The Oracle Code (Thomas Lourds, Book 4)

by Brokaw, Charles

  “Since this land was so important to the ancient Greeks, they didn’t want it tainted. Didn’t want to offend the gods and goddesses. They tried to purify the island. In the sixth century BCE, the tyrant Peisistratos founded the Panathenaic Festival, a series of games that lasted for days.”

  “Like the Olympics.”

  “Yes. Only never as big.”

  “It is hard to be as big as the Olympics.”

  “Peisistratos ordered that all graves that could be moved from any of the temples had to be relocated.

  “Nearly a hundred years later, the Delphic Oracle declared that all graves on the island had to be emptied and that no one could be born there or die there.”

  “You are talking about the Oracle created by Apollo?” Interest showed in Fitrat’s eyes.

  “Absolutely. The Oracle was in full sway then. What do you know of her?”

  “Only that Apollo chose the first woman.”

  “That’s not exactly how it was, but that seems to be the common conjecture. According to legend, Apollo chose Cretans from Minos to be his priests, jumped onto their ship in the form of a dolphin, and led them to the site of the Oracle.

  “Another story says that a goat herder named Coretas noticed that one of his goats was acting strangely after having fallen into a rift in the earth. When he went to investigate, he was overcome by strange visions that allowed him to peer into the future and the past.”

  “This I know more about.” Fitrat shifted in his seat. “Scientists actually found that the visions might have been elicited by gas that was trapped within the earth. Carbon dioxide or something.”

  “Close, but carbon dioxide was only one of the possibilities.” Lourds smiled. “Originally the gas was believed to have been ethylene, a byproduct of an oil deposit there. Although there are some who say the more likely culprit was methane or hydrogen sulfide.”

  “That wouldn’t have made the Oracle a great environment to be in.”

  “No, but it didn’t stop people from going there. Aristotle, Herodotus, Sophocles, Plato, Xenophon, and Plutarch—among others—are reputed to have visited the site.”

  “So they cleaned the island of the dead, and that became the land of temples to the Greek gods.”

  “Among others, yes. There were some Egyptian gods worshipped there too.” Lourds grinned. “One of the most interesting pieces is the Stoivadeion, the temple dedicated to Dionysus, the Greek god of wine. It’s a giant phallus.”

  The two soldiers in the front of the boat totally lost it and started laughing hysterically. Even Fitrat laughed, and he wiped his eyes. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “It was erected—if I may be so bold—”

  The soldiers howled with glee.

  “—by an ancient Greek grammarian named Carystius. Sadly, this phallus is practically all that remains of his works. Even that is broken.”

  “Broken?” The young soldier in the front seat turned around again. He had changed to speaking English.

  “Yes. In half.”

  “So now it’s half-cocked? Is that how you say this in your slang?”

  The soldier laughed and pounded his thigh with a fist.

  “Yes.” Lourds covered his face with his hat and wanted to throw himself overboard.

  ***

  Delos Island

  The young soldier hopped out of the boat and quickly tied it up at the dock. Lourds grabbed the line from the stern and tied it to a cleat as well, wrapping it snugly.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the Agora of the Delians. Remember, I told you that Aristotle and Plato were connected with that long-dead organization that wasn’t so long dead during Alexander’s time.” Lourds looked around at the island and the blue sky surrounding them. He’d been to Delos several times, but he never failed to be impressed by the pomp and pageantry that the sight brought to mind.

  Now all that remained were fragments of what had once been. Broken, stone houses, tall, Doric columns that looked solitary and lonely, and stone parquets that showed wear from the countless visitors who toured the island even now.

  “Why are we going there?” Fitrat adjusted his sunglasses. In casual clothes, he almost looked touristy.

  “There’s an inscription that was mentioned in the scroll as being key to the parts that I haven’t yet figured out.”

  Lourds took the lead, and they followed bare earth walkways and the stone-lined path that wound through the island.

  “This is a beautiful place.” Fitrat walked at his side. “I could live somewhere like this with my family.”

  “No one can live here, actually. It’s against the law. The only residents here are a French archeological group that have been working digs on the island since the 1870s.”

  “They still haven’t finished?”

  Lourds waved around them. “There’s a lot to dig up on this island. You’re talking about almost three thousand years of history since the Greeks landed here, and there were people who lived in these islands before that. It’s just harder to get to them. And with all the sites, space gets cramped.”

  They walked past the shops in the Agora of the Competaliasts, the paved square directly behind the harbor. Lourds pointed to it.

  “That’s an ancient marketplace. Slaves were sold on the island. Sometimes as many as five thousand a day. That particular market was devoted to the Competaliasts, a union of freemen and slaves who worshipped the Roman gods of crossroads.”

  The sun beat down on them as they walked. Lourds took off his hat and mopped his brow. He couldn’t help looking around for gunmen to come charging out of nowhere.

  “Feel safe while you are here.” Fitrat clapped him on the shoulder. “The good thing about an island as flat and small as this one is that no one can sneak up on you without you seeing them come.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Taken away by the history surrounding them, Lourds felt his fears melt away for the moment. He pointed at a small, circular building made of marble stones in the center of the agora. “There is the temple that was dedicated to Hermes, the god of commerce. This is where the slave trade proliferated.”

  “It is a shame for a thing of beauty to be tied to such an ugly business.”

  “Living is an ugly business, my friend. Many things haven’t changed.”

  They stepped onto a stone path that was forty feet wide.

  “This is the Sacred Way. It leads to the Sanctuary of Apollo.” Lourds pointed at the columns nearby. It looked like a large, stone square that had large porches that led up to it. Ex-votos, offering places meant to give tribute to the gods, lined the Sacred Way.

  “I assume since he was the god of the sun that he found the idea of a roof offensive?”

  Lourds grinned. “Perhaps. But inside there—see the long building?—that’s the Oikos of the Naxians, the house of the people from Naxos. That’s a nearby island, the largest in the Cyclades. The Cycladic civilization that lived there dates back to 3000 BCE. Some truly fascinating artifacts have been found there.”

  He led the way down into the Agora of the Delians, where more long porches stood beside ex-votos. Carefully, Lourds began inspecting the porticos, looking for the name that had turned up in the scroll.

  Fitrat began looking as well. “What are you looking for?”

  “An inscription made by Pittacus of Mytilene.” Lourds kept moving, reading the inscriptions quickly. “And unless you’ve suddenly learned how to read Ancient Greek, you’re not going to be much help.”

  Fitrat sighed. “I feel useless.”

  “You can make dinner tonight as a way of apology.”

  The captain grinned. “Sure. Who was Pittacus?”

  “One of the Seven Sages of Greece, and that’s with capital letters. Each of the sages was supposed to represent an edict of worldly knowledge. Something everyone should know.”

  “And what did Pittacus propose?”

  “‘You should know which opportunities to choose.’”


  “Under the circumstances, I suppose that is fitting.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Why Pittacus? Because of what he said?”

  “I don’t think so.” Lourds kept moving and reading names. “Pittacus was from Mytilene, the people on the self-named island that was also called Lesbos.”

  “Where Aristotle went for a time. I remember you mentioning that.”

  “Exactly. Aristotle studied and taught there, and one of the people he would have covered in his material was Pittacus. Callisthenes knew that. I think the final bits of the code I’m struggling with are from the saying here because Pittacus was mentioned as having words of wisdom at Delos in the House. Furthermore, Lesbos tried to secede from the Delian League. As a result, the League made an example of them, ordering all men to be killed. They finally stopped the gendercide, to borrow a term from Mary Anne Warren, after killing a thousand men. The word lesbian was actually coined from the name of the island and referred to the fact that all those women were left alone, and too, the poet Sappho lived there. Sappho, as it turned out, was quite the ladies’ lady. If you read through her poetry, you’ll discover that it focuses almost exclusively on women and her sexual attraction to them.”

  “Amazing.”

  “What? The story?”

  “No. That you know so many things. I think if I knew so many things, my head would blow up.”

  Lourds brushed away some dirt on his latest find. And there, carved into the marble, was the name Pittacus. He grinned. “I found it.”

  “What does it say?”

  Lourds took out his phone and shot pictures of the inscription. Then he took a piece of paper from a drawing pad inside his backpack and placed it over the inscription. “Basically, it’s a repeat of what he was known for. Making the right choice. But the words are different. I suspect Callisthenes used some of them as replacements for the nonsense text I’m reading now. Hold this paper.”

  While Fitrat helped him hold the paper in place, Lourds used a charcoal stick from his art box to take a rubbing. Then he carefully rolled the paper up and put it inside the protective case with the scrolls.

  “All right. We’re finished here. Unless you want to take a look around.”

  Fitrat shook his head. “Perhaps another time.”

  Together, they headed back to the harbor. Lourds’s head was spinning as some of the words—now that he had them—were already dropping into place. But he wanted confirmation of his ideas and thought he knew exactly where to get it.

  “We need to make another stop, Captain.”

  Fitrat glanced at him. “Here?”

  “No. In Athens. Will your gun permits work there as well?”

  “As long as we are protecting you, and as long as the places you go have some relevance to the document, then, yes.”

  “Trust me, this place has relevance.”

  41

  General Anton Cherkshan Residence

  Patriarshiye Ponds

  Moscow, Russian Federation

  February 20, 2013

  “Are you sure there is nothing else you need me to do?”

  Anna looked into Lieutenant Emil Basayev’s face and smiled at him as they sat in front of the house where her parents now lived. “No. Thank you for everything you have done. You have been a prince. But I’m sure the general will want you back at your post.”

  Emil sighed dramatically. “This is true. I am glad we got this time to spend together. We both lead such busy lives these days. It is very hard to find time to be with friends.”

  “When I get a spare moment, I will give you a call. Perhaps for lunch?”

  “I would love lunch.” Emil smiled at her.

  At another time, she might have enjoyed his attentions. He was a handsome man, and he looked splendid in his uniform. She had seldom seen him in it except in pictures. When they met at functions with friends, he was always in street wear.

  Anna opened the door and let herself out. He waited at the curb, and she knew he wouldn’t leave until she was inside. She turned and trudged up the walk toward the tall, turreted alabaster house her parents had bought and moved into during her pre-teen years from the flat where she’d grown up.

  On a lot of days, she missed that old flat. She’d had friends there, and stories had loomed on every corner.

  The new house was nice, bigger than anything Anna had been able to imagine at the time, but it still didn’t feel like home. This house was where her parents lived, despite the fact that she had finished growing up there.

  Across the pond, she saw the hulking structure that had been built back near the end of World War II at Stalin’s order to house the army generals. In the nearby park, statues from Ivan Krylov’s fables alternately entertained and frightened children. The gold-handed monkey was always amusing, but for a long time, Anna hadn’t cared for the large bear.

  The neighborhood was often referred to as the soul of Old Moscow. When Anna had heard that, she had thought of how well her father had fit into the neighborhood. If the soul of Old Moscow could be said to be embodied in any person, it was the general.

  At the door, she used her key to let herself in. She’d just gotten off the phone with her mother, who was at the market buying food to cook for Anna’s welcome-home dinner. Her mother thought she was returning home to get some support after everything that Anna had been through.

  Instead, she had come to burgle her father’s office.

  As she waved to Emil and watched him drive away, Anna wondered if a general’s daughter would still be shot as a spy if she were caught doing what she was about to do. She turned and faced the door, knowing the answer was yes and knowing, too, that she would not be stopped.

  She walked into the house, closing the door behind her, the thump it made sounding loud inside the empty house. She lifted her voice, trying to remember if her mother had changed domestics since she had last been at the house three months ago.

  “Varvara?”

  There was no answer. Anna felt certain she was alone. She hung her hat and coat on the rack beside the door, then went to her father’s study.

  The house was Old World, the hallways narrow, the floors hardwood, and the rooms smaller than were found in new homes. As she’d gotten older, Anna had wondered why her father had purchased this place instead of getting one of the more modern ones. Then she had found out the choice had been her mother’s.

  Her father’s study was in the back of the house. As always, it was locked. But Anna had come prepared for that. Before allowing Emil to drive her home, she had insisted that he first take her by the offices of The Moscow Times.

  Kirill had wanted her to stay, of course. There was work to be done, and keeping track of everything going on in Russia and the Ukraine—and keeping up with international reactions to the “reunification”—was daunting.

  She hadn’t told him what she was going to do. She had merely taken the things she needed from her locker, accepted a mild rebuke from Kirill for leaving them in their time of need, and left with Emil.

  Among the things she’d gotten was a lockpick kit. One of the other reporters for the paper had learned many things during a “misspent youth.” Lockpicking was just one of those things. Now, he used some of those skills getting into and out of government offices. Kirill had cautioned him, letting him know he would one day get caught, but then Kirill always congratulated him on his scoops as well.

  Anna had gotten him to teach her because he had been interesting and handsome. Unfortunately, he was also unable to commit to anything more than a deadline. Thankfully, she had found that out early in the relationship.

  She knelt and worked on the lock to the general’s study, smiling in triumph when she heard the tumblers click into place. She put the lockpicks away and turned the knob. Even though she knew the general didn’t keep any alarms in the house other than the smoke alarm and the burglar alarms on the entrances and windows, she still expected some kind of siren to go off.

 
; The room was neat, and everything was in its place, just as she remembered it always being. One of the general’s prize possessions was a large globe in a three-legged floor stand. It had been given to him by his father, who had traded labor for the globe and told his son that one day he would travel the world as a successful man if he would only do his job as any good Russian did. The globe was sadly out of date regarding the names of countries and the shifting boundaries. But the general loved that globe and used to talk to her about countries he had seen in the Middle East. He had never been to America, and he’d never wanted to go.

  The desk was large and imposing, a monolith that took up a lot of floor space. It looked extravagant, but when the general was working on a project, he covered all of the available space with folders and papers and pictures.

  Anna had seen him working sometimes, and he’d always looked grim when he did.

  A massive bookshelf took up nearly one entire wall, filled with volumes on history and politics and on military hardware and training manuals. It also held some of the books the general had read to her as a child.

  Forcing her thoughts to the task at hand, knowing that her mother could arrive home at any time, Anna sat down at the desk and brought up the general’s computer. It asked for a password.

  She didn’t even try to guess. Instead, she dug out the second thing she had gotten from her office, a small USB device that could connect any computer to her friend, Spaso, a hacker she had met in Moscow while writing a story dealing with the Internet.

  Spaso lived off the grid, and she had never been able to identify him. He was a ghost, and anyone in the digital information business in Russia and a dozen other countries told stories about him. He wasn’t hacking for money, though he’d told her he took that when he needed to, but was more interested in obtaining the most valuable commodity in the world: information.