Oracles of Delphi: A Novel of Suspense

ADVANCED READER COPY

Author: Marie Savage | Publisher: Treehouse Publishing Group

Pub Date: 10.15.2014

Fiction: Historical Fiction | Distributor: Midpoint Trade | p. 324

Trade Paperback: 9780985808600 - 14.95 | Ebook: 9780985808655 - 12.99

oracles

of

delphi

Marie Savage

Copyright © 2014 by Marie Savage

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Treehouse Publishing Goup,

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is merely coincidental, and names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Cover design by Kristina Blank Makansi

For my girls

oracles

of

delphi

map of Delphi

The Cast

FROM ATHENS

~ Althaia – daughter of Lysandros of Athens

~ Theron – Althaia’s former tutor and current employee

~ Praxis – slave of Lysandros and Althaia

~ Nephthys – Althaia’s slave

~ Lycon – Althaia’s husband

~ Lysandros – Althaia’s father, citizen of Athens, recently deceased

IN DELPHI

~ Diokles – proprietor of Dolphin’s Cove Inn

~ Heraklios – Makedonían general, Amphiktyonic League

~ Kalliope – attendant to Melanippe, priestess of Dodona

~ Menandros – playwright, director of Delphi’s theater

~ Nikomachos (Nikos) – son of Priestess of Dodona

The Priests

~ Kleomon – priest, Temple of Apollon

~ Philon – senior priest, Temple of Apollon

The Priestesses

~ Phoibe – newly appointed Pythia of the Oracle of Gaia

~ Theodora – Priestess of Pytheion, Thessaly

~ Melanippe – priestess of Dodona

~ Eumelia – priestess of Argos

~ Sofia – recently deceased, Pythia of the Oracle of Gaia

~ Pythia of Apollon

~ Other Priestesses of Gaia (Athens, Sparta, Elis, Tegea)

The Chorus

~ Georgios – local champion training for the Pythian Games

~ Aphro – woman at Dolphin’s Cove Inn

~ Baseilios – bodyguard of Philon

~ Palamedes –temple artisan

~ Rhea – mother of Phoibe

~ Zenon – Menandros’s house slave

Tell the People

Our Mother Earth has spoken.

Gaia’s oracle is broken.

Apollon’s hundred arrows

Silenced her sacred servant.

Now, in one or one thousand years,

His fair wrought house will fall

And a god reborn shall reign.

Oracle of Gaia, Delphi, 340 BC

Tell the King

The fair wrought house has fallen.

No shelter has Apollon,

nor sacred laurel leaves;

The fountains are now silent;

the voice is stilled.

It is finished.

Oracle of Apollon, Delphi, 393 AD

Delphi in the Region of Phokis in the Month of Mounichion in the

First Year of the 110th Olympiad (340 BCE)

Chapter one

Nikos’s heart pounded against his rib cage like a siege engine. He pressed his back into the stone wall, closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing. He couldn’t believe he’d been such a fool. Next time I’ll surrender the prize, Charis had always promised. Next time he would claim it, he always hoped. But instead….

He pulled himself to the top of the wall and lay flat. The moment of escape calmed him. The gates of the Sacred Precinct were locked, and he’d had to climb out the same way he’d climbed in. On the way out, though, he wasn’t carrying a body.

He glanced to his side, toward the theater, and then down to the Temple of Apollon where he’d left Charis’s body for the priests to find. Stars winked in and out as clouds drifted across the black dome blanketing the night sky. He crouched, reached for a nearby branch, and swung down to land on the ground with a soft thud.

It wasn’t the first time he’d taken a life. But he’d never killed a woman, never killed anyone unarmed. Not that he’d killed Charis. Not exactly, anyway. His shoulders, red with teeth and claw marks, throbbed. And his face. He ran his tongue across his lip. At least the bleeding had stopped.

He could still smell her. Still see how she licked her lips as she loosened her braids. Still taste the sweetness of her breast, and feel her hot breath as she put his fingers, one by one, in her mouth, wetting them, running her tongue over them, sucking gently until his whole body trembled. When she pulled him down into the soft pile of hay and wrapped her legs around his waist, he had been ready to give her anything—even the gold tiara. His partners would never know. There were other treasures from the Sacred Precinct to sell.

Of course, none of that mattered now. None of that mattered the moment he felt her brother’s blade against his throat and the trickle of blood drip across his collar bone. The moment Charis scrambled up from beneath him and laughed in his face. Brother and sister. What a pair. Charis’s brother had picked up the tiara and threatened to go to Nikos’s partners with proof he was double-dealing—unless he split his take fifty-fifty. And not just on the tiara. On everything. He’d still be a rich man, Charis promised, laughing.

Her brother was still laughing when Nikos’ dagger pierced his heart. Didn’t they know nobody bested him with a blade?

Before he could grab it, Charis snatched the tiara from her brother’s grasp and backed away. You’ll pay for this, she’d hissed, tears in her eyes, her voice sharp as serpent’s fangs. She held the tiara above her head, waving it like booty from a hard-fought battle. I’ll tell Heraklios. I’ll tell everyone you killed him. I’ll tell your mother.

She was cornered, wild-eyed, desperate. Nikos yanked his blade from her brother’s chest and circled her. It’s your word against mine, and your brother’s reputation as a thief and a brigand will not help your cause. She’d always been an untamed thing. That had been one of the reasons he’d wanted her, and he wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted.

Ha! He laughed. My mother may not love me, but she will not believe you. No one will.

She’ll believe me if I have proof. Proof you killed him, that you’re the one selling the stolen goods from the temple.

What proof will you have, Charis? He spoke softly, trying to calm her. Stop this nonsense. Your brother was foolish enough to hold a knife to my throat, and he paid the price. But we can come to terms. He took a step forward, his hand held out to her. Come. We can still do business, you and I. He let a small smile flit across his lips, but kept his eyes on hers. He knew she was not to be trusted. He’d always known that, but still … He watched her, trying to anticipate her next move. He could wait all night, but she’d be expected at the naming ceremony. She’d be missed. Phoibe is waiting. It’s time for us to come to an understanding. I’ll give you—

She jumped at him and in an instant, fingernails scraping against skin, stole his most prized possession. She yanked the silver chain from around his neck and clasped the polished orb tight in her fist. He watched, too startled to stop her, too afraid of hurting her.

Give it back. He demanded, taking a step toward her. He held his hand.

No. She scrambled backward. When your mother sees this, she’ll know I’m telling the truth. She’ll know you murdered my brother. Everyone will have to believe me.

No one will believe you, Charis. He said and took yet another step toward her. Do you think I will let you leave with that? He held out his palm. Give it to me before we’re both sorry.

You’re the one who’ll be sorry. Cornered, she crouched low like a cat ready to pounce.

Nikos took another step and stopped, waiting. He could easily overpower her and take the necklace back, but he didn’t want to hurt her. Unlike Diokles, he didn’t believe in violence unless his back was against a wall. Charis’ brother had been a different story. He’d held a weapon to Nikos’ throat. But Charis was different. An almost-lover, an almost-friend. But she had to know he wouldn’t let her take the necklace. To her, it was just another bargaining tool, and he’d play along until he got what he wanted.

Then she screwed up her face and spat at him, turned and darted out the open door of the storage shed. He looked down at his chest where the spittle was sprayed dark across the white fabric. She’s mad, he thought. He leapt after her, overtaking her quickly. He grabbed her shoulders and wrenched her around to face him. She fell back and he was on her, trying to pry the necklace from her clenched fist, but she kicked and bucked like an unbroken colt and then, wresting her arm free, she shoved the round silver ball and finely wrought chain into her mouth and clamped her jaw shut.

Stunned, it took him a moment to realize what she’d done. Then he grabbed her face and tried to pry her lips apart. She fought and scratched at his face, clamping her jaw shut even tighter as she struggled against him, clawing and growling like one who’d lost her senses.

She was possessed, and though he had no fear of the gods, there was something about her that scared him. Desperation flowed from her, charging the air like lightning, He could smell her fear; it wrapped around them both like a fetid fume. He sat back on his heels, but she reached for him, gurgling and gagging, eyes wide, arms whirling at him like windmills.

Then he knew. But it was too late. Too late to do anything to keep her from choking. He’d tried to hold her still, to pry open her jaw and grab hold of the chain to pull it free, but in her panic, she bit at him, clawed at him. "By the gods, Charis, stop! Don’t fight me, please," he begged her. But she bucked beneath him, making it impossible to get a purchase on the chain. Did she think I wanted to kill her? Once she was still, he opened her mouth and probed her throat for the chain or the precious silver ball, but his fingers were too big, too awkward, even without her fighting him. He pulled her jaw wide and stuck his blade in, trying to catch the loop of the chain. But it was no use. Finally, he sat back and stared at her sprawled in the dirt. Hay and dust settled in her hair like a halo. He reached out and pulled her chiton down over her legs, and for the first time in more years than he could remember, he cried.

He could slice open her neck and retrieve his necklace, but he was reluctant to desecrate her body. Having grown up amongst priestesses who honored the dead and conducted burial rites with care and precision, it was a line he feared to cross. Damn her! He picked up his knife and held it poised above her neck, then slowly pressed the tip into the tender hollow at the base of her throat, the soft place his lips had lingered countless times. She’s dead; what does it matter? He steadied his hand and took a deep breath. It would be a clean cut, over in a moment, and he’d have his treasure back. The necklace is mine. She has no right to take it to the grave with her. He closed his eyes and prayed. In the distance an owl hooted and he jerked back his hand. An evil omen. He shuddered, then wiped his eyes and stood. So be it. I am a man now, he told himself. The necklace had been a boy’s trinket. The smooth silver ball and ornately crafted chain represented nothing more than a dream, a memory that wasn’t even his. It was time to let it go.

He’d gone back into the shed and retrieved Charis’s cloak, then picked her up and wrapped it around her. He didn’t care about her brother—the wolves were welcome to feast on his bones—but he wouldn’t leave Charis to be devoured like carrion. They had a history. They’d almost been lovers.

Now he cocked his head and listened. Not even a leaf rustled in an occasional spring breeze. Around him, Delphi slept shrouded in darkness. Under the new moon, dull patches of snow clung to nooks and crannies up and down the mountainside. The oracle wouldn’t start hearing supplicants for another few weeks, and without a swarm of pilgrims, Delphi was just another remote mountain village.

In the morning, Apollon’s priests would find Charis on the temple steps wrapped snug in her winter cloak. Philon and Kleomon would wait for her brother to claim her, and, after a few days, they would stop waiting and give the body to Phoibe for burial. Nikos’s treasured necklace would go the underworld with her. Maybe it was just as well.

He took a deep breath and checked to make sure the gold tiara was still tied securely to his belt. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, brushed the dust from his clothes, and headed down the path toward the Dolphin’s Cove Inn.

Chapter two

Althaia pulled the covers over her head and tried to ignore the insistent rapping at her door.

Are you awake? Theron called, his voice faint through the heavy door.

Go away.

The rapping stopped and she heard muffled voices in the hallway.

Althaia. Aren’t you up yet?

I am now, she groused. She threw the covers back, swung her feet onto the cold, tile floor and stretched. A few wisps of smoke rose from the gray coals in the brazier. Nephthys, the new Egyptian handmaid Praxis had bought for her, was already up and gone.

Can I come in?

No. I’m not dressed.

Well, get dressed. Menandros is impatient to give us a tour of the theater.

She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and opened the door. It’s too early for a tour of anything.

Theron, her childhood tutor and now her mentor and confidant, scanned the room and then strode in and opened the shutters. She flinched and shaded her face as early spring sunlight assaulted her eyes.

Nice view, he said. Our host obviously gave you the best room in the house. Praxis and I are sharing what I suspect is a broom closet.

I’m sure you both deserve it. Punishment for some heinous act you committed in the past. Or at least for waking me up so early.

Theron laughed. With sharp, gray eyes, a close-cropped head of thick graying hair, and weathered skin creased with laugh—or worry—lines, Theron looked every bit the world-weary traveler he was. He folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned against the window frame. He’s trying to bribe you. Your father’s wealth—your wealth—and the hope that you’ll support the theater of Delphi is making his brain soft.

I may have inherited my father’s wealth, but Menandros should know it’s my dear husband he should be bribing.

Lycon is not here.

And we’re all thankful for that, Althaia sighed. Forced to marry her cousin to keep her father’s fortune within the oikos, the family unit, her husband and kyrios, controlled everything in Althaia’s life—her money, her property, her body. Luckily, Lycon, was more interested in spending time at the gymnasium and gambling on his lover, an Olympian hopeful pankriatist, than in paying any attention to Althaia. Whenever Althaia had grumbled about the prospect of marrying Lycon, her father teased and threatened her with marriage to one of his own brothers. A young and handsome, if disinterested, groom was definitely preferable to one thirty or forty years older than the bride. Lycon was diligent about doing his once-a-month husbandly duty in the bedroom, but the rest of the time, he behaved as if Althaia was nothing more than a moderately interesting piece of furniture.

Yes, we are thankful for that.

I had another nightmare, Althaia blurted out. She hadn’t meant to say anything. They’d had so many discussions about her nightmares over the years that they now bored her.

Ah, he said. Do you want to talk about it?

No.

Theron waited.

It was the same sort of dream I always have. Someone is in trouble and I am powerless to help them. She was quiet for a moment. And yet, there was something different. Something felt different. And then, just before I woke, there was a man….

A man? What about him?

Nothing. She shivered. It was nothing.

It doesn’t sound like nothing.

Apparently I woke Nephthys up. She believes the gods are warning me.

Warning you about what?

Danger. Delphi. I don’t know. She seems to believe there is something evil here, and that I’m going to be caught up in it. But you know Egyptians—always invoking one god or another against some superstition. Remember my uncle Demetrious’s cook who wouldn’t get out of bed if the roosters didn’t crow exactly at the crack of dawn?

I believe the cook ended up in the silver mines.

With Demetrious’s temper, I’m surprised the roosters didn’t end up in the mines, too. But you know what I mean.

Yes, we rational Hellenes are immune to superstition. The touch of sarcasm in his voice made Althaia wonder if he was mocking her. She glared at him. So back to the man in the dream.

There’s nothing more to tell. I don’t remember anything else.

Theron turned back toward the window and Althaia pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders and joined him. To the east, over the rooftops, she could just catch the edge of the gymnasium and the gleaming temples and treasuries in the Sacred Precinct of Athena. To the west, the valley unfolded below her, a carpet of green cascading down to the water’s edge. The city of Kirra, Delphi’s port, glowed like a white pearl next to the sapphire inlet off the Gulf of Corinth.

A charming little town for pirates, Althaia said.

What?

Kirra, she pointed. Remember all the tales of heroes, monsters, pirates, and stolen treasures that you and Papa used to tell me?

He smiled. You would charge around the house with a stick and try to kidnap Praxis as he was doing his chores.

I imagined I was an Amazonian warrior, and he was a prince who had been kidnapped and sold into slavery. I found out his secret identity and wanted to ransom him for treasure. He always played along until one day I told him that the princess was in love with her captive and that he had to marry me. She grew quiet.

I remember. Theron watched her, tried to read her mood. It’s been hard on you and Praxis, the waiting, wondering why your father wanted us here Delphi on the anniversary of his death. But it will soon be over, and everything will make sense. In addition to tutoring Althaia, Theron had been a long-time advisor to her father and had promised he would stay with Althaia until Lysandros’ last wishes had been fulfilled.

It’s hard to believe you’ve been able to keep Papa’s secret a whole year.

A year? Theron shook his head and headed for the door. That’s nothing, my dear. I’ve got secrets I’ve kept for a lifetime. Now get dressed. Praxis has already left and we’re keeping Menandros waiting.

Theron, how is he, Praxis? I’m around him every day, but I feel I hardly know him anymore. He’s changed since Papa died. He was always quiet, but now….

Perhaps Nephthys will cheer him up. Theron chuckled.

Althaia turned and looked back out the window.

It’s hard to let go of a dream, isn’t it? Theron said.

She blushed. Childhood dreams die hard, but for Aphrodite’s sake, I’m a married woman, now. Maybe Nephthys is exactly what Praxis needs.

Whenever Althaia thought of Nephthys, a vague sense of jealousy washed over her. Many, mostly men who wanted to marry her for her father’s money, had called Althaia beautiful, but she didn’t feel particularly beautiful when Nephthys was near. Where Althaia was short, Nephthys was tall. Where Althaia was strong boned, Nephthys was as slim as a river reed. Where Nephthys’ skin looked as if it had been painted with autumn sunlight, Althaia’s looked as if it had been carved from alabaster. Althaia had always prided herself on her ability to keep up with Praxis, to ride and swim as if she were a boy. She never thought of herself as ungainly or awkward, but ever since Praxis bought Nephthys, she felt like a waddling goose next to a stalking heron.

Not that Nephthys stalked. She didn’t have to. Praxis stalked her—or at least watched her every move whenever he had the chance. Althaia had long ago abandoned the childish dream of marrying Praxis—wealthy Athenian maidens didn’t marry slaves, no matter how much they were treated like part of the family—but that that didn’t mean she relished the idea of him being with someone else.

What do you need, Althaia of Athens? Theron asked.

Althaia turned to face her old friend. I need to stop mourning. Start living again.

Theron turned his eyes back toward the clear blue sky out the window. It’s a fine day to start a new life.

Chapter Three

Phoibe stood waist-deep in the icy Kastalian Spring, her himation floating around her like a red cloud. Her feet were numb, she could barely feel her legs, and she knew her skin would soon be as red as flame from the cold. Her eyes were closed, lips moving silently, automatically reciting the sacred liturgy as Melanippe of Dodona, priestess of Zeus Naios, God of the Springs, and Gaia, Mother of All, crushed the laurel and kannabis leaves and sprinkled them into the fire. The air in the grove was clear and cold, and as the pungent smoke rose from the coals, it mixed with scents of myrtle, laurel, cypress and pine, of moist earth and the first hints of spring. Phoibe breathed in deeply. Where is Charis?

She opened her eyes to a world as ancient as time and yet now born anew. Dawn broke and light moved through the treetops, speckling the ground with shadow. She rippled her fingers across the clear surface and watched her reflection bob and weave on the water. How long had the sacred spring of Kastalia flowed? How many had bathed in the waters of Gaia? More than anyone could count. Maybe more than the gods could count. For endless generations, Phoibe’s family had lived and farmed on the plain between Arachova and Delphi. The water, the stones, the very dirt beneath her feet, was like her blood, her bones, her flesh.

But she was different from the others in her family. And she was different now from that night, over twenty years ago, when she was named and chosen as an apprentice to the Pythia of the Oracle of Gaia. When she was taken from her family and given to the goddess.

She’d heard the story a thousand times. How Sofia, the old Pythia of Gaia, had dropped her into the cistern and how she had surfaced several heart-wrenching moments later, sputtering, eyes wide, fat little arms flailing against the water. After her mother, Rhea, dried, warmed and comforted her at her breast, Sofia had taken her in her arms, opened her fists and traced the lines on her plump palms. Then Sofia had closed her eyes and said:

This child shall be called Phoibe, like the Titan of old,

Apollon’s own grandmother.

She will see the Oracles of Apollon and Gaia united

or she will see them destroyed

and the Sacred Precinct claimed by yet another.

Phoibe smiled when she thought of how the priestesses claimed the snakes tattooed on Sofia’s arms had come to life, writhing across her skin as if in celebration—or fear—of the woman’s words. Now Sofia had crossed the Styx. The apprenticeship was over and she, Phoibe of Arachova, was the newly named Pythia of Gaia, high priestess of the most powerful oracle of all. But where is Charis? My friend, my confidant. My handmaid should be here with me. Where is she?

In the whole history of her line, Phoibe’s people had always worshiped the Mother. Now, she would be Mother to them all. The incarnation of the goddess on earth. She would never marry as her mother and grandmother and grandmother before her had. She would never sit by the hearth waiting for a husband to return from war, waiting for sons to come back one by one, wounded or worse, waiting on the harvest, waiting for grandchildren. Waiting to die. She would not wait on history to overtake her. She would make history.

She looked around the glade, at the priestesses attending her, depending on her. She would not let them down. She would not be like Sofia. She would lead the people back to the Mother, away from the idolatry of gold and silver, away from the worship of war and the strength of steel, the taste of glory and death on the battlefield and back to the worship of the fruits of the Mother’s womb, of sacred springs and sweet wine and warm bread and life. The new Pythia of Gaia would no longer bend to the will of the priests of Apollon, corrupt men who drugged and enslaved their own priestess, the Pythia of Apollon, and reaped the rewards of their avarice by bringing ruin down upon the whole of the Sacred Precinct. She, Phoibe, as the new Pythia of Gaia would change everything. She could see it all. Sofia had foretold it. Melanippe had confirmed it. And now it would come to pass.

She turned and pushed her numb feet through the water, placing them one in front of the other, climbing the stone steps until Theodora and Eumelia met her and stripped off her wet garments. The two priestesses cupped their hands as Melannippe’s handmaiden, Kalliope, poured scented oil into their palms from an alabastron that had been heating on the fire. They rubbed the oil on Phoibe’s shivering skin to warm her, slipped a new chiton over her head, bound it with a braided belt and wrapped a finely woven woolen himation around her shoulders. Then Theodora placed the laurel wreath upon her brow, led her to the warmth of the fire and helped her sit.

Melanippe stood over Phoibe, her hand shaking with age, her eyes filmy and gray. Sofia is no more. She is one with the Mother. You are now Sofia. You are now every pythia who has come before and who will ever come after. You have studied the secrets of the oracle, learned the healing lore of the land, and bathed in the sacred spring. Now you must drink. She sprinkled more of the crushed leaves into a cup, closed her eyes in prayer, and then handed the cup to Theodora. Take this to the Mother’s mouth so that Phoibe may drink of the sacred water. The water of life, the breath of life, the word of life. Mouth to mouth, the Mother to her daughter.

Theodora held the cup under the fissure where the water flowed cold and pure from the rock face and then handed it to Phoibe. And Phoibe drank. But where was Charis?

Chapter Four

With his sturdy legs planted firmly, Menandros’s broad girth blocked the doorway. We must wait but a moment. I want you to see it when the light is just so. His eyes twinkled with excitement in a ruddy face that was as round as a platter. The playwright looked like a proud father about to introduce his first-born son to the world as he swept his arm up toward the ridge of trees on the crest of the rise cradling the theater. Soon Apollon’s rays will break above those trees and Delphi’s sacred theater will be bathed in the god’s rapturous morning light. And just wait till you see our new altar. It is made of pure white marble and the sunlight makes it shimmer like gold.

It must be a sight to behold. Althaia smiled. Did you know my father always supported a playwright for the Dionysia?

Menandros’s head bobbed and his cheeks turned red. I had heard that, yes. And I was hoping that … well …

Theron laughed, put his arm around Menandros’s fleshy shoulders and squeezed. A poet at a loss of words. Better find your tongue, old friend, or Lysandros’s daughter may lose faith in your talents.

Well … um … I’m disappointed that your Praxis is not here for the tour as well, Menandros stammered, and turned back to Althaia. I understand he is instrumental in managing your father’s estate.

Never fear, Althaia said. Praxis will join us momentarily. He met an old friend for breakfast. Perhaps you know him. Palamedes. He’s a temple artisan.

Menandros stopped and turned to appraise her. By Apollon’s arrows, a temple artisan? Palamedes is not just any old potter. He may be the best in all Hellas. Your painters in Athens have nothing on him. Menandros boasted as if he was personally responsible for Palamedes’s abundant talents. I own several of his pieces. Originals. Not like those copies they sell in the gift shops or hawk along the Sacred Way. But how did your slave come to know him?

My father arranged for them to meet on my first trip to Delphi, Althaia said. Father paid Palamedes to write to Praxis, to help him learn to read and write in his native tongue.

Ah, your man is a Syrian then, Menandros said, not waiting for confirmation. He would have had a very good teacher in Palamedes. As a matter of fact, the great man has been teaching my houseboy to draw and even do a little pottery.

My father—

Stop! Menandros exclaimed. I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s time. He stepped out of the way. After you, my dear. You will now see for yourself that there is no theater more beautiful—or more deserving of support—in all Hellas.

Althaia cast a quick backward glance at Theron and then stepped through the arched doorway, over the threshold, and out onto the smooth paving stones of the round orchestra. It was indeed an impressive site. She squinted and shaded her eyes as she took in the sweeping rows of audience benches nestled into the cavernous hillside.

Menandros sighed in delight and turned to Theron. I knew she would be impressed.

By the gods! Althaia gasped.

Yes, Menandros said, as pleased with himself as if he’d just downed a fine kylix of wine, the gods have indeed favored Delphi above all other sacred places.

Shut up. Theron brushed past Menandros and caught up to Althaia as she rushed toward center of the orchestra.

What? Menandros, his brow furrowed in confusion, squinted into the sunlight and followed in Theron’s wake. Then he saw his new thymeli, the sacred altar