Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  Menandros shuddered, and turned to spit to ward off the evil eye. “That is a horrifying and yet strangely fascinating idea.”

  “It is forbidden in Greece,” Praxis added.

  “Praxis does not look favorably on the idea of Althaia poking about dead bodies with sharp instruments,” Theron commented.

  “It is not an appropriate pastime for a respectable Athenian matron. It puts her at risk for discovery and ridicule—and punishment for impiety.” Praxis looked directly at Althaia as he spoke. “But my mistress does not listen to me.”

  “Praxis,” Althaia said with a sympathetic smile, “you are too like a lion protecting his pride. But you forget, I am not your lioness or your cub.”

  “More like a lowly stable boy trying to manage a stubborn ass,” he grumbled under his breath.

  She ignored him and turned to Theron. “Besides more straw and dirt in her hair, her head shows no sign of any obvious mortal injury. The marks on her face lead me to believe she was slapped hard, but no one dies from being slapped or there would be few respectable matrons left in Athens.” She didn’t look up to see how that comment had gone over, but she suspected Theron would be repressing a smile and Praxis would be sporting a scowl. Since her father’s death and her unfortunate marriage to Lycon, Praxis had been like a mother hen, hovering over her constantly. Whether to protect her from Lycon, to keep her company, or to make sure she behaved like a ‘respectable Athenian matron,’ she didn’t know. But his mood had soured and he seemed to have misplaced the sense of adventure they shared while growing up. “Without turning her over, we have little to use to extrapolate cause of death. Now, we know that bruising doesn’t occur after the body’s animating spirit has left the body for its journey to Hades, so we can assume she was in some sort of struggle before she died. But with no blood—”

  “Menandros!”

  Althaia, Praxis and Theron looked up to see two men enter the theater trailed by a host of attendants. The priests of Apollon. They wore the ornate robes and carried themselves with the air of authority typical of the priestly class. They were both impressive and not just a little gaudy.

  “Where is the body and who are these people?” The younger of the two men demanded.

  “Philon, Kleomon, it’s here, on the altar,” Menandros stepped aside. “And these are my guests from Athens,” he continued while the two priests walked slowly around the body, examining it from every angle.

  “I want you to meet my old friend, Theron of Thessaly. You have no doubt heard of him. He has traveled the world, served kings, marched to war, studied mathematics in Persia, natural philosophy in Athens, and—”

  “Tutored little girls.” The younger priest smirked as he turned his back on the body to size up Theron and Althaia. “We meet at last, Theron of Thessaly. From what I hear, your reputation for observing and reading into the hearts, minds and motivations of men appears to be unparalleled. A diviner of men. Tell me, what brings you to Delphi?”

  “Philon,” Theron answered, “first let me say that it is my honor to meet the Priests of Apollon, even if it is at the scene of such a terrible crime. As to what brings us to Delphi, we arrived last night on a mission of a personal nature.”

  “Personal, hmph.” The older priest, Kleomon, looked at Theron as if he carried a strange disease. “Isn’t it an odd coincidence that you, of all people, arrive in Delphi on the very night this young woman turns up dead? And,” he cast another disparaging glance at Althaia, “what is a woman doing here?”

  Althaia and Praxis exchanged glances. What did he mean by insinuating a connection between the timing of their trip and the murder? And what did he mean by you, of all people? Althaia pulled her mantle down over her forehead to shield her eyes and studied the old man.

  Kleomon’s shoulders were slightly hunched and his belly rose grandly at his midsection like an entirely separate geological formation. The pungent smell of too much perfumed oil slathered on too few hairs caught in her nose and throat like a draught of one of Theron’s medicinal cures. Althaia stifled a cough, and shot a look of disgust at Praxis. His face remained impassive, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward ever so slightly.

  “She is one of my guests,” Menandros said. “I was just about to give a tour of the theater when we found the body. But lucky for us, it turns out that she has studied—”

  “Forgive me for interrupting, Menandros,” Theron said, “but I have been remiss. Please let me introduce Althaia of Athens and her servant Praxis.”

  “This is no place for a—” Kleomon started.

  “The daughter of Lysandros, I presume,” Philon interrupted.

  “Yes,” Althaia replied, looking him straight in the eye. He was not going to intimidate her. Men more important than Philon had bounced her on their knees and brought her ribbons for her hair. She took in his handsome face with a high, broad forehead, lips that were thin with impatience and eyes that seemed weary somehow, as if he were bored with life. His hair was straight and fair, and he wore it combed back and tied tight with a leather thong. On his hand, which he held lightly at the embroidered edge of his himation, he wore an impressive gold signet ring set with the largest ruby Althaia had ever seen. Though younger, he was clearly the more senior priest. The rank of office came with privilege—and with a sense of superiority.

  “Tell me, daughter of Lysandros,” Philon commanded, ignoring the rest of the gathering as if they didn’t exist. “What was it like to have a man like Theron as your tutor? I understand his philosophical rival also took a position as a teacher—although I believe his student was a boy, the son of a king, in fact. Is Althaia of Athens as educated and strong-willed a young woman as Alexander of Makedon is a young man? That is what my Athenian friends would have me believe.”

  Althaia’s back stiffened. She had grown tired of hearing people whisper about Theron’s supposed bad blood with Aristotle. It made her want to scream. Yes, it was true that Aristotle was brilliant, but he wasn’t brave. For most of his life, he had hidden in the academy while Theron had lived and experienced the world. Althaia knew people said Theron had been a mercenary, an assassin for hire, and that his ideas were nothing more than the ravings of a half-rate philosopher with a first-rate throwing arm. But she didn’t care what people said. Her father told her Theron was the most brilliant man he’d ever known, but that the world wasn’t ready for his ideas. That the world was seldom ready for the truly great thinkers. Look what happened to Sokrates, he would say. A vision of Theron thrashing both Philon and Aristotle in a debate at one of her father’s symposiums flashed through her mind. “I couldn’t say,” she answered. “I’ve never met Alexander. And as an Athenian, I pray I never have that privilege.”

  Philon chuckled and held her gaze. “A student of politics, are you? I thought your tutor and Alexander’s father were old friends.”

  “That may well be true. After all, Theron is not Athenian. I am.” Maybe Theron could forget the rhetorical devices and just skewer them both with a very sharp spear.

  “Then you are indeed an independent thinker.” Philon smiled. “Perhaps—”

  “Stop playing games, Philon,” Kleomon barked. “Heraklios will be here any moment.”

  “We should talk more,” Philon continued. “My sources say you have lived quite an unconventional life.” He dragged his eyes from Althaia, and turned to Theron. “You must bring your student to my home for dinner before you leave Delphi. Perhaps tomorrow evening?”

  “As you wish,” Theron answered.

  “Are you finished?” Kleomon sputtered.

  “Quite.” Philon said.

  “Then why don’t you tell me what we’re going to do about this.” Kleomon pointed to the body. “About them.”

  “Who is ‘them’?” Theron asked.

  Kleomon glared. “Don’t play ignorant with me,”

  “Kleomon,” Philon purred, “Theron is our guest in the Sacred Precinct of Apollon and we should treat him as such.”

  �
�I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” Theron said. “I have no idea who or what you’re talking about.”

  “Who are you trying to fool?” Kleomon blustered.

  “I assure you, I have no intention of fooling anyone.”

  Althaia and Praxis looked at each other. Why was the old priest baiting Theron? And why was Theron taking the bait?

  “Tell me, Theron of Thessaly, who would benefit most from discrediting the Sacred Precinct of Apollon?”

  “Kleomon, no one profits if the Oracle of Apollon is discredited,” Philon spoke up. “Even the pirates in Kirra and the bandits along the mountain roads depend on the pilgrims coming to Delphi for their livelihood.”

  “You both know who would benefit. There can be no doubt—especially since the murder took place on the very night of their naming ceremony.”

  Naming ceremony? Althaia wondered what in the world the old man was going on about.

  “If you are implying—” Theron began.

  “I’m not implying anything. I don’t have to. It is perfectly clear that this is a human sacrifice and it is perfectly clear that those women, those priestesses, they’re the ones behind it.”

  “Human sacrifice? That’s ridiculous,” Althaia muttered before she could catch herself.

  “Ridiculous?” Kleomon rounded on her. “What do you know about this? Or are you one of them, too? Is that why you’re in Delphi? To join them?”

  “Them’ who?” Althaia spoke without thinking.

  “Your tutor must have schooled you in their ways, taught you all their secrets.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Althaia retorted. “Besides, a priest of Apollon should be able to tell this is no sacrifice. Where is the blood offering? How can it be a sacrifice when no blood is spilled?” She felt Theron’s eyes on her. He always warned her to watch her mouth.

  The priest’s face purpled as he advanced on Althaia. “Who are you to instruct me about sacrifices to the gods?”

  With his blue eyes glaring, Praxis stepped in front of Althaia and faced the old man down.

  Philon grasped his counterpart’s arm. “Kleomon,” he said in a voice as soothing as warm honey, “this conversation is doing us no good. Heraklios will track down the woman’s kin and his soldiers will find the killer and force him to pay the blood price for her murder. It is our task to make sure she gets a proper burial, to re-sanctify the sacred altar of Dionysos, and purify the theater that the body has defiled. As priests we must do our duty and let Heraklios do his.”

  “Do not tell me how to do my duty.” Kleomon wrenched away, and turned on Theron. “Is that why you’re here with your acolyte? To do your duty, Theron of Pytheion?” Kleomon turned to Philon, “Do you honestly believe it is a coincidence that the son of a known priestess of Gaia turns up in Delphi the very night of this terrible murder?”

  “Kleomon!” Menandros, who had been watching the interaction with a mixture of confusion and alarm, gasped. He puffed out his ample chest as if his sheer bulk would defend Theron from Kleomon’s accusation. “Surely you are not insinuating that my friend—”

  With a bemused look on his face, Theron taunted the old priest. “Do not hold your tongue on my account.” Althaia and Praxis watched Theron. They knew to pay attention when his voice took on that calm, confident quality. It meant a challenge.

  “Oh, Kleomon,” Philon sighed as if tired of the whole subject—whatever the subject was. Althaia couldn’t follow the conversation. She had no idea what was going on.

  “All right, I’ll say it, since no one else will. It’s worshippers of Gaia and her drakon, the serpent Apollon defeated. They’re the ones who killed this girl. They’re the ones who descend on this place every winter. Celebrating the Dionysia,” Kleomon waved his arms wildly toward the cliffs behind the theater. “Hiding in the hills, in the caves. The goddess goes by a thousand names. Ge, Gaia, Cybele, mountain mother, mistress of animals, it doesn’t matter. She and wine-drunk Dionysos lead fools and idiots into frenzied orgies, wearing fawnskin or dancing naked—even here! Above our own sacred precinct—they come here, like winged harpies to Parnassus, thyrsus bearers, dripping honey, smearing their blood, wearing the earth all over their naked bodies. Women young and old taunting young boys and grown men with their nakedness….”

  “Stop now, Kleomon, before you say something you will regret,” Philon growled, no longer bored.

  Kleomon took another step toward Althaia. Praxis stood immobile in front of her, his body as taut as Odysseus’s bowstring.

  “And the men!” The old priest continued, spittle flying, his face mottled and red. “Drunk on wine and mead. Oh, we put up with the Dance of the Fiery Stars at the rising of the Pleiades, but then they go too far. Grown men dance naked like satyrs among the maenads. The Olympians be damned, these people worship the earth, they rut like animals, right here. I tell you they will tear the flesh off human bone and not even remember it in the morning. That’s the sacrilege. That’s the crime. Find the priestesses of Gaia and you’ll find the ones responsible for this murder. And I’m sure that you,” he poked his fleshy finger at Theron, “know exactly where to find them.”

  Chapter Six

  “Theron?” Heraklios’ voice boomed as he swept into the theater like a wave crashing against the shore. Tall and thick as a trireme’s mast, he was dressed in calf-high leather boots and a soldier’s short chitoniskos and matching cloak. He wore a thick beard and a floppy, fawn-skin, Makedonían-style hat on top of a tightly curled mass of graying hair, and was, as opposed to Philon and Kleomon, obviously glad to see Theron.

  “By the gods, man,” he slapped Menandros on the back so hard the playwright fell into Praxis, “why didn’t you tell me your Athenian guests included Theron of Thessaly?”

  “Heraklios,” Theron smiled and stepped forward. “I didn’t know if you would remember.”

  “Of course I remember,” Heraklios gripped Theron’s arm with both hands. “Saved Philip’s life. Who could forget that? Now, tell me what we have here.” He strode up to the altar, walked around it once, and then turned and eyed Althaia.

  “We were just preparing to move the body so we can prepare her for burial,” Philon said. “Kleomon and I will—”

  “You must be Lysandros’ daughter.” Heraklios ignored Philon and looked Althaia up and down more thoroughly than he did the dead woman. He turned back to Theron. “Philip said you’d taken a different sort of position. She’s a beauty. A student or something more?”

  Althaia blushed Praxis bristled and Theron just laughed in that way he had of putting everyone at ease. “I am her humble employee, nothing more.”

  “Well, daughter of Lysandros, I am Heraklios, cousin to King Philip II of Makedon, by way of his first wife Audata, daughter of Bardyllis, King of Illyria, who is my own uncle. Your old tutor has quite a reputation in Pella. I’m sure he’s told you all sorts of tales of court intrigue and attempted murder.”

  “No, actually he’s—” Althaia started.

  “If it weren’t for Theron, who knows whose flabby ass would be warming the throne of Makedon. And, as Philon and Kleomon well know,” Heraklios continued without even taking a breath, “without Philip’s aid in ending the last Sacred War, Apollon’s Precinct would still be at the mercy of those thieving Phokians and everyone who aided their cause.” He cast a pompous glance toward Kleomon who rolled his eyes in answer. “So, in a way, we all have Theron here to thank for us winning that damnable war. Don’t we?”

  “Well, I—” Althaia began and glanced at Theron who just smiled and watched Heraklios’s performance, which was not, apparently, anywhere near over.

  “Now, I’m not sure if you know how it works here,” he said, eyeing Althaia, “but as a General in Philip’s service, my appointment as Makedon’s representative to the Amphiktyonic League puts me in charge of maintaining and protecting the sacred lands of Apollon, including the Sacred Precinct’s temples and treasuries and the people who journey here to see them and t
o seek guidance from the Oracle of Apollon, so—”

  Philon adjusted his himation. “As high priest of Apollon—”

  “So,” Heraklios repeated, knowing full well that the only way to deal with Philon and Kleomon was to put them in their places early and often, “to honor Theron and his service to Philip, I will treat your personal safety as my personal responsibility while you are here. I know finding this body must have been very upsetting for a young woman such as yourself, being Athenian and all.” Heraklios had nothing against Athenians in particular, he just thought they were soft. In fact, he prayed daily that the Atheian soldiers he would one day face on the battlefield would disappear as quickly as an Athenian matron once the whores arrived at her husband’s symposia. Maybe Athens would even capitulate, he thought. Either way, it would be nice to have a friendly face in Athens when it was all over. A very young, wealthy and very beautiful face. “Be assured that I will see to it that you are in no danger from whoever committed this horrible crime.”

  Heraklios turned and signaled to one of his men, and a group of soldiers marched into the theater. It was a pity he always had to make such a show of force, but Philon didn’t seem to understand who was really in charge unless you paraded a whole phalanx of soldiers under his nose. “My men will remove the body, seek to identify her and search for next of kin to claim her.”

  Philon’s fingers gripped at the embroidered edge of his cloak. A muscle along his jaw line twitched. “My personal guards have been instructed to—”