3 Strings

by G. Sanders

We are civilized. We have great minds. We gather ideas together in one space and collectively decide the best course of action. We understand our power and use it for the good of the world. We create programs and hierarchies that allow people to progress in life. We are the most remarkable people to have walked the Earth. We are blessed by the gods. We are a sanctified empire that is leaps and bounds ahead of other civilizations. At least, that is the belief to which I cling.

I have lived in Rome my entire life, though I only catch glimpses of this brilliant city. More specifically, I live in the temple of Phoebus Apollo Palatinus. I am not supposed to leave, but one day, I will work up the courage to walk outside. Nete has gone out, and so has Mese. They are like elder sisters to me, the youngest—Hypate. They say, when I am older, I can come with them. Maybe, when I am older, I won’t be so afraid.

We three are supposed to be “sisters,” even though we know we are not. Nete knew her parents. She told us that her father was so handsome that the people in her village thought he was the god, Apollo. Then one day, someone claimed to see him playing the lyre, so bewitchingly, the bees danced away from the orchards to bow to him. Nete says that is not true. He just had blond hair, like hers. The villagers got so worked up that they killed her mother so that none of Apollo’s lovers would get jealous and destroy the village out of spite. Nete says that her father was so angry that the villagers feared he would smite them, so they shot him full of arrows and sent her to “his” temple.

Mese does not remember much of her parents. Nete says they gave Mese to the temple so their town would be healed from the plague, and it worked. People from Mese’s town are religious about coming to visit. Sometimes when they come, we guess which ones might be Mese’s parents. We always guess the most beautiful ones.

My parents weren’t so noble or beautiful. Nete says it was the worst day ever. Not because I am the worst, Nete and Mese love me, but because it was the day of the eclipse. “It was like Pluto had taken over the sky,” Nete tells me every year on my birthday. “The priests and astronomers feared something like that would happen.” Nete does not know all the details, but astronomers know things like that. They like to try and predict what the gods will do. I think it would be more helpful to predict what people will do.

“I was too scared to look,” Mese always says. “Everyone was screaming and running around.”

            Nete ignores Mese’s nerves and forges on with the story. “Your mother was pregnant, and your father carried her up the temple steps. He was crying out for sanctuary. A mob of people chased him up, up, up and caught them before they made it to the top.”

            She always stops here and stares at my face, enraptured with her tale, eyes wide, breath bated, tiny hands tucked under my small pointed chin. “Are you sure you want me to say it?” she asks.

I nod a thousand times, my blonde braids bouncing around my shoulders.

            Nete then takes a deep breath and closes her grey-brown eyes as if she is focusing on the distant memory. “The mob grabbed at your father’s ankles until he tripped and fell, your mother tumbling out of the safety of his arms. It took twenty men to hold him down.”

She adds more to the number every time she tells the story.

“They pulled your mother down like demons sent by Hades. Someone was shouting about how they needed to sacrifice you to Apollo so he would have the strength to ward off the darkness. They wanted to give you to the sun god because you would be the purest sacrifice.”

She cups my pale cheeks and smiles as if I were truly holy.

Mese shoots to her feet with a huff. “The Pythia intervened…Why do you tell this story every year?” Her cheeks are red and flushed, making her platinum blonde hair seem even whiter.

“Because she always asks.” Nete shrugs and tosses a handful of braids over her shoulder. “Anyway, yes. The priestesses intervened after the mob had already cut you out of your mother's tummy.”

            Mese always goes pale at this point.

“There was so much blood.”

She whimpers and falls back to her cushions.

Nete nods, but her eyes are alight with fervor. “Tons of blood,” she agrees, “all over the temple steps. The priestesses came down yelling and waving their arms to stop them, but they didn’t listen. Not until the Pythia came down, in all of her jewels and her eyes rolled back.”

Nete stands and rolls her eyes back, so only the whites show and holds her arms outstretched to mimic the sacred oracle. “‘The gods speak!’ she shouted, ‘and you will listen!’ her voice boomed out. You know the way she can shout, and everyone stops what they are doing to listen.”

I nod along because I know. The Pythia is the most important oracle in Rome. Everyone listens to her visions: the politicians, the astronomers, the philosophers, the librarians, the generals, and even the Caesar.

            “She said, ‘bring me the child!’ You were already screaming,” Nete continues.

            “You were hiding behind her skirts,” Mese adds.

            “You were hiding back behind the pillars,” Nete bites back but then takes a deep breath to center herself. “The Pythia held out her arms, and one of the priestesses brought you to her, still dripping in blood. The Pythia ripped a length of her white skirts to wrap you in, and you stopped crying as soon as you were in her arms.

“She shouted again, ‘this child is the third daughter of Phoebus to be brought to this temple. The third string to his lyre. You will not lay harm to a single hair on her head. Look, the blood you have spilled already is enough; go home! The sun will return soon.’ And just like that, everyone turned around and went home.” Nete flops down next to me on the dais.

“Well, your parents never went home.”

Mese rolls her eyes.

“Their blood covered the statue of Phoebus Apollo at the bottom of the steps for days."

            Nete glares at Mese.

“The Pythia told me you would be very special. The most insightful Oracle to ever walk the Earth. She said that Mese and I were to help you, and take care of you, as our little sister, forever. We are the three strings of Apollo's lyre.”

Nete always hugs me at the end of the story.

            Mese sighs and hugs me too. They love me, and I am happy about that, but I know there is nothing special in me. None of us believe that we are daughters of Apollo. Nete and Mese seem like they would be a better Pythia than me. I get scared when I think of hearing the voices of the gods. But what is worse is… I don't think I even believe in them.

***

Today is a really big important day. I am ten years old today. Nete is sixteen, Mese is thirteen, and now I am ready to be presented to the court. The Pythia says we are going to meet the Caesar. We will sing for him, play the lyre, and recite verses of poetry from the library. I’m nervous, but I only have a short poem and the easiest parts to sing and play.

            “Nete, Mese,” the Pythia says, “you are Hypate’s support. Help her to shine, and you will shine through her.”

            “Yes, Pythia,” they reply in unison.

            I feel more anxious than Mese today. Even though she sweats so much through her white dress that her plump skin looks clammy. I try to look like Nete, head high, eyes forward, mouth turned up in the slightest smile. The jewelry on her arms, and woven into her hair, shine like the sun. The rings on her fingers, nose, and ears sparkle with a holy aura. We are all dressed the same, but Nete holds herself as a goddess. She knows her role and plays it well. That is what Pythia says.

When the Pythia focuses on me, I instinctively shrink.

“No, no,” she cups my chin gently and coos, “you mustn’t make yourself small, Hypate. Your role is to be bigger.”

            Her smile lulls me into the shape she wants me to take. She has never said it, but she is our mother. When I was little, I called her “mama.” All mothers want great things for their children. They teach us how to be civilized and strengthen our minds. Mothers listen and teach their children to listen. As we grow, our knowledge grows, and we become capable of great things. The Pythia has taught us to work together and use our gifts for the greater good of Rome. She has taught us to be part of something bigger. I believe that, I whisper to myself.

“Now,” the Pythia pulls her veil over her face and claps, “off we go.”

            We file out behind her, bangles jangling as we walk. The lower priestesses line the corridor that connects the temple to The House of Augustus. Music dances to my ears and the sounds of men’s voices drift down the hall. As we draw closer, the merriment grows louder, and my breathing becomes labored. For some reason, I cannot swallow. For some reason, I cannot breathe. My rapid heart rate drowns out the party noises and turns my ears hot with fear.

            “It’ll be ok,” Mese whispers behind me. I am sure she sees how red I must be. Nete reaches back and squeezes my hand. She does not let go. With them, and the Pythia, I should have nothing to fear. But I cannot help thinking of all the things that could go wrong. What if I mess up and the Caesar hates me? The Pythia will be so disappointed. Or what if I mess up so badly that the mob returns to try and sacrifice me?

            My imagination takes over and shows me a scene of angry politicians shouting. They drag me to the altar. I kick and scream and cry at Nete, Mese, and the Pythia, but they do not stop them. They saw me mess up. They know I am nothing special. They let the mob tie me down. I see a knife raised to Jupiter. I see blood everywhere.

Nete squeezes my hand twice to call my attention. We are already standing in front of Caesar and all the politicians. There are philosophers here too, and astronomers, doctors, scientists, and people from all over the empire with different hair and skin. My eyes widen as I take in all the people. I forget to blink. My eyes dry out, and I have to rub at them.

            “Stand still,” Mese hisses so quietly I am not sure she even spoke.

            The Pythia is speaking to the Caesar about us, telling him our stories, except that she tells him they are stories of Phoebus. “Nete, who was born of Apollo in a village far north. She has the skill to enchant the bees. Mese, whose people returned her to Apollo. The sun god was so pleased to be reunited with his little one that he blessed the people, and those blessings overflow to this day. And finally, Hypate,” she pats my head with tender fondness, “born during the solar eclipse, her light outshone Pluto and brought back the sun!”

Murmurs of intrigue ripple through the crowd. The Caesar nods and gestures for the Pythia to continue. He is pleased. A breath of relief escapes my lungs. Nete squeezes my hand, then lets me go. The three of us lift our lyres, and Nete begins plucking the first strings. Mese picks up on her cue, and I begin as Nete starts singing.

            As the first note of her voice rises, I sense our audience’s captivation. The Pythia nods in approval, maybe even pride. I want her to be proud of me too.

            Mese sings, and I join in, but our parts are simple. After that song, Nete and I continue to pluck our lyres as Mese recites an epic poem, a tribute to the Caesar. When she is through, Nete sings again; then it is my turn to recite.

The moment I open my mouth, the ground begins to shake. My first thought is that I have done something wrong. I do not know what I did, but it was very wrong. Tears well in my eyes, and I look to the Pythia, Nete, Mese, and anyone to understand, but everyone has panic in their eyes. The floor rumbles, and a sound like thunder comes from the Earth. The pillars tremble, and dust falls from the ceiling. Terrified screams drown out any thought of music. People are shouting, and my blood is racing. It is my fault! They are going to kill me and drag me to the underworld! Pluto is going to come out of the ground and kill me himself!

Nete grabs my hand, and Mese takes the other. I realize that everyone is afraid. But I also realize that I don’t believe in the gods. Nete’s story was different from the Pythia’s. The Pythia doesn’t even believe her version of the story. And yet, for some reason, everyone likes the Pythia’s version better.

            I stand up tall and hold my head high. Sometimes the ground shakes. It’s not a big deal. I take a deep breath and begin to recite my poem:

“Augur Apollo! Bearer of the bow!
Warrior and prophet! Loved one of the Nine!
Healer in sickness! Comforter in woe!
If still the templed crags of Palatine
And Latium’s fruitful plains to you are dear,
Perpetuate for cycles yet to come,
Mightier in each advancing year,
The ever-growing might and majesty of Rome.”

I project my voice as the Pythia has taught me. As I speak, the tremors slow and stop. The people stop screaming and quiet to watch me. Silent awe dawns upon them as I finish quoting the great Horace’s hymn. All the politicians, philosophers, priestesses, astronomers, and even the Caesar himself stare at me.

            At that moment, I once again feared for my life, but Nete and Mese’s hands around mine made me feel like no one else could touch me. I look at the Pythia; her face is beaming behind her veil.

            "Well, well, well," the Caesar’s voice snaps my focus back to him. The power he commands when he speaks is palpable. He is like us, a “gift” from the gods. “It looks like we have a powerful young oracle among us. Come closer.” He motions for us to cross the floor and climb the steps up to his throne.

            The Pythia stands behind us. Nete reaches her arm around my shoulders, and Mese clings to my hand.

            The Caesar stands and takes a few steps to close the gap between us. His eyes study me up and down, and I study him; his face is clean, his eyes and hair are dark, and his brow is tense. “What else do the gods have to say to us, mi ocelle?”

“Oh, great Caesar,” I stutter meekly. “I am no voice for the gods. I memorized that poem. It was only a coincidence.”

            A chuckle rumbles through him, and his smile beams so white I think his teeth are made of the same luna marble of the temple. His dark eyes twinkle at me, and he takes my chin. Immediately, I feel fear spike in my sisters. Mese freezes as if beholding Medusa. Nete draws in a sharp breath and pulls me closer.

            The Caesar does not seem to notice, and I am so captivated by his teeth that I cannot think of what they might be afraid of. He kneels to my level and speaks so softly that only we can hear him. “People believe what they want to believe. You are a very smart girl. You know that people make up stories about the gods all the time. You know it is nicer to believe in those stories instead of what is real. You have seen how the Pythia speaks, and people listen because she speaks the words of the gods. Just like what you did just now.” He pokes my nose with a playful smile.

“You saw how your words, poem, prayer calmed the court. As people in power, we must learn to ‘predict the gods’ not because they can be predicted, but because by predicting them, we can predict people.”

            I blink, and he stands with his arms raised, “Do not be afraid! The gods have given us a mighty gift in this new oracle. Apollo and Diana shall march forth with us. We will move out without fear and further our empire to bring glory to the gods.”

            Cheers erupted from the court. Nete began to sing a war ballad. Mese and I instinctively played along on our lyres.