Thunder sounded once again, another flash of lightening marked the sky. By the temple’s first gate, the Great Bronze Bull of Corcyra flashed brightly on its stone pedestal, momentarily illuminated with Heaven’s light. Timarete put her back to the wall, hands pressed against her breast. Once her faith had been strong. She believed those very bolts of light were launched by mighty Zeus himself. But now, at nineteen years of age, she had become a cynic. The gods were no more than stone, powerless and without reality. The proof marched upon the road below; Roman soldiers victorious from the battle at Pydna, the wreckage they had wrought in Macedonia a testament of men’s cruelty. They had defeated all resistance there, made that land a province of Rome, never to be free again.

The sky split open and unleashed a torrent of rain. Timarete closed her deep-brown eyes and tilted up her face. Fear struck her hard as she shivered, the cool rain running with her tears. Why was she so afraid of these men? Delphi had been under Rome’s protection for over forty years. There were even legionaries garrisoned in the nearby village. But these men were different. Timarete knew it in her heart. She had seen it in her dreams—there would be one Roman among them who would forever change her life. No matter how much the priestess wished to, she could not deny her vision.

Someone shouted, the man’s voice climbed upward from the road below. She should run away. Timarete had wanted nothing more than to leave this place of lies. But her courage had always failed her; it failed her now. Again, thunder roared across the narrow valley, mixing with the voices of men. She had to hide, but could not move. If she only believed, if her faith had not perished in this place, if only she could hold fast to something beyond the darkness which filled her soul. Now, she had nothing but fear to balance in her heart.

She could go past the theater where Apollo’s triumph was acted out on his festival day or to the stadium where the sacred Pythian games were held every four years. She could hide well above the temple grounds. They would search the treasure houses below, rich with gifts commemorating past Greek victories; even the gymnasium between the temple of Athena Pronaia and the Castalia spring. They would look for her in her house, the main sanctuary, but they may think little of an empty arena. She would escape their question and Delphi, run from these Romans.

Timarete gathered her courage and rushed away. The rain soaked her woolen chiton, drenched her thick auburn hair. Her breath came in short gasps, her heart pounding as she climbed the steep incline that rose behind the main temple. More thunder, more lightening filled the air. Would it never cease?

Someone grabbed her. She screamed.

“Quiet,” the man wheezed in her ear. His arms were wrapped around her waist, holding her tight. “This is not the time to hide.”

Timarete knew her captor, the Chief Priest, Ciron. Revulsion swept along her spine. She struggled to be free. He held her firmly, his strength undiminished even though his years numbered well more than fifty. She could feel his breath, hot against her skin even as the rain poured down upon them.

“Listen, Timarete, there is really nothing to fear.”

“These men are different.”

“All men are the same. I’ve taught you much since you came from the mountains. Think. Who are these Romans?”

Ciron always began his lessons with a question, but this was no time for riddles. She threw back her head and cried, “I don’t know. But they frighten me. I’ve had dreams. Awful nightmares even before word came about their journey here.”

“Reason, Timarete. What do your dreams mean? Nothing. The Romans believe in their numina, the Lares and their sacred Vesta. Now they believe in this place as well. They won’t harm us.”

Anger flashed in her heart. “With our collection of impotent gods?”

“They do believe in this place, Timarete,” he insisted harshly. His arms moved along her frame drawing her even nearer. Loathing for the Chief Priest rose in Timarete, riding above her fear. “Now they come as the rulers of Macedonia. Face them proudly and they won’t harm you. But if you show them you cower before their swords like all people, they’ll smell your fear, and they will cut you down.” His mouth pressed against her ear. “After they have taken what no pious man would even dare beg of Apollo’s priestess.”

Timarete’s body weakened, her spirit failing. How could she face the barbarian? Even the fierce Macedonians had been defeated by them forever. The Great Alexander lay dead nearly two hundred years. There would never be another like him to rise up and destroy the Roman.

Ciron finally released his grip. He took her hand in his. “Come,Timarete. We must prepare to greet them.”

She let herself be led away.

This temple was rich, surpassing all estimate. It must be true. Somewhere here there was wealth beyond men’s dreams; the lion of Croesus, the six wine kraters of Gyges, all of gold. Even King Midas’s throne was rumored to be in one of the treasure houses. The temple’s main chamber, the naxos, lay before him, the golden shield of Apollo was displayed before a pedestal where the sacred flame burned. The plastered blue ceiling vaulted above, glittering painted stars spread across its face. And the altar outside the temple was of the finest black- and white-veined marble. Other precious objects lined the walls, friezes painted dazzling colors, along with the shining helmets of Greek heroes long past. Two rows of columns flanked either side of the building, fluted limestone covered with soft plaster. Exquisite lamp-stands made of gold and silver shone with a wondrous light. And, yes, outside, those fabled treasure houses lined the roadway. Their contents would make a city of paupers rich.

Here was reason enough why Quintus Caecilius Metellus only allowed fifty men to accompany him as his escort. Ten of the most trusted were in the chamber, the rest posted throughout the sanctuary complex. The temptations were great. It amazed him how the men garrisoned in the nearby village had resisted pilfering. Rome had already seen fit to strip Greece of her finery. The men stationed in the village must surly fear Apollo. Metellus had left a portion of his army, five thousand men from one of his two legions, camped below the mountain on the plain of Crisaea. That plain was a broad stretch of land graced with olive trees where the narrow Plesitus Valley opened to the placid Gulf of Corinth.

Before him stood the temple’s contingent; all male attendants, some of whom were priests. Those priests were older men whose long, white-woolen robes hung to their ankles. The one who stood in the center caught the general’s attention. This priest had a sharp-angular face with a large hawkish nose. His eyes were those of a predator searching for a weakness among the world of men. Metellus noticed his graying hair was wet, though his priestly robe seemed quite dry. Next to him stood a round man with ruddy skin, one leg shorter than the other. The cripple kept fidgeting, switching from his bad leg to his good. The constant movement agitated the Roman commander.

Metellus turned to the tribune, Gaius Valens, and ordered, “Bring in the interpreter.”

The hawk-faced man introduced himself as the Chief Priest Ciron and then advised, “There’s no need for an interpreter. We speak many tongues here.”

“Including Latin?” Metellus set his jaw. “The tongue of conquerors.”

“Conquerors of other men, not those who serve Apollo.” Ciron smiled. “Rome has taken it upon herself to be the guardian of this holy place. We don’t regard her men as conquerors, but as pilgrims.” The Chief Priest came forward until he stood directly in front of the general. “We honor Rome and speak her tongue. Latin will be the language of many lands.”

The general raised an eyebrow. “Even Greece?”

“Perhaps.” The Chief Priest tilted his head. “But to be certain, one should put the question to Apollo.”

The tribune, Gaius Valens, looked at the god’s golden shield, his clean youthful face mirroring reverence. “Apollo is a powerful god.”

“A very powerful god who is gentle with those who revere him,” Ciron assured.

There was something about this man that Metellus did not trust. “Is he gentle with the barbarian?” The general narrowed his eyes. “Isn’t that what you call us, Chief Priest? Barbarians?”

“In ignorance, Imperator. The Greek people. But here we’ve seen many come to this holy place. Even those who wished to conquer us. The Persians. The Gauls. But they have all passed away.”

“I doubt the Roman will pass away so easily,” Metellus scoffed.

“Yes, the Roman,” Ciron repeated without flinching. “It is apparent, he will stay. But will he be any better for it?”

“Meaning?”

“This is an ancient place, Imperator. The navel of the world. Zeus, the king of gods, set two eagles free. One flew from the west, one from the east. They met in this spot, the very center of creation. And in this very place Apollo, only a few days old, traveled from Delos and killed the Python, guardian of Earth’s oracle. This became his sacred site. Here lies the crack in the world where its inner vapors seep to the surface, purifying both man and animal. It is a holy place, Imperator. Divine providence at work. Many have come here, but have they been any better for it? I have wondered about such things. A wise man really listens to the gods. Will you be one of them, great General? Will you find the real prize of Delphi?”

“And what is the real prize of Delphi?”

“The revelation of your fate.”

Metellus tilted up his chin. “I’ve come here, Priest, to find it.”

“The Pythia. Priestess of Apollo,” Ciron announced.

The Roman commander looked at her. She knew this man was a warrior, a veteran of death. Timarete felt his hungry gaze. She wanted him to turn away. He removed his helmet, exposing a mass of thick, curly, black hair laced with gray. His muscular body with its hardened clean-shaven face, the perfect planes of his cheek bones and straight nose gave proof he had once been a handsome youth. The gray eyes, rays of weathered lines at each corner, were sharp as he looked at her. Timarete gasped. This was the Roman she had dreamed of, the one she feared even before he came into the temple.

Ciron’s voice became melodious, a hymn. “Do you have a question, Imperator? One that will unlock your destiny.”

The Commander kept looking at Timarete. “Yes.”

“Then ask,” the Chief Priest coaxed.

The Roman general responded with a hoarse whisper: “Will I be the first to violate this holy sanctuary?”