  “Are you a friend?” the young woman asked.

  “Are you here to pay up or get paid is what she wants to know,” prodded the man sitting nearest Theron.

  “Neither. I have news I am sure he will want to hear.”

  “Then maybe you can tell me,” the woman said. “I will pass the message along when I see him.”

  “What is your name?” Theron asked.

  “Aphro.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “My mother was one of the sacred servants of the Temple of Aphrodite in Corinth. She said I was the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. A child destined for love.” She batted her lashes, and tilted her head seductively to one side. “She was afraid to name me Aphrodite. Afraid the goddess might get jealous and strike me—or more likely, her—dead. So I am simply Aphro.”

  “Well, Aphro, do you have any idea where I might find Nikos? I have urgent news for him.”

  “He may walk in at any moment. Or he may not turn up for another six months. But, in point of fact, I’ve been expecting them back all day.”

  “Them?”

  “He went down to Kirra to meet Diokles.”

  “When he returns, tell him Theron has gone to pay his respects to his sister and that it is imperative he join him as soon as possible.”

  “I take it you are Theron.”

  “I am. The message is urgent, Aphro. It cannot wait. Even for love.”

  The playfulness fell from her face and Aphro looked at Theron with genuine concern. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  ***

  Nephthys had been pacing for so long her legs were tired. The note from Theodora was sweaty in her hand. She looked down at Zenon, snoring softly by the brazier. Had she ever slept so soundly? If so, she couldn’t remember. She sat and watched Zenon sleep. How did you end up a slave? she wondered. In what distant land were you born? Are you better off here with a kind master and a warm house with plenty of food? Fate is a funny thing. In Egypt I was a free woman with wealthy parents and a respected husband. But my husband did not love me, did not ask me what I wanted, what I thought or how I felt. He bedded me and I felt nothing. Each month he waited to see if his seed would grow. Each month, nothing. Each month, a beating. Here, I am a slave. Yet Praxis and Theron ask me what I think and have not whipped or beat me yet. And every time Praxis reaches out his hand and touches mine, my heart feels as though it has been pierced through with a burning spear. And perhaps Althaia—my mistress—is even growing to respect me. Maybe it was my fate to come to Greece.

  The door swung open and Theron strode into the room. “No word?”

  “Nothing,” she jumped up, startled, even as Zenon slept soundly.

  “Where is Menandros?”

  “Retired to his study.”

  “Come, I must speak to you both.”

  She followed Theron to Menandros’s private rooms where they found him at a large table with sheaves of papyrus and sheets of parchment spread before him. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t look up until Theron spoke. Then he jumped as if a snake had crawled up his leg.

  “By the gods, Theron, knock next time!”

  “There is no time for niceties at present.”

  “See all this?” Menandros spread his arms out across the desk. “I’m not exactly sure how I am going to fit it together—it will be a completely new kind of play!—but, I am determined to make it work.”

  “I’ll congratulate you when you wear the laurel wreath, but in the meantime, you must pay attention. As far as I know, Nikomachos is not aware his mother is missing. I left word at The Cove for him to go to the farmhouse, and I am going there now, but I want Nephthys to stay with you. It’s dark and cold and I can travel better alone. Besides, there is still a chance I will meet Praxis and Althaia on their way back—if they found that the old woman was not the priestess. Otherwise they will already be at the farmhouse. I will return in the morning or will send word first thing. I wa
nt you to keep the dogs in the yard and the gates locked.

  “Oh, Theron, you should have been a dramatist. We are in no danger here.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but the girl was found in your theater, I was charged with investigating her death, and it is known that our party is staying in your house. And if something were to happen to Nephthys,” he caught her gaze and smiled, “Praxis would not be a happy man.”

  “I’ll lock up tight and keep the dogs outside,” Menandros said. “But, you worry too much, my friend,”

  “Perhaps. But if something were to happen to you, well, I would miss making your life miserable.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Nikos held Althaia’s trembling body in his arms, stroked her hair, and whispered It’s alright, it’s alright over and over again. He brushed the hem of her chiton back into place over her legs, and turned her face away from the loathsome soldier who lay face down on the ground behind him. What in Zeus’s name was she doing out in the middle of nowhere on a night like this? Where was Theron? Where was Praxis? Why was she with these soldiers?

  He glanced over at Diokles standing at the edge of the ravine. His blade was pressed into the throat of the skinny soldier as he yelled down at the men in the ravine. This was Diokles’ territory, and he wanted an explanation. Now. He and his partners in Kirra controlled the bandits operating between Delphi and the port. They viewed the whole enterprise as a sort of toll, a tax to keep the roads relatively safe. The point was to help travelers lighten their loads just a bit, but not enough to frighten pilgrims from traveling to Delphi. That would benefit no one. Murder and rape were absolutely forbidden, and Diokles was known for handing over to the authorities the names and addresses of anyone who was too rough or who didn’t share a cut of the takings. After all, they had to pass on a share to Heraklios, too. So when they were returning from their business at the coast—from selling the gold tiara Charis’s brother had stolen—and saw the torches in the ravine and the activity clustered around the cart, Diokles wanted to know exactly what was going on. As they rode toward the figures around the cart, Nikos had been stunned to recognize Althaia, and, at that point, instinct took over.