Such was the mechanism of prophecy in the holiest and most celebrated of all oracles in ancient times. Its application to the active world, gay or grim, outside Delphi was worthy of note, both through its successes and through its failures.
Why did the outer world fall for the snare with such ease? Firstly, perhaps because divination, carrying the message of the god himself in that magnificent situation, with crag and crevice, gorge and rushing water, eagles wheeling among towering cliffs, skies of the bluest, but often black with deafening thunder, and ever the deep, dark olive groves and distant sea—divination in that setting must more impress the, imagination than any prophetic words given in less majestic, god-touched surroundings.
Secondly, because the Pythia was quite frequently right; and those who subconsciously wish to be persuaded of something remember all the times when the answer was right, forgetting most of the times when it was wrong. The Pythia had what the gipsy-woman has: an unexplained ability to skip Space—and sometimes Time—where the little affairs of individuals are concerned. She could tell a man that his maternal aunt would die within the month, she could know about King Crœsus and his silly cookery test (of which more below), because trivialities could pass into a trivial mind emptied of its own trifling preoccupation. But where major issues were concerned, conflicts or policies, statesmen in conspiracy, kingdoms plotting the overthrow of kingdoms, she cannot really have functioned, unless by pure chance.
And here one must recognise the third reason for which Greek and barbarian alike could be impressed by prophecy from Delphi: the place must certainly have had an exception-ally efficient international and political Intelligence Service. The adroit priestly attaché, the exēgētēs Pythochrēstos—call him the exegete—who explained obscurities in the answer a man had received, was a member of this Service, which must have possessed a valuable and important collection of archives, together with dossiers on all important persons. In all Greece the Delphic priesthood was the only one that came near to being what we mean by the term today—a whole-time priestly caste differentiated from other men. But even in Delphi they were not really whole-time men and must have had other jobs as well; nor were they all Delphic-born. That famous and brilliant polymath, Plutarch of Chæronea, who flourished between about A.D. 46 and 125, was an honorary ‘life-priest’ of Delphi.
In the process of time the Delphic college must have collected and filed a great deal of useful information about the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, because every visitor from afar had plenty to tell. Constant correspondence with the kingdom of Lydia and with some lesser barbarian—that is, foreign—principalities kept Apollo’s Foreign Office well informed; but the farther a land was removed from the sea the less they knew about it. At one time it was fashionable to draw a comparison between the influence of Delphi and that of the mediæval Papacy, but this will not hold except in a few minor details. Pythian Apollo possessed no authoritative control over the whole of Greek religion; he might give advice about it, but his moral instruction went little further than what was implied by the famous maxims of the Seven Sages inscribed in the entrance of his temple: “Know thyself”, “Don’t exceed”, “The Mean is best”; and Apollo’s representatives could not exercise anything comparable to the powers of interdict and excommunication. Only the wide knowledge which the Papacy possessed of kingdoms and of men was matched by a parallel store of knowledge possessed by Delphi. It was this which first made a great reputation for the place because of the wise and helpful advice Apollo was enabled to give to prospective colonists, especially in the seventh century B.C.—the great age of Greek colonisation.
Postulants might be roughly classified as follows: colonial pioneers, Oriental potentates, Spartans, other Greeks; and they all derived some benefit, and some hurt, from the Pythian prophetic machine.
The help given to Founding Fathers of Greek colonies has been mentioned, and the successful colony ever afterwards kept up its links with Delphi. Greek religion, it has been observed, was quite free of the proselytising urge, for the Greeks never thought themselves possessed of the sole faith, and were therefore more interested in learning the beliefs of others than in propagating their own. It was only in this one matter of colonisation that a touch of the missionary seemed to appear, for every new Greek colony was commanded to worship in the new settlement not only the gods of the motherland whence it derived, but also very specially ‘Founder Apollo’, and to build him a temple in the new land. He was to accompany—certainly not to displace—any other gods. And for the Pythian Sanctuary there was great benefit, since it would be a graceless colony indeed which did not send to Delphi a regular supply of gifts.
Oriental potentates—and especially the multi-millionaire kings of Lydia from Gyges to Crœsus—not only helped greatly to augment the reputation of Delphi, but also conferred upon it gifts of such immense wealth as to raise oracle, temple, sanctuary, and town to the height of prosperity. Gyges, who usurped the Lydian throne about 685 B.C., agreed with his opponents to abide by Apollo’s decision as to whether or no he should rule, and when the Pythia duly pronounced in his favour he began to shower gifts on Delphi. The last of his line was the celebrated Crœsus, who, meditating a preventive war against the dangerously growing power of Persia under Cyrus after 550 B.C., decided to put all the well-known oracles of the day to the test. Accordingly, he sent trusted Lydian envoys to try them out. The story of this episode as recounted by Herodotus in the first book of his History is entertaining:
Now his purpose in sending hither and thither was to learn if the oracles had any wisdom; so that, if they were found to know the truth, he might send a second time and ask them whether he should make war against Persia. And when he sent the Lydians to test the oracles, he charged them thus, that from the day they set forth from Sardis they should keep count of the days and on the hundredth enquire of the oracles and ask what Crœsus the son of Alyattes, King of the Lydians, was doing: and whatsoever each of the oracles should prophesy they should write down and bring back to him. Now what the other oracles prophesied is told by none; but at Delphi, as soon as the Lydians entered into the hall to enquire of the god, before they asked the question they were charged with, the Pythia spake thus in hexameter measure:
“I know the number of the sands and the measures of the sea;
I comprehend the dumb, and hear him that speaketh not.
A smell is come about my senses of a stout-hided tortoise,
Seethed in a vessel of brass with the meat of a lamb;
Brass is spread beneath it, and with brass it is clad.”
These things, when the Pythia prophesied them, the Lydians wrote down; and they departed and returned unto Sardis. And when the others that had been sent out were also come bringing their answers, then Crœsus unfolded the writings one by one and looked thereon. And none of them liked him, until he read that which came from Delphi, which straightway he did accept and worshipped, deeming that the only oracle was that at Delphi because it had found out what he did. For after he had sent the messengers to the several oracles, he waited for the appointed day, and devised a thing impossible to guess: he cut in pieces a tortoise and a lamb, and himself seethed them together in a cauldron of brass, which he covered with a brazen lid.
This episode, which in all probability actually occurred, may have been evidence for the Pythia’s ‘second sight’ and veridical vision under drugs; it was assuredly no token of her political judgment. But the King of Lydia—unable to distinguish between the trivially Inexplicable and the cosmically Ineffable—was so deeply impressed by the answer given that he put unquestioning faith in Delphi. Gifts to astound were bestowed on the sanctuary, and every townsman of Delphi received a generous money-prize. Then came the next question—the important question for which all this elaborate plan had been made—“Crœsus, the King of the Lydians and of other nations, now asketh you whether he shall make war against the Persians”. And the answer of ‘Loxias’ came back “that if he made war against the Per
sians he should humble a great empire”. This was no Pythia talking, but the ‘interpretation’ of a cautious exegete, uncertain about the balance of power and strength of armies east of the Lydian kingdom. In the event Croesus was defeated and became the prisoner of Cyrus, who permitted him to transmit to Delphi a long message of protest and reproach. The written answer he received was simple:
Touching the prophecy that was given him, Crœsus doth ill to find fault; for Apollo foretold him that if he warred against the Persians he should humble a great empire; and he thereupon, if he would have been well counselled, ought to have sent and enquired whether he spake of his own empire or of the empire of Cyrus. But because he comprehended not the saying, neither enquired again, let him declare himself the guilty one.
The Spartans as a whole were quite a trial to Delphic patience, for the Faithful who display an excess of fidelity are always a liability to any well-organised religious machine. During the sixth century B.C. those intrepid fighters were not happy in a fast-expanding world of art and commerce. They were simple soldier-men, only too conscious of a sense of inadequacy—except, of course, in battle—who needed direction, so they were ready to surrender personal initiative and to seek on every trivial matter advice from the god through his Pythia. From the Delphic point of view they were a burden, being poor and frugal folk who could not bring rich presents like Eastern kings or even like great Athenian landowners. Sometimes the Spartan State would consult the oracle in clumsy fashion, as when they plotted to invade and annex neighbouring Arcadia, but advertised their whole plan by enquiring publicly at Delphi whether they should attack. This at least afforded the god opportunity to administer a sharp rebuke through the Pythia, who said: “Dost thou ask of me Arcadia? It is a big thing thou askest: I’ll not give. There are many acorn-eating men in Arcadia, and they will stop thee!”
But it was the private, almost unremunerative Spartan who was always getting into the queue of postulants. The Pythia prophesied only on certain days of the month, and the priests determined the order in which questions were taken. The Lydian king and his nobles had automatic and lifelong right of precedence over all other strangers. Next came those who arrived with the best sacrifices and richest gifts, and penurious but persistent persons were put last. From this system there arose a scandal which shook the oracle badly.
While the great despot Peisistratus and his son Hippias ruled in Athens, the Alcmæonids—the most powerful Athenian family opposing the despots—had to live in exile. They settled in Delphi and proceeded to work for the downfall of the tyranny in Athens. It was apparent that nothing less than the armed intervention of Sparta could bring about this end. Accordingly, they bribed the Pythian priestess to give a uniform monotonous answer to every Spartan who asked any question on any matter personal or official. Whatever question was put she answered with depressing irrelevancy, “Athens must be freed”. After a while Spartan nerves gave way under this treatment, they sent an army to Athens and expelled the tyrant, enabling the Alcmæonid family to return. Then, when it was all over and the end achieved, the scandal came out. The Spartans were greatly distressed, for they had a firm belief in the virtues of playing the game according to the rules—the Spartan rules, of course—and were shocked when the bribery was exposed. They were not bemused by discovering that Apollo had allowed it, nor angry at the Pythia for accepting money, since they themselves fell easily for the lure of gold. But they were exceedingly angry at the misbehaviour of the Athenian Alcmæonids.
Nevertheless, in the opinion of the Greek world as a whole, Delphi suffered greatly in prestige, for a venal Pythia in the sixth century B.C. could hurt the reputation of the Tripod as easily as a fifteenth-century libertine Pope could hurt that of the Chair. Yet Delphi continued to prosper, though to a lesser degree than in the days of Crœsus; and the same Alcmæonids who had bribed the Pythia built for Pythian Apollo a new and splendid temple. But the priesthood was perhaps more conscious than men in certain other states of the grave threats which were slowly building up in the East against the liberties of Greece. At last the vast expedition of Xerxes started to lumber on its way, and for every questioner Apollo had only words of doom. Housman, in The Oracles, pictures the Pythia’s deathly despair as she cries the warning:
The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air.
And he that stands will die for nought, and home there’s no returning.
The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.
The Spartans did—before Thermopylæ, where those bravest fighters in all history died with Leonidas.
At this point the great bureau of international information gave up hope. Herodotus has a rather confused account of what ensued, because later on the priesthood managed to muddle him—and others—and to cover their tracks when events turned out contrary to expectations. Probably their archives were stuffed with accounts of the vastness and power of Persia—accounts sometimes exaggerated. They had seen the mighty Crœsus fall before Cyrus; what hope for the little states of Greece before the far mightier Xerxes? The priests, and perhaps the Pythia, stayed at their posts. Collaboration or extinction seemed to face them; they chose for themselves—and counselled for others—the former. After Thermopylae a Persian force left the main army to cross the pass, to occupy Delphi, and to take over the Sanctuary with its stores of wealth. One of the Delphic priests, Akeratos by name, casting about for a visible token of their surrender that might be understood by a foreigner, took down a suit of dedicated armour and laid it in front of the temple even as the Persians came into sight.
Yet the Persians never got there. The priests with their staff and attendants, some sixty souls, were ready to bow before the inevitable. But the citizens of Delphi would not have it thus. They had sent their women and children across the gulf into Peloponnesus, and the men ascended the crags of Parnassus by ‘the Bad Stair’, carrying their valuables up to the Corycian cave, sacred to Pan and the Nymphs, which became the headquarters of the Resistance. That fund of courage, daring, and resource with which modern Hellenes astonished the world in 1941 has always distinguished the Greeks; and the Delphians showed it in 480 B.C. So far the invaders’ triumph had been complete; the dead still lay unburied at Thermopylae; Salamis was yet to be fought, and no Pythian citizen or farmer could have foreseen that surprising victory and the annihilated Persian fleet. Many of the Delphians were shepherds—the coins of Delphi all bore the heads of rams and goats—and any herdsman in search of pasture for his flocks on the rugged flanks of Parnassus knew every rock and ledge above the shelf of land and the Castalian gorge. Up on the crag called Hyampia—above the angle where the road from Arachova bends sharply round the towering rocks and where Delphi comes suddenly into view—the shepherds seem to have been able to dislodge a great mass of rock, the perilous instability of which may have been already known to them. The timing was perfect. A thunderstorm—constant phenomenon in that region—helped with the stage effects. “From Parnassus,” says Herodotus, “two mountain-tops were broken off and rolled down upon them with a great crashing and overthrew exceeding many of them. Dismay fell upon the barbarians. And when the Delphians perceived that they fled, they descended and pursued after them and slew no small number of them.” Akeratos, the priest who had grounded the armour in front of the temple, and his despondent colleagues, recovering from their surprise, may have been startled into belief in divine intervention. They promptly issued an official version, which was that the sacred armour had moved out miraculously, and that there were seen two warriors of greater than human stature—ancient heroes of the place—pursuing and slaying Persians. Not a very convincing tale!
The Twelve Olympians Page 12
