Halo

by Zizou Corder

  The animal died quickly and silently.

  Halo looked at Manticlas’s face, lit up and excited. She watched while he sliced the lamb open and looked at its dribbly, bloody entrails.

  He’s revolting, she thought.

  ‘This is the heart,’ he said, pointing to a small yellowish-red object with many tubes coming out of it. ‘Either side, the lungs.’These were purple and spongy. Despite herself, she was interested. She knew the names of the parts, of course, because Kyllarus and Chariklo had taught her long ago, as they cleaned their prey for dinner. But she had never seen a liver taken out and read to tell you what was going to happen. How could Manticlas know what it meant? She would be interested, actually, to learn about that.

  Manticlas carefully cut the lamb’s liver away from its veins and arteries, and held it up, shiny wet and purply-red. It bled a lot. ‘Good, good,’ he murmured. ‘The liver is a good shape, clean and firm… no extra lobes, nothing missing or misshapen… the colour is fine and lively…’ He poured water over it to wash it, then paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. ‘Still bleeding,’ he said. ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Melesippus. He didn’t look anxious, but he looked as if he might look anxious if looking anxious was something he did, which it wasn’t.

  ‘Nothing much,’ said Manticlas. ‘It’s good. Flowing is a good omen for a journey. If the blood wasn’t moving, then neither should we.’

  Halo watched as the thin red blood dripped down. Perhaps it is an omen for me, she thought. Perhaps it is telling me to keep moving. Perhaps it is telling me to run away again.

  And risk a Spartan death sentence?

  Living as a slave is a death sentence.

  Xαπτερ 15

  They crossed the Gulf of Corinth on a wooden ferryboat, which danced on the sprightly waves of spring. Gulls wheeled and cawed. The air was clean and sparkling with promise, and the sun turned the gulf into a long streak of silver and rose.

  Halo was so happy to be with the sea that for a moment she almost forgot that she was a captive. She lifted her head and closed her eyes and felt salt and sun on her face and lips. She breathed deeply – among the smells of salt and rope and fish and tar was the distant, delicious scent of sea lilies. Finally, when she had to breathe out, there was a sharp sweet tear of joy and loneliness in her eye: joy for how much she loved her Zakynthos family; loneliness for how far she was from them and from… from the other thing. The other thing she needed.

  And ahead lay Delphi, the centre of west and east, of the world – of the Universe. Even the orbit of the stars and the heavenly spheres circled round Delphi, and there the mysterious airs and mists rose to inspire the priestess, the sacred Pythia, with the words of Apollo.

  There Halo, like thousands of others before her, would find an answer.

  Even as they got off the boat, Halo found herself grinning at the bustle and the noise. She saw tall fair people from the north, sun-blackened people from the south, fat people, skinny people, sick people, poor people, muscled rowers for hire carrying their cushions and oars. Striding along the dusty winding road up through the rippling silvery olive groves to Delphi, she saw a man with a withered leg; a girl with a white monkey on a leash; and merchants in fine coloured cloaks, come to ask if their ships had sunk, or if their plans would be blessed. In the little town of Delphi itself she saw food vendors offering smelly fried fish and honey cakes; scrawny dogs trying to make off with bits of kebab; cheerful hawkers trying to sell amulets, crying out, ‘Kind sir, good luck for you, protection from sickness and harm, good luck in love and money, very cheap, very good!’

  Halo smiled. She knew everyone needed the protection of the Gods, but she knew, too, that a little piece of metal wouldn’t make you rich, or keep you healthy. That said… she touched her little owl, at her neck. It did seem sometimes as if the owl protected her.

  She struggled to keep up with her party, who were still marching like Spartans: quickly and easily, determined yet with a relaxed look, and expecting everyone to get out of their way. Which, when they saw Melesippus’s crimson cloak and Leonidas’s black one, they did. Pilgrims, priests and poets all made way when the Spartans came through.

  They went straight to the lodgings the Spartans always used, to prepare for the following day, the seventh of March. The Oracle only operated on the seventh of each month, and then only if the augurs were good. And even then, not everybody got to put their question – they would have to draw lots for a place.

  In the morning, they all put on clean clothes – even the Spartans, who usually thought such things frivolous. Stars were still fading from the sky as they left their lodgings, breathing again the pure air of early morning. The silvery-green slope of Mount Parnassus swooped up to the left. Two great wings of marble cliff, the Phaedriades, the Shining Ones, hung behind. The terraced gorge dropped away to the right, and across the dim valley Mount Kirphis lay long and low. And they came round a bend, and she saw it. Rising from the terraced slopes, lit up by the pale early-morning sun, was the glorious sanctuary of Apollo – row upon row of marble columns, ranks of statues in bronze and gold, strange creatures carved from stone, mighty and mysterious rocks, and temple upon temple upon temple. Stone maidens supported pediments on their heads. A winged sphinx perched on a column taller than she had ever seen. Broad staircases were interspersed with almond trees spattered with blossom, dark cypresses and flickering silver-green olives, and the endless statues of beautiful boys and beautiful girls. Every surface was carved with writing, with images of heroes and beasts and Gods and nymphs, and above it all paraded the great temple of Apollo itself, its immense columns lined up, white and perfect, and its gigantic statue of Apollo – ten metres high, with blue eyes and golden hair.

  Before they could enter, they had to go to the Castalian Spring, to be purified. Petitioners, quieter and more sober than they had been the day before, were queueing up outside the stone court where the sacred water gushed from the row of eight lion-head fountains.

  Melesippus, Leonidas and Manticlas went up together to the row of fountains. Halo, still shackled to Leonidas, stepped forward with him. What would it feel like, to be purified for Apollo? she wondered. Would she feel it in her body, or in her soul? She breathed deeply, spoke to the God as she so often did, and stuck her head into the flow of water.

  Agh but it was cold! She pulled her head out, and shook it like a dog. She drank. How delicious it was. Sweet and pure. Even the water from the spring on Mount Taegetus, when she hadn’t drunk for two days, had not been so delicious.

  Leonidas was looking at her, amused. ‘So you are going to do it?’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘There’s a slight problem – I’m chained to you.’ She gave him a huge smile.

  He laughed, and shook his head. ‘And how do I explain to Melesippus that I have to let you loose because you want to talk to Apollo?’

  ‘Find a way?’ she asked hopefully. You have to. You wouldn’t stop me doing this. Would you? I told you my secret.

  As they came up to the temple, loose crowds were gathering. A young man with a broom of bay and laurel leaves was sweeping the steps, and sprinkling them with holy water. The Spartans greeted him, and he directed them round to the north of the temple, where they could drink from the sacred spring of Kassotis, which gathered in a basin there before it dived down underneath the temple itself. There the most sacred chambers lay, the kella and the adyton, where Dionysus was buried, where Zeus’s two eagles stood, with the great stone that Apollo had cast there, and where the Pythia sat on her three-legged throne over the sacred chasm, from which the holy vapours rose.

  Not that any of them would be allowed in there.

  Halo was breathing deeply, speaking to Apollo already in her mind. She had saved her last barley cake from yesterday’s lunch to offer as sacrifice along with her golden owl.

  Leonidas ambled round to the west end of the temple. There, the pediment held a great frieze of Athena defeating a g
iant.

  Why do they treat girls as if we were nothing? she thought. Is Athena nothing? Look at her!

  Inside, there was another frieze: she glanced up, curious. Centaurs! For a moment she was delighted – and then as she saw what it was she felt a chill of shame. It was the wedding feast of the Lapiths. There was Eurytas, carrying off Hippodamia. There were humans and Centaurs fighting and killing each other. The sons of Ixion. She pressed her lips together very tight and blinked. Why couldn’t they have a frieze of Chiron up there, teaching medicine to Asclepius? Why have the bad Centaurs?

  Leonidas glanced up, and back at her.

  They turned back to the steps at the eastern end of the temple, where the main sacrifice would take place, and stood with the petitioners queueing up. It was almost time to draw lots.

  Melesippus and Manticlas had lingered by the pool. By the time they returned Leonidas and Halo were at the front of the queue.

  ‘Here, Melesippus,’ Leonidas called. ‘I have held your place.’

  ‘You pick out our bean, Leon,’ Melesippus said. ‘Be lucky for us.’

  Side by side, Halo and Leonidas took their beans from the pot.

  ‘You’re going to do it?’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I am.’

  Halo closed her eyes, clutching the hard little bean in her palm. She was begging Apollo to choose her to put her question.

  The priest called that all those with dark beans should come forward for the sacrifice.

  She could hardly bear to look at her bean.

  Well, if it’s pale I’ll just come back… somehow…

  She opened her hand.

  It was dark.

  She smiled, and a roll of thanks poured from her heart to Apollo. She didn’t even care now what the Spartans were doing, if their bean had been dark or not. But Melesippus came up and clasped Leonidas’s shoulder, and a bright smile passed between them. They too had won their draw.

  She wondered what their question was.

  A respectful quiet fell over the crowd when the priests brought out the goat, the cold water, the knife. The creature’s thin splayed legs wobbled on the flat stone beneath the columns; the priests sang, and the morning for a moment hung silent about them.

  Everyone could hear the splash of cold water on the little beast.

  It shivered at the shock – from its head down to its hairy feet.

  A shout of joy went up. The goat had shivered. The Oracle would speak today.

  Xαπτερ 16

  When their turn came, and the Spartans made to enter the temple, a priest stopped them gently.

  ‘Only two,’ he said.

  Leonidas shrugged, gestured to Halo, still trailing behind him from the chain like a dinghy from a ship. ‘I might as well stay outside,’ he said.

  The moment the others had gone in, she smiled up at him, a smile of pure excited joy, and dragged him across to the altar before the temple, under the shade of the great portico, to offer up her little barley cake to the priest there.

  The priest glanced at the chain attaching her to Leonidas.

  ‘Release him, please,’ he said. ‘No one goes bound into the temple.’

  Leonidas gave a little laugh, and raised his eyebrow at her as he unlocked the shackle at his wrist. She grinned at him. She had known he’d do the right thing for her. Hadn’t he always when it came to it? The chain fell, heavy, by her side.

  ‘Have you your fee?’ the priest asked kindly, and she nodded, silently putting her finger on the little golden owl lying at her throat.

  ‘Question ready?’ asked the priest, and she nodded again. She couldn’t speak. He seemed used to that.

  ‘And is this your proxenos?’

  My what? she thought.

  ‘I don’t…’ she said nervously.

  ‘The representative of your city, who will accompany you,’ he said firmly.

  ‘I don’t know my city,’ she whispered miserably. Even here, did she have to belong to a city? Even though she had come here specially to find out where she belonged?

  ‘No city!’ the priest murmured, with concern.

  He glanced up at Leonidas, who said drily, ‘Well, he’s definitely not from my city.’

  Helplessly, Halo looked up at the priest. Behind him was the entrance to the kella, the inner chamber. There were words carved massively across the entrance:

  ΓNΩΘI ΣE AΥTON

  which means

  KNOW THYSELF

  Halo almost laughed, and almost cried. That was what she was trying to do. To know herself.

  Please, Apollo, she begged silently.

  ‘That is my question for the Oracle,’ she said to the priest, pointing up. ‘Who am I?’

  She gazed at him, her eyes pleading.

  ‘Then you are following the God’s instructions,’ he said, and he whistled, and a boy came running over – the one who had been sweeping the steps earlier. ‘Ion,’ he said to the boy. ‘Play proxenos for this pilgrim’ – and she was through.

  Clumsily she tried to unfasten the leather thong, so she would have the owl ready to give to Apollo. He was being so kind to her today. She wanted to be able to give it up without a second thought. But it was her little owl. It was the only thing her human parents had left with her. The only thing her mother had touched…

  ‘Nonsense,’ she whispered to herself fiercely. ‘They left me myself! My body! My hands and my brain and my heart and my thoughts! My mother fed me and my father gave me life – why, I am them! I don’t need any bit of gold to prove anything!’

  As she entered the cool, shady chamber within the temple, another priest held out his hand, and she dropped the owl into it.

  ‘Where is your proxenos?’ he asked, looking round.

  ‘Here,’ said the boy.

  ‘And have you the final sacrifice?’ he asked quietly.

  What?

  ‘That is my final sacrifice,’ she said, through dry lips. ‘I have nothing else. Should I have more? I’m sorry…’

  The priest peered at her, and at the little owl. ‘There is a third sacrifice to be offered within,’ he murmured.

  Feeling foolish, she held out the thong the owl had hung from. But maybe Apollo wanted a sheep, or money… Tears stood in her eyes. She had come so far. Was she now, at the last moment, to be turned away?

  She fell to her knees. ‘Sweet Apollo,’ she murmured. ‘Sweet Apollo, who has been so kind to me, help me, please – my owl is all I have…’

  The priest watched her through tired eyes, and then sleepily turned away. ‘Go through, child,’ he said, as if it didn’t matter so much either way.

  She went in. Thank you Apollo thank you thank you thank you…

  How dark it was! A great dim cave. Fire flickered, and shadows jumped. She could see an altar, statues, dim figures. At the end a tall shape and a slender one stood out against a glow: it was Melesippus and the seer. It was only when she saw them that she realized Leonidas was not with her.

  She moved through the shadow, close to the wall, and came up by them. They didn’t notice her.

  Beyond them was an entrance. She stared at it. That’s the entrance to the adyton, she thought. In there is the Pythia on her tripod, the omphalos, the sacred laurel tree, and grave of Dionysus, the chasm… From there, she realized, emanated the eerie calm of the place. She heard a quiet, echoey, hollow sound of splashing water, like a slow fall into a pool, and there was that delicious smell again… She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. How cool it was, and refreshing. It reminded her of…

  As the sweet air coming from the adyton filled her lungs and spread through her blood, she knew the smell. She felt again Arko’s hand in hers, and the fresh salty spray of the sea, and the cool blue light of the caves of Zakynthos – it was the same funny air that bubbled up from the seabed near the tar lakes, that made them laugh and talk and sing – it was the air of her childhood, her brother, her home.

  A great smile spread across her face. Apollo was welc
oming her. His sacred vapours were her own sweet memories. She squatted down by the wall, and breathed, and waited. She would know herself, as Apollo wanted.

  The Spartans, standing stiff like puppets strung tight with anticipation, had asked their question. They stood attentive and firm like sentries, waiting. And now she could hear their answer. A woman’s voice, as if from far away, yet somehow within her head, echoing yet clear, musical yet frightening, cried out, ‘It is coming, and there is no way to avoid it. If you fight with all your might, victory will be yours. Apollo himself will be on your side, whether you invoke him or not.’

  When they heard the words, a great sigh burst from Melesippus like a gasping wind. Manticlas turned, and began to move his hands, to and fro, in an odd way.

  She flattened herself against the wall as the Spartans turned and left the kella. They strode determinedly, emerging from the darkness, heading for the light. It is coming, and there is no way to avoid it… Victory will be yours.

  She hadn’t heard them ask their question, but she remembered the conversations of the long winter. She knew they had asked about war.

  War is coming.

  But now it was her turn. She almost crept towards the entrance. Ion stood by her.

  ‘Go to the doorway,’ he said quietly, with a smile. ‘And speak to her.’

  And she approached the door.

  Another powerful burst of the beautiful smell wafted out. She breathed it deeply, and took courage from it.

  ‘Blessed Pythia,’ she said, and her voice was clear. Within, she saw a glimpse of green leaves, a flash of bronze. The water gurgled. She knew that the Pythia was in there.

  ‘Blessed Pythia, blessings on you for hearing me, my thanks forever to Apollo and all the Gods and to you – blessed Pythia…’ She had been going to ask so formally and nicely, but now she feared she was just gabbling…

  ‘I’m sorry to come like this, as a boy, not as myself,’ she whispered hurriedly, ‘but Pythia, that is my problem – I don’t know who I am – please, ask Apollo – who am I, and who are my parents?’