See Delphi And Die mdf-17

by Lindsey Davis

  Our guide droned on. 'Now we are standing before the most famous statue of antiquity – the Sphinx of Naxos, also called the Delphic Sphinx. It stands on an exquisite Ionian capital, in front of the polygonal wall. The column has forty-four flutings and six drums; it rises to a height of approximately forty feet, or forty-one and a half at the wing-tips. The Sphinx, who set very famous riddles, wears a dreamy, quizzical smile -' Helena had a quizzical expression too. She was inspecting its hairstyle. 'The most famous riddle was: what creature walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three at even tide?'

  'Man! Crawls, walks, uses a stick.' I had had enough. Informers are notoriously gruff. Sometimes I try to overturn the stereotype; not today. I wished I had a stick myself, to beat the guide. 'Save it. Look here! I'll give you this -' The coin I offered was three times what he was worth. 'Now leave us alone, please.'

  'You don't like my guiding?' The fellow pretended to be astonished.

  Informers, who need to be unobtrusive, are followers of etiquette. When in shrines devoted to tolerance, I avoid getting into a fistfight. I stayed quiet and crisp. 'We want to commune with the gods in silence. So go back down the hill and kidnap someone else.'

  'But you must have a guide!'

  Cobnuts to etiquette. 'And you must have a kick up the backside if you don't go.'

  He went.

  Other tourists had overheard our rebellion with interest. Subgroups began huddling together; we could see them muttering, then squaring up to take action. Soon arguments broke out all around the ancient cave of the Python. The gods of immemorial earth and the deities of subterranean waters must have gurgled with mirth, as normally timid tourists stood up to their guides and dismissed them. Apollo, the arbiter of moderation, tickled the strings of his lyre and rejoiced.

  I had no conscience about causing a rebellion. The bastard guides would be back tomorrow, boring new victims.

  Helena and I gazed up at the Sphinx, hand in hand, glad of the chance to enjoy one famous statue undisturbed.

  'She reminds me of you, my darling, in some ways. Beautiful, seemingly remote and mysterious – and clever, of course.'

  'Older, though!' returned Helena cattily.

  The time-honoured Sphinx showed no reaction, but assuming she was a woman of the world, I winked at her.

  In our own time now, we moved on along the Sacred Way.

  The narrow route wound upwards, its worn stones sometimes dangerous underfoot. Delphi could have used a Roman road-maintenance gang. Freed from our obligation to absorb every detail, we scurried past altars, columns, tripods, porticoes, pedestals, and victories, pausing only to admire the towering statue of Apollo himself beside the spring of Cassotis. At long last we reached the temple. We could hear guides listing the many previous versions of the building ('first woven laurel, then beeswax and bees-wings, then bronze, then porous stone in the Doric style…') They came up with more of these suspect details, but I stopped listening. (I'm all for myth – but you just try knocking up a garden gazebo from bees-wings when you have a free hour or two!) We took a quick circuit around, saw the east facade, with its scene of Apollo arriving in Delphi, and the west, with Dionysus and various maenads.

  'Apollo goes to spend winters with the Hyperboreans,' Helena said.

  'Hyper whats?'

  'Boreans – peoples behind the north wind. Don't ask me why; what do you think I am, Marcus, some damned site guide?'

  'I think you'll find,' I smirked, 'this myth symbolises the absence of the sun – or of light, as represented by Apollo himselfduring winter.'

  'Well, thank you, encyclopedist! Anyway, while Apollo is on holiday getting frostbite under his drapery, Dionysus takes over at Delphi. The oracles cease and the sanctuary is given over to feasting.'

  'Sounds like fun.'

  'Sounds like very bad news for Statianus,' Helena said, 'if he is still here in the question queue. Oracles are given on Apollo's birthday, which I think is February or March, and afterwards only on the seventh day of the month. So if they cease in winter, Statianus is about to miss his chance altogether.'

  'The October oracle has passed; he's stuck until after Saturnalia. But does he have a chance at all?' I asked. 'What are the rules about applicants? Who exactly gets to put their questions?'

  'Citizens of Delphi first, then people to whom Delphi has awarded rights of precedence.

  'Official queue-jumpers? How does anyone get to be one of them?'

  'Money, no doubt,' Helena sniffed. 'And finally, the rest, in order drawn by lot.'

  'With as much chance as cuckoo spit!'

  We had already poked our noses into the temple interior and been shooed out from the inner cella. We had dutifully stared at the legendary mottoes. KNOW YOURSELF and NOTHING IN EXCESS. We had made the inevitable bitter joke about the Delphi guides not taking any notice of either. Now we found a spot on the steps, shaded by a column, where we sat down to rest, hugging our knees and drinking in the majestic views. I wished we had brought a picnic. To distract me from my hunger pangs, Helena told me what she knew about the rituals of the oracle.

  'Prophecy has an ancient history here. There is a fissure in the earth which breathes vapours that make people clairvoyant. The priestess, the Pythia, was in ancient times a young virgin, but nowadays she has to be at least fifty.'

  'Disappointment!'

  'She's not your type. She has to live in the sanctuary, irreproachably.'

  'I've met lots of so-called irreproachable girls. I won them over.'

  'Really?'

  'Well, you should know, Helena!'

  Helena was used to ignoring my jests. 'Applicants – successful ones – are cleansed in the Kastalian Spring, then they pay a fee, which is variable, depending on their question.'

  'Or depending on how badly the priests decide they want an answer,' I guessed cynically.

  'I imagine they are all fairly desperate, Marcus. Anyway, they make a sacrifice, usually a kid. It has cold water poured over it; if it trembles, the god is at home and amenable to hearing questions. In that case, the Pythia purifies herself with Kastalian water and enters the temple. She burns laurel and barley flour on the hearth where the immortal fire burns. Then she descends into a space below the nave while the priests and applicant wait nearby. The applicant asks his question in a loud, clear voice. The priestess drinks more Kastalian spring water, chews bay leaves, mounts the sacred tripod beside the umbilicus – the navel of the world – then as the spirit emanates from the fissure, she falls into a deep trance. She speaks, though it is meaningless.'

  'Typical woman!'

  'Bastard. The priests write it down, then they translate the gibberish into words – though they leave you to interpret for yourself what is meant. Typical men,' retorted Helena neatly.

  I knew an example. ''If Croesus crosses the River Aly, a great kingdom will be destroyed.' Croesus eagerly decides that's the Persians so he rushes off with an army. Of course the Persians annihilate him and he destroys his own kingdom.'

  'While the oracle chortles, 'Told you so!' The let-out clause, Marcus, is that the oracle at Delphi 'neither reveals nor conceals the truth.' Whoever wants answers has to unravel the meaning.'

  'Rather like asking my mother what she wants for a Saturnalia present… Though Ma never needs a bay-leaf snack to make her confusing.'

  Abruptly we thought of home. We were silent for a while.

  'So,' I said. 'Even if Tullius Statianus ever did win a place in the lottery, the Oracle would never tell him straight out 'who killed Valeria.' The Pythia would hedge her bets and disguise the name in subterfuge.'

  'Well, how could she know?' scoffed Helena. Ever logical; never mystical. 'An elderly Greek lady, living on a mountainside, permanently sozzled with sulphur fumes and out of her mind on aromatic leaves!'

  I loved that girl. 'I had assumed,' I returned mildly, 'the incomprehensible Pythia is a smokescreen. Her unearthly moans are just a sideshow. What happens is, as soon as applicants present
themselves, the priests do a hasty background check on them, then the priests invent the prophecies, based on their research.'

  'Sounds exactly like your work, Marcus.'

  'They are better paid!' I was feeling morose. 'I once heard of a man who constructed a model of a talking snake, then let it answer people's questions in return for enormous fees. He made a fortune. I would earn more, and certainly gain more prestige, if I turned myself into an oracle at a thousand sesterces a go.'

  Helena seemed thoughtful. For a moment I wondered if she took the suggestion too seriously and was planning to set me up in a booth on market days. Then she grabbed my arm.

  'I'll make a prophecy, Marcus! See that young man over there having the argument with the temple assistant, who has heard it all before? I say it is Tullius Statianus.'

  XLI

  As arguments go, it was a one-sided contest. The young man was frantically making his case. Meanwhile the temple attendant was letting his eyes slide off in preparation for welcoming other people.

  We knew Statianus was about twenty-four. That fitted. If this was him, then physically, he was unremarkable. He wore a white tunic and looked as if he had been in it for a week, and a circular travelling cape, into which he huddled like a man who would never feel warm again after serious illness or shock. Although not formally dishevelled, as litigants or people going to funerals are in Rome, his hair was too long and barely combed.

  The acolyte tired of him and brushed him aside, moving with a practised sidestep towards someone else.

  'There are other oracles!' we heard Statianus shout angrily. Helena and I had pulled each other upright from our seat on the steps and now skipped down to his level.

  'Statianus? Excuse me.'

  Something about us alarmed him. After one frightened glance towards us, Statianus took off.

  If you have never tried chasing a fugitive through a very ancient religious site, my advice is. don't. In Rome, the merest hint of a skirmish with a pickpocket sends people diving behind columns in case they get their best boots scuffed or their togas torn in the scrum. Visitors to foreign shrines won't get out of the way.

  I realised we knew little about this man. I had assumed he was spoiled: a leisured son of rich parents. His wedding trip to Greece was compensation for not being put into the Senate. Avoiding politics could mean he lacked intellect (or that he had too much good sense. More we had never discovered. Now I learned that Statianus looked after himself. He must go to a gym – and he took it seriously. The bridegroom could run. We needed super-fit Glaucus. Otherwise, we were going to lose this suspect.

  Immediately below the Temple of Apollo, people came snaking up the Sacred Way, sad bunches of visitors, some standing still in groups to listen to their dogged guides. The crowds made Statianus turn aside. He rushed away from the temple portico. High pillars bore statues of various Greek kings. They made excellent turning-points to skid around. Statianus must be familiar with the layout. He nipped among the monuments, cuffing aside pilgrims who were dutifully staring skywards as their guides described the stone dignitaries. Seconds later, I crashed into these people just as they turned indignant after Statianus barged them.

  We jumped down a level, to the astonishing Tripod of Plataea, its three towering intertwined bronze snakes supporting a mighty gold cauldron. Next was a huge plinth bearing a gold chariot of the sun. Statianus tried to hide behind it. When I kept coming, he bounded uphill again, dashed between two more columns with kings atop, and headed for what looked like a fancy portico. Its columns had been infilled with walls; thwarted by the solid barrier, he turned left. I nearly caught him at the Tomb of Neoptolemos. He was the son of Achilles. This was my nearest brush with the heroes of Homer, and I missed its significance. Never mind; Neoptolemos was dead, killed by a priest of Apollo (whose priests love music and art, but are tough bastards) – and I was gasping too much to care.

  Three women huddling over a travel itinerary blocked the free space by a floral column which supported a trio of dancers; I slid around them all. Temple attendants swarmed in my path by the spring of Cassotis; I plunged into their midst and elbowed my way through. A dopy man asked me to point out the Column of King Prusias; he was right beside it. Statianus had pushed his way through all of these, but as he raced past the spring he was accosted by Helena. She had waited at the temple, saw us doubling back towards her, and now stepped out to remonstrate with our quarry. Statianus pushed her aside. She lost her footing. People rushed to assist her – getting in my way – and Statianus loped off along the back of the temple.

  Helena was all right.

  'Stay there.'

  'No, I'm coming.'

  I carried on after him. He was into his stride now. I was more than ten years older, but I had done my share of weight training. I had a sturdy build and had never lacked stamina. I hoped he might tire first.

  The Temple of Apollo is a mighty edifice, and makes a dramatic running track. Above us we had the theatre, dramatically carved out of the crag. It was reached by a very steep flight of steps; to my relief Statianus ignored them. At the far end of the temple we passed yet more perfect art: a creation in bronze which showed Alexander the Great wrestling a spectacular lion among a striving pack of hunting hounds, while one of his generals rushed to assist. I could have used that general to assist me.

  My quarry turned downhill. Opposite the west end of the temple was a gate through the steeply stepped sanctuary wall. The usual scrum of guides and statuette-purveyors milled around. Tiring, Statianus had become less sure-footed. He knocked into a hawker, spilled his tray of votive clay miniatures and was held up in a furious argument. Seeing me catch up, he shoved the hawker into me. I grabbed the man, spun him out of my path, and felt my ankle give as I turned it on one of the scattered statuettes. Cursing, I took my eyes off Statianus and lost him.

  He must have gone through the gate. I followed, though doubt gnawed. The path outside led to the legendary Kastalian Spring. Its waters were used in the Delphic rituals, so pilgrims on the full guided tour were dragged here for a sample. Dazed by a mixture of exhaustion and mystic awe, they bumbled everywhere, completely oblivious to anybody wanting to get past them. This really slowed me up. An elderly lady sitting on a rock at the roadside insisted on asking me how far the spring was, trying at least three broken languages when I failed to answer.

  The spring rises in a wild ravine. It must once have been a peaceful, rocky haunt of lizards and wild thyme. Now crass voices resounded as visitors washed their feet in the sacred torrents, calling out to their friends how cold it was. Steps led down to a rectangular basin where seven bronze lions' heads set in clean-cut stone slabs spouted water which was collected by touts with little drinking cups, all eager to obtain a tip, assuming visitors had any money left after purchasing the stickman statues, tacky tat, and crumbling votive cakes. I bet when the pilgrims had gone on their way, the shrine parasites just collected the goodies from the handily positioned niches and sold them again.

  I scanned the people, searching for Statianus. By now, I myself felt like a barley cake that had been left too long on a ledge in the sun. A cup-pedlar tugged my sleeve. I jerked away.

  I stood on the roadway, thinking I had lost him. Breathing hard, I startled a few pilgrims as I gazed out at the mountains and swore at the scenery.

  Then I saw there was a second fountain. Older and almost deserted, this one had a small paved courtyard with benches around it on three sides. Here, just four rather friendly looking old bronze lions spewed water in hiccupy trickles, while a solitary attendant lurked, without much hope. I bought a cupful, dashed it down, and tipped him.

  'Seen a man out of breath?'

  Amazingly, he waved an arm. I thanked him and set off once again, heading further down the path. Almost at once I heard Helena behind me, calling. I slowed. She caught up, and we continued together, jogging through shady olive groves until we passed the Delphi gymnasium. Beyond it lay a small enclosed sanctuary which had an air of immen
se age.

  We slowed right down. We glanced at each other and walked into the sanctuary. Altars with inscriptions against the retaining wall told us we had come to the long-revered sanctuary of Athena Pronaia. Apart from the clutch of altars, it had just five or six main buildings, arranged in a line, including a large abandoned temple which had been destroyed by an earthquake. A newer, smaller temple had replaced it. There were a couple of treasuries, fronted by a large pedestal bearing a trophy. In the centre of the site stood a beautiful circular building, surrounded by Doric columns, with exquisite decoration on its upper features, of the type called a tholos. We had seen one at Olympia, where Philip of Macedon and Alexander the Great had collected statues of themselves and their ancestors. This stood on a circular base of several steps. Collapsed on these, struggling to recover his breath, was a young man in a white tunic.

  We walked across to him.

  'Tullius Statianus!' Helena's voice was hoarse but she sounded strict and determined to stand for no nonsense. 'I believe you know my brother, Aelianus.'

  He looked up with dull eyes, unwilling or unable to run away from us any longer.

  XLII

  We took him to the gymnasium. It was close by, a familiar place where Statianus might relax; and it was bound to have food-sellers. Helena found a place in the shade outside (since as a woman she was barred, while I set us up with pastries, stuffed vine leaves, and olives. Statianus ate most of it. He seemed ravenous; I wondered if he had run right out of money.

  Spending cash, I mean. He must possess funds, but out here he could be stranded. Men of his rank only need a banker abroad who knows their banker in Rome, but without such a contact they are as helpless as the rest of us. Delphi would have money-changers, but since the shrine's decline there would be few international financiers who took letters of credit. Statianus was said to be bad at managing and once he had used up what was in his pouch, he could find himself stuck.