The steady flames of two torches, fixed to opposite walls, lit the rough gray stones, tightly fitted together. From the fire rose thin black threads of soot, vanishing gradually into the darkness above. The soft shadows of the iron brackets that held the torches resembled the beaks of giant eagles and slid down the walls toward the floor. There, on the floor, the fire shimmered in the painted black-and-red vessels and glimmered dully on the polished bronze of small figurines — golden-brown, some already veiled with a dark patina. These vessels and figurines stood in abundance along the walls, as if trying to stay close to the light, keeping away from the darkness reigning at the center of the room.
The figurines were much alike: rendered schematically yet with a sense of beauty, they depicted a naked youth. His large head, with its pointed chin, echoed the triangular torso and the firm calves. A straight nose extended the vertical line of his boyishly long, disproportionate legs. That upward striving was restrained by the horizontals of his broad shoulders and almond-shaped eyes, open to the world. Along with the mysterious smile that touched the corners of his thin lips, they seemed to invite: "Dare. Unveil the secret." A bow was the young god's constant companion: sometimes he held it in his hands, drawing the string with an arrow; sometimes he bore it across his back. At other moments he rode bareback upon a winged horse — fashioned in the same style.
The vessels were more diverse. There were bowls — large and wide, with heavy rings at their sides, and small ones — poised on slender stems. There were jars — round-bellied, tall with narrow necks, and delicate ones with fragile, twisting handles. Some were painted simply, with solar signs — circles and spirals nested one within another — suspended between straight bands of clear sky and breathless calm, or with dolphins leaping over evenly running waves. The black paint on terracotta clay looked simple, yet masterful. Others carried more intricate designs: complex rhythms of geometric and figurative friezes — wide and narrow, with unexpected insertions of larger shapes. Here, black lines intertwined with red, and after the firing, the vessels turned smooth and lustrous.
Remembrance.
From outside came the sound of music. The same motif was repeated again and again, like a mantra. Male and female voices sang in unison, rising a tone higher with each repetition; on the fifth, they began the same smooth descent. The plucking of strings set the unhurried rhythm — of the song and of the procession that flowed with it. The nasal wail of a wind-instrument gave them the pitch, while a second flute broke the monotony of the melody with sudden trills of improvisation.
The hymn, born unnoticed out of silence, gained strength with every iteration — growing louder, more solemn, nearer. Until, at the very height of its ascent, it broke off at once — in a single chord of exultant souls. Darkness slowly swallowed it, and the yellow light sank once more into silence. It lingered there for a time.
Worship.
Then the flame flickered, and somewhere to the left the creak of door hinges sounded — and a thin plane of bright sunlight sliced through the darkness. Striking the far right corner, it illuminated the stone floor, the wooden beams of the ceiling, and the rare motes of dust suspended in the air. A damp coolness poured into the room. Behind it followed trembling tendrils of smoke from the incense, carrying with them the multifaceted scent of resins and herbs thrown onto glowing coals. The warm, honeyed-balsamic weight of frozen time was torn apart by the clarity of camphor and menthol — liberating, awakening, calling all to new life.
The light expanded, transforming from a flat plane into a three-dimensional form. Its left edge boldly surged toward the center, revealing a bare wall, until it stumbled against something convex. Without slowing, it leapt over the obstruction and pressed onward.
The object was white and conical, rising at least a meter above the floor. Its surface was etched with a lattice pattern, and at the base, in a protruding stone band, arched the half-rings of a vanquished serpent.
Knowledge.
A man of middle age entered through the open door — dressed in white, his hair neatly bound with a braid, his short beard well kept. Holding his back straight, he moved toward the stone with a soft, confident step, carrying a tripod in outstretched arms. Pausing before the "center of the cosmos", following the ritual, he sank briefly into himself, then circled it and placed the gift of the first visitor against the far wall. After that, he left the temple in silence.
Yet the sunlight that had entered that day never left the god's abode. It rested upon the offered gift, which gleamed under its gaze like gold, its bas-reliefs flexing like taut muscles. Along the three tall legs of the main symbol of divination, strong ripe wheat stalks reached toward the generous rays of the sun, cast across the bottom of the outer side of the curved seat. In the central part, dolphins danced in a roundelay, while along the edge the sea waves foamed and raged.
The tripod — the symbol of divination… The mockery — the symbol of pride… of defiance…
«You fret over shadows.
You give birth to the incorporeal.
Nameless. Homeless. Without fate.
They are your children.»
A woman's voice sounded from beyond the door as if rising from the very abyss — from the depths of a fissure in the earth, where sounds tear through sharp, slicing slabs, leaving ragged wounds upon themselves. It was as though it were propelled by clouds of vapor — scorching, impatient, sometimes flowing sideways, sometimes bursting straight through.
«The thread of your house has only brushed the spindle.
But you will not see —
You are blinded.
The words of doom have sounded —
But you heeded them not.
Your ears are closed —
You are deaf!»
The seeress sat upon a high chair, her back to the temple entrance. Like the priests, she was dressed in white: a fine woolen fabric, edged with a golden meander, flowed from her shoulders along her slightly bent back, draped over her wide hips in an airy fold formed by a narrow belt at her waist, and fell all the way to her feet. At that level, bronze arrows swayed to and fro. Her bare feet curled around the legs of the tripod, toes splayed with tension. Her fingers clutched the seat — knuckles whitened. Strong olive-colored arms, like two pillars, supported the body convulsed by a large tremor. Age was betrayed only by the wrinkled folds at her elbows and a few gray strands woven into the dark-chestnut intricate knots, crowned with a laurel wreath.
«Descendant of kings, of ancient blood,
to whom fate is drawn to the gods —
You have turned away.
You have risen —
Yet were not lifted.
You chose yourself —
And fell.
Rebellious.
Proud.
Human!»
Two young men steadied the priestess, preventing her from falling. Nearby stood two others, older. One held a laurel branch with a torn leaf; the other, a vial of water. The latter raised it to the woman's lips; she took a sip.
«And so you shall remain.
Yet the life of man is short.
Await the end.»
The supplicant withdrew, his head held high, a chill still flickering in his gaze. He passed beyond the enclosure — out to where the others waited for their turn: gathered densely near the gates, then thinning into a long, uneven tail along the sacred road that rose from the valley toward the temple, winding up the slope of the grey-sanded mountain ridge.
A motley crowd assembled here each year, on the same day. The young and the old, women and men, tall and fair, dark-skinned and dark-haired, with delicate or striking features, the poor and the well-born. Shielding themselves from the gusts of the cool wind — common in the early mountain spring — they wrapped tightly in woolen cloaks: short and grey, long and dyed, fastened at the shoulder with heavy or finely wrought fibulae. And yet, with quiet gladness, they turned their faces toward the gentle sunlight, already warm to the skin; and then the gleam of its rays, caught on earrings and amulets, seemed to stir the frozen procession into motion again. Each pilgrim carried an offering — the finest he could afford: amphorae of grain, wine, or oil; lekythoi of incense; ritual kraters and kylixes; small figurines, musical instruments, or living beasts.
He who had received so dire an oracle did not hasten to quit the sacred mountain. With a weight in his step, he made his way toward the cypress grove that spread a little aside and stood still, fixing his gaze on the pale, blue-green mountains beyond the far rim of the gorge; the snow had not yet fully withdrawn from their couloirs.
Seldom does a man earn the lot of angering the gods. And yet — had he not foreseen such an end, offering that gift?
Two deep parallel creases — one slightly longer than the other — marked his brow between dense, dark brows. He was a man of about fifty-five: lean, his muscles still well-defined though stripped of former firmness. His skin was olive, though not like the priestess's — darker, sun-touched, roughened by wind and light. His face was long, with high cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, and dark-brown eyes at whose corners fine lines had gathered. Thick, near-black hair streaked with silver was bound in a knot at the nape, while his beard fell in loose, curling strands. Passing through the crowd, he could look down upon the crowns of most gathered there.
He wore a short, earth-ochre chiton, its edges embroidered with a geometric border, and sandals with thin straps that wound around his calves. A deep blue chlamys, fastened with a fibula in the shape of a ship, draped his shoulders. The chill of the month of Bisyon did not trouble him in the least. Beneath the cloak an obsidian amulet could be glimpsed, and at his woven leather belt — knotted in a sailor's tie — hung a knife.
The man sank into thought.
«What does it mean, Father?»
A handsome young man walked beside him. He was almost the very image of his father in youth: an athletic build with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Strong legs, the same shape of face, the same profile, the same dark hair braided into a single plait.
Yes, he was beautiful — taller even than his father, standing out among his peers not only by the striking symmetry of his features, but even more by his grey-blue eyes: a rare, arresting shade that had come to him from his mother. And now, within that clear depth, there flickered the rich green of his cloak… and the unrest stirred by the oracle's words.
«The speech of the Radiant One is veiled, like the dawns in His abode.
Yet woe to him who cannot fathom it.»
Slowly he spoke — almost chanting — meditatively, as though tracing the very formula of life, the silver-haired man keeping his gaze fixed upon the mountains. He fell silent again and returned to his thoughts.
But soon his eyes cleared; he brightened and turned toward his son.
«Hear me, my son. I shall reveal to you that part of my life which has lain hidden —
not out of shame, but for the sake of peace.»
The young man's attention gathered wholly upon those lucid eyes.
«I overstepped the measure. And unrepentant I say: I did all that a man could do.
In years near to your own — seven and thirty winters have passed since then —
I returned from the city and found only ember and ash.
My house — dust. My kin — blackened fragments of flesh.
None could tell whether it was the gods' wrath or the sport of blind chance.
With what remained I made the rites, as the law commands.
I washed and buried what was left of those who gave me my name.
I poured the wine, burned the incense, set down the loaves of peace.
I took a handful of my father's earth and went forth on my road.
All I wished was to begin again, far from pain —
to join a westward-sailing ship, where men with stainless hands
raise new cities on unbroken soil.
But first I came here, to this place of prophecy,
to ask: was the fault mine, or of those whom I loved?
And I heard:
"Immortality awaits you.
But the seed that shell grow into the tree of your house
has not yet swelled within the mother's bud."
Then I knew: my path was not yet opened.
I returned.
I strove in contests, in the trials of the Muses.
I sought the one who would see in me a companion.
And I was chosen.
I served. I learned. Years passed — and once more I came before the Pythia.
The answer was the same.
Then again.
And again.
My patron had a daughter — she was but a small girl when I first crossed his threshold.
A beautiful woman she became after nine winters.
We grew joined in heart; I asked for her hand.
The city loved me.
The people heeded my voice.
But her father said:
"Make her name undying — found a city, grant her honor."
And in those words was the mark of fate.
I came to the Pythia a fourth time,
and heard:
"You are a spark in the ashes, not the flame upon the summit.
The wind is not your companion — yet."
My heart boiled within me. My years slipped away.
I could not wait.
And so I stood against it.
I gathered men. We sailed.
Fortune stood beside us.
We fought. We endured. We built.
We found a land.
We held it.
Not Apollo but Poseidon led us — or so I believed.
Then a messenger returned. With him — my wife. Your mother.
We lived in harmony. In love.
Children were born to us.
I built not a house, but a city.
Not my own name, but an everlasting memory among men.
I acted as a man acts.»
There was no trace of arrogance on the resolute yet tranquil face of the speaker — only the firm clarity of a man who knew the justice of his own actions.
«I did not tremble before the wrath of Olympus,
yet my offerings were exact, and in my heart was no stain.
Never did I turn from the gods —
yet neither did I bow when I deemed my hour had come.
What is done cannot be unmade.»
«But, Father…
What if the hour of reckoning has come?
What if our city should fall?
What if we are left — without a home…
and without a fate?»
«Then know this: you are free.
The house I raised was never meant to be eternal.
It stood as a fortress while you were weak.
It was the very air while you learned to draw breath.
Then go.
Let your steps resound as once mine did.
Let your road — be your own.»
«Shadows…»
The old man turned away from the youth — with sorrow upon his face and bitterness gathering in his heart. His gaze fell upon a cypress, behind whose trunk some movement stirred. Soon a little girl peered out from behind the tree. He had already noticed her out of the corner of his eye when leaving the temple court: a flicker of sky-blue slipping between the wooden columns of the sanctuary and darting into the grove in playful rivalry with him. A spark of life in the hush before the kingdom of the dead.
He looked closer. The girl was no more than four years old. Slender, quick, she curled herself around the shapely trunk as though she were a little snake. She was dressed far too lightly for the season — nothing but a single tunic. One might have taken her for a poor man's daughter, were it not for the colour of the cloth, its fine workmanship, the milky whiteness of the skin it left uncovered, and the washed, downy, light-chestnut hair. Wide-set grey-blue eyes shone on a round, soft, strikingly symmetrical face. She reminded him of someone.
He frowned — two furrows cut his brow once more.
Seeing that she had been noticed, the girl did not hide and did not run. On the contrary — she stepped out from behind the tree and, slowly, step by measured step, walked toward him. One small shoulder was embraced by a bronze dolphin; over the other the fabric was fastened by an arrow.
A priestess in the making?
Whom did she resemble? Of course — the eyes. The very same eyes his wife and his younger son possessed. Yet in these there was something different. Courage. An inexplicable pull. Something in this man — this elder, this stranger — had caught her attention, and she walked toward him without hesitation, intent on discovering what it was. Curiosity. Her eyes, studying him, were open to the world. In them lived a desire to fathom — not to know her destiny but to uncover it, as one uncovers oneself.
Suddenly a wave of longing swept over him. He remembered: once, long ago, he had told his wife the same thing he had told his son today. Her reaction had been similar — fear before fate. Before his fate. Fear for her own life, for the lives of their children, and, worse still, for his. As though he had not emerged victorious from every trial until then, as though he had not led his household and his city toward prosperity. Ever since that day, each new difficulty had stirred anxiety in her: what if this is the hour? And before — was it all so easy, then? It was because of her that he had come here again after so many years, to show respect (as though what he had done at home were not enough), to ask once more for his destiny.
It is hard to walk the path that has been decreed, but the unknown is terrifying in its boundlessness.
The girl was not afraid. Perhaps she was still too small to understand. Suddenly he felt the urge to carry her with him. To carry her away before she heard the words that would become a sentence. Before her mind, her imagination, could be trapped within the circle of those words. While she was still free. So that she might remain free. So that she could continue to behold the world with such eyes. So that on dark days he could draw strength from them. The wave of longing that surged over him was for what he did not possess.
The girl halted.
At that same moment, a sharp, cold wind blew from the mountains on the other side of the gorge. She did not shiver — she only turned toward the temple, as though someone had called her. The sun broke from behind a cloud and struck her eyes — she did not squint. With cheeks flushed by the cold, with skin glowing from the reflected light, defying the elements, she moved forward. She smiled at the old man with her pearly milk-white teeth. She was almost running toward him…
«Indeed, she is still too small to understand this,» he thought, «too slight to bear the weight of such a journey.»
He turned to his son, gave the sign — it was time to depart.
And he left.
With a void in his soul.