The Oracle

by D. J. Niko

  She felt the warmth radiate from Isidor’s body as he stood inches away from her.

  “Apollo has chosen you. Go in peace to your fate.”

  Sarah raised her gaze to her would-be executioner. His bloodied left fist was pressed against his torso. He held out his right arm and pointed the blade toward her. She held her breath.

  “As Apollo is my witness, I offer this soul to the four winds that will carry it to the heart of Olympus, where it will dwell forever. May it bring the god of light pleasure, and may he shine his favor upon mortals this sacred eve.”

  Isidor bent over Sarah and engaged the practiced gesture: he thrust his left hand toward her midsection, quickly slipping the animal’s liver inside the fold of her gown. With his right hand, he drove the knife into the juicy organ, twisting and tearing to produce the maximum amount of blood.

  As Sarah wailed and convulsed, Isidor removed the knife triumphantly and turned to the assembly with outstretched arms. Blood dripped from his hands to the soil.

  The smoke grew more profuse, and the hologram faded to nothing.

  “Apollo has sent us a sign.” Isidor’s deep voice carried across the chasm. “Let us not forsake it.” He turned to the supplicant. “The god has agreed to grant you an oracle under one condition: it must be followed to the letter. Do this not, and face the gods’ wrath.”

  The supplicant nodded, though the look in his eyes suggested he wanted out of there. He clearly was bewildered by the intensity of what he’d just witnessed.

  As if on cue, the sacred fire inside the temple hearth subsided, and the ancient site was once again cast in darkness. Sarah ceased to move and closed her eyes. She lay on her side, tomb-still. With shallow, imperceptible breaths, she inhaled the scent of thyme and was surprised it overpowered the pungent odor of the blood smeared across her body.

  She heard the rustle of Isidor’s robes as he approached the pedestal. A whisper of fabric descended upon her face, then her body. “The Pythia awaits,” he said. “Let us make haste.”

  Feet shuffled across the rocky soil, crushing bits of limestone. The faithful uttered soft incantations to the beat of a frame drum. The voices grew fainter until they were heard no more.

  She opened her eyes. The temple had been darkened, save for the embers of the eternal flame. Everyone had gone. She lay still a while longer, ensuring there were no surprises.

  The first part of the plan had been executed flawlessly. But the trickiest part was still ahead.

  Fifty-four

  From a rented studio in a rundown five-story apartment complex on the edge of Delphi town, Bellamy watched the most important night of his life unfold.

  Isidor had just entered the adyton, his hands and vestment stained with the blood of Sarah Weston. Bellamy sneered. At last, the detestable woman who’d challenged him every step of the way lay in a bloody, lifeless heap. Bellamy wished he could say the same of her partner.

  Madigan was still at large, but without Weston, he was nothing. Bellamy was certain of it.

  He trained his eyes on the screen corresponding with camera three, positioned just above the cubicle of the supplicant. Zafrani walked in and stopped in front of a wall separating him from the priestess of the temple, deliverer of Apollo’s word and men’s fates.

  The Syrian’s gaze was shifty. He kept wiping his brow with a kerchief, as if he worried what would happen next. Good, Bellamy thought. Fear is a beautiful thing.

  Shortly after Zafrani was in position, Phoebe entered. Her youthful alabaster face and tumbling brown hair were hidden behind the hood of an oxblood cloak. She took her position on the tripod of truth, whose legs represented the present, past, and future. The perch was positioned over a crack in the Earth for maximum access to the sweet vapors.

  Isidor handed Phoebe a bowl of water and a laurel branch. The girl was silent, stock-still.

  Five torches burned behind her. Trembling shadows danced on the stone walls. Bellamy marveled at the re-creation of the scene exactly as described by Plutarch. All was in place; the only thing missing was the omphalos, the stone that marked Delphi’s position at the center of the Earth. The stone holding the secret that would destroy his enemies.

  Isidor approached the supplicant. “Ask your question, and all will be revealed.”

  Zafrani’s jaw tightened. Through a small window carved into the wall, he gazed at the priestess, poised as a living statue. He inhaled sharply. “O pure and sage Oracle, O great priestess of Apollo, are the omens favorable for exterminating the tyrants who rule the world with an iron fist?”

  Phoebe sucked on a laurel leaf, then another. She shifted her gaze toward the bowl of water and looked into it for a long while. She was resurrecting an ancient rite, in which the Pythia stared at the sacred water from the spring of Kassotis to allow the vision of Apollo’s will to manifest itself. Bellamy was delighted to see his rigorous instruction over the course of six years was paying dividends. His youngest child was the very manifestation of the priestess who once ruled the oracle of Delphi: pure, graceful, obedient, divine.

  Phoebe looked up. In her vacant gaze Bellamy could see she was already high. She spoke in the language of the gods, incomprehensible to mere mortals. Her voice was hoarse as a man’s, belying her delicate beauty.

  Isidor interpreted: “Dwellers of the ancient kingdom, sons of the Sumerians and the Hittites, hear now the word of Apollo, son of Zeus.”

  Her eyes grew wider, and her voice rose a notch. And the priest said, “I hear the thunder of crumbling mountains, the roar of the raging sea. Poseidon’s wrath has been provoked, and it cannot be reversed.”

  Phoebe shifted in her seat, as if unable to find comfort. Her body trembled as she spoke, causing ripples to disturb the holy water. The gases had taken effect, precisely as planned.

  Isidor decoded her unintelligible utterings for the benefit of the seeker. “Old summit crumbles, water swells; the seed removed for good. Minoans mourn the gift they left; canaries sing the song of death.”

  Bellamy licked his lips. He could taste victory.

  Zafrani asked again. “O sage one, unveil the secret that will crush our enemies and release our people from bondage.”

  More words, followed by a guttural gasp, left the priestess’ throat. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and her mouth dropped open. The branch fell from her hands.

  Isidor continued. “Warriors of the Levant, take heed: evil stirs among your allies. He who hails from the infidel’s lands will betray you before the deed is done.”

  Zafrani sprang to his feet. “What do you say?”

  Bellamy stood. Tom was right: Isidor was a traitor.

  Her chest heaving, her head fallen to one side, Phoebe shrieked out three words. The priest pointed to the seeker and spoke in a commanding voice. “Abandon or perish.”

  The priestess slumped on the tripod. The bowl tumbled to the ground, and the seeing water dispersed.

  Isidor kept his gaze trained on Zafrani. “Your fate is bound to the Earth. It cannot be undone.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Bellamy felt cold blood trickle through his veins. He yelled for his aide.

  Tom Sorenson rushed to the doorway. “Sir. Is everything all right?”

  “Start the earthquake sequence. Now.” The colonel strapped on a holster. “I’m going in.”

  Fifty-five

  By the time Sarah snuck into the tunnel, the atmosphere in the adyton was charged. The whites of his eyes glowing in the firelight and his nostrils flaring like a bull’s, the Syrian visitor stood squarely in front of Isidor, staring him down. Obviously he didn’t like what he’d heard.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Zafrani hissed.

  “That is the word of Apollo.” Isidor’s voice was calm. “Go now in peace.”

  He spoke through clenched teeth. “I was assured I’d be given specific instructions, so you’d better ask your god again.” He pushed Isidor aside and grabbed one of the torches. “Or I will set fire to this place.”

 
; As he uttered the words, the ground shook. Zafrani swung the torch but missed the priest.

  “You were warned to heed Apollo’s oracle to the letter,” Isidor said. “Now you have angered the god—and you must pay.”

  Zafrani came at Isidor, but the priest was too agile. He dodged the Syrian, leading him around in a circle.

  Another, deeper vibration caused the cave walls to crack. Bits of limestone dislodged and crumbled to the ground. As the earthquake tore at the earth, the fissure from which the gases flowed grew wider. The Delphic tripod faltered and toppled, sending the dazed girl to the ground. She was inches away from the cleft.

  Ignoring the tremor that threatened to knock her off her feet, Sarah ran to Phoebe and dragged her away from danger.

  Uttering a string of obscenities in Arabic, Zafrani threw the torch to the ground and staggered toward the tunnel.

  From the dark opening came a voice, loud enough to be heard over the rumble. “And where do you think you’re going?”

  Clutching Phoebe, Sarah turned toward the sound.

  A stout, gray-haired man entered, his handgun pointed at Zafrani. Bellamy.

  The colonel glanced at Sarah, then glared at Isidor. “Well, well. Betrayed by my own blood. I expected more of you, Isidor. I should have known you’re no better than your conniving Greek mother.”

  Isidor stared down his father.

  Bellamy spat and turned to the Syrian visitor. “Pay no mind to what you’ve heard this impostor say. The traitor he speaks of is himself. The plan will go off flawlessly as soon as we get our hands on the formula. My men are retrieving it as we speak. Forty-eight hours; no more.”

  Zafrani stared at him coldly. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “You don’t seem convinced, my friend. Perhaps you’re unaware of what I’m capable of.” He raised the gun to Zafrani’s forehead.

  A fresh tremor forced Bellamy to lose his balance. As he tried to steady himself on a wall, Zafrani took the opportunity to make a run for it. Bellamy fired after him, the gunshots exploding like a series of thunderclaps in the narrow confines of the oracular cave.

  Sarah bent over Phoebe and raised her hands over the child’s head. What had happened to Daniel? According to the plan, he should have been there already. The cave continued to shake violently, threatening to crumble around them.

  “Sarah,” Isidor cried, “watch out!”

  She looked up just in time to avoid a slab of stone crashing down from the ceiling. To her horror, the fissure, the weak point, opened like a great maw and swallowed the tripod.

  Bellamy stood and stumbled toward them, staying on the periphery of the crumbling structure.

  Isidor yelled over the clamor. “Save yourself, Sarah. This is between me and him.”

  The colonel pointed the gun at her. “Oh, I don’t think so, son. There won’t be any survivors tonight. It’s the least I could do to reward your performance.” He leered at Sarah and spat, “Get away from my daughter.”

  Sarah stood. “How dare you pose as her father? You’ve only ever used her”—she pointed to Isidor—“and everyone else in your orbit. And all to commit treason.”

  Bellamy shot at the wall next to Sarah. “Treason is only real if you believe in God and country, Dr. Weston. They both left me a long time ago.” He turned the weapon toward Isidor. “As for you, deserter, get ready to pay. This is my last bullet. I saved it for you.”

  Sarah screamed as the gun fired. Isidor doubled over, clutching his midsection. He dropped to his knees and fell to his side. The wall behind him was spattered with blood.

  Shaking, Sarah turned away, sheltering Phoebe in her arms. With surprising strength, the girl pushed out of Sarah’s grasp and staggered upright.

  Phoebe’s eyes were glassy, but her gaze was fierce. “I’ve waited all my life to be with my father.” Her voice was barely audible above the rumble of the heaving earth. “My mother said he had the strength of a lion and the wisdom of our ancestors. A great man, worthy of sacrifice.” Rocks crumbled around her, as if she stood on the brink between heaven and hell. She faltered but did not fall. “Many times I wanted to run from this place, to be free. What kept me here was a sense of duty to a man I thought was real.”

  Sarah winced at the raw display of lost innocence. She swallowed hard. In her peripheral vision she saw Daniel standing in the dark folds of the tunnel entrance. But even the relief at the sight of him couldn’t brighten the darkness of that moment.

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, honey,” Bellamy said. “It’s good that you learn now: the world is full of letdowns and betrayals. You can’t even rely on your own people to save you. There is no family, no divine law. We walk alone. We make our own fate.”

  Phoebe stood straighter. “I don’t believe it.”

  “That’s right, sweetheart.” Daniel stepped out of the shadows. “Don’t believe it.”

  “Well, look who’s here: the righteous hillbilly.” Spittle dripped from Bellamy’s mouth. “Not very smart, are you, boy? You just keep coming back for more.” He bared his teeth. “Come over here and let’s finish this.”

  Daniel’s gaze was riveted on Bellamy. “Sarah, get the kid out of here.”

  “Danny . . .” Her blood ran cold at the thought of leaving him alone with that monster.

  He glanced at her. His amber eyes burned with determination. “Leave us. We have some business to see to.”

  With a primal yell, Bellamy lunged at Daniel. Daniel blocked the advance with his forearms and held him back.

  Sarah was paralyzed, unable to decide between staying and helping her partner, or moving the child out of harm’s way.

  Phoebe decided for her. As another tremor dislodged more rocks and threatened to seal the entrance, she grabbed Sarah’s wrist and pulled her toward the tunnel.

  Hand in hand, they stumbled over fallen chunks of limestone as they made their way out. The thick dust stung Sarah’s eyes, blurred her vision, and caused her to cough violently.

  As they approached the mouth, the ceiling collapsed. Sarah wrapped one arm around Phoebe’s waist and, holding the girl tightly, dove toward the exit. Together they tumbled twice on the wet ground before a tree broke their momentum.

  Her ribs aching from the impact, Sarah rolled to her side and looked toward the tunnel. The entrance was sealed almost completely shut. She shouted his name and heard her voice echo in the void of the gorge.

  Water dripped into her eyes from the ends of her hair. It was raining. A hand touched her shoulder, and she looked up. Phoebe was kneeling beside her.

  “Do not fret.” The girl’s eyes were distant. Oddly, the words put Sarah at ease. “They will both live. I saw it in the water.”

  Sarah lowered her head into her palms, trying to find the strength to believe.

  When she looked up again, the girl was gone.

  Fifty-six

  Daniel’s biceps burned as he struggled to hold back his opponent. Bellamy may have been almost thirty years his senior, but he was strong as iron. Their bodies were so close that Daniel could see the sweat beads forming on the colonel’s furrowed forehead.

  From the corner of his eye, Daniel thought he saw Isidor stir. That split second of broken concentration cost him.

  Bellamy pushed him away and landed a right hook to his jaw. Daniel stumbled on a pile of rocks and fell backward. The colonel pinned him down with a knee to the sternum and wrapped a hand around his throat. “Did you come here to kill me, boy?” He shouted, “Answer me!”

  “No. You answer me.” Daniel clenched his teeth. “Did you kill my father?”

  Bellamy sneered. “Your daddy killed himself. I bought him rounds of moonshine, but I didn’t make him drink it. A man has to take ownership of his own flaws.” He pressed hard on Daniel’s ribs. “Ain’t that right?”

  Daniel’s eye twitched. “Son of a bitch. Killing you would be more than you deserve.”

  “You can’t kill a dead man, son. I died a long time ago. A long, painful death a
t the hand of the enemy. Know what that feels like, Danny boy?”

  Daniel didn’t answer.

  “Well, let me tell you: it’s some kind of hell. My captors had orders to destroy me. At first, they just made me watch other men being tortured. Men stripped naked and sprayed so hard with high-power hoses they were thrashing like cockroaches. Others tied to a chair and having their teeth sawed or their tongues crushed with pliers. Their wails replayed in my mind, kept me up at night.

  “Then it was my turn. A Russian doctor roused me in the middle of the night and marched me into a chamber with a respirator tank. He told me to get in.” Bellamy’s face twisted into a look of disgust.

  Part of Daniel wanted to punish the monster, but the empathetic part, the one he couldn’t suppress even though he was seething, needed to hear him out.

  The colonel leaned in. “Now I’m guessing you’ve never been tortured, so I’m going to tell you what it’s like inside one of those tanks. You can’t touch anything; you can’t move. You hear nothing but the respirator’s motor, this constant, low-pitch hum. You’re floating in blackness with no sensation whatsoever—for seventy-two hours. You scream and cry like a woman, just to remind yourself you’re alive. Know what happens to the mind of a man when there’s sensory deprivation?” He crept his fingers up to Daniel’s jaw and squeezed hard. “It snaps.”

  As a scientist, Daniel knew Bellamy was right: sensory deprivation caused abnormally high stress levels in subjects, a type of anxiety that couldn’t be shaken when stimulus was restored. Some intelligence entities used techniques like that to brainwash prisoners into sharing privileged information—or buy into enemy propaganda.

  Daniel clawed at Bellamy’s fingers to dislodge them, but it only made his opponent bear down harder.

  “I’m not finished, son,” the colonel said. “Now listen carefully, ’cause there’s going to be a test. After I was released from the tank, my captors put me inside a bright room—I’m talking blinding—and pumped me full of hype about America’s imperialistic plans to control the world. I remember being tied up and listening to stories and watching films about American abandonment of its own citizens in favor of advancing a covert agenda.”