THE MESSENGERS
Aristonikè was dying. No more did she notice even the linnet, Theria’s
gift, which sang so sweetly in the solemn house.
A fever burned through all her limbs. As evening came on old Tuchè was
fain to take her out of the close house and lay her in front of the door
on the high temple platform.
And because the little maid would not go without Theria, Theria came
also. So they two sat, Theria and Tuchè, on either side the couch.
Little do the young consider thoughts of the old. Theria did not guess
that Tuchè hated her because Aristonikè loved. The little Pythia was
Tuchè’s nurseling and Tuchè was cut to the heart to have her turn to
another in her last hours.
But Theria, holding the hot little hand, had thoughts afar off. Her
soul was in bitterness because she had again deceived her god. That was
yesterday and she was yet weak from the ordeal. She wondered if Eëtíon
would cease to love her if he knew what she had done. Certainly her
father would not love her, nor would any of her kin.
Far below lay the sheer abyss of Pleistos valley. Nearer at hand Delphi
itself nestled into the gigantic half circle at the mountains’ base.
Precinct and town seemed floating in a violet mist. For the day was
nearly done.
But this was the hour of the Phaidriades, the glory of the cliffs. Theria
turned and looked above to where they stood facing the west. The setting
sun poured his light direct upon these high embattling walls turning them
to gold, to beryl, to amethyst. They gave forth light again as with a
shout, a clashing of golden cymbals, and a prayer. They hushed the spirit
of the gazing priestess.
As the reflected light retired upward with the sinking of the sun one
spot on the cliff held the glitter. It was the famous votive chariot of
Gelon, a chariot of polished bronze.
It stood on a high ledge of the cliff, its four bronze steeds prancing
with that lightness of poise just learned by Greek craftsmen. In the car
stood the naked chariot victor and just behind him the charioteer holding
the reins, his living eyes watchful of his steeds.
But to Theria it seemed that he was driving them over the ledge, was
driving them into the sheer abyss and that he did not care.
Would the gods so drive her Delphi to destruction? Would Atè (doomed
Fate) tread Delphi down? Whose feet are delicate because she steps upon
the heads of men, and on whom she steps she bows to the dust.
Ah, the Persians were so near! At Thermopylæ. Were they victorious? If
so, they would march directly upon Delphi. They were not one week’s time
away. The doom of Delphi pressed so close, so sure.
Even the temple guardsman seemed to feel it as he paced his beat. Now
he walked slowly, dignified in his armour, now he hastened with nervous
steps to and fro.
Aristonikè awoke, complaining. “The thirst, the thirst. Tuchè, bring
water. Not warm water; cold, fresh from the spring.”
Tuchè rose up, flattered that her dear one had asked this of her, and
went upon the errand.
No sooner had she disappeared than the guard halted short in his beat,
looked about him—then almost ran toward the Pythia House.
He touched Theria’s shoulder and she rose with a cry. It seemed as though
her thoughts had suddenly become visible, for there beneath the helmet
was the face of Eëtíon. Pale white he was. Then flushed with unbidden joy
as he touched her.
“Eleutheria,” he whispered. “I had to come. Your oracle to the Winds. The
Delphians have sent it to Artemisium and the fleet and also to Athens. It
is precious beyond words, for it will hearten men to victory. Nay, the
winds themselves will answer it; for what god could resist so insistent a
prayer.”
“Yes,” she whispered—wondering that he should come to tell her this.
“But your brothers! Oh, beloved, it is no happy tidings I bring you.
Your brothers are in league with the Persians. They are with the Persian
spies. They have gone after our Delphian messengers to kill them on the
road.”
“Oh, Eëtíon, no, no!” she interrupted him in low voice. “Not my
Lycophron! Not my Dryas!”
“Yes, it is true. I saw them start: Lycophron toward Thermopylæ and
Dryas toward Athens. If it become known in Delphi it will mean the ruin
of Nikander’s house. But your father will have to know in order to stop
them. He would not believe me. But you he will believe because you are
Pythia. Send for him at once, Theria, tell him to dispatch swift horsemen
to save the oracle for Greece. I go now on instant business.”
He paused for a moment, gazing into her face. “Hera be thanked that I
have seen thee. O thou peer of gods, thou sister of the dawn.”
He bent and kissed the edge of her sleeve. He dared no more. She was
priestess of Apollo.
Then he was gone. Before she could answer or think of answer he was gone.
He knew that to linger might likely be her death.
Theria’s thoughts whirled like a falling star.
She must send for her father. Yet her father could not have speech with
her. Eëtíon did not know this, not being Delphian.
And even if Nikander could have speech, would Tuchè send for him? Tuchè
refused regularly her every request. And Theria could not give reason for
this request without betraying her brothers.
Meanwhile, Lycophron and Dryas were hastening to their doom and to the
doom of Hellas. For Theria ardently believed now that the prayer to the
winds would avail.
What could she do? Like a sword’s stroke came the thought: “Run home
yourself, Theria. Now while Tuchè yet lingers in the house. There is no
time to lose.”
Aristonikè was sleeping again. Theria snatched a dark himation which lay
for cover on the couch and wrapping herself, head and all, ran to the
protection of the temple-colonnade, along this she hurried, the columns
would conceal her, soon an angle of the cella would intervene.
Then she reached the Sacred Way and walked not too fast so as to avoid
question.
Her weakness from yesterday’s ordeal was instantly gone. She only prayed
that Nikander might be at home, that his action might be swift. And now
for the highroad; now for the familiar street; now for the dearest house
which she had thought never to see again!
Medon tottered to his feet at sight of her. More natural would it have
been to see the ghost of his little mistress than herself.
“Is Father within?” she asked, but did not stay for answer. She sped into
the aula and, oh, thanks be to Kairos, Nikander was there.
He, too, looked upon her as upon a dire spirit. Only madness could have
brought her. But more terrible than his wildest conjecture were her words.
“Father, Father, it is bitter news I bring. Lycophron, Dryas. They have
Medized and are fled with Persian spies. They are gone to hold back the
Oracle message from all the Hellenes.”
Nikander sprang up, seizing her wrist, searching her face.
“Child, what madness! They are not gone away.”
“Oh, are they in the house—now?” She almost sobbed with relief.
“I saw them both only an hour ago.”
“Oh, but within the hour they are gone far. Dryas to Athens, Lycophron to
Thermopylæ. Father, search the house. Send after them quick, quick.” She
seized both his shoulders, shaking them as if to waken him to the sorrow.
“Where did you get this information?” Nikander was pitiful of her strange
mistake.
“I cannot tell you. It came, it came.” Her eyes looked so strange and
glittering, her whole aspect so bordering on delirium or even ecstasy,
that Nikander touched her gently.
“Was it by some prophetic power?—vision?”
Theria was so upwrought that she spoke out her first instinctive thought.
“No—no prophecy. Do not speak of prophecy. I am not deceiving. This is
real, real.”
The words escaped the door of her lips. She was aghast at the net of
lies closing about her. Of course if she should tell her father it was
prophecy he would believe. But she would not lie to him, not even——
She did not know that as she thought these things guilt stood manifest in
her face.
Nikander caught her arm, roughly, asking the thing he did not want to
know—the thing he had been suspecting for many days.
“Theria, your Athenian oracle—Great Zeus in Olympos, have you deceived in
all your oracles?”
She sank in a heap on the floor.
“Father, Father; the need! It was such bitter need—and no ecstasy would
come. The Athenians—the—the——” Her weeping choked her speech.
Nikander was too horrified to answer. With hand before his eyes he kept
repeating: “Great heaven! great heaven!” Suddenly he lifted his head
again. “If the oracle is not from the god, why, in Zeus’s name, this
pother about it—the words of a girl?”
“Father—but it is important. The Athenians will offer true sacrifice to
the winds. They will be hopeful in their prayers, in their fighting. The
oracle gladdens the fighters.”
But Nikander’s mind had never left his sons.
“Theria, who told you this vile tale about your brothers?” he asked.
“I cannot tell you. I——”
“If it were from some good source, you would tell me.”
Theria dragged herself up to her knees. “It was a good source. Oh,
Father, the truest, the best, the kindest.” Poor Theria; even to speak of
her lover set her white face aflame.
But Nikander was pushing further. “Theria, I begin to believe what the
slaves have been telling in the household, that you have a lover. Now do
not lie to me. Your lover brought you this news.”
Theria was utterly broken down. She could only moan, “But he told me the
truth. He told me in order to save them. He told me because he loves my
house and you and he wants to save us from ruin.”
“Great Paian, what a heap of sins on one girl’s head! She has deceived
on the tripod, not once, but twice. She has a lover—she a priestess of
Apollo. Now she has fled the Pythia House (which she ought never to have
left) to bring a monstrous lie against her brothers.” To Nikander the
shock of all this was terrible beyond belief. But worst of all, he feared
that the vile tale about his sons was true. Oh, if he could crush that
fear out of his mind. It must not be true. It could not——
He paced up and down the room beating his hands together weeping,
sobbing, as only those can who, but once in a lifetime, give way to grief.
“My children all against me. But no, it cannot be true. Ruin for them,
ruin for me. It cannot be. No!”
Theria crept weakly to her feet and followed him, but as she touched him
he reeled from her.
“Don’t touch me!” he cried.
Suddenly his agony was transformed to anger.
“You—you—tell that tale, oh, how easily! It is not true. Leave me. I am
beside myself. Your sins are more than I can bear. And now you add yet
more. You will ruin my sons.”
“Father, Father,” she pleaded.
“My poor wicked Theria. What place is there for you anywhere? Not at home
here, not in the Pythia House. Oh, I know not what to do for you. No, I
will never believe that story. Leave me before I go mad!”
He was so beside himself that he did not notice when she shrank away from
him and staggered out of the door. Indeed he continued to speak in the
same words, “Leave me—I will not believe you. Leave me!”
Suddenly she touched his arm again, or so he thought. He uncovered his
face to find Medon standing before him—Medon with eyes astream with tears.
“Master, Master, I knew that if the little mistress appeared it was some
terrible thing. Master, I know what she has told you. You called so
bitter loud upon your sons. I know, I know!”
“Leave me, Medon,” said Nikander angrily. He was still pacing up and
down. But Medon did not leave.
“Master, I had not the courage to tell you. But I can follow the little
mistress’s telling. Lycophron, Dryas, oh, you must haste to save them.”
Nikander stopped his pacing, and gazed into Medon’s face as though he
comprehended not a word of what the old man was saying.
Medon piteously went on, “Lycophron and Dryas thought I could not hear,
but I heard them talking; oh, I heard too well. And the men who have been
with them, they are spies, Master. The slaves have long been whispering
that those men were Persian spies. To-day I was very anxious. All day I
have watched. And this afternoon I followed Lycophron to where he had
swift horses waiting and those men were there. I do not know where they
were going, but it was on some wicked errand. For when Master Lycophron
saw me, he caught me. He threatened to kill me if I told. The men wanted
to kill me at once. Oh, Master, haste! haste, there is no time to lose.”
“Yes—yes,” said Nikander, dazed into bitter quietness. “Yes, Medon, thank
you.”
He stood quite still while his thoughts raced. Then he ran out of the
house to summon youths of the nearest kin who owned the swiftest horses.