The Double Tongue by William Golding Page B

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