The Prophet At Delphi.
“There is but one such spot; from heaven Apollo
Beheld; and chose it for his earthly shrine!”
Aubrey de Vere.
Instead of returning immediately to Athens, following the expulsion of
the Persians, Zopyrus and his new-found friend, Cimon, turned their
faces northward. Tempted by the beauty of the starry nights and the
absence of wayfarers, the two usually journeyed after the golden orb of
the sun had disappeared beyond the watery horizon of the Corinthian
Gulf. Along this road that skirted the gulf, the hordes of Xerxes had
marched.
The contrast between his journey southward and northward filled Zopyrus’
heart with stirring emotions, and in the dewy silence of the nights that
followed their departure from Platæa, Zopyrus revealed to Cimon his
peculiar identity and laid bare to this sympathetic friend the emotions
that had at first stirred and finally swayed his soul from the time that
he had left his native Sardis up to the present moment.
Cimon was a sympathetic and wondering listener. This young man’s
experiences were so antipodal to his own that they interested him
exceedingly. A week passed in this pleasant exchange of ideas and
confidences until toward sundown of the eighth day, the purple crown of
Mt. Helicon loomed in the distance and the two knew that in another day
their journey would be completed.
“I do not believe that Melpomene sits alone on Mt. Parnassus now,”
remarked Zopyrus meditatively, more to himself than to his companion, as
the two caught their first glimpse of the lofty dwelling place of the
Muses.
“What did you say?” asked Cimon, puzzled.
“Oh,” replied the other with a short laugh to cover his confusion, “I
was just giving expression to an extremely fanciful idea that occurred
to me when I passed through this gorge on my way to Athens. I imagined
that surely in the face of an invading foe, no Muse but the sorrowful
Melpomene could occupy yonder height.”
“You were surely mistaken, friend Zopyrus,” said the other with a
seriousness that proved how highly he esteemed this young man’s
opinions. “Would not Clio, for instance, have been there to record
events that will go down in history, and surely you can not imagine that
Callio was in hiding when Aeschylus wrote his inspired verse so soon
after the victory of Salamis! Aye, and Thalia too, had a vision of the
future and knew that ere a year had passed, two friends, one who had
helped in his infinitesimal way to swell the ranks of Xerxes, and one
who, insignificant as compared with the many heroes of Hellas, would
pass together in the bond of a lasting friendship beneath her very
abode! I do not believe that any of the Muses or any of the gods ever
desert mortals, but we finite beings are incapable of comprehending
their plan for us in the process of its unfolding.”
Zopyrus thought of the monotheistic belief of the Hellenic maiden whose
act of supplication he had witnessed on the promontory overlooking the
Bay of Salamis, but he said nothing, for he had an inner feeling that
the stalwart, aristocratic Greek who walked beside him was as yet
unready for a belief in but one ruling Divinity. That he loved the
deities of Greece was evident from the rapt gaze which he now turned to
the lofty summit of Mt. Parnassus. Was he aware that there were Greeks
of the purest blood who were turning from the ancient gods and exalting
Zeus apparently out of all due proportion? Strange emotions filled
Zopyrus’ heart, for he too marveled at the thought that belief in the
gods might no longer sway the destinies of the Greeks.
The two young men perceived that the road turned away from the
water-side and zig-zagged across a picturesque ridge. It was now broad
daylight and they met occasional pedestrians who were returning from
consultations with the oracle of Apollo. What sorrows and ambitions,
what joys or what despair were locked in the heart of each one? Very
likely these travelers had sought the oracle upon personal matters since
their national crisis had so recently passed to their great advantage.
Here an old man with slow and feeble steps probably wished to know the
time yet allotted to him upon earth; there a mother with anxious
care-worn countenance whose boy had not yet returned from Platæa, and
beside her a young wife whose husband might have perished on the field
of battle.
Cimon and Zopyrus did not stop to converse with any of the wayfarers for
they desired to return to Athens as quickly as possible after their
interview with the Pythoness. Presently they found themselves in a
rugged and romantic glen, closed on the north by the wall-like cliffs of
Mt. Parnassus, on the east by a ridge similar to the one they had just
crossed, and on the south by the irregular heights of Mt. Kirphis, and
in this glen stood a simple Ionic temple surrounded by many smaller
buildings; the treasuries of various cities and islands of Greece. Their
outlines were softened by vines and shrubbery in abundance. The tall
trees and towering crags of the mount of the Muses allowed the entrance
of only such sunlight as filtered through the less leafy trees. The air
was cool and laden with the dank odor of growing things.
The two suppliants at the shrine of Apollo, after passing by the
treasury of Thebes, approached that of Athens which was a beautiful
little Doric temple of Parian marble, containing and partly built from
the spoils of the battle of Marathon. Cimon paused to read an
inscription engraved on a low parapet that supported armor captured from
the Persians in that great battle. His heart swelled with pride at the
consciousness that it was his father who had so successfully routed the
Persians on the plain of Marathon. He ventured a glance at Zopyrus and
was convinced that a loyal Greek stood by his side.
The long low edifice just beyond the Treasury of the Athenians was the
Bouleuterion above which rose a rough mass of rock, the Rock of the
Sibyl. A priest of Apollo at the entrance of the Bouleuterion gave each
of the young men a wax tablet and stylus with which it was intended that
he write the question that he wished answered by the Sibyl whose duty it
was to make known the will of the god whose organ of inspiration she
was. The question that appeared on the tablet of each was the same;
“Shall I win the maiden I love?” The priest took the tablets and
withdrew to the rock where the priestess, a virgin clad in white, having
chewed the leaves of the sacred laurel and drunk from the prophetic
underground stream, Kassotis, sat upon a tripod above a fissure in the
rock from which a mystic vapor arose by which she soon became inspired.
Her mutterings and ravings were interpreted by the priest who wrote them
below the questions in verse.
As was customary the men did not remain near during the trance of the
medium, but sought the Castalian Fountain which was east of the sacred
precinct at the head of a wild and picturesque gorge. The fountain was
in front of a smooth face of rock, the water issuing from a rock at the
right and being carried through a channel to an opening at the extreme
left.
Cimon and Zopyrus seated themselves beneath a plane tree and surveyed
with delight their romantic surroundings. It was no wonder Apollo had
here chosen a location for one of his shrines! The very breeze which
brushed against their cheeks was like the breath of unseen spirits. The
leaves of the plane trees whispered unintelligible secrets and the
mountain stream murmured of mysteries as it moved majestically onward.
Suddenly the two became aware of a figure seated near the edge of the
fountain nearly within touch of its cooling spray. It proved upon closer
observation to be that of an old man with wrinkled countenance and long
flowing beard. From under his shaggy brows he had surveyed the
new-comers with searching eyes. His hands were folded across the head of
a knotty walking-stick. Cimon, the true Greek, to whom goodness and
purity were synonymous with outward beauty, turned away from the
unlovely figure of the old man with an exclamation of annoyance,
signifying that he disliked having the loveliness of the scene marred by
the presence of the elderly stranger. But Zopyrus was differently
affected by the sight of the aged one. Something vaguely familiar in the
type of features held his gaze.
The old man continued to survey the two new-comers with a penetrating
gaze till Cimon stood up abruptly and said to Zopyrus: “Our answers must
be ready. Let us return to the rock of the Sibyl.”
He walked away from the fountain keeping his face averted, for he would
not deign to glance again toward the aged stranger. But Zopyrus’ heart
was filled with pity toward this old man whose eyes like living coals
burned forth their last lustre from the ashy gray of his withered face.
“You are a stranger in Greece?” Zopyrus asked kindly.
The old man gave an affirmative nod and said, his tones seeming to issue
from the recesses of a cavern, “You too, my young friend, are a stranger
to Greece, but not so your companion,” with a nod toward Cimon, who now
hesitated to leave the fountain side and lingered uncertainly to hear
the discourse.
“You are right, father,” replied Zopyrus, bestowing upon him a look of
mingled wonder and approbation, “I came over with King Xerxes, but am
not intending to return to Persia. My companion here knows that though
once half a Greek, I am now entirely won over to the cause of Hellas.”
“It is easy to turn over to the victorious side! Tell me did you fight
for Greece before taking this step?”
“That he did,” cried Cimon who could no longer maintain his attitude of
aloofness. “Next to Pausanias himself, there was no braver in the ranks
of the Greeks!”
The stranger’s eyes glowed with enthusiasm and he bent upon Zopyrus a
look of deep admiration. Suddenly he stood up and though he leaned on
his cane, the young men were surprised at his lofty stature.
“Do you intend to worship the gods of Greece? I see you have made a
start by journeying here to this shrine of pagan idolatry.” He looked
about him, his sharp features expressive of scorn and disapproval.
Cimon took an aggressive step toward the two, but Zopyrus stretched
forth his hand deterringly.
“Tell me what you mean,” Zopyrus asked, a suspicion of the truth
beginning to dawn upon him.
The ancient pilgrim dropped his staff, and raising his arms toward the
heavens, cried, “And the Lord shall be king over all the earth; in that
day shall there be _one_ Lord, and his name _one_. For the idols have
spoken vanity, and the diviners have seen a lie, and have told false
dreams; they comfort in vain.”
He turned and pointed with one outstretched arm in the direction of the
oracle, and with the other extended heavenward he continued: “Thus saith
the Lord of hosts: ‘In those days it shall come to pass that ten men
shall take hold out of all the languages of the nation, even shall take
hold of the skirt of him that is a Jew, saying, “We will go with you;
for we have heard that God is with you.”’”
The last words trembled into a silence that neither of the men dared to
break. The awful solemnity and stern conviction of this prophet of a
foreign race filled them with indescribable fear. They stood in reverent
attitude before this worthy seer whose inspired words caused the
possible utterances of the demented Pythoness to sink into utter
insignificance. When the young men ventured to look up, the aged one was
disappearing around the edge of the fountain in the opposite direction
from which the two had come.
“Wait a moment,” called Zopyrus. “Who are you, worthy sir, who have only
strengthened convictions which I already possessed?”
The prophet smiled and his face seemed alight with an inner radiance as
he replied, “They call me Zechariah.”