“Father, who are those splendid-looking men?” she asked. “They seem waiting for us.”
“They are waiting, indeed. They are the Athenians.”
Theria’s heart rose at the sight of them. At sight of their anxious faces her personal sorrow retired before their larger sorrow. She wanted to call out to them, to tell them how sure was her hope. But of course she could do no such thing. The Athenians greeted her father solemnly from a distance.
Now the priests gave into all their hands great boughs of trees.
“Do not speak again, Daughter,” said Nikander. “We are suppliants now.”
And bearing their solemn boughs with which to constrain the god and with their baskets, their torch, and their slow-moving victim, they went up the Sacred Way. The Athenians went with them. Kindly the little temples watched them go, kindly the gods and heroes beside the way.
Before the great altar in front of Apollo’s temple they stopped. The altar was alight, smoking in the sunshine. The flute player began a slow Dorian melody. The priest brought a great silver bowl of water and, lighting a new torch at the altar flame, plunged it hissing into the bowl. With the water thus sanctified, he sprinkled the worshippers. Then lifting the bowl high with the swift gesture of long custom, he dashed the water full upon the goat. It shivered in all its limbs!
Good omens, good omens all. Theria’s confidence soared upward with her simple faith.
When the goat was sacrificed, Theria was sure that its outgoing life was mounting invisibly to please the Son of Leto. In her enthusiasm, she kissed her hands to the god and stood so with her arms uplifted. Nikander, gazing upon her, felt more hopeful than for many weeks.
When the ritual was done, they laid the supplicant boughs upon the altar. Her brother and her mother kissed Theria good-bye, a sorrowful parting but quiet as befitted the temple place. Then Nikander took Theria’s hand and, Baltè following, led her around the back of the Great Temple to the Pythia House.