Oracles of Delphi - Chapters 1 - 6

In the whole history of her line, Phoibe's people had always worshipped the Mother. Now, she would be Mother to them all. The incarnation of the goddess on earth. She would never marry as her mother and grandmother and grandmother before her had. She would never sit by the hearth waiting for a husband to return from war, waiting for sons to come back one by one, wounded or worse, waiting on the harvest, waiting for grandchildren. Waiting to die. She would not wait on history to overtake her. She would make history. 

She looked around the glade, at the priestesses attending her, depending on her. She would not let them down. She would not be like Sofia. She would lead the people back to the Mother, away from the idolatry of gold and silver, away from the worship of war and the strength of steel, the taste of glory and death on the battlefield and back to the worship of the fruits of the Mother's womb, of sacred springs and sweet wine and warm bread and life. The new Pythia of Gaia would no longer bend to the will of the priests of Apollon, corrupt men who drugged and enslaved their own priestess, the Pythia of Apollon, and reaped the rewards of their avarice by bringing ruin down upon the whole of the Sacred Precinct. She, Phoibe, as the new Pythia of Gaia would change everything. She could see it all. Sofia had foretold it. Melanippe had confirmed it. And now it would come to pass. 

She turned and drug her numb feet through the water, placing them one in front of the other, climbing the stone steps until Theodora and Eumelia met her and stripped off her wet garments. The two priestesses cupped their hands as Melannippe's handmaiden, Kalliope, poured scented oil into their palms from an alabastron that had been heating on the fire. They rubbed the oil on Phoibe's shivering skin to warm her, slipped a new chiton over her head, bound it with a braided belt and wrapped a finely woven woolen himation around her shoulders. Then Theodora placed the laurel wreath upon her brow, led her to the warmth of the fire and helped her sit.  

Melanippe stood over Phoibe, her hand shaking with age, her eyes filmy and gray. "Sofia is no more. She is one with the Mother. You are now Sofia. You are now every Pythia who has come before and who will ever come after. You have studied the secrets of the oracle, learned the healing lore of the land, and bathed in the sacred spring. Now you must drink." She sprinkled more of the crushed leaves into a cup, closed her eyes in prayer, and then handed the cup to Theodora "Take this to the Mother's mouth so that Phoibe may drink of the sacred water and become the Pythia. The water of life, the breath of life, the word of life. Mouth to mouth, the Mother to her daughter."  

Theodora held the cup under the fissure where the water flowed cold and pure from the rock face and then handed it to Phoibe. And Phoibe drank. But where was Charis? 

CHAPTER 4

Menandros' sturdy legs were planted firmly, and his broad girth blocked the doorway. His eyes twinkled with excitement in a ruddy face that was as round as a platter. He looked like a proud father about to introduce his son to the world. "We must wait but a moment. I want you to see it when the light is just so." He swept his arm up toward the ridge of trees on the crest of the rise cradling the theater. "Soon Apollon's rays will break above those trees and Delphi's sacred theater will be bathed in the god's rapturous morning light. And just wait till you see our new altar. It is made of pure white marble and the sunlight makes it shimmer like gold." 

"It must be a sight to behold." Aithera smiled. "Did you know my father always supported a playwright for the Dionysia?" 

Menandros's head bobbed and his cheeks turned red. "I had heard that, yes. And I was hoping that ... well ..." 

Theron laughed, put his arm around Menandros's fleshy shoulders and squeezed. "A poet at a loss of words. Better find your tongue, old friend, or Lysandros's daughter may lose faith in your talents."