The Fable-Teller

Delphi, Ancient Greece, 564 B.C.

They sat in the cool shadows cast by the Temple of Apollo and allowed themselves to rest. It had been many weeks since they had left their home, and like every day that came before, the boy was tired. “Wait here,” was the command from his father, a gem merchant from the island of Samos. Seeking water and food, the older man disappeared among the throngs of townspeople milling about the market stalls that fringed the temple. With a thirst that threatened to overcome him, the small boy distracted himself by picking at the tiny tendrils of skin that curled from his sunburned lips. After a sting of pain, the metallic taste of blood found his tongue. A moment passed. Though tired, the boy could never deny the keenness of his ears as he picked up the low rumbling of conversation from above and behind where he rested.

“A storyteller, you say?” a voice said.

“A fable-teller, Magistrate Alecto,” came the reply. This voice was unusually accented and tinged with commonality.

“Well, then.” There was a swift clap of hands. “You must regale us with your best.”

The boy’s thirst was quickly forgotten as he stood and peeked from his hiding place. Almost blinded by the bright Delphi sunshine that flooded the agora above him, he could only hear the reply. “I wish not to bore you, sir.” It was insincere, though, and no sooner had the boy’s eyes adjusted did the stranger relent. “But if you insist…” The man paused, glancing around the gathering of what appeared to be high-ranking townspeople, before commencing his tale. “A skilful archer coming into the woods, directed his arrows so well that the beasts fled in dismay.…”

The boy studied the wizened old man, noting non-descript grey curls and a full beard, as he spoke. Standing at the head of the small gathering, those around him seemed content enough: one man listened with a twinkle in his eye, another with a small smile of amusement. A raven, its shiny feathers appearing blue in the sun, even seemed to be enraptured by the fable-teller's reverential tone. It was to the boy as if the fable-teller had bridged a gap between his world and that of the bird's.

The fable was short, too short for the boy's liking, with no more than a minute passing from start to finish. As the final words hung in the still morning warmth, after a pause the length of a heartbeat, the Magistrate asked, “That is the end?”

The fable-teller, lost in the world of his creation, appeared startled back into the present. “There is but a final message, a moral if you will -“

“Which is?”

The fable-teller paused, his face paling, as if caught. At that moment, the bird propelled itself forward with a flap of its wings and flew away.

“We are waiting, sir,” an onlooker prompted.

When he finally spoke, the fable-teller tried valiantly to maintain the same solemn tone of his storytelling. “A man who can strike from a distance is no pleasant neighbour,” he said. But even the boy, with little understanding of how different emotions could be conveyed, sensed an edge in the fable-teller’s voice.

It was, quite clearly, fear.

The face of the large man dressed in purple robes, who had moments earlier looked upon this visitor with superficial interest and nothing more, had changed dramatically. Magistrate Alecto’s eyes had darkened, his mouth settling into a thin line as he asked a dangerous question. “Is this a joke, sir?”

“No, your excellency,” the fable-teller protested, stepping back reflexively on the agora’s rough-stone floor. “It is merely a trivial tale I began to formulate on my journey from Athens.”

“Yet the moral you chose is curious.” The Magistrate, as he did in his frequent orations for the people of Delphi, lifted his arms as if to emphasise that his next point should not be missed. “Morals, as I am aware, are used to teach lessons. Or, oftentimes, to send a message.” He paused. There was nary an eyebrow twitch as the gathering crowd paused with him. “This troubles me. Are you here to send us a message?”

“I am not,” the fable-teller meekly replied.

“No? So you are not the invincible man in your story? Who seeks to hunt those who defend themselves? Or perhaps you are the fox, who comes to gloat if we should fall?”

“I am neither.”

“I don’t believe you. There must be a reason you chose to demonstrate such intentions of malevolence towards us, the Delphians, with your story.” The Magistrate cast his gaze across the faces of those gathered, who in turn quickly murmured their assent and averted their eyes with displeasure. “We,” he flung his hands skyward, as if encompassing the entire kingdom within the expanse of his arms. “Are suitably insulted.”

No sooner had the word been uttered did the crowd resume its natural thrum of activity. Pairs of women hissed to one another. Men started to mutter their disapproval in the visitor’s direction. And two large, uniformed officers of the Athenian guard appeared beside him, hefting their bodies upwards and outwards, so as to appear more threatening. “Guards,” the Magistrate ordered with a flick of his hand. “Seize this man.”

The small boy, observing from below the agora step, watched with horror as this magical man - who told his fables in the same accent that clipped the voices of both the boy and his father - was carried away.

***

The fable-teller was taken to a small chamber somewhere away from the Temple. It was here that he spent several hours under the eyeless gaze of a dozen ceramic busts that encircled him in his makeshift prison. As the sun passed unseen overhead, he struggled to make sense of his situation as he slumped against the cool stucco affixed to the chamber walls. How much had changed in the few short weeks since he was summoned to Sardis to meet with his patron. He recalled his surprised elation at the good fortune the Gods had bestowed upon him, in being asked to undertake the important journey to consult the great oracle, Pythia, in Delphi.

For a man born into nothing, the fable-teller’s ascent to his current position was one he often found hard to believe – in fact, if it hadn’t happened to him, he might have been inclined to call it impossible. This, of course, had spawned the recent idea for a new fable, one about a tortoise whose perseverance overcame the sure swiftness of those who might consider themselves superior: an animal such as a hare, for example. He’d written that particular tale on a sheaf of parchment that had been added to a growing cluster. Pulling the collection now from the secret pocket sewn into his robes, he flipped idly to the most recent addition - written only the night before - and re-read the title that was scratched in his hurried font: The Tortoise and the Hare.

If only, he lamented sorely, he’d opted to share that particular story with the Magistrate instead.

His confidence had been up that morning on his way to the Temple, when he’d happened upon the Magistrate and his cronies in the agora. The fable-teller knew that Delphi was a perfect locale to start investigating as to whether there was any truth behind the rumours that had reached his ears across various Kingdoms: that he might rise above it all and be considered for Sagedom. The Sage of Lydia, his closest confidantes had taken to calling him in private. So, for a man usually so astute in his thinking, it had been in a moment of absolute stupidity that, when requested, he’d shared the tale of the Bowman and the Lion with these powerful men. He had once bartered for his freedom with one of his fables. But now, could another be his undoing once and for all?

As if in answer, the Magistrate appeared swiftly with a swish of his robes. “You say the King of Crotheus sent you?” the Delphian demanded without preamble.

“Yes.” The fable-teller clambered wearily to his feet. To show reverence, he kept his eyes trained on the smooth marble floor.

“What was your mission?”

“To consult the goddess Pythia.”

“Regarding what?”

The fable-teller faltered with the forthcoming words, but he could not lie. “Warfare, sir. The King fears there is an imminent threat from Persia.”

The Magistrate snarled. “Crotheus should choose his questions for the oracle - and his diplomats for that matter - with greater discretion in future.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Magistrate paused, but the fable-teller did not raise his gaze. It might be a test, and he was in no position to fail another. “Your obedience is quick for a nobleman,” the Magistrate observed.

“A nobleman I am not.”

“Who are you then?”

“I was born into slavery on the island of Samos,” the fable-teller said.

“How, then, did you come to be a diplomat for Crotheus?”

“It is a long story. But I saved my Lord’s honour with one of my fables. He rewarded me with my freedom.”

“You must be a wise man.”

“I hope to be.”

“That is a shame.”

“Sir?”

“We shall never know how wise.” The Magistrate was perfunctory as he delivered his next words. “You have been sentenced to death.”

The fable-teller was barely moved, unable to digest what had been said. “But how-?” He paused. “What is my crime?”

“Temple theft,” the Magistrate said, with no hint of this being a falsehood evident in his voice. “A golden cup – a tribute to Apollo – was stolen last eventide. A search of your lodgings revealed the cup was in your possession.” The fable-teller swallowed. There was no way a story would get him out of this predicament. “I must announce these charges publicly,” the Magistrate continued. “And therefore, you must supply your full name.”

“I don’t know it, sir.”

“You mean to tell me you have no name?”

“I took my previous Lord’s name.” The fable-teller cleared his throat and lifted his shoulders. He knew it was wrong, that it perfectly confirmed the insolency he had been accused of, but he looked the Magistrate directly in the eye. “I am Aesop of Samos.”

***

The shadows grew long as Aesop sat silently in the chamber-cum-prison cell. When he was summoned and marched back into the agora, he noticed that the common was slowly filling with the lower classes as their working day came to an end. Burning torches were fixed to high columns that Aesop passed on his way to a small wooden box that sat close to where the Magistrate waited. He was directed to stand on it, and he did, turning slowly to face the crowd.

The people before him shifted nervously, their gazes full of suspicion. The streets and alleys that threaded a maze around the city had been rife with rumours of the foreigner who had been arrested. Though for what, that was still unclear.

It was past dusk when the Magistrate started to speak. Aesop felt an acute helplessness as he stood before the most powerful man in Delphi: for the first time in his life, he was bereft of words. But in a show of strength that impressed a small proportion of the crowd, he commanded his body to remain stoically upright, his face devoid of all expression. He would not show weakness. His patron, the King, must know he was strong until the end. And, to his credit, he managed to hold himself together.

The Magistrate finally started to read aloud his charges. It was amazing to Aesop how immediate the anger that emanated from the townspeople was, as if the Magistrate had the ability to create a palpable and collective combustion within the body and mind of every man and woman that stood before him. Aesop did not know what angered them more: that he had insulted their God, Apollo, by purportedly stealing from his Temple; or insulted them, by telling a story that had been perceived to be a direct threat to their honour.

It was laughable, really. In his fifty-six years of life, Aesop had never stolen from nor threatened the honour of anyone. Now, he was accused of insulting a whole Kingdom and their God to boot. All because he told a story with talking animals and a badly chosen moral. He shook his head. The irony was not lost on him.

Channelling the busts he had been in the company of for much of the day, he stood with a stony expression, waiting, wondering if perhaps he would be taken back to see them. Maybe he would be placed under house arrest, or more tantalisingly, sent to the capital for his execution. He was more than certain he would be able to find favour with some of his allies in Athens, could perhaps have his charges reduced by paying off a few of the higher-ups -

Something odd happened at that moment. Aesop was propelled forward by four of the Athenian guards and when he reached the crowd, he was swiftly enveloped amongst them, before the sea of bodies began to move. The townspeople somehow maintained a barrier of space between themselves and the guards that surrounded Aesop, but the speed of their movement was rapid. They were moving away from the temple and along the Via Sacra, the Sacred Road, threading their way downwards until they passed through the Argos Monument. Soon after, and before Aesop had really grasped what this might mean, they had left the Principal Gate behind.

Hundreds of feet trampling across the dirt road had kicked up a murky haze of lead-coloured dust, and particles danced in the firelight from torches carried by members of the marching mob. Leaving the civilisation of the city behind seemed to bolster some of the crowd to hurl abuse at him. Words like “Coward!” and “Ungodly!” were thrown about, and the occasional spray of spittle was deposited on his clothing or face. At one point, his sandal caught on an unseen obstacle in the road, but he could not stop to investigate or correct himself, so the sandal was unceremoniously ripped from his foot. There was an almighty, guttural roar as the crowd recovered his possession.

It was at this time that Aesop started to feel afraid. Where were they taking him?

It become clear as they steadily advanced onwards. Several minutes later, they had arrived at the edge of a series of cliffs that overshadowed the valley below. It was dark now, and Aesop viewed the great pit of darkness that fell away from view. Then the chant started up.

In their words, Aesop knew what he was required to do. In response, he leaned over and retched violently onto the dirt. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he tried to make sense of it all. His stories, his precious stories, had only meant to help teach right from wrong, to show an irony, to suggest a different point of view. But not this. Only he who is free from sin can condemn me. If only he could note down that moral for the Delphians to learn. He could certainly use their mercy at a time like this.

His stories, however, burned into his side. They would go with him: no-one would know of his fables. Not unless…

There, in the corner of his eye, the would-be Sage saw a small figure. Despite what was happening, he allowed himself to feel disgusted that such a small child would be here, watching this spectacle. Aesop himself had observed countless horrors in his youth, and he hated to think what might be observed through innocent eyes.

Before he could consider this further, the boy had infiltrated the guards to stand at the fable-teller’s side. “I am Leandros,” the boy said, having to speak over the chants of the crowd. “My father and I travelled here from Samos.”

A surge of feeling swelled into Aesop’s being. He had not met anyone from his small island in many months. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Leandros,” Aesop said, his outward kindness belying the terror in his heart.

“I was there, when you told your story," the boy said solemnly. "I liked it very much."

“Thank you.”

“My name means lion,” the boy continued, his voice just carrying over the stamping and shouting of the crowd. “Maybe I am the lion in the story.”

“Maybe,” said the fable-teller. “But I hope not. The lion was wounded in the end.”

“Yes. But he also stood up for the other beasts who were being hunted.”

Aesop paused, struck by the wisdom of the boy. Studying the child's deep, intelligent eyes, he made a split-second decision. “Leandros,” he said, pulling the cluster of papers from his waistband. “I want you to take this home.” He pressed it into the boy’s hand with urgency. “Do you understand?” The boy nodded.

The man and the lion stood together briefly before they parted. Then the boy gave a single, determined nod and disappeared into the waiting crowd.

Later, when the taunting became too much, Aesop launched himself off the cliff.

He imagined he was a raven.

***

In the aftermath of Aesop’s demise, the boy and his father abandoned their intended journey, opting instead to leave the mainland in haste. As they sailed back to Samos, stories trickled back to them, of pestilence and famine besieging the Delphians into a dark period of suffering.

The jewels the boy and his father might have collected from the islands of Ionia could wait. What the boy now carried with him, the words of who would become perhaps the world’s greatest storyteller, were far more precious. 

Aesop’s fables, like a bird, were returning home.