Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  “I have no daughter, and I have committed no crime,” Philon growled at her.

  Wiping her tears, Kalliope looked up at Theron and Heraklios. This time there was a cold calculation in her eyes. “If he won’t own to being my father, ask him if he’ll own to Palamedes.”

  Theron stomach lurched. “What about Palamedes?” He knelt and grabbed her wrist, his sympathy vanishing like so much smoke.

  “If you’d like to find him, try his tunnel. Though I imagine you’ll need to hold your nose. He probably doesn’t smell too good anymore.”

  I knew something was not right. Theron turned to see Praxis leap from his seat and run out of the theater with Nephthys and several of Heraklios’s soldiers in his wake. Nephthys would know how to access the tunnel. By the gods, I should’ve trusted my gut, he swore to himself. He should’ve have trusted Praxis’s intuition. He slid the dagger from his belt. The need to plunge it into something was nearly overwhelming. Kalliope made an easy target, but Philon was the one he wanted.

  He let go of Kalliope and she fell back in a heap at his feet. The lieutenant rushed up and knelt beside her. Her head lolled backward and she started to cry again. Then she lay her head on the lieutenant’s lap and fell fast asleep.

  Theron loomed over Philon’s chair and pressed his blade into the side of his neck, poised just so against the artery pulsing below Philon’s pale skin. “What did you do with Palamedes?” One flick of the wrist and Philon the priest would be history. “Why kill him?”

  Theron felt Heraklios at his side. “Be careful, Theron. Philip will want the bastard to go to Pella for a show trial.”

  Theron ignored him and pushed his blade into Philon’s flesh until a tiny bead of blood trickled down the priest’s neck. “Why kill Palamedes?”

  “A slave shouldn’t ask so many questions,” Philon said. His eyes flicked up at Theron and then across the altar toward Kleomon. He smiled sanctimoniously, reached up, clasped Theron’s wrist and pulled the knife hard into his own neck. Theron jerked his hand back unleashing a great spray of blood that splattered across his chest and face. Philon’s eyes glazed. He reached up, slowly, clamped his hand over his neck as if he wanted to feel the warm stickiness of life one last time. Blood gushed through his fingers, painted them red, and pulsed down his arm. Then Philon of Patra, senior priest of the Temple and Guardian of the Oracle of Apollon slumped back into his chair one last time, eyes staring, a sardonic smile frozen on his lips.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  At once the crowd erupted and people streamed down the steps and into the aisles. Some wanted to get as far away as possible, but most wanted a good look at the pompous priest who acted as though he was better than everyone as he bled out over the theater paving stones. Soldiers tried to usher them toward the door as quickly as possible, but it was useless.

  Thea shuddered and then turned back to Phoibe who still lay in Georgios’s arms. Her skin was white, her breathing shallow, and Rhea mopped her brow with the edge of a blanket dipped in wine. The other priestesses watched and prayed that Philon had not, at the end, accomplished his goal.

  Next to her, Nikos stood on his seat and tried to spot Althaia through the stream of people. He saw her turn, searching for him even as she was swept up in the crowd rushing toward Philon. She waved at him, then her eyes widened and someone moved in front of her

  “Nikos!”

  How he heard her voice over the noise, he would never know. He jumped up a row higher. Someone knocked into him and he grabbed Rhea’s shoulder to steady himself. Over the heads and shoulders of the soldiers and audience members, he finally spotted her, flailing frantically, kicking mercilessly.

  Basileios. A full head and shoulders taller than Althaia, Philon’s bodyguard banded his forearm tight around her neck, and walked her in front of him, pushing inexorably through the crowd, toward the exit. With Theron standing over Philon’s body, Praxis and Nephthys gone in search of Palamedes, Nikos knew immediately that Basileios would try to use Althaia to get away, to user her as a hostage to try bribe his way out of getting punished for his part in Philon’s plans.

  Nikos launched himself into the crowd. “Move!” he yelled even as spectators pushed forward. “Out of the way!” By the gods, what was wrong with these people? He pushed and shoved, just as violently, just as desperately as the man holding Althaia by the neck.

  ***

  Althaia knew Nikos heard her. He would get to her, just like he had at the ravine. But this time, she meant to fight. If the man who held her thought he could escape using her as a human shield, he was sorely mistaken. That morning, she had remembered her father’s advice and stowed her little dagger in her boot. She hopped on one foot, buoyed by the crowd, and pulled the knife out. Basileios looked down just in time to see the steel blade gleam as it plunged into his thigh. He roared in pain, reached down and ripped the knife from his flesh. He gripped the hilt in his fist and plowed his fist into Althaia’s jaw.

  Nikos was close, almost there. He saw Althaia’s head snap back. Then he saw Diokles push through the crowd toward her. Diokles was pointing up at the sky, yelling something. At first he couldn’t tell what it was, but then he heard Aphro’s voice, high and piercing over the droning of the crowd: Clear shot! Clear shot! Diokles was running interference.

  Nikos pushed an old man out of the way and shoved into a young couple still chattering excitedly about the spectacle. He leapt over the rows of seats, climbing two at a time, until he reached the top. He leaned over the edge. Almost directly below him, Basileios struggled to break through the crowd, to gain the path and escape from the theater and the Makedonían guards at his heels.

  Diokles was relentless, pushing unsuspecting Delphinians out of the way like a warship plowing through rough seas. He reached them, grabbed Althaia and wrenched her away just as Nikos bellowed. “Basileios!” Surprised by the voice from above, the guard looked up. Please Gaia, Nikos prayed, I need just one clear shot. As soon as his dagger left his hand, he smiled. Nobody bested him with a blade. It was a pure release, a pure flight, a pure hit. It landed right at the base of Basileios’ neck, right at that soft place lovers like to kiss, right at that place in Althaia’s neck where Nikos’s thumb had been a perfect fit.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Althaia leaned into Nikos as Basileios’ body was laid out next to Philon’s. Heraklios’ guards had already cleared all the spectators from the theater. The Pythia of Apollon, with her veil pulled back over the laurel wreath on her head, sat with Thea and the other priestesses as they ministered to Phoibe. The Pythia of Gaia’s head lay in her mother’s lap as Georgios bent over her, his face changing moment to moment from utter rage to sheer desperation. Theron, Heraklios, Kleomon, and Menandros, with his arm around Zenon’s shoulders, stood in a huddle around Praxis and Nephthys. Althaia and Nikos joined them as Praxis continued.

  “It was a good thing Zenon followed us,” Praxis said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have had any idea where we were going. It’s a maze down there. When we got to Palamedes’s apartment, the door was locked and of course no one had a key so we had to break it down. It took three of us and I think the one of the men nearly broke his shoulder. Once we were in, Nephthys took over.” He turned to her. “Tell them.”

  “After Althaia and I entered the room the night she examined Charis in the adyton—”

  “—this is almost too much to take in,” Kleomon interrupted.

  “We’ll explain later,” Theron interrupted. “Go on.”

  “Anyway, that night Palamedes showed us how the entrance to the tunnel worked. There was a secret door—a panel in his wall that slid open behind one of his shelves.”

  “Zenon wanted to go in first,” Praxis picked up the story again, “but I wouldn’t let him. Nephthys held him back while I took a torch and headed into the tunnel.” He took a deep breath. “From the tracks in the dirt, it looked like Palamedes had been dragged in to the passageway as far as Philon’s guard could go. Once the tunnel got too low, he
simply left Palamedes there. The knife wound didn’t kill him right away. He’d tried to crawl back toward his room and, beside him, in the packed dirt of the tunnel floor, he had used a stone to try to scratch out Philon’s name. He never finished.”

  “I could smell it, the stench of death,” Theron muttered.

  “Yes, but it was faint and the passage was cold. You couldn’t have known.”

  “I feel terrible,” Althaia said.

  “Don’t even start,” Praxis interrupted. “He didn’t know we thought”—he looked over at Zenon, not wanting the boy to know they ever suspected his friend and mentor—“he didn’t know. He was dead before the funeral ceremony even began.”

  “Still,” Althaia whispered.

  “All these years, Philon had a daughter. How could I not have known?” Kleomon wondered aloud. “He always said I had lousy spies. By the way, what did you put in Kalliope’s wine?”

  “A secret recipe I learned at the court of the Great King of Persia. A recipe that was obviously not followed as closely as I instructed,” Theron said. “I think Diokles and Aphro added a few ingredients of their own.”

  “Speaking of ingredients being added to wine, I sent two riders up to Phoibe’s house,” Heraklios said. “It won’t take them long to find out who has been poisoning Phoibe. Then we’ll know if there’s any hope.”

  “Theron,” Thea called and waved her arm urgently. “Hurry.”

  As one, the group moved toward the Pythia of Gaia.

  “Stibi.” Phoibe said. She reached for Georgios’ hand. “That’s what Charis used. That’s what she put in Sofia’s wine. She said Sofia was weak, that her time was past. That the priests were intent on destroying the Oracle of Gaia. She poisoned Sofia with stibi so I would become pythia. And that’s what Philon used on me. I know it. I feel it. How did I not see it?” She gripped Georgios’s hand and pushed herself up, trying to stand.

  “Phoibe, don’t. You’re not strong enough,” Georgios begged.

  “No, I need this,” she said. “I have to do this, now—just in case.” She reached out and grasped the hand of the Pythia of Apollon and together they stood facing the others.

  The Pythia of Apollon’s face was lined with age and grave as a funeral stele as she helped steady Phoibe. Unlike Phoibe, she was well past her prime, a middle aged woman who had already seen much of life. She was a daughter, a mother, a grandmother, a priestess. She was a child of Delphi, a servant of Apollon and a sister to the priestesses of Gaia. And she had been Sofia’s friend.

  “I need to say this so you will hear,” Phoibe rasped, her voice faint. “So you all will hear.” She cleared her throat. “The prophecy Sofia had on the morning of my naming ceremony shaped my life. I came to believe in it as if every word were the literal truth. But we know,” she squeezed the Pythia of Apollon’s hand, “those with the sight know, that it is not the words that count, it is the interpretation. And sometimes, the things we see do not make sense. They are fragments, whispers of the gods that mere mortals cannot hope to understand. And yet, people depend upon us to see, to predict, to know.”

  “Phoibe, please—say no more.” Georgios said. “Not now. Not like this.”

  Phoibe smiled down on him, but continued. “‘This child shall be called Phoibe, like the Titan of old, Apollo’s own grandmother. She will see the Oracles of Apollon and Gaia united or she will see them destroyed and the Sacred Precinct claimed by yet another.’ Sofia’s prophecy. My prophecy. Today it is fulfilled.”

  “What?” The priestesses gasped, and Georgios looked up, confused. “How can that be?”

  “The Oracles are united. I am the last Pythia of Gaia. There will be no more. The sight has tortured me these many months and now it has left me and there are no others of our sisterhood to take my place. As I lay here today—my head resting in my mother’s lap, my hand clasped by the man I love, my forehead cooled by Eumelia of Argos, my chilled body warmed by the blankets Thea of Thessaly drew over me, and my life lifted in prayer by each of the other priestesses here—I heard the voice of Gaia. There was no vision. No sight. Just her voice. And yet it was the clearest, most beautiful, most heartrending music I have ever heard. It was as pure as the cool, cleansing water of the Kastalian Spring and as warm and comforting as a lover’s embrace. And once I utter the words Gaia bade me speak, I am done. I will retire from the priesthood. I will marry Georgios—if he will have me—and I will become a wife, and someday, hopefully, a mother. I will be, simply, Phoibe of Arachova.”

  Behind her, Rhea’s gasped and began to weep. But Phoibe didn’t turn. Instead, she held the held the Pythia of Apollon’s hand to her breast, closed her eyes and, in a clear voice, said:

  "Tell the People:

  Mother Earth has spoken

  Gaia’s oracle is broken

  Apollon’s hundred arrows

  Silenced her sacred servant

  Now, in one or one thousand years,

  His fair wrought house will fall

  And a god reborn shall reign."

  She looked at the other priestesses. “Until this new god, a resurrected god like our own beloved Dionysos, comes to Hellas and lays claim to Delphi, Apollon’s Pythia will speak for Gaia, for Apollon, for all the gods. I am through. It is done.” She lowered herself back down to her seat and let Eumelia pull the blankets up over her shoulders.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  “I am tired of mysteries,” Althaia groused. She stopped, hands on her hips, and stood looking up toward the next turn in the Sacred Way. “Theron, I want to know now, before I set another foot on this path, why we must go back to the Temple of Apollon today. I am in no mood for this.”

  In point of fact, Althaia was in a perfectly foul mood. Already the ache of missing Nikos tore at her as if her arms had lost their reason for being and her heart had lost the purpose for its beating. The day before, Nikos and Diokles had gone up to the little shed where Nikos, Charis, and her brother had had their ill-fated meeting. It took awhile, but they were able to find what was left of Charis’s brother’s body and bury it. Althaia wanted to tell Theron and Praxis about the brother—she wondered if they didn’t already suspect Nikos had something to do with his disappearance—and she didn’t like keeping secrets from them, but she had decided it would do no good to bring the dead man’s fate up. Diokles had been insistent that if it hadn’t been Nikos who ushered him down to Hades, it would have been someone else he’d cheated and it would have been sooner rather than later. “Nikos did us all a favor,” he’d said, and Althaia had let herself be convinced. After they returned, they’d all shared one last dinner together and then she and Nikos had spent the night together in her cozy guestroom in Menandros’ house and she had known, once again, what it was like to be well and truly loved.

  But now that Nikos had said his goodbyes and had set out to take his mother’s bones back to Dodona for burial, Althaia was in no mood to be cheerful about anything. All she could see stretching endlessly before her was Lycon and weeks of unendurable loneliness and predictability as a wealthy, secluded matron of Athenian society. At least until Nikos arrived in Athens. But no matter how soon it was, it would not be soon enough. And in the meantime, she had to figure out how to deal with her husband.

  “I’m with Althaia,” Praxis, walking side by side with Nephthys, agreed. “The Temple of Apollon is the last place I want to be after ….”

  “Come, you two. This is the end of a mystery. Do you not remember, just a few short days ago when all you cared to discover was why Lysandros bid us make the journey to Delphi in the first place?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Althaia said, as if those days were a thousand years past.

  “Well, put one foot in front of the other, my dear, and you will come to know, at long last, your father’s final wishes.”

  Grudgingly, but with a renewed sense of curiosity, Althaia picked up her skirt and once again began trudging up the slick paving stones toward the temple. She turned the corner and began the fina
l ascent. Ahead, towered the menacing serpent tripod commemorating the Battle of Plataea and beside it stood the gilded chariot of Helios gleaming against the mighty Phaedriades. The shining ones. Their bulk rose up behind the Sacred Precinct as if they were the imagined backdrop, the painted skene of a titan’s theater. Despite the years of Sacred Wars that had taken their toll, this place, this whole rugged place, was still imbued with a mystical aura that took Althaia’s breath away. Even if Phoibe was right, even if in a thousand years, another god took Apollon’s place here, even if other temples were raised on the bones of Apollon’s mighty foundations, it wouldn’t matter. Delphi, for all eternity, would remain a place of awe and magic. Gods or no gods, Gaia, Apollon, or someone totally new from a strange land, Althaia didn’t care. She knew the land, the smells, the light, even the air itself was sacred, alive. Gaia, Grandmother Earth, made sure of that.

  And then, they were at the top. The Sacred Way flattened out and she rounded the corner of the Altar of Chios to see Kleomon and the Pythia of Gaia standing atop the temple ramp. Lining the ramp, on either side, stood Nikos and Thea, Menandros and Zenon, and Heraklios and his nephew.

  Stunned to see Nikos, Althaia looked back and forth between him and Theron. “You’re still here! What is this? What is happening?” she turned on Theron.

  “Your father’s last wish, with a little dramatic flourish of my own.”

  “Theron, will you finally explain what is going on?” Praxis pleaded.

  “Kleomon, you may begin,” Theron ordered.