Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  The official invitation to call at Philon’s residence had arrived the night before. She didn’t want to go, but as Theron said, you can’t say no to the high priest of Delphi. She knew talk would eventually turn to politics and possible war between Makedon and Athens. She also knew that because her family’s roots could be traced back to the very foundations of her city, she could not be trusted to say anything that would be considered appropriate for the dinner table. She wondered what her father would have thought of her dining with Philon, and the pain of his loss splintered her heart once again. She bit her lip, determined to stop the tears before they had a chance to get started. Her father gone, her husband’s interests focused elsewhere, the sudden discovery of Theron’s long-lost sister, and Praxis…. She wondered again why her father had stipulated that she and Praxis travel to Delphi before his last wishes could be revealed, but she knew better than to pester Theron with any more questions. He’d made it clear that all would be revealed in good time. It was better to focus on the murder and the priestesses—and the fact that one of them was Theron’s twin.

  “Why won’t you tell me about your sister and the other priestesses?” Althaia asked.

  “As for my sister, I told you now is not the time for that story,” Theron answered. “And I can tell you little of the others because I have only met one of them and that was many years ago,”

  “When the Pythia’s messenger came last night, what exactly did he say?”

  “He asked—no, demanded—that I come to the cave today to fulfill my duty to Gaia.”

  “So the Pythia knows you are Theodora’s brother.”

  “That information could not long remain secret.”

  “Tell me something, anything, about your sister. What is she like? Why were you were separated?”

  “You are nothing if not persistent, but I cannot tell you what she is like. I myself do not know. I have not spoken to her since I was a boy.”

  “Why did you never tell me? You and Praxis are the only family I have, but now, suddenly, you have a sister I know nothing about. Nothing.” Althaia bit her lip again. “She is your real family and now that you are to be reunited….”

  Without breaking his stride, Theron reached out and pulled Althaia to him. His arm, as weathered and strong as a ship’s rigging, clasped her to his side even as he walked on without saying a word.

  “Theron—” Althaia began.

  “My dear, it was a lifetime ago.” He squeezed her shoulder, and they walked in silence for a few moments before Althaia could trust her voice.

  “If you won’t tell me anything about your sister, tell me why you turned away from Gaia. Especially since your mother was a priestess.”

  “Not just from Gaia.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have we not spoken of this before?”

  “You always speak in riddles and questions, master teacher. Come, tell me straight. For once, do not make this a lesson or dialectic.”

  Theron drew in a deep breathe and squinted up into the deepening blue sky. “But then no more inquisition, master student. Are we agreed?”

  “Agreed, no more questions—for now,” Althaia said.

  “Hmph,” Theron’s mouth twisted in a skeptical frown. “Alright. After I left home, I began traveling and asking questions and listening to wise men and women from around the Middle Sea and beyond. I could recite Hesiod and Homer and I knew the history of the gods. Mother made sure of it. The more I traveled, however, the more I began to see through the veil that separates us from the world around us. Again and again, the wise told tales of days long past when gods and giants walked the earth, of winged creatures with many heads and even more tails, of magical spells and ritual sacrifices that could guarantee a fair voyage, a victory on the battlefield, or a lover’s devoted embrace. And yet, in each town or village or great city where the wise preached and kings and peasants alike paid for their advice and made their appropriate sacrifices, voyagers were still lost at sea, victors were still vanquished on the battlefield, and lovers were still betrayed. I began to realize that the veil is one we ourselves have woven to help us sleep at night, to convince ourselves that we can, through supplication and right worship, gain the favor of the gods and therefore protect us from the unknown, from what we fear. So I tore the veil aside and now I look at the world as it is. Yes, it is still a mystery. No, I do not have the answers. Why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west making our shadows stalk us through the day like enemy spies, why the tides roll in and out, splashing and spilling up on the shore as if Titans were sloshing their wine cups to and fro, or why a soft breeze that tantalizes and teases the skin one minute can, in a few short hours, turn into a violent wind that drives ships to the bottom of the sea and sailors to their watery graves—all these are mysteries to me. But, I have come to understand that Gaia, Hera, and Demeter, or Mut, Hathor, and Isis, Ishtar, Cybele and all the other goddess we worship exist because we have invented them. If I acknowledge the pretense behind the worship of the mother goddess—or of any god—then must I not doubt the power of the others as well?”

  “No wonder you speak in riddles. Many might think your impiety a danger to civic order. Like Sokrates.”

  Theron threw his head back and laughed. “I have been compared unfavorably to snakes and scorpions, but I am quite sure no one will compare me to Sokrates, my dear.”

  “Be serious! Even you cannot doubt Apollon and the Oracle of Delphi."

  He remained silent.

  “What about Croesus? With his test, he proved the Delphic Oracle has power beyond all others. If the pythia couldn’t see, how else would she know that a king as far away as Lydia would be making tortoise and lamb stew at that precise moment?”

  “So the legend goes,” Theron said. “But what about her prediction that Croesus would destroy a mighty empire if he attacked Persia? Did she get it wrong or did Croesus get it wrong?”

  “A mighty empire did fall!” Althaia answered.

  “Indeed,” Theron chuckled. “Although I doubt Croesus was comforted by the verity of the pythia’s prediction when it was his empire that fell and not his enemies’.”

  “That doesn’t make the prediction any less true,” Althaia countered. “Apollon is one of the most revered gods in the world!”

  “In the whole world? Really, my girl, I thought I had taught you better. We do not even know the extent of the whole world let alone what people in distant places believe. It’s my observation that the gods people worship reflect the lands in which they live, the dangers they face, or the desires they share as a people. As Zenonphon said:

  ‘The Ethiopes say that their gods are flat-nosed and black,

  While the Thracians say that theirs have blue eyes and red hair.

  Yet if cattle or horses or lions had hands and could draw,

  And could sculpt like men, then the horses would draw their gods

  Like horses, and cattle like cattle; and each they would shape

  Bodies of gods in the likeness, each kind, of their own.’

  “We are not Ethiopes or Thracians. We are Hellenes.” Althaia protested.

  “That is not the point and you know it. I have trained you in the use of logic, so use it. How likely it is that seers can speak on behalf of the gods based on the examination and interpretation of cow livers, bird entrails, the arrangement of clouds or the tossing of stones? Or because they are overcome by vapors issuing from deep within the earth?”

  Althaia sucked in a breath. “You know, despite the popularity of his fables, the Delphinians convicted Aesop for impiety toward the gods. They tossed him to his death from a cliff very much like the one beneath our feet now.”

  “I am well aware of the dangerous path I tread,” he laughed and clasped Althaia to his side again. “That’s why, while in Delphi, I stay well away from the edge.”

  As they continued up the mountain, the path wound through thick groves of olive trees and tracked above the wide expanse of the plain
stretching out toward Arachova below them. Most of the time, the trail was wide enough for Althaia to walk beside Theron, but in a few places it was perilously close to the cliff’s edge and too narrow for anything but single-file. They fell into an easy rhythm, Althaia trying to pry information from Theron and Theron studiously avoiding her most probing questions even as they both kept their heads down to watch their footing. Trailing behind them, Nephthys and Praxis walked alongside a donkey carrying blankets, bladders of wine and a basket of food for lunch. An awkward silence, like an unwanted chaperone riding atop the donkey, hovered between them.

  Then a startled yelp rang out behind them. Althaia and Theron turned to see the animal shy away from something—a bee sting? a shadow?—and knock Nephthys sideways. Her arms spun like chariot wheels as she lost her footing on the loose rock scattered on the steep, winding path. Praxis’ arm shot out across the animal’s back, but his fingers caught only empty air as Nephthys skidded backward and then fell, tumbling toward the edge. Praxis dropped to his backside and scrambled down toward the edge as Nephthys’s fingers dug into the ground and clawed at loose stones and roots. But nothing stopped her momentum. Then she grabbed at the burned stump of an old olive tree, and, like a prisoner struggling to break free from his bonds, the stump strained at the ground. Althaia thought all was lost, but the age-old bond of root and soil remained strong. The stump held. Praxis inched up behind Nephthys, braced his foot against the blackened wood, clasped her arm and pulled her back toward him.

  On the path above, Althaia started down toward them. But Theron clutched her arm. “Wait.”

  “But—”

  “Praxis has her,” he said softly. She stopped and watched the two figures below. She was ashamed to admit it, but as Praxis drew Nephthys into his arms, her relief gave way to the selfish thought that Theron was right. Praxis did have Nephthys. And Nephthys had Praxis. And Theron had a twin sister. And she had no one.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Theodora and Phoibe stood on the windswept ledge before the mouth of the cave watching as Theron and Althaia made their way up the rocky path toward them.

  “Why did I have to learn from Melanippe that this man is your brother?” Phoibe asked through gritted teeth.

  “I was not certain myself—at first.” Theodora said. She had known Phoibe since the girl was a baby and had first been named and chosen as an attendant to Sofia, the previous Pythia. Although she only saw her once a year, she knew Phoibe had been a sweet, but fearful child who had grown into a determined, confident—and headstrong—young woman.

  “I should not be forced to rely on one priestess to inform on another.”

  “I should have been the one to tell you.” Theodora acknowledged. Age had never mattered when it came to selecting the Pythia of Gaia. The only thing that mattered was The Sight. And Phoibe most definitely had that. Her visions were legendary—at least among the priestesses still left. But the pythia was simply one of equals in their sisterhood, and Theodora did not appreciate a woman more than half her age speaking to her with such an air of disdain and superiority. It was unbecoming a servant of the goddess.

  “Who is the woman accompanying him?” Phoibe demanded.

  “I don’t know.” Theodora admitted. “Perhaps she is a slave,” Theodora knew so little about her brother. For months after he left, she did not even know whether he still lived. When her father finally brought word of him, she was overwhelmed with relief—and anger. For years, she struggled through periods when she hated her twin for abandoning her to their mother and periods when she wanted nothing more than to touch his face and look into his familiar eyes. Now that he was walking toward her, she did not know what to feel or what she should say. Or what he would say to her.

  * * * *

  After her traumatic morning at the site of the Oracle of Gaia, Phoibe was still unsteady. Her stomach unsettled—even more than it had been of late. She was feverish, and her thoughts were scattered; she felt dangerously unhinged. She had arrived at the cave early enough to see the other priestesses come one by one, and was now anxious to retreat into its shadowed recesses. To hide from Apollon’s rays. And yet here she was waiting in the full sun for Theron of Thessaly, a man whose reputation as a mercenary who had worked for both Makedonians and Athenians contributed to her unease.

  She shaded her eyes and studied Theron and the woman with him as they approached. The similarity between Theron and his sister was unmistakable—the same tall frame, angular face, and deep-set eyes. Again, it angered her that their kinship was revealed not by Theodora, but by Melanippe. As for the woman with Theron, she was no slave, of that Phoibe was certain. According to Theodora, Theron had for several years been employed by an Athenian merchant as a tutor for his only child, a daughter. But surely this woman was not his student. A wealthy Athenian would never be allowed to travel with an unmarried man who was not her relative, and, even if she was, she would be pampered and perfumed, carried everywhere in a closed litter. Whoever this was, walking so easily in the company of a man, she was no respectable woman. She must be a hetaera! What kind of man would bring a high-priced prostitute to their holy gathering? It was unthinkable. But there she was. The wide, pretty face set off by arched, well-tended brows. The expensive beaded headband. The garnet necklace and matching earrings dangling from the woman’s lobes. It was obvious. She had to be Theron’s whore.

  Phoibe had sought the man’s help, but now that he approached, she was seized by a desire to turn and run. A gnawing dread took root in her belly, and she cringed as its grasping tentacles clawed at her spine. No matter what connections Theron had to Gaia, Phoibe knew with certainty he was not a man who would easily bend to her will. The Sight clouded her eyes and she swayed slightly before Theodora reached out to her. Phoibe pulled away, took a deep breath and forced herself to stand tall. She was unwilling to let the older priestess know how vulnerable she felt.

  She was the pythia and no man or woman would intimidate her. She would conquer her fears. She would not let them overwhelm and blind her. Not like the last time she panicked, when the torch went out in the cave’s inner chamber and she could not find Georgios though her arms flailed wildly and he stood but a few cubits away. Georgios was the only one—he and Charis—who knew she feared the dark, feared the cave, feared the visions.

  But even as her visions became more frightening, more frequent, more vivid, and more fiercely insistent, Phoibe fed on them and they nourished her desire and ambition like mother’s milk nourishes the newborn babe. Just that morning, before daybreak, she had sought Gaia’s voice and now the vision she experienced haunted her.

  * * * *

  At dawn that morning, she had carried a blanket, a small tripod for her offering, a pouch of smoldering coals and two bladders, one filled with wine, the other with oil. She spread the blanket on the ground beside the sacred crevice and smoothed it out carefully. Shivering, she took off her boots, stripped and bathed in the spring melt water rushing down from Mt. Parnassus. She paid no attention to the cold even as her teeth chattered uncontrollably and her pale skin turned blue. This was her ritual. She was becoming the oracle.

  She squeezed the water out of her thick hair and twisted it into a heavy braid that hung past the small of her back, past the dimples Georgios loved to outline with his tongue. She wrapped her winter cloak around her shoulders and dipped the bowl of her tripod in the freezing water. She closed her eyes and drank deeply. The water etched a frigid path down her throat to the center of her being. She closed her eyes and gave thanks for its cleansing purity. The spirit of Gaia was within her. It was beginning.

  She poured the glowing coals from her pouch and arranged them carefully atop the cold pile of ash and old coals. She placed the small tripod and bowl above them. Droplets of water spit and sizzled as they fell onto the hot embers. She plucked a few dried laurel and kannabis leaves from her purse, rubbed them between her palms and sprinkled them into the bowl.

  All was silent around her, save the di
stant tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker and the music of the stream behind her. She paused in prayer and then poured the libations into the ground. Wisps of smoke began to rise from the offering bowl. She leaned over it and breathed deeply. Her pulse slowed and her inner eye began to wake as her heart opened to the goddess’s voice. Phoibe bowed over the narrow fissure, closed her eyes and drew her cloak up over her head to block out the morning sun and concentrate the vapors and the offering smoke.

  She breathed in deeply again and again and soon the stones and trees—the very ground beneath her—began to whisper the names of all the Pythias who came before her. Her own name drifted by on the breeze, softly at first and then louder and more insistent as the wind grew stronger. She felt the words form in her mind: Pythia. Pythia. I am the Pythia. The Python. The mouthpiece and guardian of the Gaia.”

  The wind whistled around her. It pushed her back and forth like a fly caught in a spider’s web buffeted by a gale. The ages of the world rushed through her. The surf pounded in her ears as Poseidon rose from the depths and battered the shorelines of Hellas with wave upon wave of bright foam. The colors of creation crashed against the wide valleys and soared skyward to dance wildly behind her lids, drawing nearer and then chasing away, one after the other moving forward and back, in and out of memory.

  Then all was still and she saw herself emerge from the fissure and slither across the ground, her belly against the cool earth. The earth moved within her, as though she were the Mother Goddess incarnate, her womb full of titans, gods and heroes wrestling with their destinies. Then, her stomach lurched. There is danger approaching, Gaia hummed in warning. Phoibe felt the vibrations ripple across her skin, as if she were a lyre string yearning, aching, for the musician’s fingers.