Sappho's Leap (14 page)

Some waited and waited. Some bribed the priests and got ahead in line. Some bribed the priests and got nothing. The system was complex and unknowable. You almost had to be an oracle yourself to figure out how to
see
the oracle.

The theory was that Apollo knew his father Zeus' will and that the oracle could interpret what Apollo knew. The process was far from simple. The oracle only worked on certain days, according to a schedule the priests delighted in changing as capriciously as possible. Just as the Oracle of Olympia “spoke” through sacrifice of animals and the examination of their entrails, just as the Oracle of Dodona at Epirus “spoke” through the whisperings of wind in the oaks, the cooing of doves, and the striking of the golden bowl (which was really brass under a golden wash)—the Oracle of Delphi “spoke” through the priests, who translated her ravings into ambiguous verses. Since the future is ambiguous, prophecy itself must be ambiguous. We see the future intermittently through mist.

“Some say the Pythia was once a laurel tree!” said a pilgrim who climbed with us awhile. “Just as the Oracle of Dodona was once an oak, a laurel tree once spoke at Delphi.”

Praxinoa made a disbelieving face at him.

“The ways of the older gods are strange indeed,” the climber said, huffing and puffing as we outdistanced him.

“How do you know these things?” asked Prax, looking down at him.

“Everybody knows these things,” the man opined.

Praxinoa sniffed. She was not an easy one to convince.

Climbing the mountain, we looked everywhere for Alcaeus, but alas, we did not see him.

“I suspect he is waiting at the top to see the oracle,” said Praxinoa.

“Or maybe he never came here after all. Maybe Cyrus of Sardis lied,” I said. It seemed more and more possible that poor dead Cyrus was a fraud.

As we trudged ever upward, I thought about all we had to do, and it seemed overwhelming. First we had to raise more gold, since it was clear that the predictions of the oracle would not come cheap. Then we would have to procure disguises and find our way into the sacred precincts to beg for a prediction about Cleis and Alcaeus. And we seemed to have plenty of competition for the oracle's attention. People we met on the climb warned us that many had grown old awaiting the oracle.

“If you think it is easy to get a prediction out of the Oracle of Delphi, think again!” the pilgrim from Samos had warned. And it was true. Even before we reached the top of the mountain, we could see a long line of suppliants snaking around and around. Some men had been waiting months and had even pitched tents on the mountain passes while they took turns waiting in line. However many bags of gold they had brought, it seemed that someone had brought more or had been waiting longer. The priests went among the people in line, extracting tribute. The system seemed very corrupt. The treasuries of Delphi contained riches from all over the known world.

As we reached the very top of the mountain, people who had seen the oracle told us all sorts of things. Some were angry. Some were satisfied.

“She tells nothing,” one young man from Chios reported. “She sputters and foams at the mouth. It is the priests who tell you what she says, but their verses are so ambiguous that even then it is hard to understand them. The meaning of the oracle is wrapped in clouds like this mountaintop. You pull away one layer, but behind it other layers remain.”

“What did she tell you?” I asked.

“She told me she knew the number of grains of sand and the depths of the sea. I had no idea what she meant.”

“She was telling you she encompasses all knowledge,” I said. “She was telling you her prophecies are wide as the desert and deep as the sea.” The man stopped and stared at me.

“I think you're right!” he said. “She talks in riddles!”

“Not riddles,” I said, “metaphors. She talks in a symbolic language—like a singer or poet. You can understand her only if you don't think literally.”

“Then you are an oracle too!” the Chian said.

“In a way, I suppose you could say I am.”

“For everyone but yourself,” Prax teased.

The man from Chios got very excited. He called his friends and traveling companions. “She's an oracle too,” he said. “Repeat what you just told me,” he directed.

“Only if you pay her,” said Praxinoa.

“How much?” asked the Chian.

“An
obolos
will do,” said Prax.

And this was how, in the weeks that followed, we raised enough money to see the oracle herself.

Praxinoa had learned her lessons well from Cyrus of Sardis. As the word got out that I was a sort of oracle who could interpret the mysteries of the oracle, Prax kept raising my price. I began by explaining the utterances of the oracle, but before long, people were coming to me and bypassing the oracle. The wait was shorter. The priests did not have to be propitiated. Only Praxinoa had to be paid.

Of course, Delphi was the haunt of many soothsayers. Oracles beget oracles. The ones who wait keep busy with sacrificing, with divination by birds, by entrails, by flames, by wind, by smoke. The ones who have seen the oracle require help in interpreting her pronouncements. The whole precinct reeks of magic, and where there is magic—or the promise of magic—gold always changes hands.

Many wisdom-seekers had brought beautifully crafted golden objects to donate to the treasury at Delphi. It was our pleasure to divert these into our own hands. When we were certain we had collected enough
oboloi
and golden trinkets to please the priests and attempt entrance to the oracle's divine presence, we borrowed turbans and caftans from some clients from the East, glued false beards and mustaches on our female faces, and made ready to breach the inner sanctum, the
adytum
. We knew, of course, that there would be many more complex rituals to perform before we were allowed into the Pythia's presence—or even into the presence of her priests, the
prophetai
who interpreted her will.

“Aren't you afraid that the seekers we have counseled will tell the priests we are women?” Prax asked.

“Why would they? We could retaliate by exposing them for having cheated the oracle and her interpreters. I think fear will silence them. If you say nothing, nothing will be said to you. We owe no loyalty to these priests, these
prophetai
who profit by the oracle's wisdom. If we act as if everything is normal, they will do the same.”

So we prepared to see the oracle. First we had to purify ourselves with water from the Castalian Spring, then with oil infused with perfume of rare mountain flowers. Then we had to sacrifice a fine heifer, catch her blood in a pure golden bowl (of our own provisioning), and give it to the priests to examine. They got to keep the bowl. Then we had to share the sanctified meat with Apollo—and of course with the hungry priests. After that we stopped at the treasury to leave our golden offerings and watch them duly catalogued in the papyrus rolls. Then we retreated from the priests to change into clean robes and turbans.

Did I forget to say that before all this we had to abstain from sex for three full days and nights? How can I have forgotten? Prax and I were at that age when three days and three nights were an eternity. We had always found comfort in each other's arms—except during the days when I was besotted with Isis. But now we kept our eager hands off each other. We were determined to elicit a prophecy that we could
use
.

Meanwhile, wherever we went in the sacred precinct, fingers were outstretched to relieve us of
oboloi
and of gold. We watched our fellow suppliants shed golden objects as if they were eagles molting. Many suppliants were turned away even after observing all the rituals. Others were made to wait longer and longer and were finally dismissed. But somehow our luck held and the priests moved us along in the final line that snaked around the innermost sanctuary.

They say there are many Pythias—that they take turns uttering prophecies. Some wags even say that the Pythia is no woman but a priest in women's garb. Others claim the Pythia is no virgin, but, in fact, a former prostitute who has passed the age of erotic love. I can only relate what I saw on my first audience with the Pythia. If it was a show, it was a damned good one!

To my eyes, the Pythia, who wore a wreath of laurel and held a laurel branch, appeared first as woman with the face of a mad dog—a very hairy mad dog whose face was almost hidden but whose mouth moved like a separate animal. The Pythia frothed at the mouth, tore at her linen, rubbed herself between the legs, and said whatever she pleased like a child babbling nonsense syllables. The
prophetai
stood around her like sentinels and did not show any emotion as she raved. Her words were hard to understand. Some of them made sense. Some of them did not.

“Oho. Oho. Oho. Who comes now? Speak, stranger. Are you the Pythia's friend?”

“Yes!” I replied.

“The sea opens, but it does not close. The waves are green but also white. The waves are wine. The waves overflow their immense amphora….The gold of Lydia will hardly shine the lilies…they shine themselves….”

As she spoke, vapor rose from the narrow crevice that traversed the sanctuary. I felt drunk as I inhaled this vapor, or was I again imagining?

I looked at Prax. She looked at me and opened her eyes wide. If only we could speak.

Most of what the oracle says makes no sense or the priests would be out of a job. First they are silent and solemn. Then they eagerly hover around her, interpreting her smallest gasp, her longest ululation. I swear they must interpret her farts!

The priests were impressed that the Pythia addressed me directly.

“Very rare,” said one.

“Rare, indeed,” said another.

“May I ask if the Pythia knows Alcaeus of Lesbos?” I asked.

“Indeed,” said one of the priests, “he is drunk on prophecy. He laps up prophecy as some men lap up wine. He was here some months ago for the king of Lydia, the great Alyattes, son of Sadyattes, son of Ardys, son of Gyges, who overthrew Candaules, who was too enamored of his own fair wife…. A man who loves his wife too much must come to grief….”

“All very good customers,” said another priest.

“You mean—very pious kings,” another priest said.

“That too,” said the chief priest.

“He asked a few questions about the future of his king,” said the chief priest. And then he asked many questions about Sappho of Lesbos—a well-known singer.”

“He did?” I asked.

“That he did,” said the priest.

“And what did the Pythia tell him of this Sappho of Lesbos—whoever she may be?” This last question came from Prax.

At this the Pythia began to foam at the mouth and sputter syllables: “Psa, Psa, Psa, fa, fa, fa, ha, ha, ha!”

“What does she say?” I asked.

“Shhhhhhhh,” whispered the chief priest. “Listen!”

“Cypris guards this girl,” said the Pythia—as clear as you or me. Then she erupted again in a shower of nonsense syllables. Cypris, of course, was another name for Aphrodite, who was born out of the sea at Cyprus.

“What does she say?” I asked again.

The Pythia burbled, bubbled, hissed. The mist grew thicker and thunder rumbled above the gorge as if Zeus himself were giving orders to his son Apollo. I swear I felt earth shake under my feet—which was indeed possible since Delphi was in a region of earthquakes. There was a beating of wings as if Aphrodite had just flown in, drawn by sparrows with whirring wings and gentle doves who cooed like lovers.

“What? What did you say?” the Pythia asked, seeming to hear voices from above. “Who are you? Are you Apollo or another god?”

“This is grave,” said the chief priest. “She only interprets Apollo's will. If other gods are here, it is a miracle. It will strain her brain and sap her strength.”

“Let me hear!” I shouted.

The Pythia blathered and blathered, occasionally saying a word I could understand. I understood “The Cyprian says…” and then “Great Zeus says…” and then again “Aphrodite is greater than any other god—for even gods obey her!”

Then she sputtered unintelligibly for some time, while the priests listened intently, writing down her words on wax-covered wooden tablets, which would later be transferred by scribes to papyrus rolls.

“What is she saying of Sappho?” I shouted. “What? What?”

“Calm yourself, man,” said the chief priest. “We must study and compare our notes on the oracle's utterances. We must go to our sacred grove and pray for the right interpretation. We cannot be rushed in our sacred duties. This is not child's play. This is prophecy. This is the god speaking.”

“Indeed,” said the second priest. “We must sacrifice again, drink wine, and ponder. Apply again tomorrow.”

One by one they shuffled off. Probably they were going to finish the remains of my roasted red heifer. For a moment, Prax and I were left alone in the presence of the oracle. She looked up, stopped sputtering, cleared away her wild hair, and looked suddenly like a beautiful woman. I swear she could have been Aphrodite come down to earth!

She winked at us and smiled:

The net has been cast, the little fish dart in the sea.

Your daughter is safe; she will greet you again as a woman.

Egypt awaits and your foolish brothers.

You must be the salvation of all your kin.

You will save them all with immortal song!

The mist now rose in a thick cloud, covering the Pythia's face. Or was it Aphrodite's?

A guard came and hustled us out of the sacred place.

Don't let Doricha boast

That he crawled back for love

A second time.

—S
APPHO