The Oracles' Games

Chapter 3

"Isn't that a thete?" The voice cut through the garden air as Theo followed the priest along the paved path. "What is he doing here?" The speaker made no attempt to lower his voice, clearly intending to be heard. Among the still-thick trees, Theo glimpsed several figures in white robes hovering like ghosts between the branches.

Thetes were the lowest class of free citizens in Athens, consisting of landless farmers and poor laborers. It was a favorite slur of Corinth's educated class, reserved for those who, like Theo, had risen beyond their 'proper place.'

"Don't mind them," said his guide from ahead. Theo turned to face him, catching the priest's smirk. He seemed to be enjoying this, as if it placed him on the moral high ground. "They're just being stupid, you know."

Theo offered a gentle smile. The priest, who clearly wasn't expecting this response, pulled a peculiar face before turning back to his duties as guide. It wasn't that such comments and attitudes didn't affect Theo; he had simply learned to bury his rage and detach himself from it. Adults had started betting on his petteia games when he was five, and by the time he was eight, he'd endured every imaginable attempt to throw him off his game. Though he had learned not to react, he would remember everyone who wronged him.

They passed through the administrative wing of the temple, their footsteps hushed against wooden floors worn smooth by centuries of use. The temple of Poseidon at Isthmia was known throughout the Greek world for its wealth, and its interior blazed with reflected glory despite the November gloom outside—golden light bouncing between bronze shields, gilded tripods, and ornate vessels. The air hung heavy and still, as though generations of offerings had gilded the very atmosphere.

Their path took them past an empty base where a large bronze statue of Palaimon usually stood before reaching the Master of Treasury's office. The office itself seemed to shimmer with wealth, every wooden surface adorned with gold leaf and intricate carvings. Ancient cedar pillars disappeared beneath gilt ornaments depicting waves and horses. Yet Theo's trained eye noticed gaps where precious items had once been—missing ceremonial masks that had hung between the windows, vacant spaces on the shelves where golden vessels had stood only months ago.

Behind his desk sat Hermias, the Master of Treasury—a familiar face from Supreme Council meetings, where he represented the temple in place of the aging Archiereis. His slight frame belied the sharpness of his mind. Theo had watched this man outmaneuver seasoned politicians with nothing more than carefully chosen silences and perfectly timed sighs. Even now, those keen eyes were already assessing, calculating.

Kleitos, one of the senior priests who occasionally accompanied Hermias to the Council, rose from a chair in front of the desk as they entered to stand behind Hermias. The guide priest slipped away without a word.

"Esteemed Protos Grammateus, to what do we owe the honour of your visit?" Hermias rose from behind his desk, his voice striking that practiced note between deference and subtle condescension—a tone he had perfected over decades of temple politics.

"Greetings, Honored Tamias of the Earth-Shaker." Theo gave a measured nod first to Hermias, then to Kleitos, before drawing a sealed scroll from within his himation. "I bring the voice of the Prytanis."

Hermias accepted the scroll and gestured for Theo to sit down. Theo complied, watching as Hermias carefully opened the scroll, which requested ten talents.

Hermias read with deliberate slowness, sighing softly at intervals, exhaling particularly deeply when he reached the end. "Dear Secretary," he said, "we have already made a donation of forty talents for the war expense last autumn. In addition, we have recently provided an additional forty-five talents through a loan. Eighty-five talents is not a sum we part with lightly."