by D. J. Niko
“He has an entire audio-visual crew working on the other side of the mountain,” Isidor said. “They’re using a 3-D projection system and some pretty sophisticated technology to deliver a lifelike image of Apollo descending from the clouds.”
Before Sarah had the chance to ask a question, Isidor put a hand up. “Be silent.”
Isidor pushed a button on a bracelet-like wrist device and spoke into it. “Everything is ready.” He adjusted a clear earpiece Sarah hadn’t noticed before. As he listened, he shifted his gaze to the ground. A few seconds later, he looked up at Sarah. “I understand. We’ll be on the lookout.” He paused again to listen. “Tell the colonel not to worry. I’ll take care of it.”
Isidor removed the earpiece and cast a dark gaze at Sarah. His face was a shade paler than before.
“They know we’re here,” Sarah said.
“Yes. They’ve ordered your capture.”
She’d foreseen that complication. She’d known all along that going back to Delphi was a step into the wolf’s lair. But she couldn’t run in the other direction, not with so much at stake.
Isidor looked over both shoulders. “I have a friend at the monastery of Profitis Ilias. It isn’t far from here. There is a back way to get there, but you must hurry.”
Sarah stopped doubting Isidor’s sincerity. He had the perfect opportunity to deliver her to Delphinios, as commanded; instead, he chose to help her. Knowing she had an ally in him emboldened her for the riskiest move she’d ever made. “I’m not running. I’m turning myself in.”
“No, Sarah,” Daniel said. “It’s madness.”
“He’s right,” Isidor said. “I can’t guarantee your safety.”
She glanced at the two men, both of whom wore grave expressions. “Let me worry about my safety. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
Fifty-one
The faint sound of chanting hung in the misty night air. The ceremony was about to begin.
Daniel watched Sarah emerge from the back of the spring, dressed in a flowing white gown, her soft blonde curls spilling over her shoulders. It was the first time he’d seen her look so feminine. She was so ravishing he had to look away.
She offered her wrists to Isidor, who bound them loosely with a length of jute. She slipped her thin wrists in and out of the binds and nodded her approval.
As Isidor briefed her on the events about to take place, Sarah looked confident, determined. The plan called for flawless execution not only on her part, but also on that of Isidor and Daniel. If one of the three engines malfunctioned, the operation would fail. Daniel shuddered at the thought of the consequences should that happen.
Isidor put one hand on Sarah’s shoulder, the other on Daniel’s. “Are you ready?”
Sarah nodded. “Ready.”
Daniel kept his eyes fixed on Sarah. “Let’s do this.”
Isidor lifted a finger to his mouth and adjusted his earpiece. He pushed a button and spoke into the microphone on his wrist. “I have the hostage. All systems go.” He averted his gaze and paused as he listened to further instructions. “Okay . . . yes. Ten minutes.” He motioned to Sarah with his head. “Let’s go.”
“Give us a minute?” Daniel said.
Isidor nodded and walked away.
Daniel turned to Sarah, whose blue eyes shone in the silver light. She was so fierce and yet so vulnerable. If he’d ever doubted his feelings for her, that moment solidified them. “Promise me you’ll be careful. There’s no room for error.”
“I’ll be all right, Danny. Just look after yourself.”
“Listen, Sarah . . . I know I haven’t been myself lately, and maybe I’ve let you down . . .” Her wrists still bound in jute, she took his hands. A warmth surged through him, giving him the nerve to continue. “Just want to say, I’ve got your back. That’s all.”
“I’ve never doubted it. If I did, I wouldn’t consider doing what I’m about to do.”
His eyes misted. He needed to say it, in case he never got another chance. “Forgive me, Sarah.”
“Forgive you? What for? For risking everything, even putting your sanity on the line, so you could save my life? For being true to your word, even to your own detriment? You’re the most honorable man I know.” She squeezed his hands. “We’ll get through this together, okay?”
“Let’s just get through tonight.” He touched his fore-
head to hers for the count of two heartbeats, then let go of her hands. She gave him a lingering glance, slipped a diaphanous white veil over her head, and walked toward Isidor.
Fifty-two
Cave of Trophonius,
393 CE
The darkness, boundless and profound, was an invisible weight pressing down on Aristea. For hours she had sat in the same position, her shivering back against the cool earthen wall, too steeped in shock and agony to move.
The longer she sat in that frigid womb, the more her body temperature dropped. She had to do something to save herself. She clenched her chattering teeth and ripped off the other sleeve. She shredded it and tied the strips tightly around her shin to secure the bone as best she could.
With an effort that made her heart protest, she clawed at the soil and dragged herself across the cave floor. Her immobile leg was deadweight behind her. Attempting to engage it would have made the already intense pain unbearable and worsened the injury besides.
Pressure mounted inside her head. She propped herself with one hand and reached out with the other, feeling for anything that would give her a clue as to the size and constitution of her surroundings. It was for naught: she felt only the moist air.
Exhausted, Aristea collapsed onto the ground, finding comfort in the smell of damp earth, the coolness of the soil against her cheek. She closed her eyes.
As her heartbeat slowed and her strained breath quieted, perfect silence engulfed the cave. The priestess lay motionless in the dark, her mind surrendering to a meditative state. In her mind’s eye, images waxed and waned without reason, without awareness. She let it happen, knowing she was making the ground fertile for Trophonius to sow his seeds.
In time, a force seized her. She gave into it completely. In that semiconscious state, she perceived a different world, one where Mount Olympus was covered in frost and wars were fought for religious dominion, not for the preservation of human rights. A world where the great philosophers crouched in indignity while new orators spoke of oppression instead of ideas.
The words that reverberated in the space between her ears were unmistakable: Don’t let them forget.
She opened her eyes to blackness and had a revelation: the cave of Trophonius would be her tomb. It could be long years, centuries even, before someone found her remains—and the message she was compelled to leave behind. Perhaps by then, the world would have become a more enlightened place. Perhaps people would no longer harm each other for the advancement of their own race or creed. Perhaps they would cherish vital information left behind by their ancestors, such as the mathematical innovations of Pythagoras, and use it for the good of all.
The pain no longer significant, Aristea crawled on her belly like a serpent, propelling herself forward by the elbows. She groped for something she could use to scrawl a missive and rejoiced when her hand came across a broken pot, likely from a past supplicant’s offering to Trophonius.
She felt for the biggest piece as well as a smaller, sharp one. With these in hand, she dragged her body until she came to the edge of the cave. Breathless and perspiring despite the cold, she leaned against the wall and in the utter darkness scratched at the potsherd. However haphazardly, she would reveal the omphalos’ location—and the name of the man who had saved her—so that neither would be forgotten.
Fifty-three
With her head lowered in submission and her wrists tied, Sarah walked behind Isidor in the procession toward the temple. Behind them was a long column of acolytes dressed in white linen vestments, each holding a candle lantern and murmuring a monotone chant.
; Other than the high priest, no one knew who she was. As far as the neo-Delphians were concerned, she was a nymph of the forest to be offered to Apollo. In the past, Isidor had explained, young women had been selected at random and presented at the altar on a bed of flowers. If it pleased the god, the woman would be venerated during the ceremony and set free after.
If it didn’t, she would be sacrificed.
The men and women of the cult had no idea that Sarah’s destiny had been preordained. Nor did they seem to care. Prior to marching along the Sacred Way, they all had partaken of the “golden elixir,” as Isidor called it. Whatever was in it had turned their mood pleasantly numb and their eyes glassy. It was important, apparently, that the acolytes follow and obey without questioning their master’s motives.
Holding a lit torch in one hand and a cauldron of incense in the other, Isidor glided along the path like an apparition, vapors streaming behind him and embroidering the air with the sweet scent of cedar and anise. Sarah had put all her trust in him. A single misstep on his part would cost her life. She hoped he was the man she believed him to be.
At the entrance of the sanctuary, the procession stopped and Isidor alone entered the temple. He placed the incense on the marble remains of the grand portico. Sarah visualized the columns that once marked the sacred entryway and supported a pediment carved with the phrase Know Thyself. In her mind, she repeated the words like a mantra.
Isidor walked to the center of the temple and walked once around the tripod before lowering the torch into the vessel’s belly. Tongues of fire leapt several feet into the air, then calmed down to a steady flame. Isidor lowered his head and chanted a hymn in ancient Greek. That part wasn’t an act: he seemed genuinely caught in the moment of worship, of offering fire to the spirits that controlled men’s destinies.
To calm the nervousness, Sarah let her mind wander to her comfort zone, where voices from the distant past echoed. So much had changed in twenty-five hundred years, yet the stones of antiquity still stood, albeit battered, as testaments to an early humanity that was as brutal as it was enlightened.
Seeking divine guidance amid fear was a concept as old as time, but it was among those stones that the notion was first integrated into political and military strategy. The prophecies handed down by the priestesses of Delphi didn’t only mollify the anxious masses; they steered decisions that shifted boundaries, toppled regimes, and brought forth the demise of nations. When the stakes were no less than world-altering, the sacrificial blood that watered the crags was a necessary device in obtaining truth.
A cold gust, moist with the aftermath of rain, blew through the Phaedriades, pressing the veil against Sarah’s face. Isidor glanced at her and blinked slowly, indicating it was time. A chill pricked her skin.
As the adherents lifted their palms to the sky and chanted, he approached her. His face was like the stones of antiquity, yielding nothing. He offered Sarah a hand, and she took it, letting him lead her to the altar of wildflowers.
She stepped onto a square slab, about two feet off the ground, that was the foundation of a long-since ruined building. The platform had been strewn with laurel branches, dwarf iris, and tiny purple blossoms of mountain thyme. She inhaled the sharp, resiny scent and recalled the ancient Greeks’ penchant for burning thyme incense to elicit courage.
If ever there was a time for courage, it was now. Sarah sat on the stone and, like a demure maiden, wrapped her arms around her torso. The singing continued until Isidor raised his hands to quiet the voices. He turned toward the Sacred Way, where a second procession ascended toward the temple.
As the flickering flames drew nearer, it was dead quiet. There was no sound, no movement to profane the sacred moment. Sarah saw the faces of three lower priests leading the supplicant: a cloaked figure carrying a wooden box about two feet wide, like a miniature coffin.
The hooded stranger stopped in front of Isidor and placed the box at the priest’s feet. Before the visitor had a chance to rise, Isidor placed a hand on his head. “Be humbled, honorable seeker, disciples of Apollo, for this night is sacred beyond any other.” He panned his gaze across the gathered neopagans, making eye contact with each. “It marks the birth of the sun god, the day that light and harmony came unto the world. Any oracle given on this night is to be received with reverence—and most of all, to be accepted without questioning.”
He let go of the visitor’s head and raised his voice an octave. “O, hear us, mighty sun god, as we implore your beauty and wisdom. Accept our modest offerings”—he waved an open palm toward Sarah—“for they are meant to please you. Regard those who search for truth and, if they are worthy, shine your light upon them so they can see.”
Isidor nodded to one of the adherents holding a small lyre. The man plucked at the strings and released a sweet melody that reverberated against the ancient stones.
Isidor turned to the visitor. “Reveal yourself to Apollo, kind stranger.”
The supplicant lowered his hood. His hair was wrapped in a tight black turban, and a thick black beard engulfed his jaw. The golden torchlight made his dark eyes glisten. He cast a hungry glance at Sarah, who averted her gaze.
“O, seeker of truth,” Isidor continued, “what is your sacrifice?”
The man gestured to a goat tied to a cypress tree nearby. The animal shuffled its forelegs, as if it knew what would come next.
Isidor closed his eyes and murmured something incomprehensible before proclaiming, “The god deems you worthy of sacrifice. This you shall do to gain entrance to his sacred sanctuary.”
He turned to the other priests and raised his hands to the sky. The chanting swelled, staccato bursts echoing off the mountain. A priest dipped laurel leaves into a bowl of liquid and sprinkled the temple floor. Another brought an urn and placed it on the sacrifice stone, directly in front of the platform on which Sarah sat.
At Isidor’s signal, the visitor untied the goat and walked it to the altar. He took a step back and watched as the high priest poured spring water onto the animal’s head. As the cold shower overwhelmed it, the goat trembled from its hooves up.
With arms outstretched, the priest looked toward the moon: “On this auspicious eve, as the snows give way to new life, we celebrate the return of Apollo from the land of the Hyperboreans and honor his presence. Mighty Apollo, fairest and gentlest of gods, shine your light upon those who implore you for guidance. Accept the flesh of this poor beast and let its stricken body become a conduit for your will.”
An acolyte approached and offered Isidor a sheathed knife. The priest exposed the blade a little at a time, making theater of the act. He lifted the knife above his head and drove it into the goat’s throat. The animal bleated and convulsed as its blood spilled onto the stone.
Though she’d known it was coming, Sarah felt as if she would retch.
Isidor searched the fallen viscera for a sign. He stopped, stabbed the knife into the liver, and proclaimed in a voice so loud it echoed off the mountain: “The omens are unfavorable. The god is not pleased.”
A murmur fell over the gathered. The supplicant glared at the high priest, his stance suggestive of an animal in attack mode.
Only Sarah was not surprised. She knew this was part of Delphinios’ plan to unnerve his guest before delivering the show of shows.
Isidor clutched his hair with both hands and revealed clenched teeth. He dropped to his knees, then grunted and jerked like a man possessed.
Sarah bit her lip. No margin for error.
In a fiendish voice, Isidor uttered a string of unintelligible words. The supplicant stared at him wide-eyed and took small steps backward. He looked around, as if searching for a clue as to what to do next.
A deep rumble shook the mountain. A puff of smoke shot up from the earth, then another.
“What is this?” Sweat glistened on the visitor’s brow. “I demand to know what is going on here!”
The smoke grew more profuse until it clouded the mountainside. The priest ran his bloody
hands along his face and down his white vestment. He stood, slumped and spent, heaving as he caught his breath. He choked out the words, “The spirit of Apollo is among us.”
A thunderclap sounded, and a high-definition, three-dimensional image materialized in the gorge beyond the sanctuary, eliciting a collective gasp. A youth with golden curls tumbling down his neck, faint but radiant behind a layer of blue fog, spoke to the assembly in a hushed tone. “Let whosoever has faith drop to his knees.”
Isidor kneeled first, and one by one the other neopagans followed suit. The supplicant was the last to obey the order.
Sarah did not move.
The likeness of Apollo pointed at the crowd. The resolution and the movement were so realistic that it would have intrigued even Sarah had she not known it was a hologram. “Is there one among you who doubts the gods can rip mountains asunder and raise fury in the seas?” He paused. They were still as the columns of antiquity. “Be cautioned, mortals: the wrath of the gods has been triggered. Only blood will appease them now.” He shifted his gaze to the altar of flowers.
All heads turned toward Sarah. An adrenaline surge flushed her cheeks.
“Lift the veil,” he whispered.
Isidor rose and walked to the altar. With shaking hands he lifted Sarah’s veil until her face was revealed. As he regarded her eyes for a split second, his forehead tightened. He stepped aside and faced the apparition.
The youth wore a serene expression. He closed his eyes and smiled. “A beauty fit for a god. Release her spirit to me. Only then will I reveal the supreme and abiding truth.”
Isidor walked to the altar of sacrifice, where the entrails of the goat were still strewn. With his back to the assembly, he placed one hand on the liver and the other on the knife that was wedged in it. He looked up at Sarah.
Sarah released a whimper and slumped forward. Her shoulders shook as she pretended to weep softly.