The Oracle

By Elaine Gao

The Helot slave and the Spartan Prince shouldn’t cross paths. Yet supernaturally, Lyra and Leonid’s fates happened to become interwoven.

Lyra, the one true oracle in the temple, saw him bleeding to death in her visions. Refusing to accept this end, she tagged along on his treacherous journey to Athens. She had a simple undercover mission at the Temple of Delphi, to compete for a priestess position, but the Pythia in charge had other plans in mind— an inhumane set of trials designed for betrayals and bloodshed. The strong resistance Lyra encountered forced her to race with time. But from the start, are futures able to be rewritten?

Leonid loathed the throne of Sparta that was paved by his brothers’ assassinations. He had fought tooth and nail to consolidate his young kingship, but his revenge, however, didn’t account for her, the girl he once vowed to protect. Newfound feelings for her thus began to get in the way. As he walks a dangerous line between Athenian rivals, he must weigh her and Sparta on opposite ends of the balance. But only fate will know the ultimate price of his decision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781663243416

Elaine Gao

Elaine Gao always had her nose in books until she decided to create her own voice. When she’s not slaving away with pen and paper, she plays the piano and procrastinates for her AP classes. After her debut novel, The Oracle, this high-schooler is already delving into her next book.

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Copyright © 2022 Elaine Gao.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-4342-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-4341-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022916863

iUniverse rev. date: 10/19/2022

After Leonid becomes king of Sparta, he reunites with the former helot, Lyra, his onetime friend, and now, the city-state’s seeress. Despite being invited to Athens on the pretense of a marriage proposal that would secure an alliance between the two long-standing enemy nations, Leonid senses a trap and requests that Lyra serves as his spy in the high priestess’ temple. After experiencing a foreboding vision about Leonid’s future, Lyra agrees in the hope she might protect the man for whom she once held such strong affections. But after arriving before the high priestess, it becomes clear she has her own designs on power and glory, and Lyra finds herself in a deadly competition alongside oracles from elsewhere across the Greek world. Can Lyra use her abilities and alliances to survive the high priestess’ deadly machinations, or will she succumb to a political game of treachery and murder?

The Oracle is a nail-biting romp into the tension-fueled and deadly heights of the rivalry between Sparta and Athens that offers a thrilling perspective of the religious, military, and political life of the age. In her debut novel, Elaine Gao uses varied and vivid descriptions and in-depth research to striking effect to immerse the reader in an Ancient Greece that feels substantial, historical, and dangerous. The voices of her characters, with their varied backgrounds and interests, feel independent and consistent in a way that brings them to life inside the mind of the reader long after the book is finished. While the pacing and structure of the book can sometimes make the story difficult to follow, particularly toward the beginning, Elaine interweaves an intelligent plot that comes together in a stirring and increasingly fast-paced conclusion. The Oracle is a remarkable first novel by a promising young writer, and I urge historical fiction fans everywhere to watch Elaine’s budding author career with hopeful anticipation.

~ Dan Cross (The Open Book Editor)For Mom, the

most amazing woman, who

helped me invite Jesus into my life

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

The thin threads leaped and dipped along the spaces among my fingers, soon interlacing into one sturdy strand that measured thirteen handbreadths. I glanced at the shears on my lap and continued.

I stroked the half-finished twine, each warp and weft, absorbed in the beautiful spirit I created. I remembered the put-off project resting by my feet and picked it up—a spirit of honor and equal brilliance.

I placed the two pieces of twine side by side, twisted out a thin strand from each, and braided them together. I resumed working.

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1

Icy water. Biting zephyr. Stinging eyes. Numb skin.

Lyra’s befuddled head, leaden with the water’s weight, pounded against her skull; the arteries of her temples pulsated, throbbing harder by the second. She held her breath as long as she could. But then, as if forgetting she was underwater, her lips parted a fraction, and a current of turbid lake water seized the opening to invade her insides.

Thrashing was no use, not with the restraints secured over her wrists and ankles. Gradually, her limbs limped sideways like those of a broken doll. The edges of her vision glitched red and black. Dying this way wasn’t so bad. All she had to do was surrender herself to the waves’ clutches. The initial brutality of the underwater tides morphed into a hollow lightness as they slowly took her through a bed of floating algae. She waited for her body to sink down to the bottom.

Her vision dimmed until even the luminescent plankton at the floor of the lake faded into the abyss.

Death was close, hugging a lover before dragging her down.

Then the rope cords around her wrists pulled taut, and she was hauled up to the surface savagely.

At least grant me a peaceful death, would you?

Her slick hair, well past her shoulders, dripped, and her soaked garment, defenseless against the thin films of ice spreading on the hem of her skirt, clung to her body. She lay sprawled by the mountain tarn. Gathering her strength, she spluttered and glared into the hideous faces framed by the shadows of their hoods.

Hosiois—the Holy Ones. Repulsive creatures. Centuries of hiding away from the sun had scrunched up their skin and blackened it to a freakish sallow color. Suspicious fluids washed down their fleshy warts, hunched backs, and scaled hands, and their globular eyes were streaked with blood.

Curse you, she said, wheezing.

They pasted their slimy fingers on her skin, and their foul breath assaulted her every follicle as they carted her off for the third time to their master, Tobias, who was standing outside the temple in his floor-length robe with his arms folded, squinting. On the outside, the prophetae, the oracle interpreter, was normal looking, but years spent with these animals had long ago made him the same inside.

They released Lyra from behind. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the freezing marble floor at Tobias’s feet. There was no pain, only numbness climbing up her paralyzed calves.

The hosiois gestured with their barely intelligible hand signs for her to get up, bow, and scrape to the master, to prostrate herself before him. But Lyra lay there unmoving. She hadn’t the energy to do anything, degrading or not.

Tobias wended his way to her back. He wrenched her up and stiffly circled his arms around her.

She squirmed uneasily. His arms were serpentine.

Have you finally learned to obey, my sweet little oracle? His hand reached out and slowly caressed the bare skin on her waist. I must say, though, such meekness doesn’t suit you.

She cringed as his repugnant fingers found his way to her front and slid down her abdomen. Not yet, she told herself. He would throw me back into the lake again. Yet she did a lousy job of hiding her disgust.

With a violent tug, Tobias ripped down her peplos, giving her a plunging neckline. A sharp sibilant sound sprang up and died at the edge of her lips.

Her temper flare put a slight smirk on his face. What an inept actor you are, he cooed, making goose bumps tingle all over her skin. You know I’m dying to touch you, my darling little lyre.

She bit her lip at that nickname coming out of his vile mouth, the nickname that only her beloved brother had the right to. Her breath hitched as his mouth lightly found her neck, barely touching but hanging there, a constant reminder. He was testing her limits again.

Nausea overtook her when she remembered how close he had been last time, on that dark and reckless night when many unspoken deeds had been better unseen.

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A flight of stairs led her inside. She lingered and looked about, blenching, at the eyeless figurines carved on the wall and then at the gaping space between each towering column. Doors hid chambers beyond chambers, and their faint glows trickled out of the darkness. There were no guards to stop her. But there was nowhere to escape either.

A cloaked gargoyle-like sculpture atop an elevated altar loomed over Lyra. His shadow consumed her as well as the length of the high-ceilinged hall she crossed. Candlelight illuminated the hand of the figure, revealing thick reptilian scales traveling down to the wrists, which, with air, ruffled. Lyra screamed and broke into a run.

A set of footsteps followed. She ran faster, tripping over the hem of her skirt.

Another shape, leaner and with straighter proportions, caught her. The man had hair that reminded her of golden wheat fields. Forgive the beast for not knowing how to welcome a guest, would you?

She clutched hard on to the same male who’d greeted her outside the temple premise.

Since the first minute of Lyra’s arrival at the temple, Tobias had been nothing but courteous, tirelessly looking out for her. Compared to the charming and put-together man, she stumbled around like a five-year-old lost at a funfair. He was mysterious, holed up in his study every morning, scribbling on heavy papyrus—a chivalrous and secretive gentleman. He was the perfect replacement for the frivolous boy with blue eyes who held a stubborn part of her mind—her estranged childhood friend who had become perhaps a little more than a friend.

Tobias had knocked on Lyra’s door some nights ago, his usually eloquent speech incoherent and graceful bearing sluggish.

Can I help you, master? Taking in his unruly state, she’d hesitated to open her door fully.

An attractive one, aren’t you, Lyra? With the stink of a late-night drink mingled in his breath, he’d slurred.

Thank you, master. She hadn’t known what else to make of the inappropriate comment.

Lyra always had thought of herself as presentable more so than attractive. She could recite all her imperfections: the nose that was a little off to the right, the skin much paler than the light brown of Greek women, and the hair voluminous like a lion’s mane. But since childhood, she had registered how men looked at her. Her dark brown locks, when groomed and pinned, accentuated her sharp hazel eyes, which glowed a muted green when she was lost in her thoughts and flared to gold when she felt like arguing.

She’d sniffled when she first laid eyes on the washbasin in her chambers. She’d broken into great sobs when she saw the thermae, the public bathhouse at the temple, and its pool of green water infused with bay laurel leaves.

Lyra made use of all those services and the jewelry at her disposal. The weight of something on her head or wrists made her forget her past poverty yet simultaneously reminded her of her wretched parents. The space around her neck, however, she always reserved for a tiger-tooth pendant.

Momentarily losing his balance, Tobias had swayed. Her hand had shot out and caught him by the arm. He’d studied their touching skin with innocent curiosity.

Before Lyra had been able to retrieve her hand, snatching a fistful of her hair, he’d crushed his lips on hers. It had not been a kiss. It had been a storm, a one-sided assault.

Unbridled gusts of wind had torn down the walls of her beliefs, her being, her precious values. Yet he, the invader, was the one she must hold on to. Then she saw the blue-eyed boy. She saw those twinkling sapphires and a lopsided grin, so before she knew it, she kissed him back.

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Never! The memory dissipated as sharply as it had arisen.

Oh really? You were quite cooperative last week. He drew nearer to her tunic.

This time, she grabbed his wrists in advance; yanked him off; and, with her spare left hand, slammed a punch into his nose. She hoped it would leave a bloody mark on his pretty face.

But as he tested the soundness of his nose and other parts, his frown eased as though it had never surfaced. He wiped away the blood indifferently. Get her in that water. And don’t let her back up again until she’s out.

You coward! She wriggled out of the hosiois’ probing paws and tried to sprint.

Stepping on the trim of her frock, Tobias said mockingly, And where could you run to, lyre? He constrained her long enough for the hosiois to put on the cuffs and tow her away.

Again and again, they submerged her mercilessly in the scathing-cold water, taking precautions never to quite drown her. Lyra cursed them and fought them; she didn’t submit, not once for the rest of the six months until Tobias left, when he was reassigned to the Temple of Delphi in Athens.

He requested a private word with her on the eve of his departure. Why wouldn’t you even give me a chance to love you, Lyra? He cut straight to the point. His eyelids drooped, forging lines of wrinkles at the centerfold of his forehead.

Love? His feelings for me are obsession at most. How could I love a monster?

At her pitiless words, his mouth cracked open a beat and closed again.

She took great pleasure in how much she had hurt him.

Goodbye then, Lyra. He turned and stepped outside the temple.

She watched as he climbed down the steep mountain trail that wound from the peak all the way down to the bottom. As his figure gradually disappeared into the thick gray clouds, she thought to herself she’d never see this man again.

A month later, she was rummaging through his letters, when she made an unwelcome discovery. With his newly promoted authority as the high priest of Delphi, he laid down the order for the next overseer to leave Lyra alone. Only her.

It made her wonder—should she thank him, or was it merely another one of his ways to keep her as his exclusive doll to play with?

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2

Scattered lanterns dimly lit up the temple’s colonnade and adjoining porch. Wispy strands of clouds masked the sickle moon, but as they shifted, a pearly hue spilled over the mosaic marble floor, marked by the shadows of the tall columns.

The temple stood on the Parnon, Sparta’s eastern border. The lone peak overlooked tracts of farmland, some barren and deserted and some green and lush, sewn together by their alternating elevations. Once in a while, shadows wandered through the field like wild, lonely beasts, for even the countrymen in Sparta, those detached from the city activities, did not live so close to their neighbor, the Therapne polis.

The hosiois had departed hours ago, but they were now returning with whichever night adventurer that had come to seek a word. Their cloaks coalesced into one cumbersome lump as they walked side by side, flanking the poor soul, who must have been regretting his decision now.

At the sight of their arrival, Lyra hurried back inside. If the overweight master caught her again, she’d never get out of water-drawing duty. She never looked forward to those harrowing treks to the stone well at the base of the mountain—one misstep, and the barrels wouldn’t tumble down the chasm alone.

After slipping inside, she picked up the laurel, lowered herself onto her three-legged seat, and neatly folded her dress over her lap.

Thin strings of smoke wafted around her.

Although Spartans were not enthusiasts of luxury, they decorated their innermost temples profusely. The sky-high ceilings were hoisted up by a tunnel of vaults, and below that, a decorative freize where more figures rose out of the stone. Azure lines split the story into chapters, marking the death of one hero and the birth of another. Behind the colonnades, slot windows opened up to the courtyard, drawing in silvery rays of moonlight that bounced off every reflective surface.

The subdued glow of the beeswax candles arranged in a zigzag on the floor partially lit up the quintessence of the temple: the murals. Lyra once had spent hours mulling over why the upper half depicted the gods in the heavens—Apollo guiding the Trojan prince’s arrow to Achilles’s heel, Athena bringing forth an olive tree with a tap of her spear, Atlas carrying the sky aloft with his shoulders, and Artemis setting Actaeon’s hounds after him and ripping him apart—while the lower half rendered the humans at the whim of the gods. From the faded, tarnished patches of paint and the vibrant, preserved ones emerged an ill-defined metamorphosis of the real to the abstract.

Her personal favorite was of Apollo, the god of prophecy, battling the serpent Python. Pierced through the hard plates of its gargantuan body were golden arrows. The monster, with its forked tongue flicked out, fractured the god’s curved bow. Apollo rested by his splintered weapon, wounded, unlike what the actual myth recounted. Even a shimmering bronze immortal deity could bleed and ache like a human being. Somehow, that threw a more pragmatic light on the religion, or it might just have been Lyra’s eccentric taste in art.

Keys jingled. The wooden doors finally swung open.

She reached for the terra-cotta vessel next to the oracle’s locale, unfastened the lid, and breathed in the fumes.

Lyra was thrust into enveloping darkness, where an invisible hand suddenly seized her awareness and would not let go. The hands held on to her like a mad suitor and locked her in an impenetrable cage. She could only bang the bars before it took over her body next.

Spectators often used the word dance to describe how Lyra stirred in midair, suspended in a ring of curling vapor. But to her, it resembled a seizure; her limbs convulsed in sharp jerks. Her hair fluttered as if wind were present in the almost sealed-off interior, and all natural colors were missing from her sweaty face.

People came to the oracles for two reasons: to seek enlightenment from the gods or to fill their lascivious needs.

The teenage boy crouching in front of her, gawking at her as if she were Artemis herself, certainly wasn’t among the latter group. Lyra was glad. She had struck the last man who was.

Unlike the other girls, who gave false predictions due to the drug’s repercussions, Lyra was, to her knowledge, the sole oracle who truly possessed the talent of prophecy. Normally, she ignored her duties whenever she could, infuriating the powerless overseer. But she volunteered on some occasions, when a feeling plashed in her heart that someone needed a real reading.

As soon as the invisible hands let loose, thrusting the owner back into the body, which fell onto the tripod, she reached out to whatever spirit enlightening her.

She focused on the boy’s windblown brown hair and greenish-brown eyes, anticipating his future. A remarkable facet of this mystical ritual was Lyra’s passive role. She didn’t set the rules, so she couldn’t make demands as to the timeliness or wholeness of the images she sought. Most of the time, she settled for a glimpse.

For once, the inarticulate whisper or fragmented image was late. Lyra waited. Sometimes the spirit took longer. In the next instant, she sensed its presence.

This boy has no immediate future, it proclaimed.

What? Lyra grasped the implications in the seconds that followed.

Lyra. The spirit had the sound of many waters, indistinguishable in gender, age, or ethnicity. Take heart; one must embrace another’s future with an open mind and a detached soul.

But—

Don’t question. Accept it.

But if that were the truth, which Lyra had no doubt it was, it meant the boy was going to die on his way down the mountain that very night. What should I say to him then?

The spirit left at the most convenient time.

Her body righted itself back into position. Alexandros. She gulped.

Yes? He scooted forward, not questioning how she’d learned his name but having implicit faith that this was the most magnificent moment in his life, hearing the gods’ words.

She willed herself not to stammer. You have great things in store for you. Lie. But beware, for death reaps as suddenly as the first blossom of spring or the first snow of winter. It doesn’t linger. It simply passes by. Beware. She pronounced every word harshly, biting on the syllables until they warped into an ancient tongue.

Anoisiés—it was nonsense. But he shone with excitement, having taken in only the first part of the prophecy and ignored the subsequent.

Lyra had encountered Death before. She was aware of how sudden and merciless he could be, coming swiftly and leaving nothing but sorrow behind as his calling card. Yet she feared that she, with her noxious prophecy, was the sentencer. Maybe if she had not seen what she had … But what could she do?

In her moment of distraction, the boy took his leave. She bolted outside to caution him, but he was nowhere to be seen on the rough and narrow track blazing down the mountain. A dead person can’t escape his fate. Standing under the ominous clouds, which were now a stormy black, she told herself that her work as an oracle was done. Tomorrow morning, the town villagers would find the innocent boy’s body at the bottom, all cranked at the wrong angles. His face would be colorless, but he would have that silly, convinced smile still there, unaware of how his head had thwacked against the protruding rocks and how his body had smashed into the ground.

The incident dampened her mood. Two visitors never came on the same night, so she straightened her crinkly tunic and prepared to leave, slowly blowing out the candle wicks one by one.

Not so soon, Lyra. The overseer, Otis, squeezed in from the doorway, blocking her exit with his massive body. There is another visitor tonight.

She stood corrected. She eyed him with disdain. Sparta took pride in producing the most outstanding warriors throughout Hellas. But this obese man, reeking of overly sweet perfume and putrefied meat, was a disgrace to their valiant soldiers up front. His dark brown hair was too symmetrically trimmed, his nose was too crooked, and his teeth were too yellow and snaggled. His face was devoid of any jawline whatsoever, and fat gathered in pleats around his belly and his thighs, where the bloodred chlamys he wore stretched to its largest capacity.

Wake another oracle, Lyra said, and the same flash of annoyance he displayed whenever she ordered him around flickered across his face. I’m too tired.

Are you really so selfish, Lyra? he said. Coming from him, that was an insult.

And I’m famished. Surely you wouldn’t mind my taking one of those gorgeous, sweet tarts of yours still lying on the pantry counter?

He lifted a finger, seething now. You are acting exactly like the spoiled brat—

You are right. I am being selfish, she said sardonically. Then call whoever is warming your bed. She must be awake right now. Let me guess. Calliope? No? Nefeli then? Phaedra? They were his favorites.

Shut your mouth! he howled. At least he was somewhat ashamed of his hobbies. Don’t you know what the other girls say about you? he added. They say you’re arrogant and heartless. They say your family paid money to bribe the higher-ups. So know this, Lyra: when you are out of favor with the high priest, you will be joining the girls you just named, warming my bed.

Before the day he described came, she was going to wipe that cheeky sneer off his face. My family paid money? She had never heard something more ridiculous. How could a poor Helot couple who lost their daughter to the temple offer such a sum?

Are you done? She leveled her voice with eyes narrowed. Life here had taught her that remaining calm was the best way to anger someone. Can I go now?

For once, I really want to let you go, Lyra, but our next visitor is the king of Sparta, and he requires someone who can tell a true prophecy. Though I highly doubt you can.

She scowled. King Theopompus? He was graying last I recalled. I thought he’d passed.

Ah! I almost forgot. The way he dragged his voice was absurd. A satisfied snigger hung on his fat lips, the indication that another unwelcome insult was on the way. You oracles have no idea what is happening down there, because you’re all locked up here. Like prostitutes.

Do we have a choice? His son Archidamus then?

Not even close. He fell into a fit of laughter.

How long are you going to keep me in the dark? Her brows arched. Or I could just go in there and tell the little king that my overseer wouldn’t even inform me of His Majesty’s name. How about that? She spun around and marched toward the inner temple.

Whoa! Slow down there, Lyra. His wet hand fell on the door handle before hers did.

Instinctively, she retracted her hand.

"The king is someone neither of us can afford to play games with. With one command, he could have both of us thrown into a pit, and I am sure you would hate to be