The Double Tongue

by William Golding

  ‘A great step forward!’

  After that we sometimes carried on quite long conversations in the measure and I began to think in it as well as speak it. I don’t know whether I have recorded anywhere that the Pythia used to give the answer in hexameters. Ionides thought that if only the questions could be made great enough the speech would follow. I was eager to please him as I suppose any girl would be. I planned to get rid of Chloe. She was too pretty. When I told Ionides he agreed. So we sold her to her great relief. I myself was so relieved that I gave her the smaller of the two Egyptian necklaces which had come down from my mother’s mother. There was no possibility of my wearing them myself. But I shocked Ionides by this.

  ‘Why, in the name of god?’

  ‘Whenever I used to look at her neck I would think first of the necklace lying round it and second of strangling her.’

  ‘Have you any conception of what that necklace is worth? She could buy her freedom with it! But that old fool who has bought her could make his fortune if he had the wit.’

  ‘She is gone and I want to forget her.’

  Ionides showed me another place too. I do not know what to call it. I think the columbarium would be as near as anything. It was a small building and this is because there was a cave behind it, so that you never knew when you were in the open but in a building, or when you were under the earth and in a cave. The cave had been so altered. He instructed me in vivid terms that I was not to speak of anything I saw, ever. Indeed, I don’t think he showed me the columbarium because the knowledge of it would be useful to me but because he wanted to impress me with his cleverness and importance. Oh yes, I had seen round Ionides already and liked him all the more for it. Any woman feels all the more secure with a man – with her man, and if Ionides was anyone’s man it was mine – when she sees a little further round him and into him than he thinks. Quite a number of men, slaves of course, worked in the columbarium. It was a building with many ladders, or stairs as I learn I must call them. We climbed them all and they were so built that a woman, or for that matter a man, could use them without indecent exposure to below. At the top there were many cages for pigeons and the first time we reached them, a bird fluttered in, rang its bell as it did so, then flopped in the bottom of the cage. Ionides reached in and took a tiny roll of paper from its leg.

  ‘Smyrna. All the way across the Aegean Sea and Attica. Here you are, Ariston, take it.’

  ‘That bird carried a message all the way from Asia?’

  ‘Yes. You see there are places, you’ve probably heard of them. They like to keep in touch with Delphi, still the centre of the world. And one day –’

  ‘What messages?’

  ‘That’s a secret, Young Lady. But you’ve heard of other oracles besides us? Dodona for instance?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Tegyra, Delos, Patarae? Branchidae, Claros, and Gryneum? Siwa over in Africa?’

  ‘A bird can’t fly all the way here from Africa!’

  ‘Of course not. There’s measure in all things as your – our – god said – says. You’d need a Phoenix for that.’

  ‘What messages? From the god? Why?’

  ‘The price of corn perhaps. What the tribes are doing. Who’s in, who’s out, who up, who down.’

  ‘Surely the god doesn’t need to be told what is happening!’

  ‘Reminded, shall we say. It’s a good theological point. What does the god need to know? After all he needs to know what the question is. Therefore he needs to know something. Therefore there is no reason why he should not need to know what is happening in Asia, or Africa, or Achaia …’ He paused for a while, ‘… or Rome.’

  ‘I see.’

  I thought I did see.

  ‘I don’t think you do, child. Still you are safe from too much knowledge until you are fifty.’

  ‘But I should be an old woman!’

  ‘The Pythia used to be an old woman. No not like our First Lady. She’s about a hundred. Ten decades. Judging by the state of the Second Lady, I think the process will have to be hurried up.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Would you accept forty?’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘Thirty then. You and I, privately, will agree that the Third Lady in waiting shall become the Second Lady when she reaches the advanced age of thirty. First, Second, Third Lady – you know, my dear, I always feel when I talk about the three Ladies as if I am talking about a particularly uxorious, or should I say gynoecious, potentate. Now, this afternoon you observe I am not in a very pious mood. Indeed the god was brusque with the First Lady, not to say brutal. He raped her. I am shocking you. Don’t mind, my dear, we’ve made an honest trio of you. That, by the way, and to change the subject, is the fountain of Castalia. You are supposed to drink from it before you prophesy. I’m afraid it’s sometimes not very clean. You see the little building built across it? You go in there and a small boy gives you to drink out of what ought to be the gold cup donated by Queen Olympias in thanksgiving for the birth of her son. Unfortunately your compatriots of that time removed it along with some other trifles such as a life-sized image of the Pythia in solid gold. The history of Delphi is to be read in the chopping and changing over the nature of the cup you will drink from. You’ll find the cup we have at the moment is made of wood and secured by an iron chain. It has the words “A present from Dodona” incised on it. No, I’m wrong. My memory! This is Cassotis of course. The spring of Castalia is where you bathe. It’s fearsomely cold – comes right out of the frozen heart of the mountain and is given up to the god very grudgingly. Now, if you look, you’ll only see a trickle. That’s why there aren’t any prophecies in the three months of winter. You won’t be able to see the ritual, in fact, for another two months or so. Of course, if someone of heroic stature, a pharaoh, say, or a Mithridates, wanted a quick reply, it’s astonishing how adaptable the mountain can be. This year, by the way, is a festival year – one in four or eight according to the oracle given at the spring solstice. It’s very good for tourism.’

  ‘Tourism?’

  ‘Groups of travellers who come to see our – your – sights. I’m afraid they keep the economy alive, but you can’t expect them to do so in the winter months. I dare say, though, we may see the first gorgeous butterfly of spring in a month, there are always a few early ones.’

  It took me a long time to understand that by ‘spring butterflies’ he meant tourists, these quaint travellers who want to ‘see the world’, as it is expressed. The general route was through the Peloponnesus to Athens, then back to Corinth and across our ferry. It was thus, and with still most of the month to go before the solstice, that I saw my first Roman. There was a small crowd of Delphians who seemed to be following very slowly an even smaller group of men. Ionides held me back until they had passed and muttered the word ‘Roman’ in my shrouded ear. The Roman looked very mild and not at all threatening. He was wearing a most complex robe of white linen with a purple stripe running through it for a border. He wore no jewellery round his neck and was as clean-shaven as a young man, though clearly he was quite an old one. He had a close-cropped thatch of irongrey hair. His only ornament was a gold seal ring. A Delphian priest of Zeus was speaking very slowly to him in a strange language.

  ‘Latin‚’ said Ionides. ‘A language with too much grammar and no literature.’

  ‘Can he not speak Greek?’

  ‘Only those who are well-educated. Metellus is not all that well-educated. As you saw, he has a smile. That is permanent as long as he is in Greece. They, the Romans, admire our arts and crafts but hold us, ourselves, in contempt. It is a paradox and never ceases to annoy me. As you saw, he was smiling at people. That is merely to conceal his contempt. They are strong, that is all. That they will conquer the world is a nightmare that haunts me. One must have a little corruption. Since human law cannot be perfect one must be able to bend and turn. They do not understand this. There is a passion for what they call “honesty” in some parts of the world but
it is always limited to the people who claim it. The Hebrews, for instance, and the Romans. Their public servants, or at least a great many of them, neither give nor take bribes. Often even a rich man is condemned by the courts. Quite often a poor man goes free. They do not see that where all men take bribes and give them, nobody does!’

  ‘I do not understand that.’

  ‘You will.’

  Indeed I did. I had not long to wait. But more of that later. The small crowd which had been following Metellus and his guide had moved on. The most remarkable thing about them, I thought, was how respectful to Metellus the front of the crowd had been and yet how the back of it sniggered. The back of a crowd, according to Ionides, is where the true nature of an international relationship may be studied in little. All I can say in that case is that judging by the crowd following Metellus, Greeks envy Romans their power and distinction but will use them for Greek ends wherever they can. The Romans do not trust us and they are wise not to do so.

  It was on that walk that we came to the temple of the Cave. The Cave is where Apollo fought the python, the dragon, and conquered her, him, it. This was where, when he had slain the creature, he took over the oracle for himself and appointed a woman – a Pythia, a female dragon! – to utter the oracle. I must say that in god-haunted Delphi with its bright air, its splendour both natural and civic, the temple of the oracle is a daunting place. It is set aside as much as a building can be in such a crowded place. It is low, too, and seems to crouch. We stopped when we came within sight of the portico, or at least I stopped, and Ionides did when he realized I was no longer with him.

  ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘That is it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was an air, no doubt of that. I cannot describe it. Perhaps it was simple, unqualified fear, as if the portico had figured always in my nightmares though I knew I had never seen the place before.

  ‘Want to go home.’

  ‘And disappoint me?’

  So he knew! He was as willing as any Roman to use his power.

  ‘No, of course I don’t.’

  ‘You disarm me. I wish – but there it is.’

  ‘I know. You don’t have to explain.’

  We were silent for a while, watching the facade.

  ‘Well, Lady?’

  ‘Can’t you see I’m shuddering? I can’t seem to stop. Teeth chattering.’

  ‘I was right then.’

  ‘I –’

  Suddenly I felt my body turn of its own. I started to run, but before I had gone more than a yard or two he had me by the wrist.

  ‘It means going back to your parents.’

  There was a time, I do not know how long, during which I fought with my shudders. Gradually his hold on my wrist relaxed.

  ‘Brave girl.’

  That made me laugh. He let go of me entirely.

  ‘That’s better. If you laugh like that then you’ve won.’

  ‘Is there any other way to laugh?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘It came up out of the earth.’

  ‘Where else? Come!’

  ‘No nearer!’

  ‘Make yourself. I won’t touch you.’

  There was a time in which I examined the fear. It was round and solid and heavy, was an impossibility lying between me and that place.

  ‘Remember. I rely on you.’

  I suppose all men have this small craft when they know they have found the weakness of a woman. It is unfair and perhaps, though I do not know, it is unmanly. But then, how can it be unmanly? Perhaps it is a man’s weakness. Men and women – we are of little account.

  ‘I am ready.’

  Together we walked forward. The shuddering had gone. The fear was still there, but mixed, I do not know how or why, with grief. It was grief about women I think. Grief for them as instruments to be played on by gods or men. Beyond the portico some steps led down, but not very far. It looked like a little hall. There was some light, not just from the steps, but I now saw two small lamps were burning either side of the steps and about halfway down.

  ‘Go down and stand.’

  Obediently and accepting my fear I went down and stood at the bottom of the steps. Here there were no lights. It was a hall, a plain one. And dark – not entirely dark, for daylight filtered down the steps even in winter and in the shade of the mountains but a darkness only just qualified, modified by dim light. Where was the brightness of Apollo – where was the Sun God?

  Now my eyes were a little accustomed to the dimness. The hall was not entirely bare. There was an opening in the wall before me. It was black. That, then, was the entrance to the adytum, the place of the tripod and the brazier, the gap going down into the earth whence the air of oracular utterance was breathed forth to become the breath of the Pythia on her tripod as she writhed and cried out when the god had her in his hands. That was the fate of little Arieka whom nobody loved.

  I turned back at last and joined Ionides in the street.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I shall die of terror.’

  ‘They don’t, you know.’

  ‘They have their mouths torn, though.’

  ‘That is figurative. You will be the most honoured woman in Greece – in the world.’

  ‘Perhaps the Romans will consult this oracle.’

  ‘They have done so. The story is that the oracle used to be consulted in political matters – what alliances should be made, what wars undertaken or stopped. They say that kind of oracle, that kind of question, ceased hundreds of years ago. It isn’t true. It’s just that those questions are asked in secret. Why give your enemy information which might be useful to him? Mankind learns, you see.’

  ‘Have you read Herodotus?’

  ‘Yes, child, I have read Herodotus. Why?’

  ‘I was thinking of the treasure. All that gold! Even just the gold given by Croesus. Where did they keep it?’

  ‘Until your honourable Aetolian or should I say Phocian ancestors removed it, in that entrance hall. Also some down in the adytum, more on either side in accommodation you did not see. The mountain has been excavated on either side of the portico. There are rooms. Nowadays the guardians of the complex live there, but once it was filled on both sides with gifts. Some of them have been donated by Romans. I must say, I think they are – frugal. Perhaps our dear masters did not get the answers they wanted, though I can hardly believe that.’

  But my thought had returned to my own affairs.

  ‘I dread the day.’

  ‘Think of yourself as a soldier. A Greek soldier – Thermopylae, Marathon, even Salamis! Your dread is that of a soldier who knows that one day he will have to face his fear – but not just yet.’

  *

  It was thus that life went on. The First Lady died, though according to Ionides it was difficult to tell. She had not lain on a bed for years but always sat upright on her chair, her bright unseeing eyes open, her skeleton’s hands folded in her lap. At the last she neither ate nor drank and one day an attendant brushed against her and she fell over sideways and – I am assured – more or less fell apart. But by the time the Second Lady who was now the First Lady had seen her body, as by custom she was bound to do, and after I, the Third Lady who was now the Second Lady had attended her to that gruesome ceremony, life went straight back to being what it was, except that I had even more splendid quarters, more servants and gifts for which I had done nothing.

  Ionides said I should accept them.

  ‘They commit you to nothing‚’ he said. ‘People are investing not in you but in the truth. The story of the half-cooked fish and the child who recovered at your touch have been inflated. You will be a rich woman in your own right, my dear. The oracle benefits. News of your suitability for mediating between the physical universe and the spiritual cosmos has brought it a shower of gifts from people who do not want to ask a question at the moment but feel they may do – kings, sitting as they always do on shaky thrones, rich businessmen, uneasy key men from ca
ucuses, tyrants and terrorists. It is the future, and like the rest of us Greeks they are condemned to move backwards towards it, until the last bit when the Ferryman takes them backwards beyond all question.’

  ‘I wish –’

  ‘What? Come! It is unusual for our Second Lady to have a wish of her own.’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I am still your guardian and I insist. Come, child, do you want to be disobedient for the first time?’

  ‘I was wishing I had a home. What I think of as a home. That place down there by the sea wasn’t a home for anyone. I must have been a changeling. There’s nothing of my father, my honoured father in me. A home. A place that welcomes you and people there who wait for your coming with – love. That’s what I want. A home.’

  ‘Does not the part you are to play in the story of the nations, of mankind – doesn’t that do instead?’

  ‘Of course not. To begin with, I don’t believe in it – don’t believe anything I can say will influence anybody.’

  ‘It will be your voice but the god’s words.’

  ‘Shall I tell you? I have prayed. Once, when I was in great shame and grief and sorrow, I prayed. I really did. You’ll remember the occasion so I won’t elaborate. But the gods deserted me. Or rather I saw them going away. They were there all right. But I among all people – they had turned their backs on me.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Moses?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A great Hebrew leader. He gave them law and worship and so on. Ritual too. He begged to see the god but his god wasn’t having any of it. He knew, you see, that Moses would simply die at the sight. A bit like Semele and Zeus. So he hid Moses in a crack in the rock, covered him with his hand and passed by and all Moses saw of his god was the back-parts. But he hadn’t deserted Moses. By no means.’