Xouthos
Enough of this back-and-forth. Time to celebrate.
Right where I found you—on that very spot—I’ll start the rites.
I’ve stumbled into the great public feast, and I’ll offer the birth-sacrifice
I should have offered years ago.
And you—come with me. Be my guest at the banquet.
Eat, drink, rejoice. Tomorrow, we leave for Athens.
But listen: I’ll take you as a “friend,” not as my son.
I would not crush my wife beneath the weight of my good fortune
Not while she still mourns her own childlessness.
Later—when the moment is right—I’ll tell her the truth.
You’ll hold my scepter then, rule my house, rule my land.
From now on, your name will be Ion—because you were the first to cross my path
as I stepped out from Apollo’s halls.
Now go. Gather your friends. Feast with them.
Tonight is your last night in Delphi.
And you—slaves—silence.
One word to my wife, and you die.
(Xouthos exits quickly.)
Ion
Fine. I’ll go. But this joy is hollow.
If I never find the woman who gave birth to me,
how can I call that a life—even with a father.
And if I may pray for one thing—
let her be Athenian.
Then I’ll inherit freedom of speech on her side,
not live as an alien in a city without foreigners,
I might be citizen but it would be in name only
My voice, if it lacks the freedom to speak, would still be enslaved
(Ion exits.)
Chorus
I see tears coming. Wailing.
The start of grief—when my mistress learns
her husband has a son,
while she remains barren, alone.
What kind of oracle was this, Phoebus?
Where did this boy come from?
Who is his mother?
I do not trust your riddles.
Something dark hides in this joy.
I fear treachery. I fear what’s next.
Chorus (whispering among themselves)
Should we tell her?
Should we break silence and speak?
Her whole life rests on that man—
and now he betrays her.
She drifts toward old age, childless,
while he smiles at fortune.
Curse him! May his offerings fail,
may the altar flames turn against him!
He will learn what loyalty means—
when I show mine to my mistress.
Meanwhile, father and son
head for the feast.
Chorus (chanting, bitter)
O peaks of Parnassus,
where Bacchus dances with blazing pine torch,
keep this boy away from Athens!
Let him die before he brings ruin—
for if strangers rule our city,
that will be our downfall.
Enough for us the line of Erechtheus,
who once held sway!
(Creusa enters with an old servant.)
Creusa
Faithful servant of my father—
come with me to the shrine.
Share my joy—if Apollo grants me hope of children.
Sweet it is to share good fortune with friends,
and sweeter still to see a friend’s face in sorrow—
though may the gods forbid it!
You cared for my father once;
now care for me, his daughter.
Old Servant
Child, your manners speak for your noble blood.
You’ve never shamed your house.
Give me your hand—help me climb.
The path is steep.
Creusa
Lean on me. Watch your step.
Old Servant
My feet drag, but my thoughts fly ahead.
Creusa
Use your staff.
Old Servant
A blind guide—when my eyes fail me.
Creusa
True. But don’t give in to weariness.
Old Servant
Not willingly. But age rules me now.
Creusa
Maidens—my loyal women—tell me:
What news came from my husband?
Did the oracle promise us a child?
Speak! Bring me joy—
and I will repay you for your loyalty.
Chorus (hesitant)
Horrible spirit…
Old Servant
That sounds concerning.
Chorus
Oh, we are doomed
Old Servant
What? Did the oracle wound me too?
Chorus
Enough! Why speak of death?
Creusa
What is this? Why do you cry out?
Speak! Tell me what you know.
Chorus
Then hear it—though it kills me to say it.
Mistress… you will never hold a child in your arms.
Never place the baby on your breast.
(Creusa freezes, staring at them in silence.)
