Climbing Mount Olympus
The Oracle lies dead her head dashed against the rocks by her own hand in a fit of horror at the sights sent to her by the Gods. Now she lies in honour, the panolpy of death and the silver to pay Charon on her eyes on the 40ft tower of wood soaked in holy oils.
The pyre lies at the heart of the temple, the vast circles of rising seats surrounding the tall columns that were once carved with the sagas of tghe gods but now lie damaged and scarred. Recent crude chisel strikes marring the hundreds of years old designs. THe temple is full, thousands of citizens from Delphi and beyond come to pay homage to the Oracle's passing.
The irony of the funeral rites being carried out by the old Ways of the Gods is not lost on many of the guests sitting at the front of the amphitheatre. These guests resplendant in gleaming armour, glittering weapons and runecarved staffs representing the Kings, Queens and Heroes of Greece.
The cermemony ends, the flames rushing up the pyre in a great crackling rush of wood and oil. The prayers to gods that are now the enemy finish and the crowd begins to disperse.
As the crowds leave the Kings of Greece begin to gather in the heart of the temple, amongst the long columns also walk the heroes of the ages and the only hopes for the mortals now that the Gods themselves have turned against them. Servants in long robes bring out great trays of wine, plates full of figs, olives and capers and huge chunks of still steaming lamb and goat. The food soon begins to be run out, the great vats of wine soon run low and the kings stride forth into the heart of the Temple, lit by the glowing embers of the pyre of the Oracle.
The two Kings of Sparta; towering Menelaus with his great belly and beard and the other King Leonidas, tall and the image of a perfect Spartan warrior Stood apart from the Kings of Myceane. Agamemnon, the mighty KIng of Athens, tall and proud and coated from head to toe in golden armour smelted from his many victories. Wise Odysseus, his bow by side sits looking half asleep though Berenike least of all is lulled by that pose. The King of Ithaca has ever a sharp mind no matter the practiced air of indifference. Ancient white haired Aeson, father of Jason and King of Thessaly leant agsinst his staff, head craned as he tried to hear the words. Amongst them many lower kings, Queens and warlords also present. All turn to hear Agamemnon speak...
"Brothers, Sisters. We are beset. We are beset by the very Gods that once we venerated. They have controlled our lives and destinies for too long with little in return. We have thrown our coins, ours beasts and for some...
here he quiets, remembering a blood soaked beach and a vast fleet of ships, "even sacrificed our own flesh and blood and FOR WHAT!"
- the last words a bellowed roar.
"The Age of the Gods is no more. We make our destiny here. What God is the better of mighty Achilles, is Artemis a better shot than Angela, is Ares himself able to hold a blade to Perseus, to Damien, to Hector of Troy"...
. He looks around seekings support from the assembled royalty "We have no need of them and now they seek to cow us into submission with monsters, myths and petty storms..."