Delphi, 110 CE
"—and then the priest of Apollo—you know, that Plutarch fellow—said—"
Kassandra's ears perked up. The men sitting at the table beside hers had been exchanging gossip—loudly—for what seemed an eternity. It soured the taste of Kassandra's wine. The workers had apparently finished a day's work in Delphi, before going for a much-needed rest at the winehouse where Kassandra had been previously enjoying her drink in peace.
"Stingy arse, that one," said another man. "Don't care what them bootlickers say. He might be well-liked among the elite and whatnot, but that's no reason to scrimp on proper pay for a job well done."
"Here, here!" one of his companions said, while the others hollered their assent.
"Plutarch?" Kassandra said, turning toward them. "The famous scholar? He lives in Delphi?"
"He's the head priest of the temple of Apollo," the first man said, corking a brow. "Aren't from those parts, are you?"
"I am a traveller, yes," Kassandra answered. "It has been years since I've visited the seat of the Pythia." In truth, she was none too happy to pass through the region; Delphi held far too many bad memories for her liking.
"Perhaps you should go to the temple, then," said the second man. "To pray for good fortune and such."
Kassandra sipped her wine. "Perhaps I should," she said, thoughtfully.
The next day, she was making her ascent through the many steps leading to the sanctuary of the Pythia. Delphi was as bustling and awe-inspiring as ever. Many cities had suffered under the dominion of Rome, losing the power and prestige they had held in those days where Kassandra's people ruled over the so-called civilized world. Delphi, in contrast, thrived even more than before, attracting visitors—rich visitors—from all the corners of the Empire. The Romans were as eager to gain the gods' favour as their Greek predecessors had been, and Apollo was one of their most beloved deities. It was strange, really; in many ways, Kassandra's homeland had been irrevocably changed by the rise of Rome as a major power. In others, things remained exactly the same, as if frozen in time. Then again, her people were nothing but stubborn when it came to clinging to the old ways—and she loved and resented them in equal parts for it.
The sun had started to dip over the horizon when Kassandra reached the cliffside sanctuary. She had been slowed by thick crowds of worshippers seeking an audience with the representatives of Apollo's holy will. The temple needed a fresher coat of paint, Kassandra noted, and the marble columns showed more wear and tear than she remembered. And gods, there were so many people piling on the steps, waiting for their turns to enter the temple. Kassandra groaned, rolling her eyes skyward. She was almost tempted to turn back the way she came, but she had to keep going, if only to quieten the nasty little voice whispering in the back of her mind.
Father of Lies. He joins malice to blasphemy.
Inside the temple, a kindly-looking, grey-bearded old man sat before the altar, speaking and smiling while worshippers gathered around him. People thanked him profusely, bowing in respect after being gifted with his wisdom. When Kassandra came at the head of the line, he looked up at her with a paternal expression of benevolence. His smile was a bit bemused, however; like most people, he clearly did not know what to make of her. After a few centuries, Kassandra had gotten used to bewildered stares. Around her, men and women kept their distance, whispering among themselves. That too was not surprising. It still stung a little, however.
"What can I do for you, my child?" Plutarch of Chaironeia asked, motioning at her to approach. "My, you seemed to have travelled far and wide to hear the wisdom of Phoebus Apollo."
"I have travelled over land and sea, yes," Kassandra answered, "but to hear your words, priest. You are the one who wrote the Moralia, are you not?"
Plutarch chuckled. "Indeed I am! Not many come here to speak of my humble attempts to make sense of this world and our places in it. What is it that you wish to know, my young friend?"
Kassandra fought an urge to sigh. Sometimes she wished she could have aged a few more years before being entrusted with the Staff. At least people would treat her with the deference owed to an elder, then. "Why do you call Herodotos of Halikarnassos a liar?"
It was worse than that; Plutarch had written an entire essay devoted to destroying Herodotos' reputation, calling him a traitor, a liar, a philobarbaros—lover of all things barbaric and foreign. It had been almost two decades since Kassandra had read these words, and the dismissive, scornful tone Plutarch had employed to deride her old friend's lifework still made her blood boil. Even now she had to keep herself from glaring at the man.
"What?" Plutarch's thick brows furrowed, and he muttered something. Next to him, his attendants exchanged a few confused glances. "Why do you even—"
"You slander the name of a man long dead, one who cannot ever defend himself against these accusations. Why?"
Plutarch looked utterly nonplussed. "Why, I was young when I wrote that essay, it was meant to be an exercise in rhetorics—"
"And that gives you leave to ruin the reputation and good name of a man who sought nothing but to bring the light of knowledge to the world? Is that it?"
Now the onlookers were chattering loudly among themselves. Some were sending dirty looks toward Kassandra. Plutarch laughed nervously, saying, "What a strange inquiry! Have you come all the way to Delphi only to ask such a question of me?"
"It is healthy for a scholar to debate with someone who holds an opposite view, is it not?" Kassandra retorted.
A muscle twitched by the corner of Plutarch's mouth. "The man showed an unpatriotic disregard for the struggle of Greek cities during the Persian invasions," he said. "I call him the Father of Lies because he himself slanders my homeland of Boeotia in his writings. How would you react, oh wise traveller, if someone were to cast doubt on the courage of your ancestors?"
Kassandra folded her arms across her chest. "I come from a Spartan family. My ancestors fought—and died—at Thermopylae. But then again, you do seem aware of what happens to a land and its people when they come under the oppression of a foreign empire, don't you, Lucius Mestrius Plutarchus?"
More murmurs passed through the crowd. Plutarch scowled, but only briefly. "There is so much more, dear child! So much that this man distorts out of malice and hatred for his fellow Greeks. It is a strange hill on which you chose to fight. Herodotos of Halikarnassos died long ago. Why waste much of your precious time defending him?"
"My time is not as precious as you would think," Kassandra replied, wearily. Herodotos of Halikarnassos died long ago. She remembered a pair of soft brown eyes, a voice as gentle and soothing as waves lapping on the shore.
Kassandra didn't know if the copy of his writings that she had left in Alexandria had burned down when the great library had been set ablaze during Caesar's scuffle with his nemesis Pompey, nearly two hundred years ago. Her stomach lurched at the thought. Would Herodotos be remembered as the curious, kindly scholar who had delighted her with stories of his travels? Or would he be forever immortalized by the bitter words of men such as Thucydides and Plutarch—the Father of Lies rather than the Father of History? How much of his work had already been lost to fading ink, rotting paper or the uncareful hand of a copyist?
Kassandra shook her head. She was tired. So tired. "I should not be wasting yours, then," she told the famed priest of Apollo. "I shall take my leave."
"Apollo guides your steps, child," and, oh gods, Kassandra nearly lunged at him at that moment. He'd sounded so paternalistic, so sure of his place in the world, as if he was not the last in a long line of puppets parroting the words of a deity which never truly existed. Kassandra wished she could tell him, wished she could smirk and say that his precious Oracle was human and fallible, that she could—and probably would—very much betray him for a handful of coins if she so desired. Her distant predecessor had thought nothing of destroying an innocent family with a false prophecy to save her own neck, after all.
She turned on her heels and left before her nerves got the best of her.
Outside, the skies had gone purple and orange, the work of beautiful Astraeus. The crowd had dispersed, no doubt heading for the taverns and brothels that had sprung up around the city to prey on the purses of weary travellers. Briefly, Kassandra thought of Barnabas: her God-fearing companion would have been appalled that she had even entertained the idea of striking a priest of Apollo. She snorted. Herodotos himself would have been proud of the way she had handled the situation; her peace-inclined friend always preferred when she had defended herself with wits and words rather than her fists.
Kassandra sat on the ledge, feet dangling. She had met Herodotos on the very steps of this temple, nearly six hundred years ago. She could almost feel him sitting beside her, close enough to bump his shoulder against hers. Kassandra closed her eyes and smiled, imagining that he was still here with her, telling another of his wonderful stories. Her heart felt a little lighter, if only for a mere moment.