Oracles of Delphi

by Marie Savage

  “How will you really know who killed Charis unless you seek to discover the truth instead of simply declaring that you already know it? There is a way, Pythia, to try to discover the truth.”

  “And pray what is that, wise son of Gaia?”

  “It’s a procedure I call an autopsia.”

  “To see for oneself? What are you talking about?”

  “An autopsia. Yes, it means, literally, to see for oneself, to examine, and if necessary even dissect, a body with the intent to see with our own eyes how the person died. My employer and friend Althaia has been trained in the procedure.” As if their heads were controlled by a master puppeteer, everyone turned at once to look at Althaia. Everyone but Phoibe, who could not bring herself to look at Theron’s companion. “If you give her permission to perform an examination of Charis’s body, there is a chance she can find something that will help us determine how your handmaid died. If we know how she died, we may be able to determine who killed her. And why.”

  “That is out of the question. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Phoibe’s voice was low, a growl that emanated from deep in her chest.

  “It is a sacrilege! That’s what it is!” Melanippe hissed. She tried to rise and turned to glare at her attendant. “Kalliope!” she barked, and the girl, with a barely concealed look of contempt on her face, jumped to her feet and helped the old woman stand. Melanippe hobbled around the circle toward Theron. As she drew near, Althaia smelled the stale sickly-sweet odor of old age, moist skin, and rotting teeth. She crinkled her nose and tried not to inhale. “We will never allow anyone to paw over her body as if it were nothing more than a philosopher’s plaything! You should be ashamed of yourself. You were a disgrace as a boy and you are a disgrace now.”

  “Melanippe, perhaps you forget you are speaking to my brother.” Theodora’s voice was harsh.

  “I know exactly to whom I am speaking, Theodora.”

  Althaia wanted to defend Theron but knew that he could take care of himself. In fact, he seemed to be the only one in the cave not ready to ignite like a well-oiled pyre.

  “It is up to you, Pythia,” he said. “Do you want my help or not? Do you seek the truth or not?”

  “I already know the truth,” Phoibe said.

  “Then you must already know that Heraklios has engaged my services to help find the girl’s killer. I came today only to honor my sister. And to discover what you know about the girl’s death. If I am to seek the truth, I will follow whatever path takes me to my destination.”

  Phoibe had finally had enough. “Fine words for a man with your reputation!” Phoibe spat. “You and your rich whore.”

  Althaia’s tongue stuck in her throat. So that’s why Phoibe wouldn’t look at her. She thought she was Theron’s whore!

  “If you are as ill-informed about Charis’s death as you are about my relationship with my employer, then you will be more hindrance than help in seeking to find your attendant’s killer. Further, if you seek to impede my pursuit of the truth, I will be forced to consider what you may have to gain by obstructing my inquiry. Perhaps you seek to hide the truth about her death because you are protecting someone. Or maybe you see the opportunity to advance your own political ends.”

  “How dare you suggest I would have anything to gain! That the Pythia of Gaia would seek to benefit from such a crime. From the death of my handmaid and my closest friend!” Her voice was rough, as if dragging the words from her throat had rubbed it raw.

  Althaia had no idea what proofs she might find if she were able to examine Charis. Maybe none at all. But the august and imposing priestesses had none either. As much as she could imagine Kleomon as the killer, she knew there wasn’t a jury in all Hellas that would render a guilty verdict—especially when women were usually not even allowed to testify. She turned to Phoibe, learned forward and said through clenched teeth: “You say you know who killed your attendant. You say you’ve seen it. So tell us. How was she killed? Where did it happen? When? If you know, tell Theron, and he and Heraklios will bring her killer to justice. If not, do not hinder our efforts to find out.”

  The growl that rumbled from Phoibe’s chest roiled upward like steam from a boiling pot. She struggled to her feet and loomed over Althaia, her hand raised as if ready to strike. Althaia couldn’t take her eyes of her. Phoibe’s face was contorted in rage. She trembled as if Poseidon himself possessed her limbs. “None of you are willing to recognize what Apollon and his priests are up to. Charis’s death is just the tip of the arrow. Right now they are sowing the seeds of our destruction. Using every instrument in their power. Yes! Every instrument. Even—”

  She broke off suddenly, looking around as if she just discovered where she was. Every priestess and every attendant watched her, waiting, expecting something. She turned, tripped over her skirts, regained her balance and scrambled up the slippery rocks toward the monster’s gaping maw. Althaia watched and wondered how anyone could go into the inner chamber of the cave alone. Without a torch. She must be mad. Althaia shuddered and watched with fascination as Phoibe slipped and fell to her knees, then crawled her way up to the jagged lip and disappeared into the black.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Praxis was waiting when Althaia and Theron, followed by several priestesses, emerged from the cave, squinting into the bright sunshine. On the wide grassy ledge below the cave, the slaves and guards looked up with interest. Nephthys was among them, setting out bread, cheese, wine and dried fish for lunch. Except for favoring her leg, she appeared to have recovered from her nearly disastrous tumble.

  He didn’t think he would ever forget that moment, the moment when he thought he had lost her before he’d ever had a chance to really have her, before he could tell her how he felt, tell her all the things he’d been thinking since he first saw her up on the slaver’s auction block. When he’d seen her grab that blackened tree stump, he’d prayed to every god he’d ever heard of to make it hold. His prayers were answered, and he’d pulled her back, away from the edge. “I’ve got you,” he’d whispered. But she’d said nothing. “Nephthys, look at me. I’ve got you.” Still she did not turn. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pried her fingers from the ancient wood, and pulled her to him. Every muscle in her body was rigid. He’d scooted backward again and again, slowly moving back toward the path, toward safety. As he scooted, he kicked at the ground, sending loose stones disappearing over the edge, into the blue. “You’re safe,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ve got you.” Finally, far enough from the edge to breathe easily, he stopped and held her snug against his him. Her muscles slowly loosened, like snow pack melting on a warm spring day.

  He’d put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. She began to tremble, and then her shoulders shook and he recognized the months of fear, anger, dread, self-pity and loneliness spilling out in a torrent of tears. Nephthys was never meant to be a slave. He didn’t know how she’d come to be in Piraeus, but she’d not been born to servitude, that much was certain. She leaned into him, and buried her face in his neck. He held her against his chest and rocked her back and forth. A stone the size of a fist and as sharp as a Makedonían sarissa stabbed at his backside. But he didn’t care. He squinted out at the blue void beyond the cliff’s edge where a lone raptor circled in a cloudless sky. Her tears ran down his neck and tickled as they formed little rivulets down his chest. He stroked her back and whispered, “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here,” until it sounded like a lullaby, a love song. Finally, her sobs quieted. She took a deep breath and her body settled into his as if it were a long lost key finally at home in its lock.

  After a moment, she pushed away from him. She wiped her face with her cloak, smearing tears, snot and dirt across her cheeks. He took the hem of his cloak, wetted it in his mouth, and wiped her face. As thorough he was Hippokrates himself, he probed her shoulder and looked her over for cuts and bruises.

  “You’re going to be sore,” he’d told her. “You almost pulled your shoulder out of its bo
ne socket. And it’s a good thing you were wearing a heavy cloak. Otherwise, you’d be really scraped up. As it is,” he traced the edge of a long scratch on her slender brown leg, “you look like a wild boar got hold of you. But you will live.”

  She nodded and kept her eyes fixed on his face.

  “Can you walk?” he asked, as he helped her to her feet.

  “I think so.” She took a few tentative steps and glanced fearfully back toward the edge of the cliff.

  “I tell you what; let’s get you away from here.” He bent, swept her into his arms, and strode back up the path to where Theron and Althaia stood waiting. Nephthys wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her still tear-stained face against his chest as if he’d carried her that way a thousand times. As he climbed, he became acutely aware of the rise and fall of her breasts against his. He held her closer and felt her arms tighten around his shoulders in response. And now everytime he looked at her, thought of her, the emotion of that moment, filled him so full he wondered if he would choke on it. She had very nearly gone over the cliff, and he couldn’t remember when he’d ever been happier.

  “Praxis, join us,” Theron said, bringing him back to the moment with a start. “This is my sister, Theodora.” Praxis did not have to look too closely to see the resemblance. “And this,” Theodora said, “is Eumelia, priestess of Argos.” Praxis acknowledged the two women, but Theodora was already on to business. “Recently,” she said, “we have discovered our counsel is not welcome in Delphi. Melanippe and Charis and their desire to wield power through Phoibe have taken precedence over the guidance of all the other priestesses. Even though the others grumble, we are the only two who dared to challenge them. Phoibe says the priests of Apollon murdered Charis and in her rage and sorrow, she wants revenge. But we, Eumelia and I, are not so sure. If this autopsia you spoke of can help us avert a disaster, an irreparable rift between Apollon and Gaia, then we would know more of it.”

  Praxis tensed as Althaia began. In his heart, he had hoped none of the priestesses would support Theron’s idea that Althaia examine the body. It was selfish of him, but the risks outweighed the rewards. No one deserved to be treated as the dead woman had been treated, but if Althaia was discovered handling the dead….

  “As Theron said, while in Egypt I studied with a priest who was an expert in mummification. He also studied human anatomy as an end in itself. As a healer and philosopher, he believed that through careful, systematic observation he could identify how someone had died. After an examination, which he conducted during the mummification process, he would speak to the relatives to confirm whether or not his findings were correct. During my time with him, I learned how to identify the four humors, the major organs, and the source of blood and bile. I also learned how to identify certain tell-tale signs of age and disease that can be read only by the trained eye. By reading these signs, it is almost as if the dead can speak to the living, as if they can reveal the secrets of their last moments.”

  “If you perform such an examination, do you think Charis will speak to you?” Theodora asked.

  “If the gods will it, yes. That is my hope.”

  “As women, we are limited in what we can do to right this wrong. But yet we must see that justice is done and that a greater injustice is averted,” Theodora said.

  “We can go to the Amphiktyonik League and ask that Heraklios find Charis’s killer and bring him to justice, but we are not family,” Eumelia added. “We have no standing in the courts of Delphi and we cannot expect Heraklios to protect Phoibe after we are gone. He cares little for our concerns or fears.”

  “On the contrary,” Althaia said. “Remember, Heraklios has already retained Theron’s services to help him find Charis’s killer. Even if he puts his own political position above all, he surely knows that he will not long keep that position if there is an unresolved murder in the Sacred Precinct.”

  “If you are to conduct this examination, you must act tonight,” Theodora said, “Phoibe sent her consort Georgios to Charis’s village to notify her brother. Both her parents are dead and she had no other living family. We expect Georgios to return with the brother sometime tomorrow. At that point, they will take custody of the body and bring it here for her funeral rites.”

  “Will Heraklios allow the examination?” Eumelia asked.

  “Because most believe the whole idea of such an examination is a sacrilege, I believe it is better if we keep our plans to ourselves,” Theron answered.

  His sister studied him a moment. “Very well. So how do you propose to arrange it on such short notice?” she said.

  Praxis suddenly felt Theron’s eyes—and everyone else’s—turn toward him. Typical, he thought. He knew exactly what was coming. I will be dragged into this scheme whether I will it or not.

  Theron turned toward his sister. “Praxis and I have a history of, shall we say, embarking on adventures together. We will find a way.”

  “However you accomplish it,” Theodora said, clasping her brother’s hand in hers, “send word to me of your findings. I am staying with Melanippe at a farmhouse just north of the Delphi-Krissa road. We will determine what action to take after we hear from you. For now, we must return to the Pythia.” She kissed her brother’s weathered cheek and took Althaia’s face in her hands. “Our hopes rest on you, Althaia of Athens. I pray Gaia is with you and that the voice of Charis reveals her secrets to you.” And with that, she and Eumelia slipped back into the cave.

  Althaia looked at Theron and then Praxis. “I don’t know how you’ll pull this off, but I have no doubt the two of you will see that this examination happens.” She took Praxis’s hand in hers. “And I feel sure the gods will protect me and guide my hand. We will discover the truth.”

  Praxis sighed and shook his head. “And I feel sure it is my lot to protect you, and that this ‘adventure’ is dangerous, misguided, and … Zeus’s balls, we better start planning. We don’t have much time.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nephthys pushed Menandros’s front door open with her hip. Carrying the blanket, lunch basket, and empty wine flask, she hesitated in the hallway and listened to the voices coming from the andron. Her hope for a leisurely lunch sitting on a blanket next to Praxis had been dashed as soon as Althaia and Theron emerged from the cave. She could not stop thinking about how his arms felt around her after he pulled her back from the edge of the cliff. There had been such an ease and familiarity after that—until Althaia and Theron joined them. Before, she had been the center of Praxis’s attention. But once they appeared, she disappeared, forgotten. They had hurriedly gulped down their food while Praxis listened intently as they told of their encounter with the priestesses. She had watched in silence as the three leaned in toward each other, talking in hushed tones, planning how to get Althaia into the storehouse where the priests were keeping the body.

  And now she could hear them in the andron with Menandros. They talked over one another, interrupted, argued. They sounded like a family. Where was her family? Where were her brothers? Her sisters? Her knees threatened to buckle beneath her, and she leaned against the wall. “No! I cannot think of them,” she whispered. But it was too late.

  The images flooded back. Images of the day she had finished her tasks at the Temple of Amun-Ra, the day she had escaped her husband’s unwelcome attentions and joined her friends in a race down to the river. They laughed while they ran, pushing and jostling to see who could dive in first. The sun was directly overhead and the High Priest rested in his cool, shaded chambers in the temple. Most likely neither he, nor her husband, an adept to the High Priest, heard them scream when the slavers sprang from their watching places in the reeds and caught them, right there on the banks of the Nile in front of the most sacred monuments in Egypt. That was the last time she touched her foot to the land of the Pharaohs, the land where her parents surely wept for their stolen daughter. Had her husband wept for her? Perhaps. Perhaps not. As she listened to voices from the andron, she wondered where her fri
ends were. Bought? Sold? Dead?

  The voices got louder and Nephthys flattened herself against the wall. Praxis hurried from the room and headed toward the front door with his traveling cloak swirling behind him. He didn’t turn around, didn’t notice her. Maybe dead was preferable to invisible.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Palamedes has been a temple slave most of his life, and he knows every inch of the Sacred Precinct. If anyone can get you in and out without being seen, it will be him,” Menandros said as he waved at a slave to refill their wine cups. Althaia was comfortably ensconced on a couch and Theron leaned against the wall looking as if, like a Spartan, he was ready to leap into action at the sound of an aulos. Menandros adjusted the pillows behind him, settled back on his couch and propped up his feet. Although custom dictated that respectable women were not allowed into the andron of a house, Menandros prided himself on breaking staid old rules and welcomed Althaia into his. Besides, because he was not married, he had no use for a gynaikon and so didn’t have a room equipped for female guests. And he knew Theron would have invited Althaia into the andron anyway—and probably already had—so he might as well make her comfortable.

  “I won’t be satisfied until our plans are firm,” Theron said. “As loathe as I am to dine with Philon this evening, the distraction it provides us will be useful.”

  “How so? I’ve suffered through more of Philon’s symposia than I care to remember—many of which I don’t remember—and none of them were particularly useful,” Menandros said.

  “From what you’ve told me,” Theron said, “Philon believes himself the intellectual equal of any philosopher in Hellas, and I do not doubt he has spies and informants in every city who help him stay abreast of ideas and intrigues. The information he accumulates surely helps him in his position as an interpreter for the Oracle of Apollon, and during the pilgrimage season, he must have ample opportunity to spar with tyrants, kings, princes and other important men—and women—over the news of the day. But during the cold winter months, how does he satisfy his need to demonstrate his superiority of mind? Wrestling with Kleomon?