THE NAMELESS WOMAN

The sky over Delphi was black. Utterly black. No moon, no stars, nothing. Only thick clouds blotting out the heavens. Through the mist, the houses were barely visible, reduced to strange, misshapen shadows. The afternoon had been hot and muggy. Now there was not so much as a breath of wind. An ideal night. Perfect for a crime.

An odd stillness lay over everything. Too still. It was as though the gods of Olympus were watching, waiting, while the city-states of Athens and Sparta grudgingly observed their agreed truce. They had been doing so every four years throughout the past twenty-eight years of bitter warfare. The Pythian Games were an important celebration, commemorating Apollo’s victory over the monstrous Python, which had devastated the region in the service of unholy deities. Its defeat had ushered in peace and prosperity. The god had even established his oracle there. Unfortunately, the truce for the Games never lasted long: seven or eight days at most. That particular miracle, one might say, owed more to the fear of angering the gods than to human kindness.

“Damn it!” Leontides muttered through his teeth as a sharp pebble dug into the sole of his foot.

The young man edged along close to the rocks, his body taut, his brow furrowed in concentration. The crimson cloak hanging from his shoulders brushed his thighs. He was barefoot, just like the savages he despised so much: those mindless oligarchs, born for nothing but war. Every step brought some fresh discomfort. Grit, dust, little cuts.

He cursed under his breath. The bronze helmet weighed a ton, strained his neck and rubbed painfully against his nose. Worse, it brought back things he would rather forget: burned fields in Attica, driving farmers to seek refuge behind the city walls; olive groves felled out of sheer spite, simply to degrade and humiliate; men with their throats slit after surrendering, their wives dragged away in chains as spoils of war; children torn from their mothers to be sold into slavery… Yes. Far too many horrors. Wearing that uniform made him sick.

Sparta did not conquer. No. Sparta destroyed. Wherever it went, nothing remained but ashes. It was an enemy to be defeated, a people evil to the core, whom Leontides had learned to hate and fear as a boy. Blind fury rose in his chest and tightened around his throat, driving him onwards, keeping him from turning back.

“Athena, daughter of Zeus, I ask for neither glory nor praise. Only grant me a clear mind and a steady hand upon my sword. If I return alive, I will bring an offering to your altar every week,” he prayed, barely above a whisper, feeling sweat bead on his forehead. It was a habit he had learned from his general, a man he regarded almost as a father.

His training had taught him to move without a sound. Or so he liked to think. He was no Spartan, certainly not, not by a long way, but he was not useless either. More than anything, he had learned to survive. To move, to keep quiet, to stop thinking when it was time to act. He lacked the discipline of those monsters raised from childhood to kill, or the easy competence of the mercenaries Athens now hired as though they were tools. He… well, he simply fought to stay alive. That was quite enough.

His people were different. Nothing like the Spartans. They fought because they chose to, without compulsion, without hierarchies imposed from childhood to break their judgement and their will. Leontides considered himself a free man, raised in a democracy, not a soldier drilled in warfare from his earliest years. Alongside his comrades, he had learned to hold the hoplite formation, keeping the ranks tight and solid, breaking them only when the terrain left no choice. Then came the sieges, the stench of dried blood clinging to his clothes, the night sorties when no one dared open his mouth. Countless battles followed, and sleepless nights of wounds and pain. Those hard years had shaped him, teaching him a lesson he would not easily forget: adapt or die.

An owl hooted, breaking the silence and sending a shiver through him. Then he relaxed a little. *Let’s hope that’s a good sign,* he thought, praying Athena had heard his pleas. His mind darted back and forth, unable to settle. But all of that vanished when he caught sight of the sanctuary. His thoughts deserted him. He could only stare, a slack-witted fool before its magnificence. The columns, the sculptures painted in brilliant colours, the steps worn smooth by centuries of bare feet and kneeling worshippers. Everything seemed too perfect. Too unreal. It filled him with awe. Far too much awe. And just now, that was doing his mission no favours.

“Yes, yes, there’s something in there! I can see it… well… nearly. Nearly…” came the voice of one of the soldiers posted at the east-facing entrance. Something in the way he spoke suggested he was not quite right in the head.

The man was tall and scrawny, with his forehead pressed against an enormous wooden crate. Leontides stopped, trying not to draw his attention, and slowed his breathing until he could no longer hear it.

“Look here, through this little crack…” the guard went on with absolute conviction. “I swear by Apollo, there’s stuff in there. Cravings or something.”

“Cravings? You mean carvings? Well, letters…” scoffed his companion, a shorter, stockier man. “I don’t know why I waste my time listening to your drivel. You can’t write, never mind read. The only thing you’ll make out in there is stone. Hard stone, just like that skull of yours, you oaf.”

The stocky soldier glared at his companion, who kept his face pressed against the rough wood, determined to see inside.

“Only I think there’s little pictures too, you bone-brain.”

“Bonehead. The word is bonehead.” He paused. “Gods give me patience. I’m going to need it.”

“Oh, whatever it is.” He brushed aside the jibe and returned to what really interested him. “What if the prophecy says the war’s going to end? Yes, yes, I bet the old oracle’s drawn a little picture of the winner.”

“Whatever you say…” The second soldier leaned on his spear and swayed a little. He seemed to have had a few drinks. “Do you honestly think you, of all people—you, who can’t tell an omega from an omicron—are going to understand a prophecy?”

“Shut your mouth, you piece of filth,” growled the snooper. “I don’t need to read. I’ve got eyes in my head. If there’s little pictures, I can see ’em. Besides… it’s strange. Proper strange. All this mystery—it ain’t normal. If Apollo spoke to the old Pythia in a dream… and she had his words carved in stone… and she had a sculptor brought in who couldn’t even read. That’s a bad sign. Bad. Proper bad.”

The other man muttered a curse, careful not to raise his voice too much.

“What would you know? Always the same old nonsense with you. If you were chosen to ask the new Pythia for a prophecy, you’d make the biggest waste of it anyone ever had.” He shook his head. “I can just picture it. You’d stand before the oracle with that gormless face of yours, and when the whole temple finally fell silent, you’d ask something idiotic. Something completely obvious. Something like, ‘O priestess, voice of Apollo, hear my plea: do you know the question I wish to ask?’”

The stocky man gave a muffled laugh at his own joke and pointed a finger at his companion, struggling to keep his balance.

“And she’d say, ‘Of course. Next.’” Every word dripped with mockery. “And that would be your turn over, because you’d already asked your one question. Because you’re an idiot. A foooool. That’s all you’ll ever be…”

“Oi! Don’t say that… I’ll tell my little sister. See if I don’t.”

“By Zeus’s beard! Leave my wife out of this. You were born half-witted, and she’s a harpy in the flesh. How did I get so lucky?”

“Bah… I’ll be nice. Won’t tell her nothing. You’ve been drinking, that’s your trouble. Yes, yes, you’re stinking dunk,” replied the tall, scrawny man, still intent on seeing through the wooden planks. “But… it’s going to be a long wait till the Pythian Games are over and they tell us the prophecy.”

“Keep poking your nose where it doesn’t belong and Apollo might take an eye for your trouble…”

That did it. The other man recoiled from the crate as though it had burned him. Naturally, he had no wish to anger a god.

“The fish seller told me. The priests don’t know what it says in there. Yes, yes, not one of ’em knows a thing. Nobody don’t. Just the little twins… the ones who used to sit on Apollo’s tripod… the ones who got proper poorly after the stone was carved. That ain’t normal, is it?”

“Of course it is. They’d been serving him for years. Bound to lose their voices sooner or later. Don’t forget, they were a pair of raisins when they first came to the temple.” The drunken man swatted at a fly buzzing around him.

“And before… long before them, before the war… a Pythia spat blood. Blood! And the poor woman died. Everybody says so.”

“People say all sorts of rubbish…” The drunken soldier shrugged. “They said this war wouldn’t last long, too. Look where that’s got us!”

A brief silence followed. Wind stirred between the temple columns, as though Apollo himself had arrived. Even the torch flames shuddered.

“Still, I’d like to know what it says,” the first man insisted, turning back towards the crate.

“Stop your nonsense! All you’ll get is a splinter in your eye. There’s a prophecy for you!”

As the drunken soldier burst out laughing again, Leontides waited motionless behind a large rock. He crouched and carefully felt along the ground until he found a stone the size of a coin. An uneven little thing. Perfect. He smiled, weighing it in his hand. He had thrown thousands like it. He knew exactly what to do. He aimed beyond the guards, not at them. His target was a cluster of amphorae stacked beside a side wall.

He hurled the stone. It shot through the air with a sharp, brief whistle. Then came the impact. The crash. It was so loud, so jarring, that even he flinched when a second amphora toppled after the first, rolled across the ground and shattered as it fell down a step. Leontides held still, his breath caught in his chest. The guards reacted at once, hands flailing, feet stumbling. Good! Exactly what he wanted. No room for hesitation now. Either it worked or… best not think about that.

“By Zeus!” growled the stocky soldier, looking wildly around.

“Hey! Wh-who’s there?” cried the scrawny one, reaching for his sword.

Both men left the entrance and stumbled towards the noise, peering into the darkness.

“Probably a cat…”

“Or some stinking dunk like you,” his companion muttered, still smarting from all the insults.

“If it’s a thief, I swear I’ll run him through!” The stocky soldier raised his voice, hoping to frighten whoever had caused the commotion.

As soon as the guards were far enough away, Leontides slipped out of hiding. Without allowing himself even a moment’s hesitation, he climbed the steps and crossed the great threshold. The temple breathed myrrh and dampness over him, mingling with the reek of his own sweat.

He did not stop as the shadows closed around him. He knew where he was going. Behind a few columns, half concealed by an old tapestry, lay the way in. It was anything but obvious. An untrained eye would never have found it. He swept the fabric aside without ceremony and ducked into the uninviting opening.

The farther he descended, the colder it grew. The outside world seemed to have no place here. It might never have existed. All he could hear was the distant drip of water. *Plink, plink, plink…* Something about it unsettled him.

He stopped before a stout wooden door marked with an epsilon. When he opened it, the adyton lay before him, small and steeped in gloom. He had seen outright massacres, men with limbs hacked off, and never so much as blinked. Yet here, in this oppressively cramped space, a chill crawled up his spine and made him hesitate. The gods would never forgive him. He knew it. No. This crime would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Then he saw her. She stood before him with her back turned. The embers of a dying fire cast a faint glow over her body. Her skin was milk-white, like her hair, and her tunic was woven from linen so pure it almost shone. For a moment, Leontides thought he was looking at an apparition, not a woman of flesh and blood.

The Pythia had her backside propped against Apollo’s tripod, oblivious to his presence. She was muttering something he could not make out.

“By the three heads of Cerberus! May the sky catch fire, and may you never live to see tomorrow!” she suddenly bellowed, scratching furiously at her head and stamping one foot.

His eyes widened in alarm, and he took a small step back. Had she discovered him?