Hermes exits into the central temple, Ion enters from one of the on-stage residence doors, followed by other temple officials who follow slowly and sleepily. He immediately busies himself at the entrance.
Ion
We need to get a move on — the hour is late! Look at all the signs:
The chariot of the Sun already shines high above the horizon and
the rays of his four horses stretch long across the earth.
Over there: the clouds of heaven are ablaze with golden flame and
any remaining stars have long since fled into the dark embrace of sacred night.
All of this means that it is already well into morning, and we are late;
(They are still dragging around, yawning) Don’t you feel the urgency? Look there
The twin peaks of the Parnassus mountains in the distance,
despite their height they already hold up Dawn’s circle, fully lit.
[Oh dear, the sanctuary is clearly active too:]
Above the roof of lord Phoebus’ temple —
I can see smoke from dry myrrh-wood drifting high
[proof that the preparatory sacrifices for foreigners have begun without us.]
The Delphic priestess must already sit inside, upon that most sacred tripod,
ready to echo out to all the Greek visitors
those lyric utterances renowned across the world —
Sacred Words which crash upon the ears
like waves upon the shore.
[The officials start heading for the center door.]
Not so fast! Please my fellow Delphians, attendants of Phoebus,
Despite our hurry, you know you must first bathe in the deep eddies and silver flows
Of the Castalian springs. Purify your body
In cleansing water before you cross the sacred border of the inner sanctuary.
[The officials begin to groggily depart towards the wilderness, Ion shouts after them]
[Purity of the body is not enough!] Remember– guard your mouth from impure words as well,
And from this point forward, let your tongue speak only holy, proper utterances
To those who arrive seeking prophecy.
[Keep your mind and body pure, just as is Lord Phoebus of the pure-light!] [101]
[Ion is alone on stage. He relaxes a little. This speech is not addressed to the audience – it is either a private monologue or addressed to one of the statues nearby. Ion definitely gives off the vibes of someone who is a little strange. The chores are each odd combinations of extremely secular slave tasks, ie. clear the dust, sweep the porch, with religious tasks of extreme sacral intensity – purify the entryway with virgin drops, use the laurel as a purifying tool, etc..]
//This is a semi-parodic monody: the songs sung are normally extremely tragic but here quite silly. Similarly, ONLY the most elite of high class characters get monodies but here he is just a slave. //
As always, my jobs await; three tasks which have been my constant labour,
every day the same since I was a child.
[Though some have said this is all slave’s work,
I prefer to think of them as devotions, acts of sacred piety.]
First: sanctify the entrance to Phoebus’ temple, make it free from polluting grime.
Purify it using holy banners and newborn laurel
– by which I mean, of course, I mainly need to check the decorations and sweep with my trusty broom.
Second: moisten the dirt with pure wet drops [making holy the pathway of seekers]
… plus it keeps the dust from getting stirred up and dirtying the robes of our guests].
Third: deal with the flocks of birds
[The atmosphere here is meant to help divide the profane world from the sacred one]
and the sight of the statues are meant to inspire reverence in worshippers.
This is hard to do when the statues are covered in bird poop or when birds steal sacrifices.
So, each day, I go into battle: routing the ancient avian enemies of the temple with my bow.
Takes a moment to pose with the bow outstretched, resembling the statues of Apollo behind him.
By these services, I honour and revere my father, Apollo,–
[He relaxes the bow. ]
A little joke on my part. Since, as they say, I am just a no-mother, no-father, nobody,
I owe my filial devotion to the one who cared for me and raised me as a parent should have.
In loco parentis—I honor Apollo’s sanctuary and Apollo himself as my parents.
First up, sweeping and my sacred song of invocation…
[Ion begins to sing a strange combination of religious hymn and work ditty as he begins to sweep the floor. We can see how thoroughly the religious and the personal are intertwined, so much so that he functionally sees no difference – but this leads him into a weird combination of zealotry and sacrilege. At first, he addresses the broom with religious intonation, mock seriously as he picks it up, before transitioning to a slightly joking ode to Apollo.]
[In mock solemnity]
Oh come my lord, O youthful bloom,
Faithful servant’s friend
Oh come my lord — My laurel broom,
Let’s Apollo’s altar tend.
[still addressing the broom]
‘Ere a sprout of god’s own grove.
‘long fonts of dewy sheen
Where flows of water forward dive,
On leaves of myrtle green
[Parodic silliness]
But now you sweep the gods’ own floors
As the Sun sweeps overhead
Again, again, my all-day chores
From first light, till my bed.
[Actual solemnity]
O Pae-an – Lord of Holy Cry
on you Pae-an, I call:
Lord Child of Leto up on high,
May you smile down on all.
Lovely, lovely is the toil
In the seat of god’s own tongue
Where sacred throne ’s on sacred Soil
Where true prophecy is sung
Righteous, righteous is my toil
A slave of god, not man
And from this work I don’t recoil
Since I serve the di-vine plan
And I’ll call Lord Phoebus father
with his food I was imbued
I think the name of dad is proper
For the giver of all I’ve chewed.
O Pae-an – Lord of Holy Cry
on you Pae-an I call:
Lord Child of Leto up on high,
May you smile down on all.
And with that I am done – at least with the work of pulling along the sacred laurel.
[ION concludes his sweeping song and stops sweeping. If choreography allows, this next bit is all done as a sort of elaborate, staged dance. Each action is mimed as it occurs in narration. Scholars are generally agreed that the birds are not ‘real’ (ie. Played by actors) but that remains a possibility for modern productions]
Task two:
time to pour the very stream of Gaia herself from this golden vessel.
As you once flowed from the Castalian springs purely,
Free from the touch or dirt of impure hands
so too, I keep myself pure from the vulgar pollutions of sex
[Though not strictly speaking required,
I think piety demands virgin drops be cast by a virgin.]
Oh Pure Light, Lord Phoebus,
I pray that I always serve you, following your example with such zealous fervor…
And if my service must stop, may it only be in a way that will let me serve you better.
[Ion notices the birds and runs to get his bow]
Oh no! No…no…no!
I see them coming. Can it be that the birds
have already left their beds on Mount Parnassus? My third task already!
Back! Don’t you dare land on the temple cornice!
No! Off of the golden temple roofs!
[He shoots an arrow] Take that!
Shoo, eagle! You are not welcome here. [Don’t you flex your talons at me —
the strength of your bloody claws is only threatening to other birds!
If you don’t leave I’ll let you test my claws with my next arrow …
though I hesitate… for are you not sometimes the herald of Zeus himself?
Another one, heading straight to the altar–
Swan, would you please land your purple-blooded feet somewhere else?
How the strikes of his wings against the air mimic the beat of the ritual dance.
No… Not even dancing to the rhythm of Phoebus’ lyre will protect you from my bow (165)
I said, go! Use your winged oars — change your vessel’s course!
Come on, why not go to the marshes of Delos instead? Please.
Apollo has a temple there which welcomes your kind.
Listen to me or I swear that your swan’s song will become a swan song.
Ugh. Another one.
What is this new type of bird which has come to visit?
I’m not familiar with you…
Really? Right there, under the decorative frieze?
That is where you intend to leave your nest
–abandoning the very woven reed crib of your children at the temple of Apollo?
For shame. The song and sound from my bow should keep you away.
Still coming?
Why not go be a parent at Zeus’ temple near the whirling pools of the Alpheus River …
Or raise your children in the Isthmian grove sacred to Poseidon …
[Those gods already have plenty of children to take care of]
Much better than to bring such vulgarity here – bringing birth and death…
onto the offerings and temple of Phoebus the pure.
And yet,
I hesitate to do what I must…
Can killing you truly be an act of piety?
After all, do you not sometimes bring messages from the gods?
What if you are someone’s sacred omen?
(sigh) No choice in the matter. The chains of my ever-present labor compel me.
I have always been a slave to the will of Phoebus
And I will never shrink from serving the one who, with no obligation, has done so much for me.