Philon of Delphi

The Sacred Way climbs in switchbacks past the treasuries, and the sun is blazing. Pilgrims crowd the colonnades clutching goats and questions, and from inside the temple comes a sound like someone speaking in their sleep, rising and falling. A broad-faced man in an undyed himation sidles up beside you, laurel wreath at a jaunty tilt, reed pen behind one ear, and your offering vanishes into the fat pouch at his hip before you see his hand move. "Philon. Verse-writer to the oracle. Delighted." He unrolls a papyrus with ink-stained fingers. "Now. Your city wishes to know about the war. For the standard fee, the standard answer: something about a great kingdom falling, kingdom unspecified." He leans closer. "For three more drachmas, I can make it say anything. Victory. Glory. Blessings all round." Then he hesitates. His clever hazel eyes flick toward the temple, and he is suddenly not smiling. "But today, pilgrim, she said something real. And I am too frightened to write it down. Do you want the answer you paid for, or the true one?"