The Pythia, in a rage, began howling and screaming at the God, calling him the Defilier and the Lord of Abomination and when that did not work, she flung herself at the God, attempting to claw at him like a beast.
Dionysos merely stepped out of her way at the last moment, and used his thyrsos to trip her. Dionysos stood over the old woman and said to her, or rather to Apollo who was in her, "How long will you hide behind your priestess, Far-Shooter? Do you fear to stand against me as yourself? If so, then you will watch as your beloved Delphi is layed low before you." The Pythia on the ground howled at the God one more time, and then collapsed in a state of total quiet and stillness.
The quiet stretched on, and no one spoke or seemed even to breathe for several long moments. And then there came a loud and terrible sound from the heavens, a sound like that of a hundred horses' hooves striking the ground, a sound like a dozen beasts all roaring at once, a sound like the very firmament being torn asunder. As the people gathered on the mountain watched, a light appeared in the sky, and this light grew in intensity until it seemed to them as if a second sun had appeared before them. This second sun, as it approached, revealed itself to the people below as a chariot, a chariot made all of flame. Its floor was fire, and its wheels, and above it there was stars and lightning and a radiant glow that rivaled the true sun in splendor and magnificence so that the people below could not stare up at the chariot for long. The chariot drew itself; there were no steeds to pull it, nor fierce lions like those yoked to the chariot of the Great Mother. The Great Glory stood amid the chariot, his countenance darkened by anger, with flame rising from his baleful stare. His raiment shone more brightly than the sun, more whiter than snow. A golden diadem surmounted his brow, and he carried a flaming scepter in his hand, and the people below trembled at his might and at his wrath.
Dionysos was not moved by this frightening display, nor were his followers. They stood their ground, even as the flaming chariot descended and came to a stop on the lofty cliff before them.
Apollo stretched out his hands and the sound of sacred chanting and gentle strumming from his golden lyres filled the mountain air. A moment later winged cupids descended, and they payed homage to the exalted Lord of Heaven, magnificent Apollo of the golden tresses.
In a thundering voice, the Shining One declared, "If there is any wisdom left in that wine-addled brain of yours, be gone. This is no place for you, and I will not tolerate your presence here any longer. Leave now - or suffer the consequences of your actions."
"You are sure of yourself, golden boy. It was that same arragonce which caused Kassandra to spurn you. That same pride which brought about the death of beautiful Hyakinthos. Too bad, I'd have thought you'd have learned by now!"
Without so much as a warning, Apollo set upon the wine-god. Red with anger, he aimed at Bakkhos a great blow on the side of the jaw, which was intended to dash him to the ground. He found his blow parried, however, and the two great Gods grasped each other by the shoulders, with heads close together and muscles straining, trying each one to throw the other. Apollo was surprised, for he had assumed that Dionysos was weak and flabby underneath his robes, that a decadent life spent among women and drink had left him frail and effeminate. But what Apollo found was that Dionysos was every bit as strong as him, and gave back blow for blow, push for push, strain for strain. Every time that Apollo thought that he had managed to work the wine-god into an indefensible position, or that he had exhausted the god's strength, Dionysos would come up with some brilliant maneuver and work Apollo into the tough spot, or he'd reveal an unexpected burst of strength. It was a difficult bout, because the two were so evenly matched, and it seemed to go on forever. The only sound in the clearing was the gasps for breath and the strain of muscles as the two Gods wrestled and their priests watched on, fearful of the outcome. There was something beautiful about the match, the contrast between Apollo's pure, white skin and Dionysos' golden brown, the supple shifting and tensing of muscle as they struggled, beautiful yet terrible in the lethal promise of their awesome strength. To those that watched it was like a dappled panther wrestling a white wolf, a snake paired against a mongoose, a bull and a lion. But eventually the terrible fight came to an end, and this is how.
Copyright Sannion, 06/25/02
All Rights Reserved
Posted with permission
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