by Marie Savage
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Madam,” Kleomon said. “I have been wrangled into presiding over this event by forces beyond my control. It appears that for some time our Pythia and our potter Palamedes had some sort of an understanding with your father. This whole affair has apparently been in the works since before your father’s death and today’s ceremony was arranged by Lysandros and the Pythia, and, of course, Theron. I am here in my capacity as senior priest of Apollon—and as a reluctant participant.”
The Pythia of Apollon smiled. Instead of a veil, a simple wreath of laurel adorned her silvered hair. Beside her, an attendant clutched the tether of a handsome ram. “Althaia of Athens and Praxis of Syria stand before us. Yes. Come on up, like that,” she said.
Althaia and Praxis looked at each other and proceeded up the ramp. Praxis glanced back at Nephthys to see Theron wrap his arm around her her shoulders and give her a gentle squeeze.
Kleomon, Althaia noticed, held a scroll in his hand. He unrolled it with great ceremony, glowered at the Pythia, and began:
“This, the last request and testament made by me, Lysandros of Athens, is hereby recorded by Theron of Thessaly, my companion, trusted confidant, and executor in recognition of the fact that he has agreed that as executor he will ensure that my final wish is fulfilled and that after a period of approximately one year, my daughter and my slave, Praxis of Syria, now like a son to me, who was ripped from his family’s hearth, sold to a Theban tyrant and found by me, wounded on the battlefield, nursed to health and welcomed into my household, shall travel to Delphi and there, before the Temple of Apollon, Praxis shall be granted his freedom along with the sum of one mina upon return to Athens and one mina per annum for as long as he remains overseer of the holdings transferred upon my death to my daughter and Lycon, her kyrios and husband and that my daughter’s husband, Lycon, is named his legal patron. Further, Theron has agreed to advise Lycon, by showing him this legal document, attested to by the Pythia of Apollon, that he is as bound to his duties as Praxis’s patron as he is to his duties to his wife, my beloved daughter, the true inheritor of all that I am and all that I own.”
“What a windbag,” Theron mumbled with a satisfied smile. Nephthys’ knees wobbled and she clung to Theron’ cloak.
“And further,” Kleomon went on after drawing a long breath, “that, because I was compelled in my heart to plan for the performance of this manumission after visiting the Pythia of Apollon and receiving abundant wisdom from her regarding the true worth of a man, I have paid to have a ram sacrificed to Apollon on this day and to have Praxis’s name inscribed upon the temple’s foundation wall as having been fully manumitted and freed according to the natural rights of man as laid down by the gods of Olympos, the legal rights of freedmen as constituted by the Athenian assembly, and, most importantly, the common sense and good judgment of sensible men who know Praxis to be a man of the most noble character.” Kleomon looked up. “It appears, Praxis of Syria, that you are a rich man. A free metic of Athens.”
Praxis said nothing. He turned and stared at Theron who beamed back at him as if it was all his idea. Althaia, sobbed, grabbed Praxis’ himation and pressed her face into his chest. “Praxis—” It was all she could choke out.
“I want to see it,” Praxis whispered. “See where it is written.”
“Of course you do,” the Pythia of Apollon said, and she stepped down and took Praxis’s hand. Althaia clung to his arm and the rest of the gathering followed as the Pythia led Praxis back around the Altar of Chios, down the Sacred Way and onto the flat, grassy platform from which the great stone polygonal wall supporting the Temple of Apollon rose from deep in the ground. There, for all to see, were the freshly engraved marks:
Witnessed and attested to by the Pythia of Apollon,
Praxis, born a son of Syria, found on the battlefield by Lysandros of Athens,
free from this day forward.
“Palamedes,” the Pythia said quietly. “It was the last thing he did. It had been many years since he had engraved something on this wall. But he insisted, for you. His fellow countryman.”
Praxis’ eyes blurred as he traced his fingers along the cold stone, following the indentations of each line and curve. “I had allowed myself to hope, when Lysandros died, but then there was nothing in his will. So I resigned myself that it was not to be.”
“Forgive me,” Althaia could barely talk, “I was not brave enough to do it myself. I thought I would lose you.”
Praxis pulled Althaia to his chest and whispered, “Enslavement is not a good way to bind to your breast those who love you most.” After a moment, he cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her face toward his. “I will not leave, Althaia. For where would I go? I have no more family. You and Theron, master secret keeper, you are my family. And Nephthys.” He looked up and held his hand out to Nephthys who came forward and folded herself into him. “Theron, Pythia, do you both attest that this is indeed the last testament of Lysandros? That a mina of silver awaits me upon our return to Athens?”
“I’m afraid it is too true, Praxis,” Theron said somberly. “I am but a poor man who must now be content to bask in the reflected shadow of your newfound wealth.”
“Althaia,” Praxis looked down at her, at the two women he held in his arms. “I have but one request.”
“Anything.”
“I need a loan.”
“A loan? For what?”
“I want to buy Nephthys and make her my wife. I will pay you back when we return home.”
Praxis caught Nephthys as the blood drained from her face and her knees gave way. She clung to his waist and struggled to stay upright.
“No loan is necessary, Praxis,” Althaia said, wiping the tears from her face. She took Nephthys’s hands in hers and looked into her handmaid’s ashen face and confused, gold-flecked eyes. “Praxis bought you as a gift for me,” she said. “He thought a woman’s companionship would do me good—although I think, in truth, he saw in you from the very beginning what I have been so slow to recognize. He saw you as a woman, as a lover, as a wife. Now, I see you as a sister. An equal.” She placed Nephthys’s hands in Praxis’s, stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Your wife is my wedding gift to you. You, now a free man, can grant your bride her freedom.”
Nephthys leaned into Praxis as he enveloped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. Althaia reached out for Nikos who was suddenly at her side.
Theron cleared his throat and announced in a serious tone, “In the midst of all this merriment, I find myself in the unusual position of wanting to make a speech.”
Althaia and Praxis looked at each other: “Unusual?” —the emotion of the moment diffused in a sobbing burst of laughter.
“Indeed. I hear the bellowing of the sacrificial ram and believe our dinner is getting impatient for the slaughter. My stomach is rumbling and my throat is dry. The sun is marching high into the sky and my brow longs for the shade. This day has been a long time coming—in fact, I have kept this secret for over two years—and that was not always an easy task.
“When we left Delphi, I was eager to see Praxis finally taste the liberating draught of freedom, but I was also eager, after so many years, to see my sister again. I never imagined the course of events we would face upon our arrival. This visit has been marked by tragedy and grief. Yet it has also been marked by new beginnings. Whether or not we have all come to terms with those new beginnings and the many challenges they pose for the future”—he eyed Althaia and Nikos —“they have changed our lives forever. New friendships made, old relationships renewed, timeless traditions passed into history. There is much to celebrate, much to lament and much to ponder. I am not yet ready to say goodbye to Delphi although soon we must turn our mounts toward Athens and return home. In the meantime, in an act of extreme generosity and kindness, I have decided to volunteer my friend Menandros’ house as the site of a long-awaited, much deserved celebration. For tonight, I wish to drink myself silly with my friend, Praxis.
A free man who, too soon, goes willingly into the bonds of slavery again as husband to his beautiful Nephthys.”
“Such a generous offer,” Menandros chided. “I suppose you’re paying.”
“I am. And even as we speak, Diokles and Aphro are readying the board and mixing the wine.”
“Aphro!” Kleomon balked. “Beware she does not add any tinctures or powders to your cups.”
“En oino álétheia, Kleomon,” Nikos said, his arm circling Althaia’s waist. “You must know there are no more secrets among our company.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” the old man growled. “I have done my part and will leave you to your festivities. You will, I daresay, be happier celebrating without me. And I without you.” He turned to walk back up the hill and then stopped. “I will see to it that the ram is sacrificed, skewered and sent to you for roasting. I bid you good wishes—even to you and your sister, Theron of Thessaly. Nikos, I am sorry that our profitable relationship has come to an end. Fortunately, I still have Diokles.”
“You and Diokles are welcome to your profits. I,” Nikos said, pulling Althaia to him, “have the greater treasure.”
Chapter Fifty-nine
Theron and Nikos were mounted, their horses snorting and stamping the ground, anxious to get under way. Praxis made one final check to see that the oxen were yoked tight to the loaded wagon, and Menandros shuttled around busily, ordering Zenon to check this or that, and trying to act as though he would not miss his guests.
“Of course I am planning on coming to the Dionysia and I hope to find a welcome place to stay in Athens. Can you recommend something, Theron?”
“By the gods, Menandros, since when have you been so coy? Of course you will stay at Althaia’s.”
“Menandros,” Althaia asked sweetly as she climbed into the wagon and took her place beside Nephthys, “do you need a formal invitation or will you believe me when I say my home is open to you whenever you set foot in Athens?”
“Oh, I believe you!” He clapped. “But a formal invitation would be nice. Something to show about, you know. Your father’s reputation for supporting the playwrights of the Dionysia is well-known and an invitation to stay with you would be quite the thing….”
“You need not hint around the edges anymore, Menandros,” Althaia laughed. “Praxis handles all my accounts. He will see to it that you have the support you need to come to Athens so you can enter your plays in the greater Dionysian competition. And if your play isn’t selected, you can stay with us for the festival.”
Zenon’s eyes grew wide and Menandros’s face turned red, whether from embarrassment or exciement, Althaia didn’t know. “Do you have enough food, wine, blankets?” Menandros began chattering. “Can I send Zenon in for anything else?”
“No please,” Praxis exlaimed. “The only thing we need is to get on the road. We’ve said our goodbyes a thousand times already. Diokles and Aphro fed us until we could barely breathe. Heraklios and his nephew gave us enough wine to float an Athenian armada, Georgios and Rhea showed up with tokens of thanks from Phoibe, and Theron bid a fond, or,”—he shot an amused glance at Theron—“I suspect, more than fond, farewell to Rhea, and Thea and her attendants are probably halfway back to Thessaly by now. Nikos has a long road before him on his way to Dodona but he, at least, is traveling on horseback and will find the mountain roads easier going. We, on the other hand, must plod along with these fat oxen and make the most of the daylight.
“Oh, I know, I know. It’s just that ….” Menandros sniffed.
“My old friend, you’re a sentimental fool,” Theron said. “If you want something to cry about, go inside and unwrap your parting gift.”
“A gift? Really, for me?” Menandros eyed the door with sudden longing. “You shouldn’t have!”
“I didn’t. It’s from Nikos.”
“From Nikos? I don’t understand.”
“It’s just a small token of my gratitude for your help in writing, directing and playing the part of Dionysos in the play that salvaged my future,” Nikos said.
“Just a small token?” Menandros’s shoulders sagged. “Nikos, I’m sure a gift wasn’t necessary.”
“Never fear,” Althaia laughed, “it’s not that small.”
Menandros brightened and glanced back again at his front door.
“Ah, now he can’t wait to be rid of us,” Theron said. He dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and started down the path. Praxis leapt onto the wagon, took the reins in his hand and flicked them against the oxen’s backs. The wagon lurched forward as Althaia and Nephthys arranged their pillows and blankets so that they could talk on the journey while Nephthys faced forward and could easily admire the broad expanse of Praxis’s back and Althaia faced backward so she could watch as Nikos followed them until he branched off on the road from Delphi to Dodona. Once in Dodona, Nikos would lay his mother’s bones in their final resting place near Zeus’s Sacred Oak and then say his goodbyes to the other priestesses and villagers who had helped raise him. He would pack a wagon with his belongings, close the door to his house, and then turn his back on his birthplace and head to Athens. Neither Althaia nor Nikos knew what the future held in store for them, but they were both eager—and nervous—to find out.
Theron glanced over his shoulder and saw that Menandros had already disappeared into the house. His smiled as he pictured his old friend’s reaction when he uncovered the krater. Theron had to admit Nikos had a fine eye for craftsmanship.
“It’s one of Palamedes’s most beautiful works,” Nikos had assured them when he brought it to Menandros’s early that morning. “You rarely see a krater this size in the white background. See how the figures leap out at you? There’s so much depth, so much color. You can count the hairs in Dionysos’s beard.”
Althaia had hesitated to touch it. She walked around it, peering closely at each figure. She had grown up surrounded by the finest art money could buy and yet she had never seen anything like the krater before her. Finally, she whispered, “The maenads are so alive … the detail … the drape of the fabric, the expressions on their faces … the desire … every line is so delicately drawn, so vibrant and yet so raw, so real….”
“Certainly the satyr’s desire is realistically depicted. I don’t think I’ve seen anything quite that, um, impressive,” Praxis joked and Nephthys flushed and looked away.
“It is the perfect gift for the playwright whose dramatic use of a well-placed phallus saved your skin, Nikos,” Theron said.
“Given that we’re former partners, you’d think Diokles and Kleomon would have let me have it on favorable terms,” Nikos said. “But they didn’t. If only Palamedes knew. This krater is the most expensive piece we’ve ever sold. Unfortunately, I’m the buyer.”
“More expensive than that damned gold foil tiara you told me about?” Althaia asked.
“By far,” Nikos said. “But it’s nothing compared to the value of the second chance at life I have now—or to the price Palamedes paid for knowing the truth.”
“The truth.” Theron sighed. “I’m not sure anyone can ever know the full truth.”
Althaia clapsed Nephthys’s hand in hers and looked across the krater toward Nikos, Theron and Praxis. “Perhaps. But in honor of Palamades, we should at least try.”
Author’s Notes
This work of fiction is draws from historical elements relating to the Oracle of Apollon in Delphi, Greece and the challenges that might have faced a wealthy, educated young Athenian woman finding her way in the world after the death of her father. The story takes place in 340 BCE, a time when the religious, philosophic and political landscape of Ancient Greece was changing dramatically.
First a word about oracles: In the ancient world, there were many oracles. Although the Oracle in Delphi, dating to around 1400 BCE, was the most famous and most popular of the ancient oracles, the Oracles of Siwa, located in modern Libya, and Dodona, located in Epirus in Northern Greece, were considered to be much older.
&nbs
p; According to myth, the first Oracle at Delphi was founded by the Earth Goddess Gaia who, according to Hesiod, was the foundation of the ever-lasting gods of Mt. Olympos. Gaia was mother of Uranus, the starry sky, Pontus, the fruit-less depths of the sea, Oceanus, the world ocean, and all the Titans including Kronos, Zeus’ father.
Gaia set a drakon, a serpent, to guard her Oracle and Apollon, who was a son of Zeus, slew the drakon and claimed the Oracle for himself. Many scholars have written about a transitional period wherein people stopped worshipping mother goddesses and turned toward a male-dominated belief system. The Oracles of Delphi imagines that conflict played out among the priestesses who believe the sacred site should still belong to Gaia and the powerful priests who control the prominent Oracle of Apollon and the Sacred Precinct that arose around it.
Today we think of an oracle as a person who dispenses wisdom. In ancient times, an oracle was often associated with a specific place or god rather than a particular person. At the site of the oracle, a priest or priestess would embody the prophetic wisdom of the god. At the Oracle of Apollon in Delphi, the wisdom of the god Apollon was conveyed through a woman known as the Pythia. Over the years there were many Pythia and, in fact, for a time the Oracle of Apollon was so popular that there were as many as three Pythias working in shifts.
With the rise of Christianity, and, some scientists speculate, with the reduced flow or elimination of the narcotic, trance-inducing gas issuing from the bedrock, the Oracle of Delphi fell out of favor. In fact, the historian Plutarch (c. 46-120 AD), who served as the senior of the two priests of Apollon in Delphi, described the smell of the sacred pneuma as sweet and speculated that the weakening influence of the Oracle in his time was caused by the pneuma’s sporadic and weak emissions. In 393 AD, when Roman emperor Julian the Apostate tried to revive elements of classical Greek culture, he consulted Delphi’s famed Oracle and in response, the last Pythia issued this statement.