The Ten Thousand

CHAPTER THREE

THE DOORKEEPER CHALLENGED us as we passed through the entrance to the inner temple, demanding our names and business. "Xenophon of Athens," my master replied condescendingly, "and my freed-man Theo… Themistogenes of Syracuse, who will assist me." The custodian coolly appraised us, then turned to a scroll containing a list of names. This was the last day the oracle could be consulted this year, and though the list was short, containing only two or three names, the guardian pursed his lips self-importantly and made a considerable effort to maintain the protocol of his position. At last finding our names on the scroll, and verifying that we had already paid the consultation fee, the guardian grudgingly waved us through the narrow door into the huge temple grounds.

Before us was a broad, square courtyard, paved with flagstones worn smooth by the centuries of sandal-clad and bare feet that had trod its surface. It was completely abandoned, except for a half dozen acolytes lethargically mopping the stones in the corners with hand rags, in preparation for the dedication of Dionysus' arrival the following day. At the front of the courtyard stood a small altar, with a lamp burning on either end. A stone trough had been placed to the side of it, into which flowed a trickle of water from one of the many sacred springs located on the mountainside. We walked cautiously up to the altar and waited in silence, wondering whether we were expected to seek a guide, or to call out and announce our presence.

The wall above the altar was carved with the wisdom of the responses emanating from the oracle over the generations. Know Thyself, and Nothing Too Much were placed in prominent locations directly over the entrance to the inner temple. Other sayings too, all conveying the spirit for which Apollo stood, adorned the side doors, even the entrance to the stone barn where the sacrificial animals were kept for the ceremony: Curb Thy Spirit, Keep a Reverent Tongue, Observe the Limit, Glory Not in Strength and my favorite in consideration of its effect on Aglaia: Keep Woman Under Rule. The impact would have been lost on her in any case, as I doubted she could read.

Suddenly a side door opened, and a bald, elderly priest in white robes shuffled out, accompanied by a young acolyte leading a magnificent ram. The ram followed docilely as the trio calmly approached the altar. Upon reaching it, however, the ram determined not to stop, but rather to continue on with its stroll, and it took all the boy's strength to tie the beast to an iron ring set into the stone wall, where it continued to strain against the tether with might and main.

Xenophon had studied the customs of the oracle in advance, and knew that at this point we were expected to sacrifice the animal, which had, in fact, been paid for as part of the consultation fee. The procedure was to sprinkle the creature with cold water taken from the sacred trough, to induce a shudder. This could not be merely a quick tremor, but rather had to consist of a trembling and a shaking throughout the animal's entire body, to the tips of its hooves. The animal's very bones must rattle, the point being to obtain its nod of assent for the sacrifice. If this were achieved, the occasion would be deemed propitious, and Xenophon allowed to make the sacrifice to the god.

With the boy's help, I held the squirming animal between my legs, uttering calming words until its thrashing had subsided and it stood still. Looking down on its face from above I could see my own head and torso reflected in the ram's large watery eyes, until my legs disappeared into the edge of its long eyelashes. I wondered if the gods, too, saw their reflections when looking down into men's eyes from the heavens, and whether, if one were careful and closely observed the Pythia while communing with Apollo, one might not catch a glimpse of the god himself in her eyes, even if the reflection were upside down. Xenophon scooped up a handful of water and sprinkled it gently on the ram's brow. It snapped its head in irritation and snorted, but gave not the slightest semblance of a shudder. Xenophon stepped again to the trough, scooped up more water in his cupped hands, and this time, rather than sprinkling it, dumped it straight into the ram's face. The beast bleated in rage and spit, nearly bucking me off as I struggled to immobilize it between my legs, with my hands tightly grasping its horns. Still no shudder.

In exasperation, Xenophon looked around and spied one of the temple slaves continuing to mop on his hands and knees in the corner, pretending to ignore the whole proceeding while his shoulders shook in silent laughter. He stalked over, grabbed the boy's bucket, and before anyone could react, strode straight to the trough and slopped an entire bucketful over the doomed beast, soaking it and me in the process.

If ever I heard a ram roar, this one did: a deep, lengthy bellow of protest at this ill treatment of its august self. It kicked up its hind legs, tripping me and causing me to flip over its body flat onto my back, knocking the wind out of me. One of my hands slipped free of the horn, and the squirming ram flopped around on top of me with its wool in my face and its sharp hooves flying, while with my free hand I struggled to gain purchase on one of its limbs. I grasped at its wool, which kept tearing free in my hand, and then finally clamped down hard on its soft flesh with my entire fist. The animal stiffened like a plank, and I realized I had seized it by the testicles, causing it to freeze in terror and pain. I cautiously struggled to my knees and secured the grasp of my other hand on its horn, until I was finally able to let loose with the offending hand and assume my original position, straddling its back, with my hands pulling its head up by the horns. As I cautiously let go its balls, the ram heaved a tremendous shudder of relief, and the priest nodded in satisfaction. Xenophon leaped to with the sacrificial knife, I muttered a short prayer under my breath, and in an instant the task had been successfully completed.

"Xenophon of Athens," intoned a voice from behind the thick curtain. Two slaves drew it back along the rod on the rings from which it hung, revealing a small, shadowed room, the central temple, the adyton, wherein mysteries older than mankind itself had been perpetuated. Before us was the most sacred object in Greece and the most ancient, the omphalos, the marking stone of the world's navel, the center of the earth. On either side of it stood two solid gold eagles, commemorating the finding of the earth by Zeus' eagles. The stone itself was unremarkable: Cone-shaped and perhaps a foot high, it was worn smooth by a hundred generations of Pythian hands and by the daily oiling they devoutly applied to it. Remarkable as this object was, however, my eyes scarcely lingered on it a moment before being drawn to the side, where a withered, monkeylike creature sat immobile and silent, pale as a larva. The voluminous folds of her white gowns were tucked around and behind her, the purity and newness of the starched linen fabric contrasting sharply with the rough, papery skin and wispy strands of hair it enframed and enveloped.

Xenophon stood silent, staring at the tiny, ancient woman as she sat motionless on her holmos, her bowl-shaped tripod seat, with her feet dangling down and her face turned toward him expectantly. Her eyes were closed, but even so one could see that she was blind, and not merely blind but blinded-the eyelids closed flat behind the darkened shadows where her eyes would have been, evincing not the slightest hint of the normal convex bulge of the eyeballs. The lids were withered and wrinkled, lacking lashes, and gave the impression of having been fused shut to permanently conceal the empty sockets. On her lap was balanced a plain wooden bowl, on which a small pile of the laurel leaves that had been burning on the altar continued to smolder, sending a small plume of smoke floating lazily upwards and enwreathing her face with its astringent scent. A crown of laurel had been placed on her head, and she held a small branch in her right hand. Thus sat the Pythia, the two prophetai on either side waiting to interpret or otherwise assist her in speaking for the god, all staring back at Xenophon, ready for his query.

"Thou may pose thy question to the lord Apollo, through the person of the holy Pythia," the voice again droned in the ponderous accents of the ancient Delphian dialect, which caught me by surprise. It was only with some difficulty, by recalling the sentence again in my mind, that I was able to understand what our interlocutor had said, whom I now saw was a small, potbellied scribe seated on a high stool just behind the Pythia, his stylus poised over a fresh wax tablet.

Xenophon's eyes flitted from the Pythia to the two priests and back again, but he remained silent. Perhaps he had failed to understand the scribe's order to begin? I prepared to step forward out of the shadows to assist him with a quick, prodding whisper in the ear. The priest facing us on the left wore a sour, irritated expression, glaring at Xenophon as if resenting him for having dragged him out of bed for this duty. The other priest, however, the senior of the two, bore a benign, grandfatherly expression, and waited patiently. Finally, the elder priest nodded at Xenophon kindly, as if reassuring him that he was permitted to speak, and he opened his mouth slightly as if to utter words of encouragement. Before he did so, however, Xenophon seemed to snap to, and without even taking an introductory breath, launched into the question he had so carefully prepared over the past few days.

"Mighty lord Apollo, I entreat thee, hear my question," he intoned quietly, but deliberately and confidently, in his best imitation of the ancient dialect. He stood stock-still and straight as an oar, his eyes fixed on the sightless, sealed face of the Pythia. "Pythian Apollo, god of the Muses, I beseech thee to tell me whether it be thy will that I journey to Sardis to accompany my friend, Proxenus, on his expedition with Cyrus…"

From the moment he began speaking, the old woman had been trembling and showing signs of agitation, rocking back and forth and thrusting her chin up in the air, her feet kicking and heaving like a toddler wishing to be let down from a high chair. Her breath came in a series of short gasps, and before Xenophon had quite finished, she raised her face straight up to the ceiling, flinging the branch she was holding and clapping her hands fiercely to her ears. She uttered a short shriek, as if from pain, flecks of spittle glistening on her chin. The two priests, their expressions as unflappable as hers was frenzied, quickly placed their hands behind her shoulders to prevent her from tipping backward off the tripod.

Suddenly she leaped forward off the seat, landing unsteadily on the floor. Taking a crouching step toward Xenophon, her twisted face pointed directly at his, she paused, then began pacing shakily to the side, still supported by the priests, and mumbling in her dialect so quickly and disjointedly that I was able to pick out only the occasional word. Her arms flapped wildly in gesture, as if she were inebriated or entranced, and her utterances, now repeated over and over, were punctuated rhythmically by the same little shriek with which she had first interrupted Xenophon. She seethed and foamed, ranging back and forth before the altar, appearing to ignore our presence, and jerking her head as if to rid herself of an insect that had crawled into one of her ears and was tormenting her. The scribe followed close behind the old woman and the two priests, rapidly scratching out her words on his tablet. Xenophon stood dumbfounded, his hands hanging limply at his sides, and he glanced at me with a look of utter bewilderment. Nothing we had heard had prepared us for this reaction from the priestess.

After a few moments, the old woman again stopped directly in front of Xenophon and peered up at him, her ancient fingers knotted in tight fists, and her shriveled eyelids seeming to stare straight into his face. Xenophon held his ground and moved not a muscle, for the crone's aspect and behavior were terrifying.

Suddenly she seemed to slump, with her face still staring into his. The two priests half carried, half dragged the Pythia two or three paces backwards, and lifted her again up onto the tripod, where she took a deep breath and reassumed the calm and expectant posture we had seen upon first entering. The priests cautiously removed their hands from under her upper arms, and when convinced that her turmoil had passed, quickly stepped behind her to the scribe, where all three conferred in whispered tones. Moving back to their positions after a moment, the scribe stood up, looked at Xenophon and spoke, reading from his tablet.

"He of wisdom unsurpassed,

Whose words with venom must compete,

Knows that which rules old men and fools,

Though not thyself in thy self-deceit."

"Xenophon of Athens: The Pythian Apollo knows what passeth in thy heart."

At this, Xenophon blinked, and seemed to recoil slightly in silent confusion. He quickly recovered, and again stood at immobile attention while the scribe continued.

"Attempt not to deceive the god with thy mortal lips. Peer deep within thyself, and ask not questions to which thou already knowest the answer, seek not advice which thou dost not intend to obey. Though thy sacrifice has been found worthy, Apollo has rejected thy question and refuses to answer. Ask only that which is of significance to thee."

At this, Xenophon's confidence appeared to flag for an instant. His shoulders slumped, and he gazed over at me again in bewilderment, until I gave a slight shrug, and looked away. He stared down at the floor for what seemed like an eternity. Everyone present in the room, the priests, the scribe, and most especially the Pythia herself, had fixed their unblinking faces on him, again maintaining the utmost silence. Finally he looked up, straightened his shoulders, and stepped forward a pace to stand once more directly in front of the ancient, leathery creature.

"Mighty lord Apollo, I entreat thee, hear my question," he began again using the stock formula. He paused slightly, then continued, his voice hoarse and croaking. "To which god should I sacrifice to make my intended journey to Sardis successful, to fare well upon it, and to return in safety?" This time the Pythia remained calm, her wrinkled face as expressionless as a dried apple. After a moment, what appeared to be a smile crept across her lips, revealing the black, rotten stubs of her two front teeth. Apollo the double-tongued was filling her being, surely weaving a web of words on her lips that would leave us wondering in our confusion, words that would coil and uncoil and meander tangentially to their meaning like a water snake through a bed of reeds. Suddenly, she flung open her dead, frozen eye-lids, revealing behind them not eyes, nor even the watery whites of the blank eyeballs as the blind often show, but what was worse, pure nothingness-black, empty sockets where eyes should have been, like those of a plaster mask worn by an actor, but without the actor's living eyes peering from behind to humanize the eerie, dead quality of the blank surface. Her vacant, cavernous holes penetrated deeply into Xenophon's face, and in reply to his query, she uttered merely one word, in a croak imitating, or mocking, his own voice:

"Zeus."

She continued staring at him as the curtains were drawn back together by the slaves, hiding the leering Pythia from our sight, her empty sockets remaining focused on him until she finally disappeared behind the folds. The attendants stepped forward and took our arms, leading us out from the cool, silent dankness of the temple to the blinding sunlight and raucous shouts of the street vendors setting up their stalls for the festival.