A Laurel’s Weight ​

Issue 15

      The Temple of Delphi loomed in front of Mount Parnassus. Statues of Apollo and past oracles guarded the entrance, peering into my soul as I walked up the worn steps. Priestesses followed my every move, probably making sure I wouldn’t run away. My stomach growled from the lack of food, and my arms stung from fierce scrubbing moments before. Nobody would want to only hear the rumblings of one’s stomach instead of the glorious wisdom about to spew forth.
      “Fasting is the best way to receive a prophecy,” one of the older priestesses told me emphatically. I hadn’t realized these meetings with Apollo would take so long to prepare for. Rituals upon rituals – a cleansing in the Castilian Spring, praying, scourging of one’s body to allow the gods to see your sacrifice. Becoming the oracle was supposed to be the highest honor, a median between mortals and immortals, but the freshly made laurel crown knitting into the furrows of my brow didn’t leaven the responsibility.
      “You’re doing fine,” Panas said, touching my shoulder lightly, as if he could hear my thoughts.
      I smiled weakly, holding my head up as high as I could. 
      The courtyard was bustling with acolytes frantically putting the last-minute arrangements of flowers and food. They all had the same nervous, scared expression. An impending doom was going to be upon us.
      My eyes twinged as I watched them. My father’s weakened frame hammering back and forth, dawn till after dusk, plowing fields with his sweat and blood. Mother pinning herself into whatever work she could find -- mending tunics, waiting on powerful people, making baskets to sell at open markets. Yet, bread and wine were always on the table. Their smiles haunted my dreams; even when they were on the brink of collapse, they smiled until the procession came.
Panas, less wrinkled and grey, had come with other Delphic clergymen for me.
      I watched from behind our front door, unable to hear what they were saying to my parents. They had pleaded earnestly with the priests. My father shook his fists angrily, for the first time in my life.
      Acolytes pushed them aside and pulled me through the door. I stood in front of Panas. I felt tears begging to flow, but I needed to be strong. I looked him straight in his eyes and pressed my lips together, determined that they wouldn’t move me.
      “It is the highest of honors for your family,” Panas told my father. “She shall become one of the most influential people in Greece.”
      Drachmas were placed into father’s shaking hands. He never met my eyes again as the religious parade led me away, kicking and screaming. I could hear my mother’s cries as she was forced to stay behind.
      I pushed the thoughts into the back of my mind.
      The acolytes had arranged a chair for me to sit in on the top of the steps. I sat down with whatever dignity I had left as I watched the chaos below. A few servants tripped over each other. Someone yelled directions. A horn screamed from the distance, warning everyone as horses' hoofbeats entered our ears.
      I leaned over my chair and asked Panas, “Do you know who’s coming?” 
      “A king of some sort,” he said. “The Sacred Way must’ve been long for him, though.”
      Preceding riders in elegant armor arrived and stood ready at the entrance to the pavilion. Elaborately decorated wagons pulled the last of the king’s offerings to the gods – gold, silver, and animals for sacrifice. The empty carts were pulled at the back of the line. In the middle was an ornate carriage with gold-plated panels, expensive tassels, and silk draping the windows. Inside sat a man with a full beard and what appeared to be a white toga, fitted just so. 
The carriage stopped at the edge of the steps and out came the king.
      “King Croesus of Lydia,” cried the announcer.
      “That’s him?” I asked. He was short and rather stubby for a king, though I had no reference for what kings should look like. His sandal-wearing feet hit the pavement with a thud.
      An older priestess slapped my hand at this. “Young Pythia, control your tongue! It is not for you to judge, but the gods.”
      “With those looks, it should be,” I muttered.
      Panas stifled a laugh.
      Behind the stout monarch emerged a younger, stronger version. He stood tall with an air of superiority.
      “That’s the prince?” I asked.
      “And Prince Atys,” confirmed the royal announcer.
      The prince came behind his father as King Croesus bowed in my direction. The prince didn’t realize until his annoyed father slapped the back of his head. The prince begrudgingly obeyed. It didn’t take long for the prince to regain his regal composure from bowing to a woman. The king, satisfied, clapped his hands, which resounded to his attendants to take the appropriate offerings to the correct spots around the courtyard.
      I eyed him as he padded to the edge of the steps. 
      “Pythia, Apollo’s tongue, tell me: will I conquer Persia?” King Croesus genuflected in front of me, just a little too deeply. The son rolled his eyes. Usually, the inquirer would ask his question inside the inner sanctum, but I assessed that this king was in a hurry to get an answer, no matter the other formalities.
      Some of the acolytes and priests giggled to themselves, knowing the rites better than I did. After the king asked his inappropriately spotted question, the priestesses took my arms and led me back into the inner sanctum. The king followed with his attendants. Only there would the god speak to this traveler. 
      The smoke from the incense burners mixed with the gases of Mount Parnassus poured into my sinuses, burning down into my lungs. My ears rang as the council prayed to Apollo for guidance. I chewed on laurel leaves, ceremoniously given to me by one of the high priests, as I waited for the god to whisper in my ears.
      I could tell the king and his son grew impatient, Croesus’ hair dripping from his dip in the Castilian Spring, kneeling before the altar as I tried to conjure a prophecy, allowing whatever spirit to take hold of me. I could see droplets of blood on the hem of his toga, most likely from the unfortunate goat sacrifice he made on the Sacred Path.
      “Why is this taking so long?” Prince Atys exclaimed. 
      The priests and his father shushed him.
      My eyes grew heavy from the fumes, and I felt them roll back. The burning sun blinded me. Apollo stepped into view, cradling a golden harp. I wished I could cry. His eyes were pure sunshine; his hand open and welcoming, but a looming dread crept into my heart. It seeped into my pores and flooded into my shivering hands. A maniacal grin spread over his face as a snake snuck around him, coming for me. I tried to run, but my feet were caught in the ground below.
      It slithered. Closer. Closer.
      The snake writhed over my taut skin, rough and burning hot. It flicked its tongue into my ear, whispering. Then, without any warning, it pried my mouth open and spilled down my throat.
      My mouth opened, body spasming, and the words spilled out before I could stop them:
      “King of Lydia, you ask for victory. You ask of the fates of empires.”
Croesus grew silent as the voice spilled into the heavy, interested stillness.
      “If you cross the Halys, a great empire will fall.”
      I took in a heavy, gasping breath, but the god wasn’t finished.
      “Seek no answers in certainty. Seek them in the turning of the wheel. The lion that leaps does not know which spear will fly. The laurel tree that bends may yet outlive the forest. What falls may rise again.” 
      The message resolved into a low hum in the back of my throat. As quickly as it came, it stopped. I heaved myself over my knees, palms slapping the stones beneath me.
      King Croesus remained silent -- for once, since coming into the adyton -- trying to find the meaning in the words before anyone else. Priests and maidens talked in hushed tones as I regained the rest of my senses. The metal tripod cut into the backs of my trembling knees. I tried to catch my breath as my assistants ran to my side. A fan beat air against my sweat-beaded brow.
      Panas touched my hands gently. “You did amazing, Pythia,” he whispered. He dabbed my forehead with a small piece of cloth.
      I bobbed my head solemnly. 
      King Croesus rose from his knees. “What does this mean?” He threw his hands down to his sides. “Tell me immediately.”
      Panas stepped forward. His thin white hair shone like a halo in front of the firelight. With simple words and a clear voice beyond his years, he told the king: “We do not know yet. Give us time.”
      “We don’t have time,” the prince shouted, going back to his usual tone. “If we don’t make a move, Persia will surely take Lydia, and you all will be next.”
      “If the gods will it, then so it shall be,” Panas said. 
King Croesus pressed his lips together so tightly they became invisible behind his soggy beard. “How dare you speak to my son that way, priest!”
      “I shall speak to those as they have spoken to me.” Panas gestured for the king to kneel while they consulted among themselves. “Wait and be quiet as we work.”
      The king huffed as he begrudgingly kneeled again. I could see the prince’s hands itching to reach for where his sword would have been. An animalistic instinct, I thought. Men were always ready to pounce on whatever they believed to be a threat, even another old man.
      I regained my composure from the fumes and was led down the worn steps from the dais. I was given wine from a chalice, thinned with water. 
      ​“Was I okay?” I asked quietly.
      Panas nodded. “Very well. I don’t think they could tell it was your first prophecy.”
      The muttering priests and priestesses went on for ages. Scribes scribbled on long pieces of parchment, frantically racking their brains for the exact words that had burst uncontrolled from my mouth. I clasped my hands, nervously rubbing my thumbs across my knuckles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      Everyone had left the inner sanctum long ago. The entire temple and the king’s entourage had long since gone to bed, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor. The air was still heavy with incense – no longer holy, but suffocating.
      The god’s statue loomed in front of me, towering, serene, unyielding. In the flickering of the oil lamps, Apollo’s eyes almost seemed alive, fixed on my movements.
      I clasped my hands together. “Lord Apollo, why do you make me speak what I don’t understand?”
      My words dissolved in the silence. The statue stared at me with the same blank gaze, as if it would change with my words.
      “Do you delight in my confusion?” I tried again, louder this time. “How do I honor you if I let people walk willingly into their ruin? Is this what you demand of me?”
      The unanswered questions echoed against the stone walls.
      I replayed how King Croesus had come into the courtyard, determined and proud. He seemed to believe himself chosen for greatness, though my lips trembled with the truth he was unable to see.
      If you cross the Halys, a great empire will fall.
      How easy was it for him to hear victory? How easy was it to keep a closed mouth and let the phrases live on?
      I pressed my forehead into the floor. “I am your mouth, not your conscience,” I repeated to myself, trying to will it into truth. “I am yours. I am yours. I am--”
      After a few minutes, they no longer made sense. It felt like chains. Was this the honor of being an oracle? To be a hollow vessel without a will? I sat back on my heels. Practicing the flow of prophecies led others to ruin. Those before me became the essence of harm, or the ambiguity of what was to come. Never straightforward. How could this bring any good?
      “I wish I could speak as myself.”
      A faint sound of soft footsteps stirred behind her. I turned to see an elder priest watching from the doorway. His gray hair was sticking out at all angles, as if he had rolled out of his cot to be here. His clothes hung around his lanky body, bones jutting out from his paper-thin skin.
      “You pray too loudly, child,” he said. “Do you wish to wake everyone?”
      “I’m sorry, Panas,” I replied. “I was just thinking out loud.”
      Panas nodded and sat down next to me. “There are many things we don’t understand. And it’s not our job to do so. Our god is many things, but being clear about our fate isn’t one of them. We listen, obey, and honor what we think is right.”
      “What if what we think is right is wrong?”
      “Then we must trust in ourselves and that the gods have put those thoughts in our heads for a reason. But, as a vessel of Apollo, you aren’t allowed the same liberties as the rest of us,” he warned. His lined face was stern in the lamplight. “You must bear whatever your worries are and give them up to the gods.”
      “What does that mean?”
      He patted my knee. “Pray on it. Quietly.”
      Panas stood on trembling knees, stretching the creaks out of his back.
      I sat there for a long time, watching the eyes of Apollo follow my movements. My hands began to go numb from rubbing them together in frustration. There wasn’t anything I could do. Every day since I had been chosen, they all said to trust in him and be his tongue. An empty vessel. But what if I could save an entire country? I could help. The prophecy was vague enough to be interpreted both ways, but I could tell by how much the king had wanted to be about the Persians, my gut felt the opposite. Lydia would fall.

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      When the sun began to rise over the great Mount Parnassus, staining the sky with brilliant purples and oranges that spread throughout the small wisps of clouds, I stopped by the thin stream that ran between the mountain and the grove next to the temple—a moment of peace. Dipping my hands into the water, I rinsed the loose laurel leaves from my hair.
      A soft thudding of feet on the ground made me turn to the side, expecting an acolyte to have found me.
      “My king,” I said, bowing low. “You should not be here.”
      King Croesus waved his hand. “No king comes here. Only a man in need of a conversation with a woman connected to the gods.”
      I furrowed my eyebrows, growing suspicious. “Lord, I do not think this is appropriate. I may be the god’s tongue, but I am not here to give advice other than that.” 
      The Lydian king stepped forward with slow, deliberate movements. “It isn’t the god I fear. It is men. Persians. You told me that if I crossed the Halys, a great empire would fall. My generals believe that the empire means Persia.” He paused. “But I am no fool to these prophecies. I have heard tales of Apollo’s words – how often they can cut both ways. Tell me the truth. Is it my empire that will burn?”
      My throat tightened. I knew the rules, branded into my memory: I was not allowed to speak outside the inner sanctum of the mount—no offering of comfort, warning, or any personal interpretation.
      “I cannot --”  
      “You cannot – or will not?” He stepped even closer. “I am not blind, Pythia. You know more than you said in that room. You saw something in the smoke that you won’t tell anyone. Tell me.”
      I clenched my fists at my sides. “The god’s words are his alone. I cannot alter them in any way, or I would defy him.”
      “Yet you are flesh and blood. The same as me.” His face softened. “Do you think I came here searching for definitive glory? The great Alexander, who came before, chasing endless conquests, is not my inspiration. I came here in search of a path for my people’s future. My son’s future.”
      “Your son?” The wrathful brute of a boy didn’t need saving from others. Himself, perhaps.
      Croesus laughed bitterly. “Well--” He took a deep breath. “I will have to send away. Marry him off to keep the bloodline going, and all that. If Lydia falls, I need to ensure my boy is safe. Gods forbid that my line ends with me, even if my crown is ground into dust.”
      My breath caught in my chest slightly. This wasn’t the boastful, impatient king from the ceremony and the courtyard. This was a man hoping for survival, not for himself, but for those he loved.
      “You would exile your son?” I said quietly.
      “I would do anything to save him.” His eyes met mine – watering and desperate. “Tell me, young Pythia, am I sending him to safety or his doom?”
      Apollo’s oath clanged around in my head. “I-I...”
      “I am a king. You must obey me!” 
      I turned around. My insides churned. If I disobeyed the gods and someone found out, I would be exiled. I would be thrown out of the order and shamed. But something gnawed at me. I could help.
      “Do not cross the Halys,” I said. “Persia will not be destroyed. I fear Apollo is warning you to leave the border where it is or Lydia will fall.”
      The words hung in between us like a knell.
      Croesus closed his eyes, jaw tightening. “That’s what I feared.”
      Air lodged itself in my chest, constricting my heart. What had I done? I couldn’t take the words back – back to the safety of great Apollo’s ambiguity – but these could not be unsaid.
      Croesus, after a few seconds, nodded, as if sealing some unspoken vow to himself. “Then I will go all the same. But my son shall be sent to Sardis when the time comes. I thank you, Pythia... not Apollo, you.”
      King Croesus of Lydia turned around, his toga swirling around him in a flurry of dirty white. His guards, who had been standing quietly at the edge of the clearing, escorted their king away into the surrounding dusk.
      I sank to my knees by the trickling stream, hand and lips trembling. The laurel crown slid from my head, landing on the stones beside me. One of the leaves had turned brown and curled in the growing light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

      Prince Atys burst through the doors, his armed guards in tow. He pointed a finger at me, his other hand clutching a sword so tightly his knuckles were white from strain. 
      “Pythia, mistress of Apollo,” he rumbled, “you killed my son.”
      I stared at him, head tilted, studying him as his guards surrounded the altar. I was between the intruders and the back of the mountain, once again seated on the tripod. Advisors stood as a barrier between me and the supposed threat.
      “You do this, and Apollo will rain holy terror on you, Croesus,” warned Panas. Though his frail hands held years of experience, they didn’t waver, holding them up in supplication. 
      Panas gripped my shoulder. “What did you do?”
      “She lied to me!” he spat. “You said we would win. We would all live.”
      Panas turned to me, his eyes seething with disappointment.
      I stood tentatively on the top of the altar. “My prince--”
      “I am a king! Yet my throne is nothing but ashes. Cyrus claimed the entire country. My father--” His voice broke. He regained his composure within seconds, hardening. “You said we would win if my father went to war. A great empire would fall.”
      My heart thudded against my ribs.
      “And so the prophecy foretold,” Panas interjected. He glanced between both of us.
      “Not Perisa!” He laughed bitterly. “The young Pythia told King Croesus plainly that he would win. He was supposed to be victorious, and I, his son, would be safe if I were sent away. Tell me, Oracle, was this your god’s cruelty or your own?”
      I did this. I let an empire fall unnecessarily. Lives lost because he didn’t listen.
      “You were warned not to cross the Halys,” Panas said. “The oracle has nothing to do with your foolish actions.”
      “You blame me for this false prophecy? She said this to the king directly.” Prince Atys waved his sword, pacing in aggravation. “No, this was outside the temple, the morning after the prophecy. She promised my father Apollo would be on our side, victorious.”
      I felt myself intuitively shrink back onto the stool. Panas was expressionless, motionless. Then he slowly started backing away from his place at my side. I had used my voice instead of Apollo’s.
      “I did what I thought was right,” I whispered.
      Atys paused his heavy steps. “You ruined me! My father is gone!”
      “Would you rather I stay silent while you marched? I told him what I knew to be right. Even so, he didn’t heed my warning and failed to keep Lydia.”
      “You are his voice,” he scoffed. “Now all I see is a weak, scared girl.”
      My eyes stung. Panas stepped between the king and the altar stairs, pleading hands up. “We shall get this sorted out.”
      Atys pursed his lips. “This witch should be burned for her insolence.”
      “I assure you, there will be punishments.”
      “Live with the knowledge that you destroyed thousands of lives with your words, Pythia.” He pointed his sword at me again. “Live and suffer.”
      With the few guards he arrived with, they flew back out of the Temple of Delphi.
      All eyes were on me as the tears streamed down my face, knowing my fate was sealed.

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      Panas and the other clergy sat on stone blocks placed around the courtyard.  A blessed fire was lit in the middle of the circle. I kneeled with the fire to my back, awaiting my final judgment. My laurels sat in front of me, a burden waiting for restoration.
      “Appointed Pythia of Apollo, Mistress of Prophecy and Median to the gods,” said Panas, being head of the presidial council. “You have been accused of giving false prophecies to your inquirers. State your case.”
      My teeth pressed together to keep the tremor from my voice. The mountain air filled my lungs, and in my mind, I felt Apollo’s serpent coil close, steadying my heart.
      “I was not wrong,” I started. “Nor was I right in what I did. What I told King Croesus was sound. My words were a warning-- to him, not his enemy.”
      The priests and priestesses murmured between themselves, but I pressed on.
      “I erred in speaking to him outside the sanctum, without witnesses. I know that. But he came to me in confidence.”
      “The rules are plain,” an older priestess said sharply. “You know them by heart.”
      “I do,” I agreed. “And among them is this: I am a servant to the people, not only a mouthpiece for Apollo. Do I not have a duty to honor those who come to me with questions? None of you can intercede with the gods like I can. I did what was expected of me.”
      Panas watched me intently, pressing his first fingers together up to his chin. His brow was tight with thought, sweat tracing the deep trenches. Friend or not, he was my judge today.
      “Call me a liar or a deceiver,” I said. “But what I told King Croesus came to pass.”
      The counsel, once bubbling with chatter, now sat steeped in deep thought, each member wrestling with their ethical convictions.
      The elder priestess, who had spoken earlier, stood. “You gave him truth. He chose his path. This is the way of the Oracle -- to be a mouthpiece, yes, but also the ear of men. And ears often hear what they want.”
The elders conferred in low tones. The fire crackled with anticipation, its heat pressing into my shoulder blades. After a few minutes of heated arguments among the elders, Panas held up his hands for quiet.
      “We are the keepers of god’s word,” he said. If we weigh it with the happiness of men, we fail our charge.” He came forward. “Let us go and reflect upon our revelations. Quietly.”
      My old friend picked up my laurel wreath and placed it back on my head. The weight was familiar now -- and heavier.

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G. B. Croissant is a part-time teacher, stay-at-home mom, and self-proclaimed “master of Latin.” She has a Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing with Honors from NAU. She lives in Mesa, Arizona, with her husband, toddler son, three absurd cats, and a dog who pretends to be a cat.

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