Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  Chapter Fifty-two

  “Tomorrow, we end this,” Theron said, slamming his cup down on the table so hard Menandros’s dogs began to bark. He turned to Diokles who stood to leave. “Everything depends on you. Are you certain you can be prepared?”

  “We have much to do in the next few hours, but with Althaia’s funds to back us up, I’m certain Aphro and I will have the ready cooperation of every shopkeeper in Delphi.”

  Earlier that morning, as dawn broke over the Korycian Cave and mourners nursed their headaches and packed their belongings to return home, Nikos and Althaia had emerged into the daylight to find Diokles and Aphro waiting just outside the mouth of the cave. After Aphro reported on Kalliope’s activities the night before, the foursome hurried to track down Theron, Praxis and the rest of their group to tell them everything that had transpired. Theron immediately related what he had learned from Rhea, Phoibe’s mother, and wondered if Kalliope might also have something to do with Phoibe’s sickness. If the girl was willing to blackmail Nikos and murder one priestess, he suggested, might she be willing to murder another? But what would she gain from Phoibe’s death, Praxis asked, and how could she accomplish such a feat? Did she have accomplices in both the temple complex and in Phoibe’s household? Someone who would be willing to poison the Pythia of Gaia? Both Theron and Praxis wanted to set off immediately to find Heraklios so he could arrest Kalliope and interrogate her before it was too late. Diokles, too, argued for interrogating her, but he wasn’t interested in going through proper channels. Why not grab her, hold her feet to the fire—literally—and force her to confess? Thea wanted to assemble all the priestesses and confront Kalliope on sacred ground while they were still at the cave. And Nikos said he didn’t care how she was held accountable, as long as he found out who had moved Charis’s body and why, and as long as he could be certain that everyone in Delphi—and across all Hellas—discovered who had murdered his mother and why. As Althaia listened to everyone argue, she noticed Menandros scratching notes on his wax tablet and heard him muttering under his breath: “Oh, what Euripides could have done with such material!”

  “That’s it!” she had clapped her hands and exclaimed.

  “That’s what?” Theron asked as everyone turned toward her.

  “Menandros just gave me the most brilliant idea.”

  At the sound of his name, Menandros looked up, blinking. “I did? What? What did I say?”

  “You said, ‘Oh, what Euripides could have done with such material.’ So what would he have done? Murder, intrigue, betrayal, revenge … this is the stuff of tragedy. Aeschylus, Sophokles, Euripides, the greatest tragedians turned stories like this into plays to reveal and explore the dark side of human nature, and, with Menandros’s help, we can do the same.”

  “What are you saying?” Nikos asked.

  “I’m saying that tomorrow Menandros is putting on a play during the re-sanctification celebration for the theater. He told me he’s been working on a new type of play, but why not stage something revolutionary, something that’s never been done before? Like the great playwrights, we can transform Kalliope’s story into a tragedy that exposes her for what she really is. Together we can write a play that will portray her as a murderer and blackmailer, and we can force her to name her accomplices—all in front of Heraklios, the priests of Apollon, and her sister priestesses.” No one had said a word. “Don’t you see,” she continued, trying to convince them all, “we can use the play to trick her, to catch her out in front of everyone without giving her or her accomplices a chance to leave Delphi and escape justice.”

  At first, Theron, Praxis, Thea and Nikos thought it crazy, but with Menandros, and even Nephthys, on her side, she gradually won them over, and after converging on Menandros’s house after leaving the funeral site, they had spent the rest of the day composing their tragedy.

  As Diokles took his leave to prepare and set the trap, Theron glanced over at Praxis who shook his head. “Take heart, Praxis,” Theron said, "Althaia’s plan is sheer madness, but if everyone does their part, it just might—might!—work.”

  “Where in Zeus’s name is Zenon?” Menandros blurted suddenly. “I still can’t believe Palamedes is Kalliope’s accomplice, but if it’s true, perhaps Zenon is in danger. The boy went to see him at the temple and now … we’ll he’s been gone most of the day. Perhaps something has happened to him.”

  “No one wants to believe Palamedes is involved,” Althaia said, “but who else—”

  “It doesn’t sit right in my gut,” Praxis interrupted. “Would having his work stolen and sold around the Middle Sea drive him to conspire with Kalliope in murder and blackmail?”

  “You know as well as I do that men have done far worse for less significant reasons,” Theron said.

  “I know, but….” Praxis began pacing again, glancing occasionally at Nephthys who had kept the gathering supplied with food and drink while they conspired.

  “Would anyone like anything more?” Nephthys asked.

  “More wine,” Menandros grunted and held out his cup. Nephthys reached for it just as Zenon walked into the andron. Menandros jumped up so quickly he dropped the cup, shattering it on the tile floor as he grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “Where have you been, boy?”

  “I, uh”—Zenon blushed and looked at the floor—“stopped by the, um, Cove for, um—”

  “Oh, Zenon,” Menandros shook his head. “Your wick isn’t even dry and you have to go dip it the font again. You better get used to oiling up your palm or you’ll go broke faster than Koroibos of Elis ran the first stadion. You don’t want to be the Olympic champion of whore-mongering.”

  Zenon turned red as a radish and took an eager interest in the kitchen door.

  “Help clean up this mess you caused,” Menandros ordered, trying not to show how relieved he was that the boy was safe.

  “Did you see Palamedes to tell him about your conquests at the funeral feast?” Praxis asked.

  “I couldn’t find him. He wasn’t in his quarters or his workshop.”

  “Perhaps he was working on preparations for tomorrow’s festivities,” Theron suggested.

  Zenon shook his head as he bent to gather the shards of broken pottery. “No one’s seen him since yesterday. Why?”

  Theron thought quickly. “I thought I’d buy a pot from him, a gift to Menandros for his generosity as a host.”

  “Oh, Theron, my friend,” Menandros clapped in delight. “You don’t have to—”

  “Of course I don’t have to.” Theron rolled his eyes.

  “I figured I would go see him tomorrow before the ceremony,” Zenon said. “You can come with me if you want.”

  “Excellent idea. I think I’ll do just that.”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  “Starting early, I see. Good,” Theron said as he and Zenon met Diokles and Aphro at a long table set up at the entrance to the theater.

  “Better early than late, I always say.” Diokles watched as Aphro directed servants from The Cove like a general on the battlefield.

  “How profound,” Theron said. “Innkeeping and petty crime are evidently not your only talents, Diokles. You should have been a poet.”

  “Oh, but I am. Ask Aphro. Just last night I was extolling the virtues of her—”

  Aphro stomped on his foot and smiled. “Master Theron, young Zenon, please forgive him. He is a brute.”

  “But today, Madam, he is an indispensable brute,” Theron replied with a grim smile.

  “By the way—” Aphro winked at Zenon—“it’s good to see you again so soon.”

  Zenon blushed as Theron squeezed the back of his neck. “Just see to it he does not become a regular at The Cove. A boy his age could go broke in a week if someone didn’t stop him.”

  “It’s a good thing your Athenian is wealthy,” Diokles said, as he watched the slaves unload amphorae from the back of a wagon. “Aphro and I had a wonderful time spending her money yesterday. I’ll have ten full kraters of wine and back-
up amphorae at the ready in case it’s a bigger crowd than expected.”

  “You were able to find enough white wine, I presume,” Theron said.

  “Delphinians are a thirsty bunch. I had to buy out every one of my competitors.”

  “See you don’t pad the bill. Althaia may be wealthy, and in this case willing to spend as much as it takes, but it’s Praxis who oversees the accounts.”

  “Don’t worry. I make it my life’s work to know who I can cheat and who I can’t.” He slapped Theron on the back and moved off to supervise the unloading of the amphorae.

  “Let’s see those goblets, Aphro,” Theron said as she finished setting out ten beautifully painted, narrow rimmed drinking goblets on a richly embroidered cloth.

  Theron held one up, turned it around and then peered into the mouth.

  “They were the best we could find on such short notice,” she said. “The opening isn’t as small as we’d have liked, but I think they’ll do.”

  “They’ll have to do. That they’re painted black on the interior helps,” he said. He placed the goblet back on the table. “And the fact that the rest of us will be drinking from plain cups will only emphasize their beauty. Now, which one is for Kalliope?”

  “Can you not see the difference?”

  “No.” He stepped back and studied each goblet. Aphro waited.

  “Can you see a difference, Zenon?”

  “They all look the same to me.”

  “Ah!” Theron exclaimed after a moment. “This one.” He pointed. “The maid is carrying a sword not a thyrsus.”

  “Very good,” Aphro clapped. “At first glance it’s difficult to see the difference between a walking staff tipped with a pinecone and a sword with a fancy hilt. I thought it was appropriate.”

  “Indeed. And did you have any problems with the recipe?”

  “I mixed it a dozen times and tried it out on several of the boys. Now I know who’s been stealing barley cakes from the storeroom. I thought it was rats.”

  “So it worked.”

  “Like a charm.”

  “Good. I haven’t had occasion to use it in many years. What about the coloring? The thickening agent?

  “I’ve already added it to the bottom of her cup. She’ll see that the wine poured in will be a lovely golden hue, but as the wine sits in the cup, that will change. I had to work out the right consistency. At first it was too thick. Like a paste. The key was to add a little water to let it dissolve and not to use too much garum. It still tasted like day-old fish guts, so then I added honey. But you’ll see,” she smiled and held up the goblet reserved Kalliope. “Kalliope’s tiny. There’s barely any meat on her bones so it shouldn’t take much to do the trick. Besides the fact that her serving won’t be diluted with much water, the garum and beetroot will thicken and stain her white wine blood red and the belladonna will induce a euphoric delirium that will transform the new priestess into a truth-telling font of information.”

  “At least that’s the plan,” Theron mumbled as he turned to Zenon. “All right,” Theron said. “Let’s find Palamedes.”

  “Follow me,” Zenon said as he led Theron down the steps toward the temple. “Everybody down here knows me.” He turned to Theron, “Don’t tell anyone,” he lowered his voice, “but I’ve even been into the Pythia’s private chamber. Palamedes took me in. Introduced me. She was veiled the whole time, but she was nice. She gave me sweets.”

  “That’s quite an honor, Zenon. I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  Zenon chattered on as Theron followed him down the torch-lit subterranean corridor under the temple. This is the same hallway Althaia and Nephthys walked following Palamedes’s thread, he thought. He was nearly sick with fury at the idea of such a man playing them for fools, having the two women so close to him, alone, down here in the dark. Theron trusted Praxis completely and knew him to be an excellent judge of character. If Palamedes had fooled Praxis, he could likely fool anyone. But the prospect of the old artisan being a murderer still didn’t feel right. Now Kleomon, on the other hand. Or even Philon. But Palamedes? The truth was only the gods knew what secrets were locked in the hearts of men—and since Theron didn’t believe in the gods, it was up to men like him to pry the secrets out. One by one, if necessary.

  “Here it is.” Zenon came to a halt in front of a closed door and started knocking.

  They waited a moment and Zenon knocked again.

  “Perhaps the priests have him helping with the re-sanctification ceremony,” Theron said.

  “But he hardly ever does any work like that,” Zenon said. “He should be here.”

  “Maybe he is at his workshop or at the theater. Maybe he’s going to watch Menandros’s play.” Or maybe he has fled and is on his way to who-knows-where, Theron thought.

  “But what if he’s sick. He’s awfully old and no one saw him yesterday. Someone should check on him.”

  “What are you doing down here?” They turned to find Basileios, Philon’s personal bodyguard, behind them. “Ah, Theron of Thessaly, where is your beautiful employer.” He looked around as if Althaia might be standing in the shadows. “You are usually always at her side. Has she gone missing?”

  “My employer’s whereabouts are none of your concern,” Theron said, uneasy at the guard’s boldness.

  “Come now, you cannot fault a man for appreciating a beautiful woman, can you?” Basileios laughed as if he were joking with an old friend.

  Theron ignored that and said, “Zenon came to visit Palamedes yesterday, but couldn’t find him anywhere. And he’s not here today, either.”

  “Have you seen him?” Zenon asked.

  The guard mussed Zenon’s hair as if he were a child, not a young man of sixteen. “He’s probably up at the temple workshop. You know how he gets when he’s working on a special piece. Why aren’t you helping Menandros get ready for the ceremony? And when’s he finally going to let you have a part in one of his plays?”

  Zenon beamed. “Today. Of course, I don’t have any lines—I play the shade of someone already dead—but still.”

  “You got to start somewhere. Now, you better go get ready.” The guard moved to escort them out when Theron spoke up.

  “I don’t imagine you have a key. Zenon’s awfully worried about his friend, and we wouldn’t want him preoccupied for his theatrical debut, would we?”

  “I don’t know if Philon and Kleomon would want me unlocking doors to anyone’s private chambers.”

  “But if it will allay Zenon’s worries ….”

  Basileios stared hard at Theron.

  “I’m sure you know how close Zenon and Palamedes are, and if it would ease the boy’s mind….”

  “Alright,” Basileios relented. “For you, Zenon.” He took a key off an iron ring, slipped it into the lock, and opened the door.

  The room was neat and simple. A sleeping pallet lay snug against the far wall and shelves lined the rest of the space. The shelves were full of vases and lekythoi, plain cups, kylixes and kraters, and an assortment of jars, pots and other vessels of all shapes and sizes in various stages of completion. A small potter’s wheel and stool sat in the corner surrounded by buckets of slick, wet clay and dirty water. Next to it, on a high table, a pitcher, a basin of water, and a stack of drying cloths were arranged. Theron walked over to the table and felt the wick on the lamp. Cold. Papers were spread on the table, sketches for works in progress or future works. Palamedes was not here, that much was obvious. But it was also obvious he hadn’t packed his things for a long trip. If he’s gone, Theron thought, he must have left in a hurry.

  “Don’t worry, Zenon. You know Palamedes isn’t one for crowds. He’s probably laying low until this whole ceremony is over. I’m sure someone will find him sooner or later.”

  Theron paused as the guard ushered Zenon back out to the hallway. Something is not right here, he thought. He sniffed the air—the scent of must, cold stone, wet clay, packed earth, and something else, almost like…. Someone has been in the
tunnel. But where is the opening? He could’ve kicked himself. He never asked Althaia or Nephthys about the tunnel. He knew exactly where it began, where the stone opening was in the Sacred Precinct wall, and he knew where it ended. Here. In this room. But where? There were shelves lining every wall. Damn! Where is the tunnel?

  “Satisfied?”

  “Smells like Palamedes’s got a dead rat in here,” Theron said.

  “We get ’em down here all the time. Usually the snakes take care of them,” Basileios said. “Time to go. Menandros wouldn’t want his new star actor to go missing.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Theron said. Something about Basileios made Theron’s hackles stand on end, but the man was right. They had no more time to waste.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Althaia scooted Praxis and Nephthys over so Theron could take his seat beside her. They sat on the far right side of the theater, near the entrance. From their vantage point, she could see across the stage to the center front rows of the audience. In the very center seat of the very front row sat a woman clothed in the purest white. She was completely veiled, although a laurel wreath sat on her brow. The Pythia of Apollon. She looks lonely, Althaia thought.

  On either side of her, Philon and Kleomon sat attended by their personal guards and surrounded by Delphi’s wealthiest citizens, of whom there appeared to be plenty. Directly behind them, the priestesses of Gaia sat on brand new feather pillows adorned with silk tassels and gold and silver embroidery. As it promised to be a chilly day, Althaia had asked Diokles to purchase woolen throws to keep the priestesses warm and comfortable. She hoped Praxis was keeping an accurate record of everything Diokles and Aphro put on her account.

  Thea had ushered the priestesses in. It was her job to ensure they sat in the right places, or the plan might fail. Phoibe, the Pythia of Gaia sat directly behind the Pythia of Apollon and behind her sat Georgios and her mother, Rhea. They seemed to be propping Phoibe up. Maybe Theron’s suspicions were true. Perhaps Kalliope—or someone—was poisoning Phoibe. She looked more than sick. She looked as if Hades himself sat at her elbow, not Georgios.