“But did your assembly realize what sending the warships meant?”
“Many of us did. But we hope war can be avoided.”
“I understand that Sparta has demanded that you Athenians drive out those associated with the curse made years ago for the murder of suppliants inside the temple of Athena. That would mean driving out Pericles, whose mother was of the offending family.”
“Athens will not drive out Pericles, as the Spartans wish, only because he will not concede to them. In fact, he has issued a demand to the Spartans to expiate their own curse for killing their slaves, the Helots, who had taken refuge in a temple.”
“Ah,” Thades said raising his thin eyebrows. “The Helots. The Spartans talk of freedom for the Greeks, yet they enslave the vast majority of their own people and those they take in war. Someday, such a policy will bring them to ruin.”
I nodded. “Indeed, Pericles hopes so. He issued the decree to remind all Greeks that the Spartans enslave their people.”
“I need no reminding. I am no friend of Sparta. No Corcyran is. Like you Athenians, we prefer democracy. But I fear war. Will you Athenians fight?”
I looked carefully at Thades. I knew that Pericles’ intent was to draw all the Athenians inside the city wall if Sparta attacked, and to let Sparta spin its wheels outside. The Spartans would burn our fields and crops, but no matter. Our great navy would keep us supplied with wheat from the Black Sea area and from Egypt. But I had no intentions of discussing Pericles’ plans in any detail in a public place. For all I knew, Thades was a spy. “We will do what we have to do,” I said. I rose, sorry to part company with a man who seemed intelligent, but I knew the care one had to take in this impending storm.
Mides came in and invited me to the villa where he was staying for an evening of wine and discussion. I declined, citing Selkine’s presence and the young Parmades’ desire to talk to me.
Mides looked over at Selkine. “I understand. Another time.”
I went over to Selkine. She was standing, apparently awestruck in front of one of the great paintings. I knew the painting that had mesmerized her. It chilled my blood. Polygnotus had painted the destruction of Troy. I went to Selkine’s side and stared at the painting. I had, when I’d seen the painting before, admired the beauty of its reds for the fires that burned Troy, of the white and black of the tunics, of the yellow of Helen’s hair. I’d admired the purity of the lines and the dramatic placement of figures. Now I saw the anguish on the faces of the women as they were dragged into slavery, the pain on the faces of the dead men, the blood that seemed to flow from the very walls of the city, the rubble that had once been homes and temples. Polygnotus had drawn well the horror of war, belying the glory that we Greeks had always seen in it.
I looked at Selkine’s face. I took her arm. Her flesh was warm, her skin smooth and soft. I understood why our great poetess Sappho had written that the sight of a loved one was worth the sights of all the warriors in the world.
Selkine put her hand on my arm, and we left the Lesche. Outside, it was still light, and we sat for a while. In the distance, we saw Parmades and a priest talking. They parted and Parmades passed by, greeting us and explaining that he’d been lucky. He’d been told that someone had lost their turn in the lottery and that he would get to visit the oracle now. He indicated that he still wanted to talk to me later.
The sky began to turn to a pale blue with streaks of rose shooting from the descending sun. The sun still lit portions of the shining rock cliff behind us, but dark shadows had begun to score the gray rock face.
A few torches carried by departing pilgrims flickered bright orange against the dark green pines. One man, his cloak wrapped tightly round him against the cool air, sat on a low wall, his head down. I assumed he had received a disturbing answer to whatever question he had posed for the god.
In the valley below, between Mount Parnassus and Mount Desphina, the white columns of the Tholos glowed rosy in the setting sun as pilgrims paying homage to Athena and her temple began to light their torches for their walk back to inns, tents, and farmhouses. The River Pleistos shone silver on its winding way through the olive groves to the bay of Itea beyond. A quiet peace had settled over the sanctuary.
Selkine and I walked past the theatre and looked down on the city treasuries, housing the donations of the pilgrims. On the treasury of Athens, we could see the sculptures of Heracles on the back of the building. I wondered if the Spartans still took offense to our placing their hero and his exploits on the backside of our treasury.
Beside me, Selkine murmured about the beauty of the scene. I turned and saw the golden color of her olive skin in the remaining sun. I wanted her badly. I took her arm again. She smiled, and we moved forward down the slope to one of the sanctuary’s entrance gates.
Just outside the entrance gate, we stopped at the table of a local vendor, a miniaturist selling his pen and ink papyrus drawings of the temple of Apollo. I was digging out a few obols from inside my tunic when we heard it. A high-pitched screech. Selkine looked about, as did I.
“What was that?” she asked.
The vendor shrugged. “A bird, no doubt. An eagle or an owl. Sounded like an eagle. They have a high pitch. Sound almost human, don’t they?”
“An eagle. Zeus’ bird,” Selkine whispered. “Is it an omen?”
“It’s just an eagle,” I said. I looked around at the deep valley running to the bay of Itea. “Maybe.” I noticed that the man who had wrapped himself in his cloak and sat on the wall had also come to the gate. He was staring at the great cliff to the side of the sanctuary.
“Maybe?” Selkine said.
“It’s almost dusk. Most birds have settled in for the night.”
“Then it is a special eagle. Sent by Zeus.”
“Selkine,” I said, a little exasperated, “if it is an eagle, it is out for some eagle reason we don’t know. It has nothing to do with signs or omens.”
Selkine sighed. “I suppose. But something is wrong here. It has been a day of strange keens in the air. I hardly know what to think.” She smiled. “But let us not allow this Delphic mystery to spoil our evening. We can ask the innkeeper to send up some good Chian wine and wheat bread and cheese and maybe even a roasted swallow. We have the night.” She turned and looked up toward the temple where the priests led pilgrims to the pythia, the woman who interpreted the god’s answers. “Then we will see.”
We returned to the inn, told the innkeeper our wants, and retired to our room. It was sparsely furnished, but we needed little other than the small table and the bed that had soft leather coverings and warm rabbit furs. Selkine had carried a basket with good linen, and we spread it on top of the leather. We ate the food, dipped our bread into the sweet white wine and made love. Even in the dim light of the oil lamps, Selkine’s skin shone with a silky glow.
Afterward, we talked of many things, Selkine arguing that the great poetess Sappho surpassed Homer, I arguing that no one surpassed his stories of Achilles and Odysseus. It was a good evening.
We decided on more wine, and I dressed to go downstairs to get it.
I descended the wooden stairs as fast as I could, wanting to get the wine quickly and to return to Selkine. It wasn’t until I stepped into the tavern room that I realized that something was strange. I should have been hearing voices, some drunken, some argumentative, some laughing. I had not been.
Now I noticed that the tavern was unnaturally quiet. Only a murmuring rose from the ten or so men gathered there. I looked around at them. The innkeeper saw me and turned away. The sullen man with the bad haircut looked up at me. Then, as before, he returned to his wine.