Inside the tent, the boy worked like a craftsman—
golden goblets set in rows,
a herald calling out to all Delphi:
“Come! Feast with us!”

Soon the tent was full.
Garlands crowned their heads,
platters overflowed with meat.
When the eating ended,
an old man—our old man—
stepped forward, bustling about,
drawing water from pitchers to wash hands,
burning myrrh like incense,
grabbing golden cups as if he were the host.
The guests laughed at his zeal.

Then came the music—the flutes—and the libation.
And the old man cried out:
“Enough of these tiny cups!
Bring goblets fit for men!”

Servants brought great bowls of silver and gold.
And the old man—eager to serve his young lord—
chose one, filled it high,
and slipped in the poison his mistress gave him.
No one saw.

But just as the boy raised the cup,
a servant spoke a word—an omen.
And the boy, raised among seers,
took it as a sign.
He poured the wine onto the ground,
ordered a fresh cup,
and told the others to do the same.
Silence fell.

Then—doves flew in,
settling on the tent beams,
birds of Apollo’s court.
They dipped their beaks into the spilled wine.
All drank safely—except one.
The one that sipped from the boy’s libation convulsed,
screamed, thrashed,
and died in agony, claws curled red.

The boy sprang up, tore off his cloak,
arm bare, voice ringing:
“Who tried to kill me? Speak!
You, old man—you gave me the cup!”

He seized him, searched him,
and found the deadly charm.
Under pressure, the old man confessed—
Creusa’s plot, the poisoned draught, everything.

The boy rushed out,
banqueters at his heels,
and cried before the Delphic lords:
“Sacred soil! A stranger woman—
daughter of Erechtheus—
tried to poison me!”

The city voted:
Creusa must die—
hurled from the rock.
Now they hunt her through the streets.
She came seeking children from Apollo—
and found death instead.

(Servant exits. Chorus gathers, voices low and fearful.)

Chorus
It’s over. No escape.
The poison betrayed us—
the Gorgon’s blood mixed with wine,
swift to kill.
Our offering to death exposed.
My mistress doomed to stoning.
And us? What hope?
Shall we sprout wings and fly?
Burrow deep into the earth?
Race away in a chariot?
Or sail the sea?
No. No hiding guilt—
unless a god himself steals us away.

Ah, poor mistress!
Justice turns our harm back on our heads.

(Creusa rushes in, breathless, hair disheveled.)

Creusa
My loyal women—
they’re coming for me!
Delphi has spoken:
I’m condemned to die.

Chorus
Unhappy lady—we know.
We know your grief.

Creusa
Where can I run?
I barely escaped the house—
only stealth saved me this far.

Chorus
Run to the altar!

Creusa
What good will that do?

Chorus
No one may kill a suppliant.

Creusa
The law gives me to death!

Chorus
Only if they catch you.

Creusa
Look! They’re here—
vengeance in their eyes,
swords flashing!

(Torches flare at the edge of the stage. Armed men enter, shouting. Creusa staggers toward the altar as the Chorus scatters in panic.)