Malcolm returned with an electric clipper and a disposable razor. Working quickly, Painter used the clipper to remove the hair from the back of Wallace’s head, then shaved it smooth.
As he dragged the razor, he proved the rumor was true.
A small tattoo, about the size of Painter’s thumbnail, had been inked at the back of the skull. It depicted the tools of a mason: drafting compasses straddling an L-square.
The symbol represented Freemasonry, a worldwide fraternal organization. But the image in the center of the symbol was wrong. The square and the compass usually framed the letter G, standing for God or Geometry.
But sometimes it stood for Guild.
Painter knew Seichan’s terrorist organization had no real name, at least not spoken below the level of its leaders. Was this symbol and its connection to the Freemasons the source of the more commonly used name?
Painter studied the tattoo. In the middle of the symbol were inked a sickle moon and a star. He had never seen anything like it. Whoever these people were, they weren’t Freemasons.
With the symbol exposed, Painter grew more edgy. He had found what he needed.
“Burn the body,” he ordered Malcolm. “Down to ash.”
Painter didn’t want anyone to know what he’d learned. Much remained unknown about Seichan’s former masters. But he had two pieces to the larger puzzle.
The name Echelon … and the strange symbol.
For now, that would do.
But it wasn’t over—not for either side.
Malcolm asked him a question as he left. “What does it mean?”
Painter answered, knowing it to be true, “A war is coming.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE TO READERS:
TRUTH OR FICTION
Everything in this book is true, except for what’s not. I thought I’d end this adventure by splitting those hairs. First, two elements gave birth to this story. I came upon each independently, but I knew there had to be a connection and that Sigma would need to investigate.
The History of the Celtic Cross. There is an intriguing and startling analysis of the history of the cross and the possibility that it was used as a navigational tool in ancient times. For a slew of details, diagrams, and analyses, I refer you to the fascinating book The Golden Thread of Time by Crichton Miller.
The History of Neolithic England. The details in this book about the possibility of Egyptians setting up colonies in England are true. For a more thorough study, I suggest reading Kingdom of the Ark by Lorraine Evans. Also, in regard to the Fomorian tribes found living in Ireland by the invading Celts, some historians have theorized that their descriptions (dark-skinned and skilled at agriculture) might refer to a lost tribe of Egyptians.
Ancient Symbols. The novel describes a number of symbols and the way these images were often transformed and reimagined across the centuries. Such theories have a basis in fact, including the story of the consecration crosses found carved in medieval churches.
Saints. As mentioned at the opening of the book, Malachy was an Irish saint who lived during the twelfth century and is said to have performed many miraculous healings, along with recording his famous prophecies of the popes. He was indeed buried in a tomb at Clairvaux Abbey, and the ruins of that abbey do oddly enough lie within the grounds of a maximum-security prison (a prison started by Napoleon). There are weekly tours of the ruins for two euros a head. The stories concerning the life of Saint Bernard (the Lactation Miracle, his association with the Knights Templar, and his support for the cult of the Black Madonna) are historical. For more about the Celtic saints and culture in general, I recommend How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill and The Quest for the Celtic Key by Karen Ralls-MacLeod and Ian Robertson.
As for the prophecies, here are Malachy’s descriptions of the last few popes in history:
Pope Paul VI (1963–1978) is described with the words Flos Florum, or “flower of flowers.” His heraldic coat of arms bore three lilies.
Pope John Paul I (1978) is named by Malachy as De Medietate Lunae, or “of the half moon.” His papacy lasted one month, crossing from one half moon to the next.
Pope John Paul II (1978–2005) is designated as De Labore Solis, or “from the labor of the sun,” which was a common metaphor for a solar eclipse. The pope was born on the day of a solar eclipse.
Pope Benedict XVI (2005–) is described as De Gloria Olivae, or the “glory of the olive.” The Benedictine order, from which the pope took his name, has the olive branch as its symbol.
Then there is the last pope, the one who would oversee the world’s end: Petrus Romanus. His description is the longest of them all.
In Latin:
In persecutione extrema S.R.E. sedebit Petrus Romanus, qui pascet oves in multis tribulationibus: quibus transactis civitas septicollis diruetur, et Iudex tremendus iudicabit populum. Finis.
Translated:
In extreme persecution, the seat of the Holy Roman Church will be occupied by Peter the Roman, who will feed the sheep through many tribulations, at the term of which the city of seven hills will be destroyed, and the formidable Judge will judge His people. The End.
But as Vigor mentioned to Gray, this last pope is not numbered as the others were before him. Some have interpreted this to mean that there could be more popes between Pope Benedict XVI and the last pope. I guess only time will reveal the truth.
And Sinners.
Biofuels: The amount of corn needed to fill an SUV tank full of ethanol would indeed feed a starving person for a year. And it is believed that the shift from farming food to farming fuel has resulted in a spike in food prices.
Genetically Modified Foods: Volumes of material, both pro and con, have been written about GM foods. For some disturbing reading on this topic, I can recommend two books. In regard to the lax regulation of the industry, Seeds of Deception by Jeffrey M. Smith should be required reading. As to some more sinister aspects, I found Seeds of Destruction by F. William Engdahl to be frightening (specifically regarding the contraceptive seeds mentioned in the novel).
Bees: Do we know what is killing all the bees? According to the well-documented book A Spring without Bees by Michael Schacker, it seems there is an answer, one that has been both suppressed and ignored. And France’s bees are coming back.
Weapons of Destruction: In this novel, I use WASP daggers, thermobaric warheads, and kinetic fireballs to cause much mayhem. The weapons are all real.
Overpopulation. The Club of Rome is a real organization that does a lot of great work. And in their report titled The Limits to Growth, they do lay out the doomsday scenario described by Ivar Karlsen, in which, if left unchecked, the world is headed toward a tipping point where 90 percent of the population could be wiped out.
The Doomsday Book. As mentioned in the introduction, it is a real historical tome. And some entries are indeed cryptically listed as “wasted.” It was compiled during a time when friction continued between Christians and pagans, especially in the borderlands.
Location, Location, Location. Most of the places in this story are real, as are the stories associated with them.
Akershus Fortress does lie at the edge of Oslo’s harbor, and cruise ships do dock near there. As to its history of executions, those are also true, including the story of the mint master Henrik Christofer Meyer, who died for his crimes and whose forehead was branded by King Frederick IV.
Svalbard Global Seed Vault is a real depository that has gained the nickname “The Doomsday Vault.” All the details of the facility are accurate, including one of its main means of defense: polar bears.
Bardsey Island truly is Avalon. All the stories and mythologies of the island are accurate, including Merlin’s Tomb, Lord Newborough’s Crypt, and the twenty thousand buried saints. Also, the Bardsey apple continues to grow, and cuttings can now be purchased of this ancient tree. As to those nasty currents around the island, those are also real. So make that ferry crossing only in the best of weather!
The Lake Distric
t of England is indeed a land of enchantment, dotted by rings of standing stones, and, of course, is the home of the industrious Fell Ponies. There are also many, many peat bogs in the region, though nothing as forested or as fiery as in this book. But subterranean peat fires have been known to burn for centuries, even through snowy winters. And such fires are still used to make the finest Scotch (but that’s a whole other story). As to the bog mummies, they are also real—as is the retail shop in the hamlet of Hawkshead that exclusively sells teddy bears (Sixpenny Bears).
So go buy Kowalski a bear … I guess he deserves one.
THE LAST ORACLE
A Sigma Force Novel
James Rollins
Dedication
To Shay and Bryce,
because you both rock
Map
FROM THE HISTORICAL RECORD
The greatest blessings granted to mankind come by way of madness, which is a divine gift.
—SOCRATES, ON THE
ORACLE OF DELPHI
Ancient Greeks, with their pantheon of gods, held an abiding belief in the powers of prophecy. They revered those who could read the portents in the entrails of goats, who saw the future in the rising smoke of a sacrificial fire, who predicted events based on the auguries of tossed bones. But one individual was held in the highest esteem: the mystical Oracle of Delphi.
For almost two thousand years, a succession of closely guarded women resided within the temple to Apollo on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. Each generation, a single woman ascended to the seat of prophecy and took the name Pythia. While under a vapor-induced trance, she answered questions about the future—from the mundane to the profound.
Her admirers included leading figures of Greek and Roman history: Plato, Sophocles, Aristotle, Plutarch, Ovid. Even early Christians revered her. Michelangelo painted her prominently on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, foretelling the coming of Christ.
But was she a charlatan, duping the masses with cryptic answers? No matter the truth, one fact is beyond dispute. Revered by kings and conquerors across the ancient world, Pythia’s prophecies changed the course of human history.
And while much about her remains shrouded in mystery and mythology, one truth has emerged. In 2001, archaeologists and geologists discovered a strange alignment of tectonic plates under Mount Parnassus that has been shown to vent hydrocarbon gases, including ethylene, which is capable of inducing a trancelike euphoria and hallucinations, the very vapors described in the historical record.
So while science has discovered one of Pythia’s secrets, the ultimate truth remains unknown:
Did the Oracle truly foresee the future? Or was it divine madness?
Man, know thyself, and thou wilt know the universe and the gods.
—INSCRIPTION AT THE TEMPLE OF DELPHI
PROLOGUE
A.D. 398
Mount Parnassus
Greece
They had come to slay her.
The woman stood at the temple’s portico. She shivered in her thin garment, a simple shift of white linen belted at the waist, but it was not the cold of predawn that iced her bones.
Below, a torchlight procession flowed up the slopes of Mount Parnassus like a river of fire. It followed the stone-paved road of the Sacred Way, climbing in switchbacks up toward the temple of Apollo. The beat of sword on shield accompanied their progress, a full cohort of the Roman legion, five hundred strong. The road wound through broken monuments and long-ransacked treasuries. Whatever could burn had been set to torch.
As the firelight danced over the ruins, the flames cast a shimmering illusion of better times, a fiery restoration of former glory: treasuries overflowing with gold and jewels, legions of statues carved by the finest artisans, milling crowds gathered to hear the prophetic words of the Oracle.
But no more.
Over the past century, Delphi had been brought low by invading Gauls, by plundering Thracians, but most of all, by neglect. Few now came to seek the words of the Oracle: a goat herder questioning a wife’s fidelity, or a sailor seeking good omens for a voyage across the Gulf of Corinth.
It was the end of times, the end of the Oracle of Delphi. After prophesying for thirty years, she would be the last to bear the name Pythia.
The last Oracle of Delphi.
But with this burden came one final challenge.
Pythia turned toward the east, where the sky had begun to lighten.
Oh, that rosy Eos, goddess of dawn, would hurry Apollo to tether his four horses to his Sun chariot.
One of Pythia’s sisters, a young acolyte, stepped out of the temple behind her. “Mistress, come away with us,” the younger woman begged. “It is not too late. We can still escape with the others to the high caves.”
Pythia placed a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder. Over the past night, the other women had fled to the rugged heights where the caves of Dionysus would keep them safe. But Pythia had a final duty here.
“Mistress, surely there is no time to perform this last prophecy.”
“I must.”
“Then do it now. Before it is too late.”
Pythia turned away. “We must wait for dawn of the seventh day. That is our way.”
As the sun had set last night, Pythia had begun her preparations. She had bathed in Castilia’s silver spring, drank from the Kassotis spring, and burned bay leaves on an altar of black marble outside the temple. She had followed the ritual precisely, the same as the first Pythia thousands of years ago.
Only this time, the Oracle had not been alone in her purifications.
At her side had been a girl, barely past her twelfth summer.
Such a small creature and of such strange manner.
The child had simply stood naked in the spring waters while the older woman had washed and anointed her. She’d said not a word, merely stood with an arm out, opening and closing her fingers, as if grasping for something only she could see. What god so suffered the child, yet blessed her just the same? Surely not even Apollo. Yet the child’s words thirty days ago could come only from the gods. Words that had plainly spread and stoked the fires that now climbed toward Delphi.
Oh, that the child had never been brought here.
Pythia had been content to allow Delphi to fade into obscurity. She remembered the words spoken by one of her predecessors, long dead for centuries, an ominous portent.
Emperor Augustus had asked of her dead sister, “Why has the Oracle grown so silent?”
Her sister had responded, “A Hebrew boy, a god who rules among the blessed, bids me leave this house…”
Those words proved to be a true prophecy. The cult of Christ rose to consume the empire and destroyed any hope for a return to the old ways.
Then a moon ago, the strange girl had been brought to her steps.
Pythia glanced away from the flames and toward the adytum, the inner sanctum of Apollo’s temple. The girl waited inside.
She was an orphan from the distant township of Chios. Over the ages, many had hauled such children here, seeking to abandon such burdens upon the sisterhood. Most were turned away. Only the most ideal girls were allowed to stay: straight of limb, clear of eye, and unspoiled. Apollo would never accept a vessel of lesser quality for his prophetic spirit.
So when this willow branch of a girl had been presented naked to the steps of Apollo’s temple, Pythia had given her hardly a glance. The child was unkempt, her dark hair knotted and tangled, her skin marked with pox scars. But deeper, Pythia had sensed something wrong with the child. The way she rocked back and forth. Even her eyes stared without truly seeing.
Her patrons had claimed the child was touched by the gods. That she could tell the number of olives in a tree with merely a glance, that she could declare when a sheep would lamb with but a touch of her hand.
Upon hearing such stories, Pythia’s interest had stirred. She called the girl to join her at the entrance to the temple. The child obeyed, but she moved as if disconnected, as if the winds the
mselves propelled her upward. Pythia had to draw her by hand to sit on the top step.
“Can you tell me your name?” she asked the thin child.
“Her name is Anthea,” one of her patrons declared from below.
Pythia kept her gaze focused on the child. “Anthea, do you know why you’ve been brought here?”
“Your house is empty,” the child finally mumbled to the floor.
So at least she can speak. Pythia glanced to the temple’s interior. The hearth fire burned in the center of the main hall. It was indeed empty at the moment, but the child’s words seemed to whisper at something more.
Maybe it was her manner. So strange, so distant, as if she stood with one leg in this world and the other beyond this realm.
The child glanced up with those clear blue eyes, so full of innocence, so in contrast with what spilled next from her lips.
“You are old. You will die soon.”
From below, her patron attempted to scold her, but Pythia kept her words soft. “We all die eventually, Anthea. It is the order of the world.”
She shook her head. “Not the Hebrew boy.”
Those strange eyes bored into her. The hairs along Pythia’s arms shivered. Plainly the girl had been taught the catechism of the cult of Christ and his bloody cross. But her words again. Such strange cadence.
The Hebrew boy…
It reminded her of her ancestor’s prophecy of doom.
“But another will come,” the girl continued. “Another boy.”
“Another boy?” Pythia leaned closer. “Who? From where?”
The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts Page 41
