The Double Tongue

  ‘Well. The pen is, as the notice says, Sappho’s pen. The ring was hers and of course the hair is said to be hers – not very impressive for the Tenth Muse, is it? But then, she was said to be an insignificant little creature – the little brown nightingale of Lesbos, Alcaeus called her. Which of her poems did you wish to see?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve time for that, Perseus. Just tell us the story.’

  ‘Oh well, she fell in love with a man at last, a fisherman who didn’t know his alpha from his beta. Not that that matters of course. But he abandoned her. She was too plain for him. He liked them curvaceous. So she threw herself off a cliff at Leuctra. He sold the book and the ring she’d given him. Poor girl, she’d tried to magic him with it. As for the hair – no I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, there you are, Young Lady.’

  ‘Forgive me, Ion, I’m very busy.’

  ‘Go back to your books about books about books! We’ll be content with the makers. Well, Young Lady. I want you to spend as much time as you like here and believe me you’ll have plenty of time. There’s prose down at that end – Histiaeus, Herodotus, and the fellow who circumnavigated Africa, I forget his name – Alexander’s Admiral of the Fleet. Hundreds of books, positively hundreds. But mostly I want you to read the poetry. Particularly the hexameters. I want you to be able to speak in hexameters. But, for now, all you have to do is read, read, read!’ He lowered his voice suddenly. ‘Arieka! Come, you watering pot, what’s the matter? You’re free, free, free! Here in this building is man’s greatest gift to you, greatest invention! Without it we might still be scratching bulls’ heads and pots with ears to them on clay brick! The alphabet, my child, and thank god for the Philistines!’

  But I had burst into tears and seemed quite unable to control them. Though whether I was sad or happy or anxious or wholly achieved I find it impossible to say.

  III

  It was Ionides who took me before the Second Lady. She was not what I had thought a Pythia could possibly be. She was lying on a couch just the way a man does, leaning on one elbow. The first thing anyone would notice about her was that she was enormously fat, fatter even than my nurse had been. She had dewlaps that slumped down as if they might slide right down to the ground at any moment. Her feet were bare and it was the first time in my life that I had seen painted toenails. They matched those on her fingers. I had heard of this, however. My mother had cited it as the sign of ‘an unspeakable woman’ or a woman whose profession is not to be named. She meant ‘female companion’, ‘hetaera’, though I believe there is an even dirtier profession. I do not – or did not – know what it is called.

  ‘Come close, child. Good heavens, you are indeed a child. Fourteen? Fifteen?’

  ‘Fifteen, Gracious Lady.’

  ‘Sit down, child. No, not on the chair. You don’t really want to be uncomfortable do you? Try the stool. Isn’t that better? I must say, you are not going to stop the traffic in the street, but you have a pretty voice. Do you sing?’

  ‘I don’t know, Gracious Lady.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course you know!’

  She was kind enough but firm. I thought for a while.

  ‘Nursery rhymes. Nothing more. Country songs, a few, like everyone else.’

  ‘A few notes are very helpful. Grunts will do of course. The occasional wail if you think it appropriate.’

  ‘Gracious Lady?’

  ‘She is a real nestling isn’t she, Ionides? Where did you find her?’

  ‘We should visit the First Lady I think.’

  ‘Go along then. That’ll be all, child.’

  ‘Gracious Lady –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When do you want me to start?’

  ‘Start what?’

  ‘Serving you.’

  ‘You are not serving me, child. You are to serve the god. That’s the right form, isn’t it, Ion?’

  ‘She hasn’t been told much yet. May we go now?’

  The Gracious Lady rolled heavily on to her back, stared at the ceiling and seemed to ignore us with point. Ionides bowed and spoke.

  ‘We take our leave then.’

  I followed him out and crossed to the opposite door. He laid one finger on his lips and opened it. A doorman stood at ease inside. He came to attention when he saw us. Ionides nodded and led me on. The great living room of the First Lady was still darkling, the shutters bolted. Ahead of us I could just make out a figure, seated on a chair. It seemed to be looking at us. We waited. When the voice came it was like a thread of sound.

  ‘Ionides?’

  ‘I am here. Do I call you Gracious Lady today? Or do I call you Mother?’

  ‘I am the Pythia.’

  ‘I bring you the child. The one I spoke of.’

  ‘Let her come close.’

  ‘Reverend Mother, we cannot see.’

  ‘I said let her come close. So. Give me your hand, child.’

  ‘Here, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘Let me feel your face. You have much boy in you, neither one thing nor the other. That might please him. Do you dream? I said do you dream?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember your dreams?’

  ‘No, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘It is not for you to call me that. Gracious Lady will do well enough. Later it will change. Do you understand?’

  ‘No, Gracious Lady.’

  ‘Ionides, her mouth is too small. It will be torn.’

  ‘You still believe the power will come again?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Gracious Lady –’

  ‘What is it, child?’

  ‘My mouth torn – Why am I here?’

  ‘You should have told her, Ionides.’

  ‘I thought it better left to you.’

  ‘Not the other one?’

  ‘I spit me of her.’

  ‘Child, stay where you are. Ionides, open the shutters.’

  Presently a long and opening shaft of daylight moved across the room. She was dressed in white and her head was covered in white, all but her face. Her eyes were fixed and only looked where her head turned. It was difficult to believe that they did not see. They had no what we call pin and web, a hardening of the eye’s very material. They shone and you would have said pierced but they did not move. As for the rest of her face, it was the very image of age, and stripped down next to the bone.

  ‘Child, you have been chosen for a rare post. Sometimes there is only one Pythia, usually two, but now and then, when the future is blind and dark as my eyes, there are three. In due time you will be the third Pythia.’

  I don’t know what I said or did. Ionides told me that I was crying out about not going down into that place and he had a hard job to hold me from running away anywhere. I came to myself a little and when he felt me stop struggling he let me go. The Pythia spoke behind me and I turned to her.

  ‘Gracious Lady –’

  ‘It is no use, child. Whatever you call him, he has us in his hands. It is simpler to go with the tide. He is merciful to his own. When it became too much he took away my sight so that I should not see him. But that was long ago. Perhaps I dreamed it. Certainly my sight has gone. But now you know why you are here. Be strong and perhaps the god will not demand a torn mouth or blind eyes from you. Be strong. Wise men will take care of you. For the rest, guard your virginity. The god himself will direct them and woe betide you if you transgress. I will not be long, for I am older than any woman should have to be. Prepare yourself.’

  ‘I don’t know how – or for what!’

  ‘Ionides knows how or says he does. For me, all that is long ago. Too long ago. I expect, though, he will tell you to read books until scraps of other people’s words come up in your speech like a sweet vomit.’

  ‘I rescued you from what you were taught to call home, Arieka. Now you must do as I say. I am your guardian and shall not be unkind to you, believe me. Remember I have already given you a bookroom!’

/>   ‘Ionides knows everything, child. You will never see round him. Even I, after all these years have never met such a man. I think I know what he wants but I cannot be sure. All I will tell you is that a good workman pays attention to his tools. You will be kept clean and bright and slightly oily. And sharp.’

  ‘I shall keep her simple, charming, innocent –’

  ‘Credulous –’

  ‘Now, who is being clever? You must forget that word, Arieka, as I shall have to forget your name. It is a sacrilege to call the Pythia by her given name. We must all forget it, little one. I shall call you that when we are alone.’

  ‘You will do yourself no good by teasing her, Ionides. When she is inducted she will be the Pythia and don’t forget it. She will belong to the god, not to you.’

  ‘I am abashed, Reverend Mother.’

  She laughed.

  ‘That is another thing I am unable to believe. Goodbye for today, child. Come and visit me often. I enjoy the scent of simple country flowers.’

  ‘I will bring you some, Reverend Mother.’

  ‘A good girl, Ionides. You see?’

  ‘I do indeed. Come, little one and Pythia that is to be.’

  I followed him back to what he had told me was my apartment. Once there he told me that we ought to eat something and might he do so with me? I was overcome by the day’s journey, the bookroom and now the thought of not just sitting stiffly upright on a chair but eating with a man – but he was my guardian and I imitated the Second Lady as best I could. The slave who had opened the door for us had disappeared but came back almost at once, and before I was properly reclined, with bread and olives, slices of cucumber and the mildest goat’s cheese that I had ever tasted. There was wine too. He offered it to me and I did not know what to do. Ionides spoke.

  ‘I think three to one, Gracious Lady.’

  Obedient to my gesture of assent the slave mixed the wine and water, set the cups on either table then withdrew. He had not made a sound. Even when he poured the wine there was no clink of silver against silver, only the faint sound of water pouring into the wine.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘No. Yes. Who are you?’

  He understood what I meant.

  ‘You know that I am your guardian. I am also the Warden of the college of priests – for we have priests of every god here in Delphi – and I am also myself the High Priest of Apollo. I am concerned that the oracle of Apollo, those instructions, those answers which Apollo gives to questions through the mouth of his Pythia, concerned that the oracle should return to its original state of purity and sanctity. If Apollo will not do it …’

  There was a long pause while he ate and drank, the sentence hanging uncompleted in the air. At last he touched his lips with a napkin and spoke.

  ‘He will, of course. But when and how and through whom and to what end – for an end is very desirable. Necessary. Can you understand what I mean?’

  ‘I think so. You want true prophecy.’

  ‘I want you to help.’

  I spoke simply and from my heart.

  ‘I would do anything, anything in the world to help you.’

  ‘I believe you. Bless you, child. Delphi is the centre of the world. Once, I should say, Delphi was the centre of the world. In those days Athens was the intellectual and artistic centre of the world. I want them, both places, revived. Oh yes, the city of Delphi is well enough. Here we are an enclave, a small protected place where there is a level of civilization, a level of sophistication which is to be found nowhere else in the whole world. But the centre no longer speaks. The Pythia is silent. Men and women dare to ask silly questions that are an insult to the oracle: “What shall I call my unborn son?” “Where shall I find the brooch I lost?” The answers are as trivial as the questions. We need the old voice that men would accept as the voice of god. Of the god Apollo.’

  ‘You said “If Apollo will not do it – ”’

  ‘Wait. I have seen a Roman legion you see. I was present, a spectator at the sacrifice. Six hundred men moving as one man, silent, slow, deadly. They make fools of us all. Did you know their javelins have a point of soft iron? They will pierce flesh but bend on a shield. So the javelin is useless for throwing back. Neat, isn’t it? The enemy, naive creatures that they are, throw sharp, shiny javelins that can be thrown back. There’s many a barbarian that has been killed by his own javelin. Before they’ve recovered, the Romans are on them, thrusting with their huge shields and thrusting with the broad, short swords at the enemy’s groin, the one place any man will protect no matter what, and, before he’s recovered, that short, sharp broadsword is up and stuck between his breastplate and his chinstrap, clean through his throat. Then the legion moves on one pace and repeats the process. Simple. They’ll conquer the world. So we need Apollo to hearten us and advise you. You see?’

  ‘Yes, I do see. What are we to do?’

  ‘Make the god do what we want.’

  ‘Who can compel the gods?’

  ‘Any man – or woman.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘No, not really. I can contribute to the process that is all. Others must move him – them. You see, I don’t believe in them.’

  I still don’t know how serious he was. Or, if I put it another way, for how long this would be the claim he was putting forward, the tune he was singing this week, his present mode. The claim suited him at the time. He needed to shock a naive girl and he certainly did. That some people did not believe in the gods was common knowledge. But these people were supposed to live somewhere else and be so outrageous as to be inhuman. If you ask how human our family was, down there by the sea, with its brutal father and obedient mother, its children happy always to get away, I would have to reply by asking you how happy you think Greece is or was, Greece, Hellas in totality? Certainly we all feared the gods. You couldn’t be sure of any god being on your side unless it was small and personal as a good-luck charm. So when I first heard a grown man declare his disbelief I was not so much frightened as shocked and disbelieving in his disbelief. But the shock gave place to bewilderment at what he said next.

  ‘Well, yes, yes. Of course I do. I am incurably flippant. Don’t trouble yourself.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We do need him. Yes. It’s so difficult a question one should be able to put it on one side. Let’s do that. Are you willing?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘It’s a question of hexameters. Um-tiddy um-tum.’

  ‘I don’t understand you at all.’

  ‘You believe Homer was inspired by the muse – by Apollo – by the god? Of course you do, like everyone else. Yet they – people, I mean – expect the god to reply to a question, “Look in the back cupboard, dear, on the left-hand side.” Of course that’s not the voice of god! In the old days, when Hellas was great, the replies to questions came in hexameters, poetry, elevated speech, because the questions were elevated ones. “How shall we defend the gods of Hellas against their enemies?” Or “Since we cannot truckle to the Persians how can we defeat them?” Sometimes the god asked for a man’s death. That priest. He was told the battle needed – but you don’t know, do you? They gave the reply in hexameters.’

  ‘But I could not do that!’

  ‘The god touched you twice. Yes?’

  ‘No. The stories were – made up. Not by me but they escaped from me. Or rather, I let them go.’

  ‘Why are we talking like this? It doesn’t really matter what you think. There’s a sense in which it doesn’t really matter what I think either. All that matters is that we should both move towards the desired end. The first step is the hexameters. If the god should never speak through you, so be it. But the instrument shall be ready. Yes?’

  ‘But the gods are real, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course. How not? Why make such a meal of the question? You have said it. There are twelve Olympians, with the odd later attachment. But they’re like hexameters – like poetry – life is like that. You can make
a debate about everything, question everything and anguish over it like, well, Socrates. In that sense he was wise. But do you notice here and there when he stopped people in the street – not his friends but passers-by – they were anxious to get away? It wasn’t their world you see. They themselves didn’t question each footstep because walking came naturally.’

  ‘I haven’t heard about Socrates.’

  ‘And you lived all your life by the road up to Delphi! It’s criminal.’

  At this Ionides glanced at me and gave a visible start.

  ‘My dear child! What have I been thinking of? You must be dead on your feet! I’ll see you again tomorrow after you are rested. Farewell.’

  So that was the beginning of freedom. It was strange that I who had had nothing to do, who had thought myself a prisoner, now found I had everything to do and thought myself free! But the strangest feeling of all, and one that grew only slowly, was that I was happy. It was like those times in very early childhood when one is too young to be anything but happy, not seeing threats before they became facts. Ionides did teach me about hexameters and about many other measures too. But I was never alone with any man except him. A man came who taught me how to speak so that a whole roomful of people could hear. He taught me how to make the great movements of the body which are a language and can be read further away than a man’s voice can be heard. Another man showed me the flowing script which I use in writing down this. Wrapped, muffled, unrecognizable, I followed Ionides through the streets of Delphi as an obedient and well-mannered wife follows her husband or a girl her father. We saw the temples and treasuries, the empty treasuries, we saw the stadium and the theatre, the streets and alleys, the great houses and the small ones, the beer houses, houses of pleasure and the hostels for travelling men. Every day I spent hours in the bookroom. Sometimes strange men came and consulted with Perseus or eyed poor Chloe where she was yawning, her face carelessly bared. No one bothered to look at me, a muffled figure poring over an unrolled scroll. It was for me an enchantment. After a while, whenever I met Ionides – and he came to the palace of the Pythias almost every day – he would address me with an hexameter and wait, his head on one side, ready to assess the answer. I was very shy at first and could hardly stammer out a phrase as he wanted. But he would say, ‘Oh, come along, a half-line, even just an umtiddy um-tum!’ Then one day I tried to explain that it wasn’t that I didn’t want to or didn’t know what he wanted, I was shy, that was all – and found myself falling into the measure as easily as slipping into something loose, and he gave a great shout which echoed in the bookroom and brought Perseus running from his cell. Ionides gave me the victor’s salute.