The Oracle

by D. J. Niko

  “Is that so?” He tapped his lips with a finger. “Then perhaps you can explain to me why your vulgar altar was smeared with fresh blood.”

  For a moment, the breath was trapped inside Aristea’s lungs. She recalled the sacrifice of the goat on the night of the last oracle, mere days before the siege. There was nothing she could say in her defense.

  “The decrees are clear.” Arcadius lifted the book on his lap and opened it to a marked page. The cover read, Codex Theodosianus. “‘Let superstition cease. Let the madness of sacrifices be exterminated; for if anyone should dare to celebrate sacrifices in violation of the law of our father, the deified emperor, and of this decree of Our Clemency, let an appropriate punishment and sentence immediately be inflicted on him.’” He closed the book. “There is but one true God. Have you come to accept this?”

  She looked down.

  He stood and pointed to her. “Then you are guilty of the highest crime against the creator.”

  Aristea knew he wanted to intimidate her, to watch her crouch in a corner and whimper. Instead, she stood straighter and lengthened her neck, as if she were about to orate. “As a Hellene, I believe in debate—the ability to come to a logical conclusion through reason. Tell me, then, Senator: what makes your god superior to mine?”

  “I will not engage in the ways of the heretics. The one true God is accepted on faith, not reason.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you cannot justify through discourse the supremacy of your god?”

  “Silence, brazen woman!” His voice boomed across the stone chamber. “You will be judged against the emperor’s decree: ‘The perverse pronouncements of augurs and seers must fall silent. The universal curiosity about divination must be silent forever. Whosoever refuses obedience to this command shall suffer the penalty of death and be laid low by the avenging sword.’ Behold, then, your punishment.”

  Aristea tapped her sternum. “I am a being of free will and spirit. Inflict your punishment. I am not afraid of your avenging sword, for this body is merely a fleeting habitation for my soul, which shall exist forever.”

  “Then so be it. But know death will not come swiftly. You will suffer terribly to repay your multiple offenses”—he paused—“unless you choose to cooperate with the state. Come with me.”

  She followed him to the dark rear of the chamber. He called to one of the men to bring forth a torch. The light followed his outstretched hand. “Do you recognize this?”

  The copper glow illuminated a stash of gold coins. Her gaze traveled beyond the gold to a bust of Apollo with the nose broken off. Beyond that lay the spoils from the battle of Marathon and—she gasped—the sacred omphalos stone. She turned away so he would not see the bewilderment in her eyes.

  “Quite a trove, isn’t it? Yet much is missing.” He commanded, “Look at me.”

  She met Arcadius’ hard blue eyes, and an unfamiliar feeling infected her soul. She never before had wished harm upon anyone. Unwilling to say something caustic, she remained silent.

  Hands clasped behind his back, he paced. “By the time our men reached the temple, the treasures had been removed. I suspect your fellow barbarians are hiding them somewhere.” He stopped and stared at her. “Is this true?”

  “I know nothing.”

  “I think you do.” He ran a hand across the navel stone. “The emperor is adamant about gathering up all the treasure of the infidels and making it the property of the church.”

  “What does the church want with pagan objects it claims to despise?”

  “Simply to keep them out of public view, where they cannot tempt anyone into idolatrous worship. Such trappings are dangerous, for they can poison the mind and soul of innocents.” He took a step toward her. “If you tell me where the treasures are hidden, I am willing to forgo the charges of subversion that have been brought against you. You will be set free.”

  “I told you once: I do not know.”

  “It seems you need some encouragement to bring forth a recollection.” Arcadius glanced at the village men. “I must take my leave. My men will continue the interrogation.”

  “Do not trouble yourself. I have nothing to say.”

  “Perhaps after they finish their work, you will.” He took a piece of silk draped on an altar and wiped his hands with it. He crumpled it and threw it onto the floor.

  The act of disrespect offended Aristea. The man before her was not worthy of touching revered objects. He was neither honorable nor truthful. The church wasn’t gathering temple treasures to snuff out the tendency toward pagan worship; it was amassing wealth. So much gold and invaluable art could build up the church’s treasuries to unprecedented levels. It was the most despicable of acts.

  Arcadius swung the hanging end of his mantle over his shoulder, raised his chin, and walked away. The slap of his leather sandals echoed inside the stone womb.

  When the sound diminished, she felt another prod from the man with the long stick. She pivoted on her heel and faced him. “Leave me be. I have nothing to say.”

  “I command you, in the name of the almighty God, to reveal the location of the heretical objects.” He spoke in a Pontian Greek dialect. “Speak, or suffer the consequences.”

  “I do not fear you. Do what you will.”

  Two other men approached. The three walked in step toward Aristea. She inched backward. She did not like the animal-like glint in their eyes.

  “Do you choose deception and defiance over righteousness?” He held up the stick.

  Aristea’s body tensed. She clenched her fists, ready to retaliate should they attack. “I choose my right to cultivate the garden of my soul as I see fit. What to one man is deception is to another loyalty.”

  “Loyalty can exist only within the context of the empire and the church. All other loyalties are forbidden.” He struck the ground with the rod. “Where, then, does your loyalty lie?”

  She knew it was folly to answer, but silence constituted the highest betrayal. Her voice trembled as she sang the words of a paean typically uttered to avert evil as men entered battle.

  Ships’ prows gather, block the sun.

  Arrows rain upon Athens’ sacred shores,

  Striving to bring death to the deathless.

  “Be silent!” The back of the Pontian’s hand, heavy as a bear’s paw, struck her mouth.

  She stumbled backward but did not fall.

  The sea trumpet sounds, calling to the dolphin.

  With victory on its back, it glides through golden-crested

  waves.

  “Enough!” He pushed Aristea to the ground. Like sharks to blood, the others gathered round their leader. He said something to them in a dialect she did not understand.

  Two of the five men squatted beside her and pinned her arms down. She struggled to break free of their grip but did not possess the physical strength.

  “Repent and denounce the perverse ways of the heretics, or prepare to pay with your blood,” the Pontian said.

  Her lower lip trembled. “What god condones such tyranny? In what divine tribunal is free thought a crime?”

  He squatted beside her. “Men who walk alone are a threat to the established order. But a woman who thinks this way is an abomination.” Saliva trickled from the side of his snarled mouth. “It seems you need to learn your place.”

  At the Pontian’s nod, the two men tightened their hold on her arms. Two others stepped out of the shadows and stood over her. The Pontian placed his hairy paws on the straps of her gown and ripped the fabric apart.

  Aristea screamed. To the virgin priestess of Apollo, it was an insult higher than any foul word or the bloodiest strike to the body.

  The Pontian straddled her and bent over her, and she smelled his putrid sweat. Even in the dim light, she could see the hunger in his bloodshot eyes. A sharp pain tore through her abdomen, as if she’d been impaled onto a spit. She tried once more to writhe free, but it was for naught: she was pinned to the ground.

  She shouted for
help. The trespasser covered her mouth with a hand until her pleas were muffled. She squeezed her eyes shut and let tears of indignity roll down her temples. Her most sacred vow had been desecrated with the same wanton disregard that had brought down the gods’ temples and had claimed innocent lives by the thousands.

  O fairest son of Zeus, he whose arrows of truth slayed evil, when will the torment end?

  There was no answer, no sign from Olympus. The world had fallen into darkness.

  Twenty-five

  The moon’s round face rose above Cairo’s illuminated skyline, its silver reflection shimmering in the waters of the Nile. Daniel sat at a balcony three stories above the river with his laptop and a bottle of Auld Stag, trolling for information on Irwin Post.

  Post, a Scotsman who’d been living in London for three decades, acquired rare art and antiquities for galleries, which in turn were sold for lucrative margins to private collectors. He had dealt with everything from Qin Dynasty pottery to Egyptian New Kingdom canopic jars and, as far as Daniel could tell, had a flawless track record—and a profile to match. He had been quoted in the press, from the Financial Times to the BBC, about the illicit antiquities trade, each time presented as the watchdog against such activity.

  Daniel took a swig of the whiskey straight from the bottle. He frowned at the taste, more akin to turpentine than the blended scotch it purported to be. He logged in to the Rutgers indexes and databases, to which he had privileged access, and searched for more information. The only thing of note was a trade journal article about Post coming under fire for selling Iraqi antiquities to museums in the late nineties, when much of the country was being looted. To clear his name, Post had produced rigorous documentation proving the objects had come from long-held private collections or were deaccessioned museum pieces. The authorities had eventually accepted this proof, and the case went no farther.

  Post either was legit or had a watertight authentication network. Or, more likely, there was money to be made on both sides, so certain things were overlooked.

  Daniel picked up his phone and checked for any communication from Sarah. His abrupt departure surely had embittered her, so it should not have been a surprise that she had not tried to reach out. Though they had parted ways before, he’d always known they would reunite. This time, he wasn’t so sure.

  The phone vibrated in his hands. It was the third time that night Langham had called. This time, Daniel picked up. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “You ought to know better than to ask. How did it go at Tora?”

  “I got a dealer’s name. A chap in London named Irwin Post.”

  “Brilliant. That will make the final step easier.” He cleared his throat. “I want you to call Post and tell him you have the map and wish to make an exchange.”

  “Let me guess: the map for the firman.”

  “You do catch on quickly.”

  Daniel’s face burned. “This is what you intended all along. It was never meant to be an information-gathering mission. You needed someone to do your dirty work.”

  “Now, now, Madigan. We had no idea what lay inside that cave. Your mission sort of . . . evolved.”

  “Listen here, James. I’m out. This is not what I agreed to, and I don’t particularly care for your strong-arming tactics.”

  “No; you listen. The Greek lot have been promised access to the firman in exchange for the obelisk, which now sits squarely in Rigas’ hands.”

  “Not true. The monks—”

  “The monks are all dead.” His voice rose a notch. “The stakes are being raised, Madigan. It is imperative you carry on with the mission. Without that firman, Britain may well lose the right to the marbles, and that would not only be humiliating for the crown; it would be disastrous for humanity. As someone who has vowed to preserve archaeological treasures, surely you realize those relics would suffer in the hands of the Greeks.”

  “In the hands of the Greeks is where they rightfully belong. It’s their heritage, and they have a right to it. Who are you to question that?” He huffed. “We clearly have a difference of principle. But it’s my fault I got sucked into your sordid game. Good-bye, James.”

  “We are not finished, Madigan.” Langham’s voice bellowed across the line. “Interpol is after you—and after Weston’s daughter. After all that’s transpired, you will end up in prison. I will make sure of it.”

  “Do your worst.” Daniel hung up and blocked Langham’s number.

  He slipped the phone into his pocket and walked inside. The room was lit softly by the moonbeams; any artificial illumination seemed superfluous. He glanced at the wall and saw a bearded man with a detached gaze staring at him. He tensed, ready to strike. It took him a moment to realize he was looking at his own reflection in a mirror. Of all the life-or-death predicaments and dangerous characters he had encountered during his career, this frightened him most.

  Turning his gaze to the sky, he clenched his teeth. No more. He walked back to the balcony, picked up the bottle of Auld Stag, and went into the bathroom. He poured the contents down the toilet and dropped the bottle into the trash bin. He looked through his wash bag for his other crutch so he could deliver it to the same fate.

  A knock interrupted his search. He ignored it, hoping the person would go away. Another knock came, louder this time.

  “Not now,” Daniel said, a touch too angrily.

  A male voice announced, “Engineering. Very important.”

  Daniel went to the door and looked through the keyhole at a slight Egyptian man dressed in a faded blue maintenance uniform with the hotel logo. He cracked the door open.

  “Sorry, sir, we’ve had a disruption to water service on this floor,” the worker said. “May I come in to turn on a valve? Only one moment.”

  Daniel let him in and watched him make his way to the bathroom. He was on guard until the man turned on the faucet and nothing came out. He decided to let him do his work and began to pack his things.

  When finished, he texted Sarah. Flying into Athens from Cairo tonight. Need to see you.

  The alarm clock blared. Arabic popular music at full volume assaulted his ears, and he walked to the nightstand to turn the alarm off.

  As he searched for the off button, he felt a sharp sting between his shoulder blades, followed by a numb sensation. He turned around and saw the Egyptian put something away in his tool box.

  Daniel reached for the man, but his arms felt heavy and uncoordinated. He tried to say something but the words came out slurred. White spots crowded his vision, and the room looked distorted. His breathing became labored. He dropped to his knees, then crumpled onto the floor.

  He heard his assailant pick up the phone and say in Arabic, “Send up the paramedics.” Then he slipped out the door.

  Daniel fought to keep his eyes open. Behind the fog that shrouded his vision, he saw three men dressed in dark green uniforms with fluorescent-yellow stripes—paramedics, presumably—enter the room and lift his limp body onto a gurney. One barked at the others in Sa’idi Arabic, the dialect of the south, spurring them to move quickly.

  With Daniel strapped to the gurney, they hurried down the corridor and into the elevator. Daniel saw the distorted faces of people stepping aside as the paramedics rushed him out of the lobby and loaded him into an ambulance.

  He lay there helpless as the blue lights swelled and waned in synch with the two-tone siren. On the outside, the emergency vehicle looked the part. Inside, two of the three rescue workers were smoking and shooting the breeze, uninterested in their human cargo.

  He had been betrayed.

  Too numb to summon any strength, Daniel lay in a near-catatonic state as the ambulance blasted through the freeway and finally turned off on the exit marked Heliopolis.

  They were going to the airport.

  The vehicle had not yet come to a full stop at the tarmac when two of the men threw open the door and jumped out of the vehicle to lower the ramp.

  Holding a syringe, the third bent over
the victim. “Have a good trip,” he said and plunged the needle into Daniel’s arm.

  Twenty-six

  The parched, waist-high grasses on the banks of the Gönen Çayi rustled as Sarah carved a path to the river’s edge. She could see her destination through the tangles of wild oak branches leaning into the river: two megaliths

  of ancient masonry, the vestiges of a once-great bridge built in the Byzantine Empire.

  She was certain this was the location. Though Justinian had launched many bridge projects during his sixth-century reign, the Aesepus Bridge was the only one whose construction continued into the seventh century. Around the time of Sumela’s destruction, the bridge builders were remaking demolished parts of the pillars and the road they supported. To make them stronger, they reinforced the structures with fill.

  Sarah sat on the rock next to the bridge ruins and studied the pier fragments jutting from the water like Neolithic henge. They were solidly built of brick and granite blocks held together with sand-and-shell mortar. On the top of each pier were the famous hollow chambers employed in several bridges in the region, a building technique the Romans perfected as early as the fourth and fifth centuries.

  Over the years, much of the bridge—all the arches and one of the piers—had succumbed to neglect and vandalism and was eventually abandoned. The question was: what had happened to the derelict stones and slabs? Were they carried away for other building projects, or did they sink into the riverbed?

  Sarah was betting on the latter.

  The Gönen Çayi flowed around the piers in its journey northwest to the Sea of Marmara. Tiny whitecaps, the product of winter winds streaming down from the mountains, agitated the surface and animated this long-forgotten piece of history.

  Sarah stood and slipped off her coat and shoes. With the brisk gust needling her skin, she considered the madness of what she was about to do.

  There was no time for misgivings. The answers lay somewhere beneath the river’s surface, and she was determined to find them. She stepped into the river, letting her bare feet gauge the temperature. The water was warmer than expected but still frigid enough to limit her time below.