by D. J. Niko
No sense in delaying the inevitable. He blew out the kerosene lamp and ducked through the cell’s low door.
Fifteen
The masked assailant held up a knife. The blade glinted in the fragile sunlight. He took a step toward Sarah. His two accomplices followed his lead.
Sarah’s limbs tingled as fear gripped her. She glanced around for anything she could use to defend herself but saw nothing. Her only option was to run.
Their shoulders hunched in attack mode, the three masked men rushed toward her.
The only clearing was to her left, the steep path that led down to the banks of the river. It was risky, but it was all she had. Hoping they didn’t share her ability to negotiate such terrain, she made a run for it.
They ran after her. She led them down the most treacherous part of the route, scrambling over boulders and stepping over two-foot-high shrubs with the agility of a mountain goat. Two of the men fell behind, but one was gaining on her.
Sarah led him across the boulder field to the edge of a steep slope. She looked over her shoulder: he was on her heels. She surveyed the incline and figured it was about sixty degrees. It could not be negotiated in a hurry.
She heard the masked man’s panting as he caught up. He reached for her backpack, throwing her off balance. She quickly regained her footing and slipped the pack off her shoulders, swinging it at him with all the strength she could muster.
The move caught him off guard and sent him tumbling down the cliffside. His cry of distress, more a growl than a scream, grew fainter as he rolled toward the river. As she strapped her pack on again, she saw him slam back-first against a boulder. He was not out, but she knew it would be nearly impossible for him to climb out and catch up to her.
Aware the others were gaining ground, she bolted along the cliff’s edge running parallel to the river. The path was no more than a foot wide and the drop precipitous: she could not afford a single misstep.
In pace with her gait, she exhaled in short, controlled bursts of mist. She scanned the path ahead for an opportunity to evade them. Up ahead, rising above the hillside, was the massif into which the monastery was built. The exposed rock was sheer but textured enough that she could free-climb it.
Sarah glanced backward. The hooded assailants were no more than twenty feet behind her. She sprinted toward the crag. Her plan was to either lose them on the climb or seek refuge in the monastery.
Though she was winded from the long sprint, there was no time to catch her breath. She launched up the limestone cliff, pushing her pace to the outer limits of safety. Her scraped hands were a handicap, but she did not let the sharp sting slow her down. She looked over her shoulder. They were climbing after her.
She hadn’t had time to study the pitch before ascending, and that was to her detriment. Just ahead, a particularly smooth piece of rock made passage difficult. Though it meant losing valuable time, she had no choice but to climb around it.
Just above was a rudimentary staircase carved into the rock, obviously what the inhabitants of the monastery used to travel up and down. If she could make it there, she was certain she could evade them.
Aware of the risks of the terrain, she picked up the pace anyway. It was folly. She slipped and slid down several feet, giving her pursuers an advantage. Precariously perched on a slim piece of rock without an adequate foothold, she struggled to pull herself back up.
The leader, with the knife tucked into a sheath around his waist, was just behind her. Gritting her teeth, Sarah reached for a groove in the rock and wedged her fingers inside. With that secure handhold she ascended, albeit a few inches at a time.
The man grabbed hold of her foot. She kicked backward to shake him loose, but he only tightened his grip. With a sideways kick, she crushed his hand onto the rock, eliciting a grunt. He let go, and she seized the opportunity to scramble upward, if a little haphazardly.
Sarah gauged the distance to the staircase. It was probably fifty feet away: not close enough. She made a bid for it anyway.
She heard a rip and felt a fiery sensation on her calf. She looked down and saw her pursuer with knife in hand. The second man was now just behind him.
Blood trickled down her pant leg and dripped steadily onto the cliff. Judging by the throbbing of the injured muscle, it was a deep cut. The odds were stacking against her.
“Let the bag go,” the leader shouted.
Though her body had tensed from the pain, she kept a calm face. “I don’t think so.”
Knife in one hand, the man inched up. His cohort caught up to him. Together they grabbed her ankles and pulled.
Losing her grip, Sarah tried kicking again, but she was too weakened by the injury.
The crack of gunfire echoed across the hillside, jolting her. Someone spoke in Greek. “Leave the girl. I won’t hesitate to shoot.”
Squinting in the sunlight, she looked up at a man in a long black garment and knit skullcap standing on the staircase leading to the monastery. One of the monks.
The leader shouted some obscenities at the monk, who in response pointed the barrel at the two masked men. A second gunshot released a bullet that ricocheted off the rock near the leader.
“I’m not finished with you,” the man hissed at Sarah. “You will see me again. Count on it.” Then he and his accomplice retreated down the cliff and disappeared into the brush.
Sarah struggled to hang on.
“Wait there.” The monk scurried up the stairs and, a moment later, reemerged with a rope basket. He tossed it down to her.
Sarah had seen the contraption in photos. The basket, something like an oversized plaited-rope bag one might take to the grocer, was what monks had used since the middle ages to ascend and descend the cliffs on which their priories sat. Only in the past thirty years had the system, by then obsolete and rather dangerous, been replaced by the building of stairs.
When the cage was next to her, she grasped the coarse rope and parted the strands to gain entrance. As she slipped inside, the weight of her body pulled the basket down and closed the openings. “Let’s hope this works,” she muttered, tugging on the main pulley line to indicate she was ready.
As she was hoisted up, the squeak of rope rubbing on metal unnerved her—though not nearly as much as the end of the journey did. She was left dangling next to the staircase, a few hundred feet above a precipitous drop.
The old monk offered a cane. Even in a matter of life and death, the man of God kept his vow to not touch a member of the opposite sex.
As the rope basket swung in the crosswinds that often whipped the hill country, Sarah steadied herself with great effort. Grabbing the cane, she staggered out of the cage onto one of the steps. Her hurt leg buckled, and she inadvertently kneeled in front of the monk.
She looked up at him. His skin was the color of caramel and carved in a spiderweb pattern, and one of his eyes was covered by the gray film of a cataract. A scraggly salt-and-pepper beard brushed his sternum. “Thank you,” she said in Greek. “I know you didn’t have to do that.”
“My faith requires me to help the ailing.” His tone was cold, making her question his sincerity. “Even those who snoop where they don’t belong.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong.” She winced as she stood. “I was merely looking for someone . . . a friend who’s gone missing.”
He gestured toward the cliff. “Men like them don’t hunt a girl who’s gone for a walk in the woods. You have something they want.” He glared at her. “Don’t you?”
She said nothing. It was clear he knew the score.
The monk tapped the cane on the stone step. “That cave is cursed. And so is everything in it.”
“You know about the body.”
“I’ve done what is required of me. Now you leave.” He started up the stairs.
“Father, please. A man has been murdered. Others, including me, are at risk of harm. I beg you: tell me what is buried at Melá.”
He stopped but did not turn around. “The instrume
nt of the pagans. To uncover it is to sin against God.” He spoke over his shoulder. “You should forget what you have seen.”
“I’m an archaeologist. I cannot forget.”
“Another archaeologist.” He scoffed.
She shifted her gaze toward the monastery building. Was Daniel there? “You’ve seen him, haven’t you? Is he all right?”
He did not answer. He hobbled up the stairs and stood by the ramshackle wooden door that separated the forbidden realm of the Orthodox holy men from the rest of the world. He inserted an iron key into the lock, and the door creaked open. He glanced at Sarah. “You should not be concerned with what is buried at Melá but rather with the one who seeks it. He is committing the ultimate trespass—and should be silenced.”
“It seems to me we are fighting the same war,” Sarah said. “We can help each other.”
He pointed with his cane toward the mountain range in the distance and spoke in ancient Greek. “If you want to know thine enemy, you must first know thyself.”
There was only one place connected to that reference, and it sat on the other side of Mount Parnassus. “Delphi,” she said.
The monk crossed the threshold into the monastery and slammed the door.
Sixteen
Delphi,
393 CE
Aristea ambled along the forested trail above the sanctuary, alone but for the incessant cri-cri-cri of the cicadas. The summer sun filtered through the oak trees, casting soft shadows where she stepped. She regarded the shadows as spirits urging her forward on the path that was chosen for her so long ago—the path she now chose for herself.
A week had passed since the vision that shook her to her core, and she still could taste the black smoke in the back of her throat. She wanted to believe it was only a dream, the figment of a frightened mind, but she knew better: the oracle was never wrong.
She heard the snap of a twig and froze. Was someone there? Did an animal lurk behind the oaks? She listened actively. Another snap, this time closer. Then, voices.
It felt as if water from the mountain springs coursed through her veins. She hid behind an old tree trunk and listened.
“Look at all that.” Judging by the man’s accent, he was of Eastern origin. “A theater, a stadium, treasuries, a marketplace . . . It must be a prosperous city.”
“Yes. The Delphians have enjoyed great fortune. They have lured people from all parts of the empire with promises of foretelling the future.”
“The devil’s work.”
“It is time they learn that only God has the power to see the future. Their false prophets must be crushed.”
“And what of all this treasure?”
“It must be confiscated . . . for God’s work.”
“For God’s work.”
The emperor’s mercenaries. It was the moment Aristea had foreseen, the moment she feared.
The men continued talking, but their voices grew more distant until they could no longer be heard. A vision of smoke rising between the temple columns flashed before Aristea’s eyes.
She had to warn the others.
She stole a furtive glance around the tree trunk and was relieved to see she was alone again. Urgency hastened her pace as she launched onto the downhill path toward the city. With great agility she sprang around rocks and exposed roots, never slowing her gait. She knew those woods like she knew her own body; over the thirty years of her life, the forest had become an extension of her.
For a moment, she considered it might be the last time she felt the cool soil of Mount Parnassus beneath her bare feet, the last time she felt safe in the forest’s embrace. A pang of agony ripped through her gut, and the hard truth was laid naked before her: all she’d ever known and cherished would soon crumble to ruin.
Panting, she arrived at the stoa of the Athenians. At the end of the long hall of fluted marble columns, near the platform displaying the prows and cables taken from the defeated Persian armada during the Battle of Marathon, Cleon and two hosioi, Nikias and Iason, were engaged in conversation.
As she ran toward them, her bare feet slapped against the marble floor. One by one, they stood. Cleon went to her, catching her as she collapsed to her knees.
“My lady, what draws the blood from your face and steals the breath from your lips?”
“I came across the emperor’s men. They spoke of destruction and plundering.” She grasped Cleon’s arms with raptor-like grip. “They will be upon us at any moment. We must prepare.”
He helped her to her feet and gestured to Nikias and Iason to approach. Cleon addressed the group. “The moment we have feared has come. Our enemies mean to extinguish the flame of Apollo. We must act quickly.” He turned to Nikias and Iason. “Order the acolytes to remove from the sanctuary as many sacred objects as they can carry and start on the forest road to Thebes. No one knows that path; they will be safe there.”
A grave look crossed Iason’s youthful face. “What will become of us?”
Cleon placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hatred is a powerful thing, my young brother. It can wipe away the most fortified cities and crush entire generations. All we can do is hold true to our faith and hope it will lift us, like a wave lifts a ship.”
“We will stay here and fight,” Nikias said.
Iason waved a fist. “Fight to the end.”
Aristea extended a hand into the middle of the circle. “Let us make a pact. Should we escape with our lives, we shall meet in the cave of Trophonius, on the other side of Mount Parnassus. When the imperial beasts have tasted enough blood and begin to retreat, we can again honor our rituals, even if in secret.”
Each of the men placed a hand on hers. “To the cave of Trophonius,” they said in unison and scattered to their tasks.
Cleon glanced at Aristea. She turned so he would not see her eyes had misted.
“Be brave, my lady. Whatever happens, know in your heart you have lived a pure life and have not strayed from your path. That is your freedom, and they cannot strip it from you.”
“I do not fear for my life, Cleon. It is the injustice of one man imposing his will upon another that angers me. What god condones the use of such brutal force to gain disciples?”
“No god demands this. It is solely man’s doing. They merely hide behind a holy name to glorify their greed and their ambition.” He took her hands and held them gently. “I have lived much longer than you, Aristea. I have seen anger and hatred corrupt men’s souls. We must rise above it, for if we don’t—”
“We risk the demise of peace.” She squeezed his hands. “There cannot be peace on Earth if no peace exists in our own hearts.”
“You have been blessed with the gift of wisdom. Your mother would be pleased at the woman you have become.” The lines around Cleon’s eyes deepened as he attempted a smile. “Now let us make haste. There is much to do.”
Aristea stood at the entrance of the temple and watched the full moon rise above the peaks of Parnassus and cast its silver rays onto the Gulf of Corinth, far below Delphi.
The moon’s face was larger than she’d ever seen it. She took it as a sign: the gods illuminated the path of the Delphians who had fled the city with the treasures of Apollo.
In her peripheral vision, she saw a cluster of lights and turned her gaze toward the Sacred Way. The lights traveled up the Way toward the temple, as if it were a procession of faithful marching toward the oracle and the promise of knowledge.
But this was no prelude to ceremony. She regarded the lights without emotion, for she knew they would come. She counted torches: two-score, maybe more; she could not be sure. She knew only that they were outnumbered.
Aristea went inside the temple, where Cleon, Nikias, and Iason tended to the sacred relics. They all turned to face her. No words were necessary.
She met them at the altar, and they all joined arms and bent their heads. Cleon led them in a soft hymn in tribute to the god of light, truth, order, and healing. They sang of Phoebus—the bright—Apollo being delive
red to Mount Parnassus on the back of a winged horse to fight the serpent Python, in whose throat dwelled all the world’s ills.
With every fiery breath, the monster dimmed the sun,
And men went entranced into the dark oblivion of evil.
Then came Phoebus with his golden arrow
And pierced the heart of darkness,
And evil plunged into the bowels of the Earth.
O men of honor, do not forget the gift you have been given
By the one who shoots sunbeams from his fingertips
And grants song to the birds and fragrance to the
wildflowers,
Lest evil return from the arid depths—
A loud crack brought the hymn to an abrupt end. Aristea looked up and saw the temple door come crashing down. With the entrance breached, a hailstorm of stones the size of men’s heads flew into the holy shrine. One hit a statue of Apollo and broke the torso in two. The alabaster fell to the ground and smashed to pieces.
Aristea and the men dropped to a prostrate position and waited, huddled, for the barrage to stop. With every thud she shuddered, imagining the damage.
She could no longer stand it. She broke free of the group and crawled toward the entrance. She crouched by the broken doorway and waved a white veil.
A male voice shouted. The onslaught slowed, then halted.
Aristea stood on shaky legs and gazed into the courtyard. A wheeled cart with a ballista attached was pointed toward the temple. Behind the contraption was a gathering of men. In the torchlight, their faces were like brazen statues—hard, vacant, incapable of feeling.
Her lip trembled as she spoke. “We are people of peace. We are not breaking any laws of the empire.” She swallowed hard. “Our treasuries have gold. Take all you want. Just leave our sanctuary standing.”
One man stepped out in front. He wore chain mail across his chest and a bronze helmet, as if Apollo’s priests were going to engage him in battle. “We need no permission to take your gold. That is the currency of the devil, and we have every intention of confiscating it for the work of God.” He pointed toward the temple. “The fire of hell burns within that house. Under order of Theodosius the Great, rituals of the profane shall not be tolerated.”