The Double Tongue (16 page)

‘You, Lady, can you be oracular anywhere?’

‘No, Propraetor.’

‘Why not?’

Ionides slid into this farcical conversation smoothly.

‘What oracle can, Propraetor? Would you ask your Sybil of Cumae to leave her cave? Or one of Dodona’s oaks to pick up its roots and run to do your bidding? Of course, a Propraetor might command such a thing and I suppose an oak, given the right incentive, might do it – and then there are –’

‘Who is this?’

‘I was about to make the introductions,’ said the Corinthian. ‘This is Ionides, the son of Ionides, High Priest of Apollo.
That
is the Pythia of Delphi.’

‘It’s the first time I’ve seen a woman reclining like a man rather than sitting.’

‘The First Lady,’ said Ionides, with ice in his voice, ‘is a law unto herself and obeys no one but the god.’

‘Not on my patch she doesn’t,’ said Lucius Galba. ‘If she won’t prophesy for me, that’s her affair. But she’ll obey me like the rest of you Greeks. And you – I remember now. You’re the pigeon fancier.’

Ionides did not pale but I saw the wine in the kylix he held start to shiver.

‘I’m honoured by your interest, Propraetor.’

‘It will continue.’

‘Music,’ said the Corinthian. ‘Let’s have some music. Music, don’t you think?’

It was a boy’s voice, lovely and pure as the gold of the girl’s crown. It was enough to make me weep. I mastered my tears though, not wishing to be womanish before this blunt barbarian. He for his part fell silent and listened. The song drifted down to a gentle end. When it had plainly finished Lucius Galba nodded.

‘You’re good entertainers. I’ve never denied that.’

‘What have you actually denied?’ said Ionides demurely. ‘Tell us that, Propraetor.’

‘The right of any man to foment rebellion against a lawful government.’

‘Ah,’ said Ionides, ‘precisely. But what is in fact a lawful government? History seems to me to be a series of lawful governments stacked one on top of the other. You can’t obey them all, and circumstances force you to obey the latest one. In this case – well, isn’t it obvious?’

‘I hope so,’ said the Propraetor grimly, ‘indeed I hope so.’

‘Music again‚’ said the Corinthian. ‘Let us have some more music. And ask Melissa to be so good as to come back, will you?’

The boy’s voice rose and presently the girl came back, wearing her – my – gold dress and the crown. The Corinthian gave a barely perceptible jerk of his head which sent her to kneel, smiling with I suppose contrived modesty, before the Propraetor. It seemed to me that his eyes bulged. He lifted the kylix to his face and drained it, then held it out behind him.

‘Unmixed,’ murmured the Corinthian, ‘unmixed don’t you think?’

‘Me too,’ said Ionides. ‘Let the snow fall. Let it blow. Let it smother.’

Before the song was done, the Propraetor had hauled the girl on to the couch by him. He shared the unmixed wine with her, and the Corinthian beamed and nodded and my head began to turn. She really did have eyes for no one but Lucius Galba. We might not have been present at all. The Corinthian called for more music and dance, and the dancers flung themselves in with somersaults and high jumps and the shawms sounded brazenly, throatily, and I was jealous, a plain old thing whose dignity and sanctity were disregarded among the noise and dancing and drinking and fondling. The boy who had sung was now whispering in Ion’s ear. Defiantly I held out my empty kylix behind me. It was taken. Presently it came back, full and darker in colour, unmixed. The man who handed it to me knelt and smiled with wide, white teeth. He was black. It came to me who I was and what I was. I stood up and shouted.

‘A libation!’

I spilt the whole kylixful on the floor before my couch. It was a gesture which would have riveted an audience in the theatre but my humiliating confession must be that in the Corinthian’s hall it made no impression at all. The dancers went on dancing, the shawms continued to bray, the Propraetor continued to fondle and the boy told Ionides a story which had them both sniggering like dirty children. It was the Corinthian who rescued me. He stood up and came across and led me into the atrium and handed me over to his house dame who showed me where to sleep.

The next morning was chilly but clear. All the hills of Aetolia across the water were white. Our small party assembled. The Propraetor did not go with us to the ferry, leaving that duty to the Corinthian. He said goodbye to us in the atrium. It was by no means a friendly parting. To me he simply said, ‘Goodbye, Lady. A safe journey.’ But to Ionides his farewell was blunt.

‘Goodbye, Ionides, son of Ionides, Priest of Apollo. My advice to you is that you confine yourself strictly to your religious duties.’

I was beginning to understand things. You will think me blind not to have done so before. But one hears of conspiracies and revolts in other places, one does not expect to stumble over the possibility of one among people one knows. The crossing was calm and under oar. I pestered Ionides with anxious questions but to no avail.

‘Let it be, Arieka. These things are not for women.’

‘Not even for the Pythia?’

‘Not even for her – or at least, not where six oarsmen and a pilot are within earshot.’

‘What did you think of our ruler?’

‘An excellent man in every way. What do you suppose?’

‘I wonder if they –’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. That crown was wonderful. And the girl. To think that such beauty can be bought!’

‘The boy was a dirty-minded little bastard.’

‘I thought you rather liked him.’

Ionides did not answer but I saw that old wince and shiver about his mouth which told me, knowing him as I did, that it was time to change the subject.

‘At least we have the money for the roof.’

‘I only hope this snow hasn’t made it worse.’

‘We shall soon know.’

But in fact we did not soon know. There was much difficulty in getting our sacred cart ashore and more in finding enough horses to get it up the icy road. I even had to walk like a poor woman, and indeed it was fortunate for the exercise warmed me. Had I sat in the wagon as the snow started again and the wind got up, blowing the snow horizontally, I should probably have died.

When we reached the hall of the Pythias I invited Ionides in with me. Directly the door was shut behind us I sensed something wrong. The wind still blew. It was so. There was a pile of snow in the corner of the hall. Little Menesthia appeared and when she saw me burst into tears. Yes, the roof had fallen in, or some of it. She had not known what to do nor had the house dame. She said Perseus had contrived to get timber and canvas up there but had not been able to have the roof properly blocked off because when anything was moved everything moved. Perseus himself appeared and told us that this was only the half. The roof of the bookroom was giving way. Could we come and see? Ionides left me to settle back into my apartments which I was thankful to see had not suffered, though there was an indefinable feeling of homelessness about them now that I knew the roof was damaged. Quite soon Ionides came back with Perseus and the Foundation’s master carpenter. The carpenter said the two jobs would last into the festival season even if the snow held off and gave him a chance to start. As it was, with this weather showing no sign of letting up … Ionides questioned him closely and got as much information as he could. He dismissed him, saying he would let him know his decision. Then he said,

‘May I join you in your apartments?’

‘Of course, Holy One. Menesthia, stop whimpering, child. You may come with us.’

The largest of our braziers was glowing. I warmed my hands at it and dropped my scarf to my neck. Menesthia stood, sniffing. Ionides walked up and down the long way of the atrium.

‘Ionides, I have to say this. The decision is mine, you know.’

‘What decision?’

‘This is the Pythion. I am the Pythia.’

‘Of course, dear Lady. I was merely aiming to save you trouble.’

‘Well then, I have decided to start as soon as the weather is better.’

‘Can you tell him what to do?’

‘No. Can you?’

‘Do you not see the difficulty? We have enough brought back from Athens to start, but where?’

‘On the roof of course!’

‘Yes, but which?’

‘Take me with you, Ion.’

‘Which roof?’

I was silent. Ionides went on.

‘You see, the books will suffer. They are fragile. Irreplaceable.’

I was still silent, thinking.

Books. That huge and magnificent roll of names.

‘Both the Pythion and the bookroom must be looked after. Repaired. That is obvious.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘It is not obvious.’

‘Well then, make it obvious for me.’

‘What is Delphi for?’

‘The oracle. That, surely, is obvious.’

‘Can Delphi exist without the oracle?’

‘No.’

‘Or the bookroom? I mean, did the oracle do without a bookroom at some time?’

‘The oracle was here before writing was invented.’

‘I think not. But I cannot imagine that monster which Apollo slew with his arrows didn’t have a bookroom. I don’t think that as soon as he had slain the monster Apollo said “Let there be a bookroom.”’

‘I can’t bear this – my bookroom!’

‘Where you learnt what a power the hexameter could be!’

‘Ion – what can we do?’

‘The bookroom will have to suffer. We’ll try a temporary measure there and hope for better days. I daresay Perseus can shift the books about. When there’s a lull we’ll go and look.’

The lull was a long time coming. It seemed the snow would last for ever. I think the climate must have been better when the Pythion and the bookroom were built. But at last the snow ceased to fall, though it lay frozen hard on the ground and the roofs. One of the main reasons for thinking that the Pythion and the bookroom were the oldest buildings in Delphi, except the oracle itself, was that the pitch of those two roofs was different. They were flatter, as if the builders had never supposed they would have to bear the weight of snow. As for the oracle itself, built against and indeed, into the mountain, it was too small for the snow to make much difference. Also, as if Apollo had inspired the builders, the slope of the roof was greater so that the snow slid off.

As soon as the snow had stopped falling we huddled ourselves into outdoor clothes and picked our way the few yards to the bookroom. Perseus received us looking doleful. Indeed, at first sight the damage was terrible. Fortunately, however, we discovered that it was almost all confined to that part of the bookroom which contained the Latin books and which for that reason was called the librarium. The scrolls and codexes, as Ion called some curious blocks of paper, had been removed and stacked at the other end of the bookroom, out of danger. I believe both Ion and I – particularly Ion, I should say – were secretly a little pleased that Apollo should have spared the Greek books but made a real mess of the barbarian Latin ones.

Ion even said as much.

‘That’ll show them!’

‘Ion – Lucius Galba! The Propraetor! He’d be bound to see this put right, for the credit of Rome!’

Ion thought.

‘I’m not in good odour. You detected that at least?’

‘At least? Your Sanctity is not always very observant. I received a distinct warning from our Lord and Master.’

‘Your Holiness was all politeness I thought.’

‘Remember the child. Menesthia – aren’t you shocked?’

‘Oh no, Your Holiness. It’s right to call you Holiness, isn’t it?’

Ion laughed, then turned to me again.

‘But you could write a letter to him, First Lady.’

‘I? Write a letter?’

‘Why not? If you can read, you can write.’

‘I would get Perseus to do it. I could sign it Pythia. The Pythia.’

‘You’d far better let me do it. But you’d better practise signing it – I’ll think about that – but for a start practise writing the word Pythia. We’ll decide later whether you sign it also with your given name.’

‘I don’t think that would be proper. Besides, someone might use it.’

‘For what?’

‘Well – you know – magic.’

‘We’ll think. Can you write, Young Lady? Or do you prefer just being an object?’

‘What on earth do you mean, Ion?’ I said.

‘Do you understand, Young Lady?’

‘Yes, Your Holiness,’ replied Menesthia, ‘of course I do.’

‘Do what? Understand or prefer to be an object?’

‘Both of course, Your Holiness.’

‘You had better explain to me, Ion. I suppose I’m slow-witted.’

‘Of course you’re not. You just don’t think in those terms. Menesthia knows she’d prefer being a pretty girl and wearing pretty clothes to sitting in a bookroom all day looking at dull old books. Right?’

‘Yes, Your Holiness.’

‘Menesthia! How can you use hexameters if you haven’t read them?’

‘You’re forgetting, Dear Lady. Once you had only heard them, not read them; and even when you read them you spoke them out loud. I heard you.’

‘Menesthia, did you sit in the portico as I said you could? While we were away?’

‘Yes, First Lady, of course I did. There weren’t many enquirers to begin with, but quite a lot came later on after I got known. I used to sit there. Of course I always had Lydia standing behind me –’

‘You didn’t squat, surely!’

‘No, First Lady. I had Lydia carry a milking stool for me and I sat on that. It was quite comfortable, you know, and really rather like being back on the farm. I was well wrapped up of course. It’s cold on that portico and I didn’t go inside. But I quite enjoyed myself most days. I had my funny feeling to begin with but, you know, later on it wasn’t really necessary.’

‘But what did you do – say?’

‘Well of course when I had my funny feeling I don’t know what I said! But later on I realized that it was quite simple. If it’s a young man you tell him he’ll be lucky in love. If he’s old you tell him he will have a long life and some unexpected good fortune is coming his way.’