by D. J. Niko
Sarah closed her eyes and hung her head. How could she not have known? She blamed herself for not seeing Daniel’s plight and supporting him when he most needed her. But more than that, she blamed her father for knowing—and pushing Daniel anyway.
“I don’t suspect his disappearance had anything to do with his mental state,” Sir Richard continued. “I’ve had my staff call every hospital and medical facility in Cairo, but Daniel Madigan hadn’t been admitted at any. Worse yet, we tracked down the number plates and they weren’t registered to an ambulance company at all. They belonged to some sort of warehouse.” He paused. “And there’s another item of concern. The abductors likely also have his personal belongings. His phone could easily connect him to us.”
Sarah clenched her fists to keep from slapping him. She should have known his interest lay more in protecting his own hide than in rescuing his so-called friend. She would have walked away then had it not been for Daniel’s plight. She bit her tongue for her partner’s sake. “I suspect you haven’t come to me for a confession, so tell me what it is you want.”
“Fair enough.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Since Madigan’s disappearance, Interpol have received a cryptic message from an unknown sender. I need you to tell me what it means.”
Sarah felt mist on her face and looked up at the angry pewter sky. The drops descended with more urgency, swelling to a full-on rain. The moist air smelled of urine and dust. A homeless man sitting on the sidewalk made a tent out of his cardboard ground sheet and cowered beneath it, but the bowing Muslims persisted despite the storm.
Rain trickled down Sarah’s cheeks like tears. She pushed a few wet tendrils of hair away from her face and kept walking, the words of the message muscling all other thoughts out of her mind.
Where eagles soar and the earth’s fangs rise toward the sky,
Where the eternal springs have withered
And the air no longer smells of sweet earth,
The mortal son of Dionysus awaits sacrifice.
Let whosoever holds the key to his redemption bring it forth
On the seventh night after the new moon of elaphebolion
Following nine years of spiritual famine.
Sarah knew exactly what it meant.
And she knew she was the one who held the key.
Thirty-one
Sumela Monastery,
393 CE
Aristea heard the crunch of stones and felt her head sway. She slowly blinked awake and saw the arid ground moving beneath her. The gray hide of a donkey’s hind legs came into focus. She had been draped, facedown, like a sack of wheat onto the saddle. Without protest, the beast carried its load up the mountain.
She stroked the animal’s ribs and commanded it to halt. The donkey stopped tenuously on the uphill path, and she reached for the saddle knob. With an effort that retold the extent of her injuries, she righted herself on the saddle. She clicked her tongue to urge the donkey onward.
She looked down and shuddered. The white vestment of her priesthood had been torn to shreds and fouled with blood. In an attempt to regain her modesty, she pulled together the tatters of linen as best she could.
She felt a throbbing sensation on her inner thigh and parted the linen to investigate. A bright-red, open wound surrounded by charred skin wept clear liquid. She had been burned.
There was a gap in her recollection. Though she liked to remember everything and learn from it, she was grateful for this lapse. Her last memory of the encounter in the cave was of the Pontian retreating with a satisfied sneer and one of the other men taking his place atop her. At that point, she must have passed out.
Stabs of pain in her pelvis caused her to fold forward and lay her head onto the beast’s wiry mane. Nothing could offer her comfort. But the harm that had been inflicted upon her body did not compare with the greater calamity: the theft of precious objects from Apollo’s sanctuary, and from so many others throughout Greece, in the name of religious hegemony.
Aristea cringed at the recall of the Roman senator’s impure hands on the sacred omphalos. No mortal had the right to touch the navel stone that held the universal secrets divined by the sage Pythagoras, the gods’ gift to the Earth. As a Delphic oracle-priestess in the line of the great Themistoclea, Aristea feared she’d failed her ancestor and the age-old promise to safeguard Pythagoras’ formulae for the future of mankind.
Liberating the navel stone on her own, with no allies and on such difficult terrain, was impossible. Yet she could not let it be lost forever. She vowed to record its location so that, one day, others would come for it. She would ink it with her own blood if she had to.
The donkey rounded a bend, and the monastery came into view. Beneath a mist of cloud, the hive of monks’ cells and study halls hung from a precipitous cliff. She wanted to be repulsed by it, for it was built by the emperor who had quashed human liberties and requisitioned so much slaughter, but even after all that had happened to her, she could not find the hatred in her soul.
Aristea glanced behind her at the valley cut into the mountains and dreamed of her escape. She longed to be lost in the green embrace of nature, away from the false righteousness of senators and the grubby paws of cretins posing as judges. Alas, her moment would have to wait. Two of the men from the cave rode behind her, well farther down the path. The distance between her and them, she imagined, was occupied by their guilt.
At the path’s end, the donkey lurched onto the courtyard to deliver its human cargo to the old monks in attendance. Aristea steadied herself to dismount, but her knees gave out and she crumpled onto the cobblestones. The monks scurried to her side, murmuring among themselves as if they weren’t sure how to help her.
She looked up at the sun, imploring her patron god for strength. At a small square window beneath the roof eaves, Sophronios looked down at the commotion, then disappeared.
“Leave me be,” she told the old men. She turned a shoulder to them and staggered to her feet. The pain was such that she saw double, yet she wanted no hypocrite’s help.
From behind the wall of monks came a familiar voice. “Step aside.”
She looked over her shoulder and saw the crowd part. Sophronios pushed his way through. He met her gaze and held up a woolen mantle. “I will see to this prisoner,” he said.
Aristea let Sophronios drape the mantle over her shoulders and guide her away from the whispering monks to the dim corridor that led to her holding cell. He twisted the iron ring and pushed the door open.
She shuffled to the window and stood with her back to him. She did not want him to know how vulnerable she felt.
He closed the door. “What happened to you?”
Memories of the heinous act crashed through the gates of her consciousness. Her eyes filled with tears.
He asked again: “Who hurt you?”
Did he really not know? She took a deep breath to control the flood of emotion that threatened to overtake her. “Leave me.” Her voice was so feeble she scarcely recognized it. “Please.”
The monk said nothing else. The door creaked open, then slammed shut.
Finally alone, Aristea collapsed onto the stone bed. Her shoulders quaked with the silent sobs of martyrdom.
A series of knocks roused Aristea from deep sleep. Unsure where she was, she surveyed her dark surroundings. The scent of damp stone reminded her she was in the prison cell at Sumela.
“Who’s there?” she croaked.
Sophronios came through the door and walked to her bedside. He placed a crust of bread and a bowl of something that smelled of boiled potatoes on the table next to her. He lit an oil lamp, and the room was suffused in amber light.
He pulled some folded clothes from under his arm and placed them on the foot of the bed. “A monk’s tunic. It may be big, but it is clean.”
Aristea winced as she sat up.
“How do you feel?” There was genuine concern in his voice.
The cool night air made her shiver. She wrappe
d the mantle tightly around her. “I hurt.”
“I was informed of what happened.” He shook his head. “I am sorry.”
“No apology will ever restore the dignity of my oath. Your people have violated that which was most sacrosanct. No matter what god you believe in, such a crime is unforgivable.”
Sophronios lowered his gaze. “You are right. I have prayed to the holy virgin to ease your suffering.”
“Maybe your virgin will tell you the only way to ease my pain is to let me go.”
He held up both hands. “Do not speak such blasphemy. Voices carry across these chambers.”
She didn’t bother to lower her voice. “I have nothing to hide.”
He kneeled next to her. “I will help you,” he whispered. “Such brutality will not happen again. I have told my brothers I accept responsibility for your soul. No one can come to this cell without my consent.”
“Not even the emperor’s butchers?”
“The emperor bows to the bishop. The church is stronger than the state.” A bell tolled. Sophronios looked out the window. The sun’s first rays glowed behind the mountain range. “It is time for morning prayers. I must go. I will be back later for your catechism.”
The priestess sighed. Sophronios was offering his protection, but like everything else in that dismal place, it came at a price.
Thirty-two
Sarah arrived in Arachova just after the sun had completed its descent behind the crowded peaks of Mount Parnassus. In the fading light, the village clinging to the mountainside seemed like a distant memory, a postscript to a love letter.
Sarah parallel parked her hired Fiat in a tight spot along the main road and stepped out into the brisk air of the Parnassus high country. Diffuse saffron light spilled from the street lamps: fog had begun to roll in from the east. She raised her coat collar and crossed the street.
Standing beneath the eaves of a three-story apartment building, she unfolded the piece of paper on which she’d scribbled some notes earlier that day.
I Folia
Address?? Basement, no sign, in alley beneath the clock tower
Lydia – surname unknown
Though it wasn’t much, it was the most promising lead she had. Lydia, whose surname no one seemed to know, as if she were an urban myth, supposedly had information about the mysterious cult that had installed itself in Delphi. One of Sarah’s sources—a lawyer who sat on the governing council of the Greek-god-worshipping sect Ellinais—even suggested Lydia was one of the Delphic cult’s founding members.
“She’s a little crazy,” the lawyer had said, “but she’ll give you an earful—if you can find her.”
Several calls later, Sarah learned Lydia was last seen waitressing at I Folia, a traditional music club that operated only in winter, when Arachova’s population swelled due to a nearby ski resort.
If Lydia’s identity was hard to ascertain, the cult’s practices and raison d’être were pure enigma. No doubt, a handful of neopagan groups had begun to proliferate in Greece. Strangled by the economic crisis and out of faith, a few had turned to the pagan methods of ancient worship. They were called Hellenic Reconstructionists, and their goal was to revive the religion of the dodecatheon—the twelve gods of Mount Olympus. They were the bane of the all-powerful Greek Orthodox establishment, whose holy men openly blasted the neopagans’ godless ways.
But something told Sarah these people had far more sinister intent. It was why they—unlike other, similar groups—did not worship openly and why their leadership remained a tightly guarded mystery.
Sarah crumpled the paper and stuffed it into her pocket. She ducked behind the building and followed a path uphill toward the eighteenth-century clock tower, which stood on a lone crag above the red-barrel-tile rooftops.
As the town climbed up the mountain, the roads turned to alleys paved with centuries-old cobblestones. She walked among rows of petrina—buildings made of local stone and decorated with ironwork balconies—whose chimneys released puffs of white smoke into the gathering fog. Her footfall reverberated on the empty alley, reminding her how alone she was.
Sarah ducked inside a pastry shop. The smell of sugar made her think of Christmases past. Her mother had always insisted on a huge buffet of sweets after Christmas lunch. Though the tradition had long since faded, that cloying scent always triggered the memory—and a sense of comfort.
Behind the case jammed with cakes and honey sweets, a woman scrubbed a pan. Sarah asked her for directions.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron. “Right at the top of the alley, then take the steps up to Eleutherias Street. You will see a red awning. Across the street is a petrino with a small basement. It’s easy to miss. They like it that way. Keeps the tourists out.”
Sarah nodded her thanks. “By any chance, do you know a local woman named Lydia?”
“Only one Lydia in this town. She lives not far from here, in the house with the black shutters that are closed winter and summer. What do you want with her?”
“I have a message from a friend.”
The shopkeeper scoffed. “She doesn’t have any friends.” She leaned on the counter, only too eager to offer gossip. “She’s not well, you know. She lost her child years ago and has been hiding since.”
Sarah filed away the new information. She thanked the woman and walked out.
The wind howled through the alley. Hair whipping behind her and eyes watering from the cold, she leaned into the wind and continued uphill.
I Folia—which meant the nest—was indeed hard to find. With no windows and a door that appeared shuttered, the tiny basement could have been a storage room. Sarah walked down the steps and put her ear to the door. The faint sound of music came from inside. She was at the right place.
She opened the door and was immediately greeted by a wall of cigarette smoke. She stood at the entranceway, sussing out the place. It couldn’t have been bigger than a thousand square feet. Sconces cast shadowy light on the exposed stone walls and granted dubious visibility to the room. At a traditional club known as a rebetadiko, people didn’t come to see, anyway. They came to listen.
A few people—mostly men—sat at the small round tables, sipping from squat glasses, cigarette packets at the ready. Their attention was on a small stage at the far end of the room, on which two men sat cross-legged on tall stools, balancing instruments on their knees. One played the guitar, the other the bouzouki. Together they delivered the slow, soulful melodies known as rebetika—traditional Greek folk music from the turn of the twentieth century that had been kept alive by a culture loath to let go of its past, yet funneled underground lest it be touched by the grimy hands of commercialization.
Sarah spotted a sole female server at the bar, placing drinks on a deep aluminum tray. She was a waif of a woman, dressed in an ankle-length floral dress about two sizes too big, a brown wooly cardigan, and boots. Though there was no one near her, her lips moved, as if she were talking to herself.
Sarah watched her deliver the drinks to a table and return the tray to the bar. The woman stood idle, gazing at the stage and rocking back and forth.
Sarah approached her. She spoke in Greek, addressing the woman in the plural, a sign of respect. “Are you Lydia?”
The woman took a step back. The trembling bronze light accentuated the deep shadows beneath her cheekbones and the chestnut brows framing hazel eyes in which dwelled a naked madness. “How do you know my name?” Her voice was as fragile as the nightjar’s trill.
Sarah did not answer, instead offering the code she was sure Lydia would understand. “After nine years of spiritual famine, the seventh night after the new moon of elaphebolion draws near.”
She looked over both shoulders. “Let’s talk outside.” She called to the barman: “I’m going on my break.”
Sarah followed Lydia out the door. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the pit of the basement.
Lydia pushed a shock of frizzy brown hair away from her face. “Did Delphinios send yo
u?”
“Let’s just say I have been summoned to Delphi for this occasion. Is Delphinios the cult leader?”
“So you don’t know him.” Disappointment darkened her gaze.
“No. But I understand you do.”
Her smile was bittersweet. She looked up the stairs and spoke into the wind. “We haven’t spoken in a long time. But I know he’s coming for me.” As if she’d just remembered something, she jerked her head toward Sarah. “Why am I telling you this? Who are you?”
“My name is Sarah. I’ve spent many years studying pagan rituals. I’m here to learn from this cult, but first I need to know what I’m getting into.” She softened her gaze. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I’m hoping you can tell me more about this Delphinios.”
She shrugged. “We were lovers in the early aughts. He was American but knew everything about Greek mythology—the history of my people. He worshipped Apollo and believed he was the god’s reincarnation. He had just begun to form the cult when I got pregnant with his child. I thought he’d be upset, but he was delighted. He said I was his goddess, destined to be the mother of a divine being. I was in love with him and wanted to believe what he believed.”
Lydia shifted awfully quickly from a defensive stance to a willingness to share intimate details—a possible sign of mental illness, Sarah thought. She wondered how much of what she was hearing was reliable but pressed for answers anyway. “So you were part of this cult?”
“Oh, yes. I helped form it. I searched all over Greece for recruits. There are more neopagans than anyone realizes. They were looking for a way to organize, and Delphinios was a very charismatic leader. They saw his vision. After a while, people—Greeks and foreigners—started coming to us.” She paused to push away the unkempt hair that kept falling over her eye. “A couple of years later, we began holding ceremonies. They were small at first, but as Delphinios gathered the artifacts, we added bathing rituals, burnt offerings, sacrifices . . .”
“What was your role in all this?”