The Oracle

by D. J. Niko

  A connection between the two objects didn’t seem likely, but both were materially different from anything on display in the museum or in the storage facility. And they were found very near each other. That was as good a reason as any to start her research there.

  Sarah willed herself to stop thinking about it—at least for the moment. She needed sleep. She got up from the bed and walked across the dark room to make a cup of chamomile tea. As the kettle heated, she gazed out the window. The soft pewter light of the waxing quarter moon outlined the canopy of the grove like a halo. A rogue breeze stirred the leaves of a chestnut tree outside her window. Then everything was still again.

  The kettle whistled. As she poured hot water over a handful of dried chamomile flowers, in her peripheral vision she saw a flash of light. She stood at the edge of the window and surveyed the darkened landscape. She saw it again: a tiny stream of white light darting to and fro, as if someone was searching for something. It quickly disappeared.

  Whoever was there did not want to be seen.

  She watched the light turn on and off in short spurts as it traveled eastward across the hillside. When she realized where it was heading, she held her breath.

  She threw her coat over her T-shirt and drawstring pants and slipped out the door. She skulked barefoot through the thicket of olive and chestnut trees, keeping herself hidden behind their ancient trunks.

  The lab was two hundred yards away from the staff housing complex, a lone building in the midst of a grove. It was protected with a combination lock and an alarm, but it was unguarded. If someone wanted to break in, it wouldn’t be impossible. Given the events of the night prior, Sarah had good reason to suspect this predawn foray was not official business.

  Sarah heard nothing but the rise and fall of her own breath as she approached the building from the south side. The light grew larger and brighter, a profane presence in the dead stillness of the night. The intruders were almost there.

  Her feet sank into the cold mud of the still-moist ground. She tried to pick up the pace, but exposed roots extending from the trees like gnarled fingers commanded her full attention. One misstep could slow her down and, worse, reveal her position.

  The light pointed toward the grove. Her heart hammering, Sarah ducked inside the hollow of a massive olive tree. She was close enough to hear the voices of two men speaking Greek with the local Boeotian accent. They made no attempt to keep the volume down; they were either overly confident or foolhardy.

  “Here it is. This is where it’s kept.”

  “You sure you know how to get in?”

  “Yes, you idiot. I have the code. Step aside.”

  A chill traveled down Sarah’s spine. She fumbled inside her coat pockets for anything she could use to create a distraction.

  Pieces of paper . . . loose change . . . her room key . . . her mobile. She could use the phone to call police, but by the time anyone arrived these guys would be long gone, possibly with an archaeological treasure under their arms.

  She stood slowly and peeked around the trunk. Ten yards away, the two men were bent over the keypad, punching in the sequence of six numbers. Both wore dark jackets and ski caps. One was short and heavyset. She could not see their faces or make out any more detail.

  I have the code. Within moments, they would breach the building. Even if it meant risking her own safety, she could not sit back as that happened.

  When she was sure they weren’t looking, she slipped away from the tree and darted to the side of the building. She clung to the plaster and listened.

  “What the devil?” The voice was barbed with frustration.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s not working.”

  “You’re doing something wrong. Try again.”

  Sarah could hear the clicks as the intruder’s fingers punched in the code. She bit her bottom lip. Should she do it?

  He uttered a string of expletives, then kicked the door.

  “Let me try. What’s the code?”

  “Forget it, fat guy. He trusted me with it, not you.”

  “Well, I’m not going to watch you fail. I want my reward. Understand?”

  “Shut up!” His voice echoed across the grove. As if he regretted the burst of anger, he dialed back to a whisper. “I’m going to try one more time.”

  Sarah saw their bickering as an opportunity. Her heart thrashed like a caged beast as she tiptoed toward the front of the building, preparing to confront the perpetrators.

  “Wait,” the leader said. “I think I’ve got it.”

  She felt a man’s arm across her chest and a hand press against her mouth before she had a chance to gasp. A voice whispered in her ear: “Don’t move.”

  Five

  Delphi,

  391 CE

  Sunlight filtered through the clusters of almond blossoms, granting them a diaphanous pink hue that recalled the rose-lined clouds at dawn. The sun’s kiss released the flowers’ perfume. It was sweet like a lover’s promise, an assurance that the winter frost had given way to spring, and the fair earth would soon erupt with life.

  The arrival of spring meant more than this to Aristea. It marked the return of Apollo from the land of the Hyperboreans, where the sun god retreated at the first breath of winter. Apollo’s arrival at Delphi meant his oracle would soon be called into duty.

  In the sixteen years since she had been chosen to utter the god’s word at his most sacred sanctuary, Aristea had always regarded this moment with a measure of excitement. It heralded the advent of a new crop of supplicants who would journey to Delphi, as their fathers had done before them, to hear the oracle proclaim their fate. It was a responsibility she did not take lightly, for the prophecies she dealt could change men’s lives.

  Or, indeed, history itself.

  Aristea walked to the Castalian Spring and kneeled on its edge. She looked inside the water, which was calm as glass, and her image gazed back at her with smoldering brown eyes. She lifted a hand to her cheek. She had the same olive skin as her ancestors, or so she had been told. She hailed from a long line of priestesses who descended from Themistoclea, teacher of the sage mathematician Pythagoras.

  Like them, Aristea had guided countless souls and foretold the inevitable. Her prophecies were always pointed and true, like the nature of the god who whispered in her ear. Truth, however, was an enchantress, assuming different forms before different beholders. Men being what they were, they interpreted the oracle’s words to suit them, sometimes with devastating results.

  She ran a hand across the water, effacing her reflection.

  It had happened the summer before last. An envoy from Alexandria had made the two-month journey to Delphi, by boat and on foot, to seek the counsel of the oracle.

  On the night he was deemed worthy of receiving the word of Apollo, the Egyptian descended to the adyton behind two Delphic priests and was directed to stand behind the false wall.

  Aristea sat upon the tripod of truth, gazing into a bowl filled with holy water from the spring of Kassotis. In her peripheral vision she could see the supplicant through a square window cut into the wall. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his head was bent toward the ground.

  She inhaled and smelled the familiar sweetness, like the nectar of honeybees that had feasted on orange blossoms. Apollo’s sacred pneuma had permeated the adyton. She closed her eyes, let the spirit take her.

  “What answer do you seek, Amenthes of Alexandria?” she heard one of the priests say.

  “Is there salvation from the armies of Theodosius, who march now into Lower Egypt, or will they trample our kind into the ground?”

  Our kind. Amenthes surely referred to the pagans of Alexandria, who for eons had practiced their rituals unquestioned. Theodosius, emperor of the eastern part of the Roman Empire and a newly minted Christian, had launched a campaign into Egypt in 388, vowing to smite the heresy of those who believed in a pantheon of gods.

  Aristea breathed the pneuma deep into her lung
s and waited. Her breath was even and steady, and her head felt light, as if hollow. Thoughts came and went unchecked until they passed out of consciousness. She was ready to receive.

  “Come now, Apollo, and guide your instrument,” she whispered under her breath. She wanted no one to hear, for the concord was solely between her and her god.

  An image flashed into her mind’s eye: A long hall illuminated by the trembling light of torches hanging from iron brackets, its marble floor stained by dark pools of liquid. At the far end was an altar. Her mind traveled to it and stopped upon a bloody knife. Next to it, flies buzzed around a pile of entrails.

  A hand stained with blood reached for the knife, held it up. The knife bearer turned around and glared at her with obsidian eyes hard with hatred.

  She twitched. The vision did not relent. She saw a field of ruins: marble columns toppled, pediments broken, a bust shattered into hundreds of pieces. On one of the felled columns was painted the sign of the cross.

  She opened her eyes with a jolt. “Approach, Amenthes of Alexandria.” Her mouth issued words without her willing it.

  Amenthes came forth.

  Head bent beneath a white veil, Aristea looked into the water. Ripples fanned out in concentric circles from a disturbance at its center. She felt the bowl vibrate ever so slightly against her hands.

  “There are two kinds of men: those who believe with their hearts and those who loudly proclaim their truth. Both will enter the house Ptolemy built, but only one will come out. And justice will stand victorious among the ruins, wearing the white robes of mourning.”

  “The house Ptolemy built,” the Egyptian repeated. “The Serapeum?”

  “The oracle has spoken,” said the priest. “The burden is upon you to understand her words and master your fate. Now, go in peace.”

  Aristea heard the shuffle of feet and the swishing of fabric as the Alexandrian envoy exited the adyton. She had seen his name on the Book of Souls. He would not survive the winter.

  And so it was. Aristea splashed water from the Castalian Spring on her face. Having just trickled into the fountain from the snowmelt on the high slopes of Mount Parnassus, the water was ice-cold. It braced her but could not wash away the memory.

  In the winter that passed, word had reached Delphi that Theodosius’ armies, with the blessing of the Alexandrian bishop, Theophilus, sacked the temple of Dionysus under cover of night, setting fire to the altars of sacrifice and defiling the sacred caverns with their filth.

  Pagan worshippers, who had been free since the dawn of the Egyptian state, spilled onto the streets to express their outrage and were confronted by Christians. The fighting continued for two days, with casualties on both sides, before Theodosius’ armies descended with their weaponry and turned the civilian clash into bona fide war.

  The pagans retreated to the Serapeum, taking Christian prisoners with them. But their barricades did not hold: with great logs the imperial armies broke down the doors and entered the temple with their spears and slingshots, stabbing and stoning the worshippers until none was left standing.

  Blood stained the marble so indelibly that even the perpetrators could not look at it. They demolished the temple and deposited its bloodied ruins into the sea. The Serapeum, Ptolemy’s storied work of art, was no more.

  It was the first time Aristea had predicted a massacre. But she suspected it would not be the last.

  Six

  Sarah knew that voice, knew the scent of his skin. Her body relaxed, a signal that she would follow his lead. He released his grip.

  A grunt came from the front of the building. “I can’t believe this. He must have given me the wrong code.”

  “I say it’s user error. Let me—”

  An alarm blared. The shrill sound, which she had never heard before, was coming from the building.

  “Idiot. Now you’ve done it.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What about the spike?”

  “Forget it. Run!”

  As the slapping of panicked feet against mud grew fainter, Sarah turned to face Daniel. He clicked the remote to shut off a portable alarm, put up a hand to stay her, and peeked around the corner.

  “All right. They’re gone.”

  She took a step toward him. “Why did you let them go? They should be behind bars.”

  “I hadn’t planned to let them go.” He pressed his lips together. “There was a complication.”

  “You don’t mean—” She cut herself off as she realized she had gotten in the way of his scheme, whatever that was. She huffed.

  “I didn’t want you to get hurt, Sarah. They were armed.”

  “Maybe if you’d tell me what’s going on, we could avoid such complications.” The last word was heavy with disdain.

  He exhaled loudly. “It’s a tangle of thorns.”

  She stared at him. She knew her partner so well, she could read the subtle changes in his gaze. The usual quiet confidence in his eyes had turned into unease.

  “I’ve got all night.” She nodded toward the building. “Shall we?”

  He punched in the correct code, and the door yielded with a soft click. He held it open for her, then entered behind her and shut the door. He didn’t bother with the lights.

  A shaft of pale moonlight entered through the narrow clerestory windows across the top of the building, casting a supernatural glow onto the objects lying in research troughs and on analysis tables. She crossed her arms. “Evan said you were in Athens. Why?”

  “The head of the foundation called for a meeting,” he said.

  “In the middle of the night? Come on, Danny.”

  “These people are constantly on the move. He was in the Middle East and flew through Athens last night on his way to London. Don’t make more of this than it is.”

  “Fair enough. What was the meeting about?”

  He hesitated, and Sarah knew he was weighing his response. It wasn’t like Daniel Madigan to be cagey. He was a straight shooter without regard for convention or political correctness. She had seen him act this way only once, when he was trying to protect her from something.

  “They’re concerned about this rash of thefts around Greece,” he said. “They want me to be their eyes and ears on the ground. That’s all.”

  “That’s all.” She was aware of the irony in her voice. “Well, you can tell this to your foundation consorts: whoever was here last night and tonight has nothing to do with these other thefts. These people are after something specific: a brass stake shaped as an obelisk.”

  He avoided her gaze.

  A crease formed in her brow. “But you probably knew that.”

  He nodded feebly and put his hands in the pockets of his faded, threadbare jeans. His muscles tensed beneath a tight black T-shirt.

  She took a step toward him. “What is it? Why are they after it?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “That’s the truth.”

  “What if I help you figure it out?”

  Daniel forced a smile, and the lines around his eyes deepened. His shoulder-length mahogany locks were windblown and tangled, as if he hadn’t bothered with them in days. He looked tired, older than his forty-three years. Though she knew he was keeping things from her, Sarah sensed his evasiveness was not hostile; he was in some kind of trouble. Whether he would say it or not, she knew he needed her.

  She patted his arm. “You look like you could use some sleep. We can look at this with fresh eyes in the morning.”

  “Thanks.” He gave her a gentle hug but quickly stepped away. “Thanks for understanding.”

  She didn’t understand. But she was determined to.

  Seven

  Though he had not slept in more than twenty-four hours, Daniel had no intention of resting. He looked at his watch: a quarter to five in the morning. He dreaded the phone call he had to make.

  He locked the door to his room and turned on the faucet in the washbasin. He entered the passcode on his phone and texted: I have intel
. Call me.

  He knew Langham was an early riser, so he was not surprised when, moments later, the phone vibrated. The caller ID read Blocked.

  “Morning, James. You’re up bright and early.”

  “Starting the day with a bit of a run.” He sounded winded. “My cardiologist says I have to lose weight. So, what have you got?”

  “Well, you were right. They came back. There was an attempted break-in late last night.”

  “Brilliant. Do we know who they’re working for?”

  Daniel rubbed his forehead. Despite the cold, it was moist with perspiration. “No. They got away.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. “What?” A single word, calm but loaded.

  “I’m sorry. I ran into some snags.”

  “The plan was foolproof, Madigan. Changing the code was meant to slow them down so you could confront them. How could you fail?”

  He gritted his teeth. He could not tell Langham the whole truth. “I had to abort the plan. They were too heavily armed.”

  Langham caught his breath. “I’m gravely disappointed. This puts us behind. It’s time we can ill afford to lose.”

  “Putting my life on the line wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Listen to me, Madigan. You have forty-eight hours to figure out what that obelisk is for. I am leaving today for Belgium. By the time I come back, I expect a full report.”

  The line went dead. Daniel threw the phone onto the bed and exhaled sharply. He wasn’t used to having his back against the wall and felt a tinge of self-loathing for allowing himself to get into this situation. He told himself he had no choice: two months ago, he was desperate. He would have bargained anything to save her.

  So he did. And now it was time for payback—though the toll was heavier than he’d ever imagined.