To Godwin Grech, a childhood friend whose cork model of the Oracle at Delphi inspired this story
CONTENTS
The Mother of Shadows
An Important Decision
The Mysterious Man on the Beach
The Ring of the Harpies
Trouble at the Cheesemaker’s
A Puzzling Symposium
The Oracle’s Advice
A Tree House
Missing
A New Investigation
The Blind Man with the Aulos
Mother Kessandra
Ambush!
Milo’s Secret Meeting
The Boy in the Himation
A Deal with Belos
The Forgotten City
Legend and Reality
Buried Alive
The Howling of the Wolves
Thrax Explains
Messages from the Knucklebones
A New Adventure
Bonus Bits!
Greek Gods and Myths
Glossary
PROLOGUE
The Mother of Shadows
Winter, 433 BC
It was already dark when the girl with the unusually red hair crept out of the shed, peering this way and that. She was leaving the farm without her parents’ permission and she didn’t want to get caught. As she stole past the barn where her father slept, one of the family’s goats bleated loudly. The girl froze in her tracks, her heart thumping. She did not start walking again until she was sure her father was snoring. Then she made a dash for the gate.
Click!
The girl breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled the gate shut behind her. It didn’t take her long to find the mountain path, and she hurried on without looking back. She needed to be quick if she was going to make it home before her parents woke up.
It was mid-winter and the air was sharp with the scent of pine. A sliver of new moon sat high in the sky above the mountain, glinting like the edge of a silver coin. It was surrounded by a multitude of stars, twinkling in the velvety darkness. The girl thought the new moon a good omen. She was named after the moon goddess and a new moon always brought her good luck.
There was snow on the ground and she was glad she’d put on her boots instead of her usual sandals. She was glad of the warm epiblema around her shoulders too. She had inherited the much-darned woollen shawl from her grandmother. Once a deep earthy brown, time had turned it to a muddy grey, but it was still a joy to wear. Whenever she snuggled into its prickly warmth, the girl got the feeling that the shade of her long-gone grandmother was close by, protecting her. It was a comforting feeling.
Her grandmother had once told the girl that the mountain was full of hidden magic created by the gods at the beginning of time. Its rocks and caves, streams and ravines were home to nymphs and muses. The ancient earth goddess slept unseen in the mountain still, her sleeping breath escaping through cracks in the rock to fill the air with a special power.
Sometimes the girl felt that she had inherited some of that power from her grandmother, who had been a well known seer.
Coming to a clear mountain spring, the girl stopped to drink. All around her the night breeze rustled the branches of the pine and laurel trees. Owls hooted in the darkness. From the corner of her eye, the girl caught sight of small amber lights flickering under the trees. Mountain wolves were watching her.
The girl was not scared of wolves. She believed them to be sacred creatures, messengers of the gods and protectors of the mountain.
She finished drinking and continued her walk upwards. Now she could make out the sound of voices coming down the stony path. The girl’s hands immediately closed around an amulet hanging on a strip of leather around her neck.
It was too early in the year for mountain bandits, who could not use the high mountain pass while it was still blocked with snow and slippery with black ice. The voices must belong to goatherds. The girl slipped behind a pine tree and stood so still she seemed to become part of the tree. It was a trick she had learned a long time ago when hiding from bullies.
The girl with the red hair wasn’t popular with the other children on the mountain. Her pale skin and green eyes marked her out as different, and a target for their pranks.
She waited until the chattering voices faded before stepping out of her hiding place.
After a while, the steep path levelled out and she came to a flat piece of ground. Before her stood the entrance to a cave, a dark wide-open mouth in the bony whiteness of the mountainside. There was a rocky altar in the middle of it, strewn with decaying offerings of fruit and vegetables. Beyond it, at the far end of the cave, the girl could see the glow of a burning fire.
She skirted past the altar and walked into the cave.
A dark outline behind the fire stirred. A whisper echoed in the girl’s head.
‘Is it you, my child? The girl with the fire-red hair?’
The girl approached. ‘Yes, Mother of Shadows. It is me.’
The woman leaned forward and her shadow danced on the cave wall behind her. Bangles jingled as a stick-thin arm beckoned the girl closer. The wheezy voice spoke across the bonfire.
‘I read it in the stones that you were coming to see me. Sit. It has been a long time since your last visit.’
The girl sat. ‘My father only allows me to bring the goats up the mountain in summer. He says there is enough green grass for them in our fields during the winter. It’s very difficult to get up here without anyone in the family noticing.’
The shadow nodded. ‘But now there is something troubling you. You felt you had to take the risk and seek advice from your old teacher, your mentor.’
The girl pulled a small parcel from inside her peplos and placed it on the ground as an offering. ‘Cheese from our farm, and preserved olives, picked by my sister last year,’ she said. ‘I keep having a vivid dream. The same one. I fear it is a warning of dangers to come.’
‘You have tried to interpret your dream,’ said the Mother of Shadows hoarsely. ‘But the meaning eludes you. You hope that I can enlighten you, so you can evade the danger.’
The girl lowered her head, hiding her face.
‘Tell me what you have seen, child,’ said the Mother of Shadows gently, leaning closer to the fire so that her shadow grew bigger on the cave wall behind her.
‘I go to sleep only to wake up and find I am not lying in my bed but on some sort of boat. It is leaking water and hurtling along a wild, dark river. The waves crash over my head, freezing me to the bone, and I cannot move. I seem to have lost the use of my legs and arms. There are shadows on the raft with me but I cannot work out if they are friends or foe. Chasing the raft is a third figure, its himation pulled up tight around its head, so that its face is obscured. Somehow I know it is a man.
‘He is riding a turtle. Not a friendly turtle such as you might find at the seashore but a terrible monster with pointed teeth and fire-red eyes. It follows the raft at great speed, its jaws snapping wildly. Suddenly the wind blows the himation off the rider’s head, revealing the face. It is a glowing skull with empty eyes.
‘The rider is brandishing a spear and, as the monster turtle catches up with the raft, he lunges forward to throw it at me. Only a moment later, the raft goes over the edge of a precipice and I am plunged into a wet, roaring darkness. The shock of hitting the water always wakes me up and I find myself kicking out under my himation, a scream caught in my throat. That is what I see in my dream.’
The Mother of Shadows sat immobile for a long time, humming softly through closed lips. Now that she was leaning closer to the fire, the girl could see her face. The cheeks were lined and withered with age, the eyes just narrow slits under sooty eyebrows.
At last the old woman loo
ked up from the flames. She reached to the floor and lifted a small clay cup, which she shook, one hand held over its mouth to stop the contents from spilling out.
‘Pay attention, for tonight the goddess speaks through the colours. Choose a pebble.’
She held out the cup. The girl reached into it and held the pebble on the palm of her hand.
‘Ah, the red one. The colour of fire and Python’s blood.’
The Mother of Shadows’ withered hand hovered over the red pebble, the fingers rippling, and then – suddenly – it froze.
‘You are indeed in danger, my child,’ gasped the old woman, grabbing the red pebble and holding it tight above the flames. ‘Grave danger! The figure on the turtle seeks to destroy you, for you pose a great threat to it. You must protect yourself with charms and spells as I taught you. As for the two shadowy figures on the raft, do not be afraid of them. They are both child-men and they have nothing but goodness in their hearts. The goddess sends them to your rescue...’
CHAPTER ONE
An Important Decision
Two months later, early spring
‘Can you believe it?’ fumed Master Ariston as the front door crashed shut behind him. ‘The idiot refused to pay me. He said the songs I sang at his party have made him the laughing stock of the city. The swindling, tight-fisted, gorgon-kissing son of a harpy! Has he never heard of comedy?’
He was about to kick a statue of the god Hermes when the door opened again and his precious lyre came flying out. It landed on the ground with a horrific twang as some of the strings snapped.
Master Ariston turned pale at the sound. ‘How dare you?’ he screeched as the door slammed shut once more. ‘That lyre cost me the earth. I’ll – I’ll take you to court!’
Master Ariston is a well known poet and a songwriter. He travels around the Hellenic world performing his work at weddings and parties, which we call symposiums. I am Nico, his scribe. My job is to write down the hundreds of songs and poems that Master Ariston composes every year, sometimes right in the middle of a performance. A third person accompanies us. His name is Thrax and he is Master Ariston’s personal slave. His duties include fetching the master’s food, keeping his vast array of clothes in immaculate condition, tuning the lyre during performances and styling his curly beard. Master Ariston is very particular about his big bushy beard, which he insists on wearing in the latest fashion.
The man who had just refused to pay us was a powerful magistrate in Sicyon, a beautiful city known for its talented sculptors and award-winning charioteers. Sadly, Master Ariston did not praise either sculpture or chariot racing once in his songs, choosing instead to poke fun at Sicyon’s ships, which are known to be inferior to Athenian vessels. The guests at the party had not seen the funny side of it and pelted us with overripe fruit and nuts.
Now we stood shivering in the morning cold outside the magistrate’s front door, surrounded by huge wicker chests containing all our belongings. Thrax and I had started loading them on to Ariana, our donkey, while Master Ariston went to seek payment from our host.
We always lodge with the family Master Ariston is entertaining, and leave with a bag full of silver at the end of the festivities. But this time, the offended magistrate had refused to pay.
‘What shall I do now? I am ruined,’ wailed Master Ariston, ignoring the fact that the situation affected Thrax and me too. ‘I didn’t even have the chance to fetch my jewellery before the chief slave of the house showed me the door. It was hidden under my pillow.’
Thrax, who was used to our master’s flair for drama, took command of the situation. ‘Nico, you look after the master and our belongings. I’ll get the jewellery.’
Thrax might be a slave, but he’s is the sharpest thinker of us three. He’s very strong and athletic too. Before we knew it, he had clambered up a grapevine and disappeared down inside the courtyard of the magistrate’s house. We stood in silence, praying to Hermes he wouldn’t get caught. Then the front door creaked open and Thrax slipped out with Master Ariston’s precious jewellery wrapped in linen.
Master Ariston’s sniffed with gratitude but he didn’t thank Thrax. It’s not that he mistreats slaves; he’s just too self-absorbed to ever thank anyone.
‘However did you manage that?’ I asked.
Thrax grinned and shrugged, strapping an enormous wicker chest full of scrolls on to his back. Master Ariston insists on travelling with an entire library of classics for inspiration. ‘It’s easy to slip in and out of houses early in the morning. Everyone is so busy, no one gives you a second glance if you keep your head down and walk fast.’
Although I am not a slave myself, Thrax and I are best friends. We have formed a secret society that solves mysteries and tackles crime wherever we find it. It’s called the Medusa League and so far it has four members: Thrax, myself, and two girls called Fotini and Gaia. They live in the city of Corinth where we solved our first mystery last year. All four of us wear special medallions with the face of the Medusa on them. It’s our secret badge and I always have mine hanging round my neck.
Thrax and I were paid handsomely for solving our first mystery but I refused to take any of the reward. Thrax is trying to earn enough money to buy his freedom. His one dream is to be reunited with his mother in Thrace. All slaves dream of freeing themselves but the odds are heavily stacked against them. The cost is too high, the opportunities of earning money too few. The majority of slaves go to their grave without having tasted one moment of freedom in their wretched lives. I am determined it will be different for Thrax. He’ll get his freedom and be able to have the fulfilling life everyone deserves.
I have my own dream. I want to be a famous writer whose stories are heard and admired all over the Hellenic world. For a long time I didn’t know what kind of writing I wanted to do. But then Thrax suggested I write about the mysteries we solve. Not long poems with rhyming text, but stories with ordinary language that anyone can understand and enjoy. I have finished one already. It’s called The Mark of the Cyclops and it’s based on our first adventure in Corinth. I’m hoping I’ll get the chance to give readings of it in symposiums when I’m a bit older.
Thrax looked up at the lightening sky. ‘We need to get going if we are to make the boat back to Athens today, master.’
Master Ariston cleared his throat dramatically as Thrax helped him on to Ariana. ‘I have come to a momentous decision, boys,’ he announced. ‘We are not going back home to Athens yet.’
Thrax and I looked at him in confusion. ‘But we have booked our passage already, sir,’ I said. ‘Your father is expecting us. You are to sing at your cousin’s son’s naming ceremony in a few days.’
‘My cousin’s son will have to wait for his songs,’ said Master Ariston haughtily. ‘I hate disappointing the family but you will never succeed in this world if you go running home every time your father calls. You have to learn to say no when you need to.’
‘So where are we going if not to Athens?’ asked Thrax.
A broad grin spread across Master Ariston’s face. ‘Do you remember when we met Euripides, the acclaimed playwright, in Corinth?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘The meeting inspired you to start writing your own play.’
‘I think I have what it takes to be a brilliant playwright,’ said Master Ariston proudly. ‘Perhaps the best in the world. One of the reasons my songs have lacked my trademark wit and sparkle lately is because I keep thinking about the stage instead of poetry. My attention is diverted.’
He sighed. ‘But it’s so risky to change careers at my age. I have climbed dizzying heights with my singing. My name is known and respected in households all over Hellas, even if the boorish magistrates of Sicyon fail to appreciate my brilliance. Should I risk it all by switching to writing plays full time? No matter how much I toss and turn in my bed at night, I can’t make up my mind. I must seek the advice of the highest authority in the world and beyond. I must ask the mighty god of poetry, art and music himself. Boys, we are going to
visit the famous oracle of Apollo at Delphi.’
CHAPTER TWO
The Mysterious Man on the Beach
Delphi is a small but powerful city that sits on the lower slopes of Mount Parnassus, one of the highest mountains in Hellas. It is said that the mountain has been sacred since the beginning of time. It is a place of magic and mystery, where the gods speak to give mortals warnings and advice.
According to legend, Gaia, the earth goddess, once dwelt on Mount Parnassus, as did her son, the dragon Python. Apollo slew the dragon, making the mountain and the oracle his own. He lured priests from faraway Mycenae to become his servants at the temple. The city that grew up around it became known the world over. The rich and the poor, the powerful and the helpless all come flocking to the oracle for advice. No war in Hellas starts without generals consulting the oracle. No city is founded, no important journey undertaken before the Pythia, the priestess at the famous temple, speaks on behalf of the god.
The way from Sicyon to Delphi lies across a busy sea called the Gulf of Corinth. It is well known among sailors and travellers for its playful dolphins, and indeed a merry group of them followed our merchant ship as we sailed towards Kirrha, the port of Delphi.
We arrived there too late in the day to continue our journey but Thrax discovered some huts behind the docks where travellers could shelter for a very small fee. We settled Master Ariston in, fed and stabled Ariana, then set out to get some food from the local market.
‘The man who sold us the bread said there was a fire in the woods outside the port,’ I said to Thrax after we had given Master Ariston his dinner and found him a warm spot in the hut to sleep in. ‘A lot of pine trees were destroyed. Let’s go and find some burnt logs. I am running low on ink.’
I make my own ink by mixing finely ground soot with the sap of trees and a little water. It’s an old skill I learned from an Egyptian scribe when still an apprentice. It makes a thick ink that sticks well to papyrus or parchment and does not fade easily with time.
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