‘Good idea,’ said Thrax. ‘I could do with a walk.’
It was pitch dark by the time we set off, and we kept to the shoreline so we would not get lost. Away from the noisy port, the night was full of gentler sounds. I could hear owls hooting in the nearby pine trees, the cawing of seagulls overhead and the lapping of waves against the shore. They reminded me of Kos, the island where my parents live and work a small farm.
We passed hastily built altars set up to thank Apollo and Poseidon for safe journeys across the gulf. Then, coming to a bend in the road, we spotted a ghostly white shape hovering on the beach. A burning light floated lazily above it.
Thrax slowed his pace. ‘What in the name of Zeus is that?’
‘It could be the soul of a murdered pilgrim,’ I said, only half joking. ‘Or the ghost of a drowned sailor looking for the entrance to the underworld.’
Thrax narrowed his eyes to see better. ‘It looks like a dancer to me. He has a flaming torch in his hand.’
He was right. A young man in a surf-white chiton was dancing slowly on the sand, hopping lightly from one foot to another. He was holding a flaming torch, which he waved above his head in a slow, circular motion. It wasn’t a dance I had seen at any festival.
Thrax pulled me closer and I could see that the man wasn’t actually dancing. He was picking his way carefully along the beach. Looking at his feet, I realised he was trying not to step on something buried in the wet sand.
He spotted us and smiled. ‘Come and watch the mother goddess at her work.’
‘What do you mean?’ Thrax called back.
The young man lowered the torch to cast light on the wet sand. The earth around his feet was heaving like boiling water. Then something incredible happened. A small hole appeared in the sand and two little flippers reached out, followed by a head the size of a chickpea. A baby turtle was hatching, and it was not the only one. The young man swung his torch above the sand, showing us dozens of baby turtles, struggling out of a buried nest.
Above us, the harsh cry of the seagulls grew to fever pitch. Fluttering shadows swooped across the beach, getting larger by the moment.
‘Help me, quickly,’ cried the young man. He stuck his torch in the ground and started grabbing turtles, stuffing them down the front of his chiton.
We joined him, scooping up the wriggling creatures and placing them inside our own clothing. The noise of the seagulls became deafening as they dived at the newborn creatures, their dreadful beaks ready for the kill.
When our chitons were bulging with squirming turtles, Thrax and I raced the young man into the waves. We waded in till the water came up to our chests, then struck out to the open sea. The hungry seagulls followed us, circling dangerously close to our heads and arms.
Once in deep water, we loosened our chitons and let the baby turtles swim free. They sank into the depths at once and the sound of the gulls faded as they rose into the air, screeching with disappointment.
‘Thank you for your help,’ said the young man once we had returned to the shore. In the light of his torch, his eyes were as big and dark as a wise owl’s. Water streamed from his hair and wispy beard. His face was handsome but narrow, with high cheekbones and very thin eyebrows. He had a large bruise on the right side of his face and I wondered how he’d got it. Perhaps he’s slipped on wet rocks and banged his face while rescuing turtles on another night. Or he might have fallen off a horse.
As he spoke, a rounded shape loomed out of the water behind us. An enormous turtle waddled up the sand. The young man stared at it with joy in his eyes. ‘I believe she is the mother. Come to thank us herself.’
He cooed softly as he walked slowly towards the turtle. The ancient creature looked up at him through crinkled, wisdom-filled eyes. ‘I have heard the story of Arion the poet riding a dolphin,’ said the young man. ‘I wonder if I might be allowed the thrill of a similar adventure too.’ He clambered on to the creature’s back and bent forward to whisper in her ear.
Thrax and I watched him disappear into the night, both silenced by the wonder of it all. A bright moon came out, illuminating the sea and the mountains behind us.
Sitting beside Master Ariston at festivals and symposiums, I had heard many storytellers sing the praises of Mount Parnassus. Pegasus the winged horse had once made his home on its weather-beaten rocks. The powerful nymphs were said to haunt the mountain still. The gods Dionysus and Pan visited its caves. It was here too that the muses, the mothers of music, drama and poetry, lived, and where the god Apollo taught the poet Orpheus to play the lyre.
It looked so majestic, so awe-inspiring, with its snow-covered summit glowing in the moonlight, it was easy to believe that it was loved and protected by the gods. Nothing horrible or nasty could ever happen in its shadow. We would find no dark mystery to solve on our trip to Delphi.
As it turned out, my feeling was entirely wrong. Our next adventure had already started. Thrax and I had just failed to spot the first clue.
Or actually it was only me.
Thrax never ever misses a clue.
He is the best mystery solver in the world.
CHAPTER THREE
The Ring of the Harpies
Thrax and I resumed our hunt for charcoal. We picked up a lot of blackened wood in the forest, carrying it back to the hut in great big lumps. I woke up early the next morning and spent a pleasant hour pounding it to dust, using a flat stone. Making ink is hard work and messy but I enjoy it. It’s amazing to think that something as common as burnt timber could be turned into words and sentences that carry meaning and power.
By the time I’d scooped the black powder carefully into my ink pouch, Thrax had served Master Ariston his breakfast and we were ready to go.
From Kirrha it’s less than a day’s journey to Delphi across the plain and up the lower slopes of Mount Parnassus. The well-used road is considered safe and is always busy. But Master Ariston has an irrational fear of wild animals and he insisted on hiring a professional guide to take us up the mountain.
The man’s name was Abydos. He assured Master Ariston he would be safe in his company and we set off, Thrax and I eating our breakfast on the hoof.
Master Ariston rode sideways on Ariana, clutching his precious lyre, which Thrax had managed to repair and retune while I was making my ink. I led the donkey while Thrax brought up the rear, weighed down as always with Master Ariston’s portable library.
The plain between the port of Delphi and the foot of Mount Parnassus is fertile and very well kept. There are olive groves as far as the eye can see, and their glossy leaves shone in the sunlight. The few farms we passed looked prosperous, their pens full of well fed poultry and animals. Any poet worth his salt would have been inspired by the plain’s perfect beauty but Master Ariston saw danger lurking behind every bush and tree.
‘Do you suppose there might be thieves in these parts?’ he asked a fellow traveller when the farmland gave way to wilder countryside.
‘I heard robbers are not such a threat any more,’ the traveller replied. He was an extremely tall man with very dark skin and wide shoulders. His hair was cropped close to his head, as was his wiry beard. ‘Athens sent hoplites to deal with them a long time ago. None have been seen since.’
‘But there may be wolves,’ said Master Ariston. I believe this part of the country is famous for them.’
‘I don’t think wolves would come out of their lairs during the day,’ grinned the traveller, who was riding a chestnut horse with the glossiest coat I had ever seen. The man’s name, we learned, was Gorgias. He was a widowed merchant from a city called Sybaris on the Traeis, or New Sybaris. An old white-haired slave was travelling with him, leading a donkey weighed down with chests and rolled-up carpets.
‘It’s the lambing season,’ grumbled Master Ariston. ‘Wolves might be tempted out of their hiding places during the day by the lambs. I hope Abydos is keeping a keen eye out for them.’ He looked around fearfully. ‘And I hope he will use his spear the moment he s
ees one. I don’t care if wolves are sacred to Apollo.’
Gorgias chuckled deep in his throat. ‘Do not let my son Milo hear you say you want to destroy a living creature,’ he said. ‘He is a follower of the great Pythagoras, who insisted that all animals are sacred and have an inner spirit, just like humans. Milo insists every living creature, even something as small as a wasp or a worm, should be allowed to live as long as the gods allow it.’
‘I bet he is one of those weaklings who baulks at the idea of eating meat after a sacrifice,’ huffed Master Ariston, forgetting his manners.
‘Milo chooses to eat only grain and vegetables,’ confirmed Gorgias. ‘But he is no weakling. He is a sensitive spirit who hates violence of any kind. He is also a good judge of character and does not anger easily. He and his twin brother will make fine heirs when it is my time to cross the river of the dead.’
‘I will not give up meat just because a long-dead mathematician and philosopher once preferred onion to goat,’ sniffed Master Ariston. ‘And I certainly will not allow a rabid wolf to savage me just because it is sacred to the gods. Thrax, go and fetch our guide. I want a word with him.’
Master Ariston eyed the other pilgrims in our little caravan while Thrax went off to fetch Abydos. ‘Where are your sons now?’
The merchant from Sybaris flicked the reins of his horse. ‘One stayed at home to look after the business. The other, Milo, stopped at some temple or other to offer a wheat sacrifice. He will catch up with us soon. He’s a very loyal son. He absolutely insisted on coming to Delphi with me.’
Abydos rode up to assure Master Ariston we were in no danger of being savaged by hungry wolves. But Master Ariston was soon complaining again, this time about the smell of dung hanging in the air.
‘Thrax, my alabastron,’ he wailed.
Thrax hung the small flask of perfumed oil around his master’s neck. ‘Ah, roses, that’s better,’ sniffed Master Ariston. But he was soon moaning loudly once more. He was itchy from the road dust and hungry. Besides, dark clouds were building up in the sky. It looked like it was going to rain.
The other pilgrims in the caravan, many of whom had arrived at Kirrha that very morning, suggested we should all rest for a while. Abydos took us to a wayside inn for an early meal, where Thrax set about feeding Ariana and arranging for Master Ariston to have a wash. Gorgias’s slave, who was called Solon, hurried into the kitchen to see what the innkeeper and his wife could rustle up for our masters.
‘May I ask why you are seeking the oracle’s advice?’ Master Ariston asked Gorgias once he was clean and they had settled around a rickety wooden table. The innkeeper had served them an enormous bowl of freshly cooked sprats while Thrax, Solon and I tucked into barley cakes washed down with water.
‘It is a long and troubled story,’ said Gorgias, ‘but I am not ashamed to share it. You strike me as an honest and sensitive soul, Ariston the poet, so I will tell you.
‘I am a merchant. I deal in carpets and textiles, mostly woollen cloaks made by women in my own city. My younger brother, Kosmas, was a merchant too. We learned the trade from our father. When he died, my brother and I inherited his cargo ship, a rickety but trustworthy boat that had survived many a storm at sea.
‘We were young and often at loggerheads with each other. If I wanted to trade in oil, Kosmas would prefer wine. If I elected to buy grain in Egypt, he would insist on going to Samos in search of expensive pottery. I liked returning to the safety of home the moment business was concluded but Kosmas had a desire for reckless adventure. He yearned to see more of the world, to discover new places and to experience things he could not find in our city.
‘One night, after a lot of wine had been drunk, we quarrelled badly. And this time there was no going back. My brother swore never to speak to me again and we parted company. As the elder brother, I kept our father’s ship and he set off to see the world, his pockets full of gold from his share of the family business.
‘Freed from the distractions of my tiresome brother, I prospered as never before. In no time at all, I had a fleet of three brand-new ships. Occasionally, I got news of Kosmas from other merchants I met on my travels. Your brother is training for the games in a Spartan gym! Your brother tired of training and has opened a seafront tavern on the island of Aegina! They say he is very generous with his wine. Your brother is married and settled happily!
‘Good things never lasted with Kosmas. One day, I heard that his tavern had gone bust and he had abandoned his wife. His gold had long run out and he was forced to find employment hauling cargo on a ship travelling between Egypt and Byblos.
‘I often thought about trying to help him but pride and memories of our last fight always kept me from doing so. Let the gods teach him a lesson in humility, I said to myself. One day he will come crawling back and apologise for his offensive behaviour.
‘Gradually, I had no more news of Kosmas. He seemed to have vanished into thin air. Then one night, I was returning to Sybaris on one of my ships. It had been a very successful voyage. The hold of my entire fleet was filled with grain and I was eager to get home to celebrate with my family.
‘Passing the island of Melos, our lookout spotted a cargo ship being attacked by pirates. Its sail was on fire and it was listing badly. Usually I head for the nearest port the moment I get wind of a pirate ship but that evening something made me go to the vessel’s aid. It must have been the gods whispering in my ear, for that very same night I was reunited with Kosmas.
‘He lay bleeding on the deck of the cargo ship, a spear sticking out of his chest. My brother had become a pirate. His eyes grew wide when he saw me and he tried to smile.
‘“Gorgias...” he began.
‘A sudden burst of blood inside his mouth stopped him from saying anything more. All around us the hideous sounds of battle continued. I am a tough man who is not easily brought to tears but my heart broke as I watched him shivering uncontrollably. I knelt beside him and wiped his mouth with the hem of my chlamys.
‘“Do not give up your life-spirit, Kosmas,” I cried above the din of clashing spears and swords, wrapping his shoulders in my arms. “I shall take you home with me. I will make sure you get well again.”
‘My brother coughed and more blood and foam spluttered out of his mouth. “It is too late, Gorgias. I have been speared like a fish.” He held up a trembling hand to show me a ring on his middle finger. It was dripping with my own brother’s blood.
‘“I have a daughter, Gorgias,” he said. “She lives with her mother, a priestess of Hera on the island of Aegina. Find her and give her this. It is the only thing I have in the world.”
‘I cradled his head on my lap. “You will give it to her yourself, Kosmas,” I cried. “You will survive and see your daughter again.”
‘He gripped the hem of my himation with the last bit of strength left in him. “I die, brother. I die! But keep your word. Give this ring to my daughter or the gods will call the curse of the harpies upon you as Zeus did with King Phineus.”
‘That was the last thing my brother ever said to me. A moment later his grip on my himation loosened and he fell back dead. By then my men and the sailors on the cargo ship had driven the pirates back on to their own vessel. I wanted to take Kosmas home for a proper burial but pirates are always buried at sea, for they believe that Dionysus turns their shades into dolphins.
‘I only had a moment to tug the ring off Kosmas’s finger before they took the body away. As I wiped off the blood, I realised it was a piece of jewellery fit for a king. A wide band of gold topped with two angry harpies glaring at each other. Their eyes were little beads of precious carnelian, as red as the blood I had just wiped off them. Who knows where Kosmas had come across it or who he had stolen it from?’
‘And did you return it to your brother’s daughter as promised?’ asked Master Ariston breathlessly, dying to know how the incredible story ended.
‘My brother’s mind must have been wandering when I spoke to him on the deck of that
ship,’ said Gorgias. ‘He must have given me the name of the wrong island. When I went to Aegina, I found no priestess with a child from an unknown father. The search for my niece continues.’
Master Ariston thumped the table with his fist, wincing at the pain. ‘And now you intend to ask the oracle where the child might be.’
Gorgias nodded at Solon, who refilled his wine cup. ‘Sadly, I have a more pressing question. You see, I am afraid that despite my best intentions to fulfill my promise to Kosmas, I shall soon be cursed by the harpies. I shall be like King Phineus all those years ago.’
‘But why?’ asked Master Ariston.
The merchant looked around his little group of listeners. ‘Even if I did find my niece, I cannot give her the ring. It has been stolen from my purse. That is the question I intend to ask the oracle: Where can I find the ring of the harpies?’
CHAPTER FOUR
Trouble at the Cheesemaker’s
A shadow fell across the table and we all looked up to see a thin figure silhouetted in the doorway.
‘Ah,’ said Gorgias, a fatherly smile spreading across his face. ‘Here is my son Milo at last.’
The figure parted the flimsy curtain and stepped into the room. It was the young man Thrax and I had met on the beach.
‘A pleasant morning,’ he mumbled, nodding to each of us in turn before taking his place at the table. He smiled at Thrax and myself but made no mention of our adventure with the turtles the night before. Perhaps he was trying to be discreet in case we hadn’t asked for permission to wander so far out of town.
Milo poured himself a glass of wine before Solon could do it for him and added water from a pitcher. I warmed to him at once. Here was a wealthy man who didn’t expect to be waited on hand and foot.
‘Do you want something to eat, son?’ said Gorgias.
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