Voice of Honey and Blood

           The challenge had been sent out to the entire world. The Hiereiai scramble around the Temple of Apollo to prepare for the coming of the king’s emissary. Fruit and caskets of wine are laid out in a circle around the Pythia as she sat in silent contemplation. Her hair, once dark as the raven, frames her face in silver behind her violet veil. The priestesses know not to address the Pythia when she is in this state and go out of their way to avoid her path.

           A call rings out from outside the temple, causing everyone inside to freeze up. The emissary of the king of Lydia has arrived in Delphi. The emissary, Alyat, was sent here with a horse, a young goat, and a meager amount of money. He is very young and this had been his first assignment entrusted to him by the king. He will do everything to make sure this goes right. As he climbs to top of that mountain, his heart freezes at the sight of the pillars that tower far above him.

           Alyat, truthfully, does not trust these oracles and their alien gods. They speak sweet-sounding hollows and half-truths. The mere notion that one would stand out above the rest is ridiculous to the young Lydian. He secretly wishes this competition will prove, once and for all, that these seers are truly as blind as everyone else. He’s forced to bury those feeling as he crosses through the threshold of the temple.

           There are Macedonian words carved into the pillars that loom over. While his reading skills are poor, he manages to make out what they command.

Know Thyself

Nothing to Excess

Surety brings Ruin

           The first two make sense to Alyat, though he’s unsure of what they have to do with divining the future, but the last one puzzles him. ‘Surety brings ruin’? Why then come to an oracle, is the purpose of the oracle not to provide surety? If they believe that maxim, Alyat thought, their predictions would be a knowing damnation. Then, as he continues to move forward, he thinks he has it all figured out. That final statement is an assurance for the priestesses of this temple, if you places complete faith in their prediction then it’s only your fault if it fails, since they warned you upfront.

           He would have laughed if he wasn’t completely intimidated. Alyat entered into a central room filled with bowls of fresh food and the smell of fermented grapes. These luxuries have only been reserved for King Croesus and yet here it is out in the open. One of the women take the young goat from him, another grabs his arm and takes him closer to the center. A woman draped in a purple veil sits on a golden stool in the center of the temple.

           Chills ran down his spine as he gazed upon the woman in purple. He could see something in her eyes and it wasn’t the future. Behind her the robed women took the small goat to an altar.

Little good this oracle did for the animal, though Alyat. It’s fate had been sealed. A fire blazed high above the emissary, paralyzing him. The purple veil lifted as the woman was brought an organ from the slain goat.

           “What is the knowledge you seek?” The voice of the Pythia sounds like honey melting in the desert sun to Alyat.

“King Croesus, of Lydia, wishes to know what is he doing at this very moment.” Alyat speaks with intention.

The Pythia smiles in a way that unsettles the messenger. Like’s she just uncovered something about him that she won’t tell him. He remains quiet, not wishing to be blamed when her prediction is proven false. A part of him still holds on in defiance of this all-seeing woman.  He tries, holding his breath and clenching his fist, but ultimately he fails and blinks first.

“At this hour of Apellaios, Croesus of Lydia prepares a meal for only himself. Servants stand by and watch, fighting back their crying stomachs and treacherous eyes. A broth is almost finished and is enough to feed a kingdom or a king. Number of sand, measure of sea. I know what the dumb say and hear the voice speak. I can smell tortoise cooking alongside the flesh of the lamb in a pot of bronze. Bronze beneath, and bronze above.” A scribe jots down furiously on a parchment beside the Pythia.

In that moment, Alyat thought he heard something between the oracle’s words. Like another voice speaking, but never louder than the oracle herself. She looked down from the temple ceiling into the eyes of Alyat himself. He saw her and in that moment she saw him and they could see each other, Without saying a word the emissary moved passed the wines and exotic fruits, passed the woman only described in stories, through the pillars that held up the house of a god and walked down the side of an impossible cliff. He got on his horse and he never turned back to look towards the direction of the Temple of Apollo even long after her returned to Lydia.

In the parlor of the oracle, the priestesses resumed their daily routines. Order was restored to the temple and all took their place in it. All except the Pythia. She remained seated in the center of the temple. The smile on her face had remained from before as she tipped her head backwards. The gold trimmings on the ceiling sparkled in the light of the setting sun. Amestris thought on her role as the Pythia.

This role had been occupied by the rich and the noble, but Amestris had grown up a peasant, the daughter of an outsider. She had never dreamed of communing with the gods and had no aspirations of a life greater than her own. While the men of Delphi wanted women who fit within the mold of Hellenic beauty, Amestris found a man from outside the watchful eye of Apollo and his oracle. He was a soldier from the land her father came from willing to cross invisible boundaries and defy gods to be with her. By the time she had become the Pythia of the Temple, she had given all of that life away, the gods took their toll.

Amestris waited in the temple for the two days until King Croesus returned to give his verdict for the challenge. Tall, commanding and powerful, the giant king walked through the temple with pride. His booming laugh shook the bones of every priestess in his vicinity. He is asked to wait but believes it to be a joke and continues his approach. Soon he enters the chamber of Apollo where the Pythia is seated.

“Well, well! The Oracle of Delphi.” His figure casted a shadow over Amestris.

“Croesus of Lydia.” Her affect does not change.

“I would have assumed your voice would have more power, being the voice of the gods.” Croesus laughed. “Still, I must give you praise where it is deserved.”

Amestris remained silent.

“Out of all the oracles I challenged, you were the only one which spoke with complete confidence. Not just vague musings or poetry. And you were correct. For that, fair oracle, I offer you and your temple an abundance of gifts.” As he finished speaking servants entered the room with arms full of jewels, gems, and gold. The priestesses trained themselves to avert their gaze but some faltered in their will. After too long half of the temple of Apollo was made up of precious gems, cattle, and hand-crafted instruments. The king stood with his arms outstretched, a winning grin plastered on his face. The sound of running water could be heard in the distance.

“Thank you.” The Pythia spoke after a long period.

“Thank me not, I have only one request of you.” Croesus spoke, his smile fading.

She said nothing but stared into his dark brown eyes.

“I need you to predict the outcome of my next conquest.”

“Where is it you seek to conquer?”

“The great Persia, oracle.”

The priestesses in the room couldn’t hide their reactions or whispered comments.

“Very well.” Amestris removes her veil.

“I thought a sacrifice was required for the predic-“

“If you cross the river stand tall, on that day a mighty empire will fall.” Her face betrays no emotion.

“So I will be king for a long time?” Croesus leans forward as close as he could to the Pythia.

“Lydian, flee when and only when a mule is king of the Mede. Then flee without hesitation or shame.” She never breaks eye contact with the King of Lydians.

“A mule for a king?” Croesus strokes his beard in the silent temple. Priestesses hold their breath. A thunderous laugh roars throughout the hall.

“What a ridiculous thing, I admire your humor and wit, oracle!” Croesus pats the slender Pythia on the back, jostling her. “I must not delay, I offer you my thanks seer, but I will not see you ever again, my destiny awaits.”

Amestris nods her head as Croesus charges off towards the temple entrance, passed the columns onto his horses to ride off to his fate. The priestesses all remain fixated on treasures that now cover the floor of the hallowed Delphian ground. The oracle, however, is tired and doesn’t hesitate to return to her stead nearby the temple. Her body worn and her eyes tired, she finds her elevated cot and settles down. Past and future are laid to rest now.

A Persian farmer came to Delphi to find destiny. He found love instead. Their love forged destiny. She would never be of either world, forever two halves. She learned to live with burden. Then came a Persian soldier to find destiny. He found love instead. War found him, and the gods found her. She sits in the Temple of Apollo and closes her eyes.

Alyat, sword in hand. stands at the ready across the river leading into Pteria. The eyes of the Pythia stare at him from the back of his skull. He tries to focus, focus for his king. This battle has been assured, this has been promised to him Alyat has heard. He tries not to think about what happened before, what will happen after, he is just here now. Some soldiers nearby mock the man they will soon face down, the one they call Cyrus. Surely he cannot be great for he is half a man, they say. Only half a Persian, and half a Median. A mule they say as they laugh and holler and drink and prepare to leap headfirst into their destiny.

With a honeyed voice, The Pythian sings a forgotten song and smiles.