Creusa
Gods… I wish I were dead.

Old Servant
My lady—

Creusa
This is ruin. My whole life—poisoned.
A curse handed down like an heirloom.

Old Servant
Child, this is death for us both.

Creusa
It feels like a blade twisting in my chest.

Old Servant
Stop. Hold your grief—

Creusa
I can’t. It’s lodged inside me.

Old Servant
Wait until we know—

Creusa
What more is there to know?

Old Servant
Whether your husband shares your misery—or you bear it alone.

Chorus
He does not share it. Apollo gave him a son.
He’s celebrating his good fortune—without you.

Creusa
Another blow. Another grief piled on the rest.

Old Servant
This child—was he foretold? Or already born?

Chorus
Already grown. A man. Phoebus gave him to your husband. I saw it myself.

Creusa
What? Don’t say it. Don’t even let the words touch the air.

Old Servant
And me. But tell us clearly—how did the oracle speak? Who is this boy?

Chorus
Whoever your husband first met leaving the shrine—that one the god gave him as his son.

Creusa
So that’s it. My fate is sealed.
Childless forever. Alone in my halls. No heir.

Old Servant
Who was it? Who did he meet? Where?

Chorus
You know him—the youth sweeping the temple steps. He is the son.

Creusa
Oh gods! Give me wings! Let me fly beyond Hellas,
past the western stars—anywhere but here!
The pain is too sharp to bear.

Old Servant
Do you know the name his father gave him?

Chorus
Ion. Because he was the first to cross his path.

Old Servant
And his mother?

Chorus
No one knows. Only this: your husband has slipped into the sacred tent
to offer birth-sacrifices for the boy,
and to feast with his new-found son.

Old Servant
Mistress—we’ve been betrayed.
This is no oracle. It’s a plot.
He means to drive us from Erechtheus’ house.
Not because I hate him—but because I love you more.
Listen: he came as a stranger, married you,
claimed your wealth—and now this.
He found you barren and refused to share your sorrow.
So he took a slave as his secret mistress,
fathered a child, and hid him here in Delphi.
Raised in Apollo’s temple to cover his tracks.
And now—grown to manhood—he brings you here
pretending to seek an oracle,
while planning to crown his son as heir.
Even the name is a trick—Ion—
to make it sound like fate, not fraud.

Chorus
How I despise the clever wicked—
those who dress up their crimes in cunning words.
Give me an honest fool over a scheming knave any day.

Old Servant
This is the worst of it:
he means to bring a slave’s child into your house as lord.
If he had asked you—pleaded with you—
to adopt a noble-born son, that would be one thing.
But this? No.
You must act. Use your wit.
Take a dagger—or poison. Kill him and the boy
before they destroy you.
If you spare them, you die.
Two enemies under one roof—one must fall.
I’ll help you. I’ll slip into the feast and strike the boy myself.
I owe you that.
A slave bears only one shame—his name.
In all else, an honest slave is no worse than the freeborn.

Chorus
And I, dear mistress, will stand with you—
whether it means death or victory.

Creusa
Oh gods… my soul is breaking.
How can I keep silent now?

(She grips her robe, trembling, as the Chorus closes in around her.)