Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  Menandros stepped aside as Theron stood, took his wine cup up to the center of the stage and leaned against the altar. Casual, calm, and without a mask, Theron’s demeanor caused the whole crowd to hold its breath. “And now we come to the final act,” he said, his voice filling the theater. “In order to complete the re-sanctification, we must know all the actors in this murderous tragedy. So, tell us Kalliope, what is supposed to be a secret?”

  “Which secret?” Kalliope swayed on her feet and Nikos actually had to reach out to steady her. “There are so many. Sometimes I get confused.”

  “The newest priestess of Dodona will have to do better than that. Why don’t you start with your decision to blackmail Nikomachos and how you know what happened in the adyton.”

  The audience began murmuring and leaning forward as one, pushing, shoving, some even climbing over seats to get a better view.

  “I’m not supposed to tell. As long as he marries me, I promised I wouldn’t say what happened. Otherwise, Nikos might get into trouble.”

  “He can’t get into any more trouble. We already know he was there when Charis died. But we also know her death was an accident. An unfortunate accident, Kalliope. He did not murder her, and you cannot blackmail him into marrying you.”

  Pale and breathing fast, her eyes bloodshot and dilated wide, Phoibe tried to stand and reach out toward Nikos—and then she closed her eyes and fainted. Georgios pulled her to him, Rhea fanned her face and lifted a cup of wine to her lips.

  “But Nikos has to marry me.” Kalliope leaned over Nikos and looked drunkenly into his eyes. “I’m the priestess of Dodona now, and you have to do what I say.”

  Kleomon pivoted in his seat, turning back and forth between Kalliope, Phoibe, Nikos and Theron, while Philon stared at Theron, his face the color of ash.

  On the stage, Theron continued “Kalliope, who was in the adyton—or rather who was on the other side of the curtain when Althaia performed the examination of Charis’s body? And who killed the priestess of Dodona?”

  “Wait, how do you know where he hid? And why are you asking me all these questions? He was the one who hit the old woman, not me.” Kalliope, clutching her wine cup, plopped back down in her seat like a little girl who had just been reprimanded by an angry parent.

  “Who hit her, Kalliope? Who killed Melannipe?”

  “Why should I tell you? I don’t even like you.” Kalliope took another drink of wine, and Theron signaled for Thea to take her cup from her. She’s had enough, he thought. But when Thea reached for it, Kalliope slapped her hand away. “You have your own cup, Theodora of Thessaly,” she sneered. “Why don’t you go up there with your brother? I don’t like you, either.”

  “En oino álétheia,” Theron said. He signaled to Heraklios who, with his nephew the lieutenant in command, marched more guards into the theater. They took positions on the stage and up the stairs, facing down the audience rows. He hoped Aphro’s potion was strong enough to make Kalliope name her accomplice before things got out of hand.

  “We have seen the power of the gods as today Dionysos has turned wine into blood before our eyes,” Theron announced to the crowd, pacing before them. “If Kalliope’s accomplice is here today, perhaps the god has transformed his wine as well. The soldiers will watch as each one of us tips our cup and pours wine so all can see. If your heart is innocent of this crime, your wine will serve as a sanctifying libation to the god. If not, it will serve as your indictment. Now, pour!” Theron tipped his cup and poured a healthy draught onto the theater paving stones as Menandros/Dionysos watched. There was, of course, no way to color the wine of an unknown accomplice, so they could only hope, if the man was in the theater, Kalliope would point him out when she saw his wine pour out clear. Hopefully, as long as she was not too far under the influence of the belladonna, she would realize that she alone would be held accountable for Melanippe’s murder if she did not name him.

  Philon remained immobilized, while Kleomon could hardly sit still, swiveling this way and that as everyone began pouring and talking at once. The Pythia lifted her veil to watch, her eyes wide in fascination. Theron strode over to them, towered over them. “Deepest apologies Pythia, but everyone must pour. Now.” The Pythia of Apollon, her face pale and somber, looked up at Theron and handed her cup to him. He tipped it over and poured out a thin line of wine, then handed it back with a respectful bow.

  “I don’t know what you’re about, Theron, but this is the most entertaining day I’ve had in a long time,” Kleomon said as he tipped his wine cup over and dripped a clear golden stream onto the ground.

  Next to him, Philon huffed and started to rise. “Where are my guards? I demand an end to this ridiculous performance.” Behind Theron, two of Heraklios’s soldiers stepped forward and Philon sank back into his seat.

  “I’m afraid I must ask you to pour, Philon,” Theron said.

  “Whose idea was this?” Philon practically spat the words. “You think by intimidating a poor, lovesick girl into confessing to murder you have proven yourself some sort of servant of the gods? I know what you really are. I know—”

  “Pour!” Theron demanded.

  Philon turned his cup upside down and dumped the contents onto the ground.

  Heraklios’s voice rang out. “Libations or indictments?” he called to his guards.

  “Libations, sir,” the lieutenant announced. “There is no other guilty party in the theater. Kalliope alone is guilty of desecrating the altar of Dionysos, blackmailing Nikomachos of Dodona, and murdering Melanippe of Dodona, priestess of Zeus and Gaia. It is up to the Amphiktyonic League to sentence her for desecration of the Sacred Precinct and for Niomachos to demand retribution and receive the blood price for his mother’s murderer.”

  “Wait!” Kalliope frowned. She clutched her goblet as if it were a child’s favored toy from which she could not bear to be parted and clamored over her seat, stepped on some Delphinian dignitary’s lap, and teetered over Philon’s chair. Philon reared back into his seat, putting as much distance between himself and Kalliope as humanly possible. “Heraklios! Restrain this poor girl.”

  Kalliope grabbed the cup from Philon’s hands and peered into it. “This magic doesn’t work right.” She tipped the cup over and dribbled out the last few drops of his wine onto the paving stones.

  Philon planted both hands on Kalliope’s shoulders and shoved her backwards. “This is madness! The poor girl’s been drugged!”

  Theron put his arm around Kalliope’s waist and pulled her back against him, away from Philon. He glanced at Kleomon and growled. “Get the Pythia out of here.” Kleomon grabbed the Pythia’s hand, and they walked warily behind the altar until they were safely behind Heraklios and as far away from the deranged girl as possible. But Kleomon had no intention of going any farther; he couldn’t wait to see exactly what was going to happen next. And neither could most of the people in the audience, many of who were crowding forward, stepping over rows of seats and into the aisles to get a better look at what was going on down front.

  Theron picked up Kalliope by the waist and placed her on the altar; her legs dangled as if she were a child sitting on a high stool. “Why did you say the magic doesn’t work right? What did you expect to see in Philon’s cup?”

  “Why should I tell you? You can’t punish me.”

  “I can’t, but Heraklios can. And he will. What did you expect to see in Philon’s cup?”

  “Stay away from me.” She reached out with her leg to push Theron away from her. He dodged her foot and stepped back. He glanced over at Heraklios who then stepped forward.

  “Kalliope, you must talk to us. Let’s start with the priestess of Dodona. How did she come to die at the bottom of a ravine?”

  “I’m the priestess of Dodona.”

  “How did Melanippe die? Who hit her?”

  “I don’t know why anyone cares. She was a disgusting old woman.” She looked out at Nikos. “I’m sorry, my love, but you know it’s true.”

 
“Kalliope. You are trying my patience. Who took Melanippe’s walking stick and bludgeoned her to death with it? Who dumped her body in the ravine? You didn’t do those things, did you?”

  “Of course not, you stupid man. Papa did it.”

  “You must say your Papa’s name.”

  Kalliope shuddered. “I’m not supposed to ever say it. Ever.”

  “If your papa murdered the priestess, you must name him or you will be punished for his crime,” Theron said. “That’s not fair, is it?”

  “Nothing he does is fair,” she said, her voice low, trembling. Just name your accomplice, Theron pleaded silently, and let’s get this over with. They’d come this far and must now see it through, but by the gods, it might have been better to handle this Diokles’s way.

  “If you don’t want to say his name, if you’re forbidden from telling, just point. If he’s in the theater, point to him,” Thereon urged.

  She suddenly whirled and pointed to Heraklios. Everyone in the audience gasped. “If I don’t point him out, you’ll make me pay for his crime?” There was a collective sigh of relief as Heraklios nodded. “If you were there when the deed took place and will not name the man who wielded the walking stick against her, I will have to hold you accountable for her death.”

  She dropped her cup with a clatter and buried her face in her hands. No one moved, no one made a sound. No birds trilled in the trees, no leaves rustled. It seemed as if the wind had even stopped to listen. “You won’t let him hurt me, will you?” Her voice was muffled, barely audible.

  “On my honor as a soldier, I swear it,” Heraklios answered.

  Then she raised her face, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and pointed straight at Philon. “That’s him. There.”

  Philon leapt to his feet. “This is outrageous! Kleomon, you’ve known me for years. You know I have no offspring.”

  With his arms folded across his chest and a wide smile across his fleshy face, Kleomon met Philon’s gaze and said nothing.

  Philon turned to the audience behind him and pointed at Theron. “Theron of Thessaly is a known assassin. He arrived here the night of Charis’s murder, he killed the priestess of Dodona, and now he’s blaming it on this poor deluded girl. Heraklios, you can’t let him get away with this.”

  Kalliope edged closer to Heraklios, as if standing in the general’s shadow offered her the protection she needed. “Theron?” she laughed. “Theron wasn’t the one who found Charis on the temple steps. Theron wasn’t the one who made Baselios strip her and carry her up here. Right here. On this altar.” She patted the cold stone with the palm of her hand, and a soft smacking sound rang through the theater. “He wasn’t the one who claimed it would drive Phoibe mad, help push her over the edge.” She turned to Nikos. “I didn’t know about it until later. I swear.”

  The hair stood up on Theron’s neck and he scanned the theater for Baselios. Where is he? Kalliope started toward Philon again, but the drugs were making her legs wobbly and she fell at his feet, knocking him back in his chair. She clutched at his knee and pulled herself up to lay her head in his lap. “Tell them I didn’t know. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Get away from me,” Philon kicked her in the stomach and sent her sprawling. Then he stood and began barking orders at his body guards. “Take her to my quarters at the temple. She needs a physician’s attention immediately. Heraklios, I’m ashamed of you. Once again, I must clean up the mess. Once again, I must take charge—”

  “Do you dare disown me now, Papa?” Kalliope clutched at the hem of his robe. “After all I’ve done for you? After you made me leave home and go live with that nasty witch in Dodona?

  “Philon,” Theron said, “this girl has made serious accusations against you. Do you deny them?”

  “I don’t answer to you,” he spat. “She’s so drugged, she can barely stand.”

  Kalliope scrambled to her feet and marched at Theron as if she was going to ram him with her head. She stopped short and teetered back on her heels. “Did you poison me? Am I going to die like Sofia and Phoibe?

  Ah, so that’s why Phoibe is sick and that’s why Sofia died so suddenly. Theron looked up at Thea who, like the other priestesses, was at once riveted by Kalliope and trying to care for Phoibe who was, although now conscious, pale as death. The audience also appeared to be of two minds—the ones sitting farther up wanted to move down to get as close to the action as possible while the ones sitting down front tried to draw back from the tragedy unfolding at their feet.

  “Did your Papa poison Sofia?” Heraklios asked as he signaled for more guards to approach.

  “Sofia?” Kalliope said, looking up at Philon. “No, Papa fucked her, he didn’t poison her. Charis did. He said Charis was a snake and whoever killed her did the whole world a favor.”

  “Stop this now!” Philon tried again to gain control of the situation. “Heraklios, restrain her. This has gone on long enough. She’s mad, insane!”

  “Heraklios, she is mad, insane,” Kalliope mocked, trying to stand again.

  “Why is your Papa poisoning Phoibe?” Theron asked.

  “To kill her. By the gods, you are a stupid man. My papa is not stupid. He speaks a dozen languages. Did you know that?” Kalliope poked her finger in the middle of Theron’s chest. “How many languages do you speak?”

  “By all that is holy, make her stop!” Philon demanded.

  “By all that is holy … You know, Phoibe is holy.” The crowds turned almost as if their heads were on a pivot, clamoring for a chance to see Phoibe, to see what role she played in these tragic events. Kalliope continued, “She has the sight, and she knew the priests were plotting. Or at least one was. I can’t speak for the old fat one,” she waved her arm toward Kleomon. “But Papa? Plotting, plotting, plotting. Always wanting more, more power, more money, just more. He sent me to Dodona where I was to charm Melanippe and become her successor. Then he went to work on Sofia—hard to picture them as lovers isn’t it?” She shuddered. “Then when Charis poisoned Sofia, he got mad. I’m sleepy. Why am I so sleepy?” Her knees buckled and she tipped forward. Theron caught her, sat her back up on the altar where she leaned into him like a child being carried off to bed.

  “‘Daughter, you must do your duty and both Delphi and Dodona will be within our grasp,’” she mimicked and pointed at Philon. “Duty and power. That’s all you ever talk about. But I didn’t want to do my duty. I didn’t want to go to Dodona. Melanippe was mean and sick and she smelled like sour flesh and piss. But it turned out all right because Nikos is strong and handsome—and he’s going to be my husband.”

  “Kalliope, why did your papa want to kill Phoibe?” Heraklios asked.

  “Why, why, why? Why always why?” Kalliope started to climb off the altar. Theron, afraid she might fall, grabbed at her waist then doubled over in pain as she planted her foot in his groin. Heraklios started toward them, but she glared at him and he stepped back, ready, for the moment, to let her have her say. “I’ll tell you why.” She yawned, grabbed at Theron’s cloak and whispered. “Because my papa is the smartest man in all Greece. Smarter than Aristotle. Smarter than Platon, Smarter than you.” She reached out to poke at Theron’s shoulder again and instead fell forward into his arms.

  ***

  At the entrance to the theater, Aphro turned to Diokles. “Perhaps I put used too much belladonna.”

  “You think?”

  “Or maybe it was the mandragora. Or the pinch of herba apollinaros.”

  Diokles’ eyes widened. “Zeus’s beard, woman! You could have killed her.”

  Aphro shrugged. “When you’ve got only one chance to catch a rat….”

  ***

  “I’ve had enough of this farce.” Philon started to march toward the exit when the soldiers took a step forward. “I’m not going to stand here and listen to this deluded girl accuse me of crimes I could not possibly have committed.” The soldiers drew their swords. He stepped back and slumped down in his chair.

  Theron p
ropped Kalliope upright against the altar. “Go on.” He knelt beside her. Whatever Aphro had put in her drink—and he was pretty sure it was more than his truth-telling concoction—he knew there was little time left before the girl would be out for a very long time.

  “I was telling you a story, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes, about your Papa, about Philon.”

  “Shh! You can’t say his name.”

  “About your papa, then.”

  Kalliope’s face blanched. She swayed, leaned forward and retched. “I don’t feel good. You didn’t poison me, did you? Am I going to die like Sofia?”

  “No, you are not going to die.”

  “I think I’m going to die. Nikos!” She tried to scramble to her feet. “Don’t let me die on our wedding day!”

  Theron grabbed her arm and pulled her up short. “You’re not going to die.”

  “You’re trying to kill me!” she screamed, wrenched free, and threw herself at Philon’s feet. “Papa, help me!”

  Althaia groaned and Praxis put his arm around her. She tried to see Nikos, but soldiers blocked her view. They were trying to keep the audience calm and in their seats, but their job was proving as difficult as trying to talk the tide out of coming ashore. People surged forward, almost stepping on each other to get the best view.

  “Get this madwoman out of here,” Philon screeched, shaking her loose as if scorpions had crawled up his legs.

  Kalliope looked up at Philon, helpless, like the young girl she was. “I may only be the daughter of a slave, but you said you loved me.” Tears ran down her confused face and she had trouble keeping her eyes open and her head from bobbling about on her neck as if it had come loose from the rest of her body.

  By now Heraklios, the lieutenant and two soldiers flanked Theron, ready to take Philon in chains. Theron wanted nothing more than to scoop Kalliope into his arms and get her away from Philon, away from the theater, away from the crowds. They may have achieved their goals, but this was a disaster. Kalliope’s shoulders were shaking, racked with sobs as Philon looked down at her with utter hatred etched on his face. What causes men to use daughters like political tools, marrying them off or sending them away as if they were nothing more than goods to be bought or sold? A wave of revulsion washed over him as he remembered all the women he’d known who’d been pawned off to uncaring husbands who treated them like one more piece of property. He thought of Althaia, and of his own twin. Are they not my equals?