by D. J. Niko
“I’m Sarah. What’s yours?”
“They call me Phoebe, in honor of Apollo. Phoebus was one of the god’s names. It means bright.”
“It’s beautiful. Who named you?”
“My father.” A faint smile crossed Phoebe’s lips and she looked off, as if daydreaming. “He is Apollo’s manifestation on Earth.”
Sarah was disgusted that a child had been led to believe this. She kept her thoughts to herself. “And your mother?”
The smile was wiped away. “I don’t remember my mother. She left me years ago.”
The girl obviously had been fed carefully constructed lies. “And what do you do here, Phoebe?”
“I speak the words of Apollo. I am his chosen.”
Sarah recalled the hunched figure walking out of the oracular tunnel in Isidor’s arms. Realizing it was Phoebe turned her stomach. These people had conscripted a young girl to the role of priestess, forcing her to inhale ethylene and deliver ersatz prophecies to men who’d likely paid a mint to witness the modern-day oracle. It was inconceivable.
Despite her rising anger, Sarah kept a straight face. “Do you go to school at all?”
“My father doesn’t want me to go to school. He says I’m too special.” Phoebe’s gaze darted from wall to wall. “Isidor has taught me to read. He brings me books sometimes. I’m not supposed to talk about it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with books, Phoebe. Knowledge sets us free.”
“I know things books can’t teach you.” She offered her palms to Sarah. “I’ll show you.”
Sarah placed her hands lightly on the girl’s palms. Phoebe’s eyes moved behind closed lids. The two remained in that position for a long moment before Phoebe’s brow furrowed and eyes blinked open. The girl pulled her hands away.
“What have you seen?” Sarah asked.
A shuffling sound came from the chute beyond the chamber. Phoebe snapped her head toward it. “He mustn’t find me here. I’ve got to go.” She cast a glance at Sarah, blew out the flame of the kerosene lantern, and scurried out of the chamber.
The sound grew closer. This time, Sarah felt no anxiety about the impending encounter. Her mind dwelled on the young waif who had been lied to and abused yet knew nothing of it. The outrage she felt over the despicable situation, and an inexplicable need to protect that child, fortified her for whatever happened next.
Once again, light flickered beyond the chamber, casting long shadows onto the cave wall. Sarah sat with her knees to her chest and waited. Within seconds, a man dressed in long white robes entered. She recognized him straightaway.
With his honey-colored skin, deep-set brown eyes, and long, straight nose culminating in an arrow-like tip, the high priest looked like one of the iconic saints painted onto the rock of the monasteries in Trabzon. In his eyes was a combination of serenity and fierce intelligence that Sarah found slightly disconcerting.
“Sarah Weston,” he said with a heavy Greek accent. “I’m Isidor. I am happy to see you’re feeling better.”
It unsettled her to hear him call her by name. She sensed that wasn’t all he knew. “Thank you for your concern, Isidor. Now, please show me the way out.”
He smiled. “Follow me.”
Crawling at first, then standing upright as the tunnel widened, she followed Isidor through a subterranean network that easily spanned a quarter of a mile. At the far side of the tunnel, Isidor stopped and pointed to an opening. “I’d like to show you something.” He gestured for her to enter. “Please.”
Sarah ducked inside. Isidor followed. He held up his lantern and illuminated a fragment of limestone carved with E—the Greek letter epsilon.
A look of surprise crossed Sarah’s face. She was certain she was looking at a piece of the original pediment that capped the temple. Another object from antiquity presumed lost, hidden underground to satisfy the whims of a collector who valued his own indulgence above the right of humanity to understand its past.
Isidor lowered the lantern, and shadows trembled across the stone. “Do you know what this means?”
There were as many theories about the sacred symbol’s meaning as there were philosophers in antiquity. Even the Pythians in the golden age of Delphi couldn’t agree on its significance and had endless debates about it. She was familiar with Plutarch’s essay on the subject, but even that was inconclusive. She shook her head. “No one knows the true meaning of epsilon.”
The intensity of his gaze held her captive. “You disappoint me, Dr. Weston. I was hoping you’d be a worthier adversary.”
“Listen. I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing, but I want no part of it. I’m not here to entertain you or your pagan friends.”
“Then what are you doing here? Aside from spying, I mean.”
She didn’t answer. He probably knew her story anyway.
“Let me guess. You are looking for your American friend.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t think he’ll survive the night.”
The urgency of Daniel’s plight gave Sarah a new burst of strength. “Let him go. He doesn’t have what you want.”
He turned to her. In the demilight, his facial bones seemed chiseled by the hand of an ancient sculptor. “Your friend’s release isn’t up to me. It’s up to you.”
“I will do nothing until I see him.”
She had expected a negotiation. Instead, Isidor shifted his gaze to the stone fragment. He ran his hand across the linear grooves that formed the letter. “The one who devised this symbol is immortal. Even after thousands of years, mankind cannot comprehend his teachings, though it is all in plain sight.”
The distraction irritated her. “What does this have to do with the matter at hand?”
“A long time ago, someone buried a message in the cave of Trophonius.”
She stayed silent, expressionless.
“That message may lead to one of antiquity’s greatest mysteries. The original omphalos stone has been missing since Delphi fell into Roman hands in the fourth century. It is said that the newly minted Christians, who were obsessed with snuffing out paganism, carried the stone and other temple treasures to Anatolia. They also took a prisoner: the last priestess of Delphi. According to legend, she escaped captivity and returned to Greece but did not survive. It is thought she left behind a map outlining the location of the stone.” He took a step forward, standing so close she could feel his warm breath as he spoke softly. “I need to know if you have that map.”
She studied Isidor’s face. She didn’t see the fire of a zealot or the madness of a killer in his melancholy brown eyes. There was more to his story. “Even if I had, why would I tell you?”
“Because what is carved on the omphalos stone is . . . a vital truth from antiquity that can easily be misused. It cannot fall into the wrong hands.”
She laughed. “Let me weigh the facts: you have stolen important antiquities. You condone the sacrifice of animals in the most brutal way. You intoxicate and manipulate a child for your own means. And you have abducted a man.” Her face flushed with rage. “The way I see it, Isidor, you—and whoever is behind all this—are not worthy of that information.”
Isidor lifted the lantern to illuminate his face. His expression was serene, unfazed. “Look at me, Sarah. I am not the enemy.”
The light on his gauzy white gown brought into focus a detail Sarah had not noticed before. Her gaze followed the strip of black leather hanging around his neck down to its end, which was tucked beneath the fabric. As the light rendered the gown diaphanous, she noticed the amulet resting on his heart. It was a configuration of six dots in a distinct pattern.
Certain he wouldn’t stop her, she reached for the chain and pulled the amulet out of his gown. She held the small marble object, warm with his body heat, in her palm. It was the other half of the amulet she’d found outside the museum at Thebes. For the first time, she realized nothing was as it seemed.
Sarah looked up at the man in priest’s attire. “So that’s the answer.”
Mount Melá,
393 CE
As the early morning breeze whistled through the orchards beneath the monastery, a single saffron-hued leaf sailed through the mist before landing on a carpet of russet and gold. The scent of burning pine, familiar and comforting, anointed the air. Autumn had settled in earnest on Mount Melá.
Though she remained captive, Aristea found a glimmer of joy in the daily morning walks with Sophronios. It had been his idea to deliver her lessons in the embrace of nature: anything to convince her to believe his book of lies. She had no use for his rhetoric but appreciated his gentle manner and his acquiescence to debate. He was unlike his brethren, who insisted on cramming their ideals down the throats of dissenters, waving the banner of harmony through homogeneity.
She stole a glance at Sophronios, who walked silently next to her, clutching his tattered codex of teachings. “You seem distracted this day, Brother Sophronios. What thoughts weigh on your mind?”
He continued to look straight ahead. “No more than the ordinary.”
She sensed he held something back. She felt a curious urge to probe further but, for the sake of propriety, let it go. “Perhaps we should forgo today’s lesson, then.”
He stopped abruptly and turned to her, surprised. “That is impossible. I cannot forsake my duty in the name of the Lord and the holy mother.”
In a way, Aristea felt pity for the monk. For all his dogma and his allegiance to the conventions of the church, he had no true foundation for liberating his soul. It was, perhaps, why he needed to hide in the misty realm of Sumela, away from earthly desires and anything that could shatter his fragile sense of virtue. But he had been nothing but kind to her, so she forgave his inability to veer from the prescribed order. “As you wish.” She continued walking. “What does your duty require of me today?”
“Today we will speak of heaven and hell.” He fumbled with his holy book. “It is a story of darkness and light. We mortals have the power to choose between the two. Yet we do not always choose wisely.”
“Tell me, Sophronios: what is your heaven?”
“Ah, the kingdom of the age to come.” He turned his gaze skyward. “It is a place where souls reside in pure love and bliss. Where there is no want nor conflict nor vice. None of the sins of our earthly bodies exist anymore. There is only the divine union, absolute and everlasting.”
“And, pray tell, how do you reach this place?”
“By submitting to God’s will and following divine law during your earthly life. If you do this, upon your death you will be granted a seat in paradise for all eternity.” He stopped and glanced at her, seemingly for emphasis. “It is what all mortals should strive for.”
A gust tousled her long black locks. She pushed the hair away from her face so he could see the conviction in her eyes. “This paradise you speak of exists within us. It is here and now; it is not a reward after death. These tales of a distant kingdom that can be reached only after our bodies perish were made for those who cannot access that state in life.”
“How can one reach such an exalted state when all life is suffering? Humanity is given to so many ills . . . desire, greed, cruelty to its own kind. Only by dedicating our lives to God can we transcend our mortal weakness.”
Aristea had a ready answer but paused to revel in the moment. The dialogue with Sophronios was the highlight of her otherwise miserable days. Though they disagreed on all points, she respected a man who, though wholly given to his faith, allowed another to articulate an opposing view without judgment or confrontation. In that regard, they were not so different.
“Forgive my protest, Brother Sophronios,” she said. “Humanity is defined by its struggles, not doomed by them. It is in the way we endure those struggles that we transcend our lower nature and enter a higher realm.” She reached down and picked up a dry, russet leaf. “This leaf has fallen from its mother and withered. Yet the tree does not mourn the loss. While barren, it stands tall, ready to bear the burden of winter, for it knows that through hardship comes renewal.” She crumbled the leaf and let the pieces fall from her hand. “We are one with nature, Sophronios. Our travails are the same as the tree’s or the wolf’s or the lowliest insect’s. I submit to you that every lesson worth learning can be found in these woods, these mountains . . . not in the book you clutch with such fervor.”
“Who among us can endure struggles like the insect does? None but the most enlightened.” His hooded head swayed in the wind. “Do not be fooled by the beliefs of your ancestors, priestess. Human nature is bound to the influence of temptation and sin. Unless tempered, it corrupts men’s hearts.”
“Human nature is not something to be despised. With all its flaws, it is many-colored, complicated, and deep. Why scorn something as beautiful as free will? Why suppress the human spirit?” She knew her words would be perceived as harsh but spoke them anyway. “Following a canon created to temper human nature leads not to salvation but to spiritual slavery.”
His face tightened. Angst settled into the folds of his forehead. For the first time, he seemed frustrated by his inability to break through her iron-clad defenses.
“I should have been more tactful,” she said. “Forgive me.”
“It isn’t that.” He exhaled. “I must be truthful, for it is the only way I know. My superiors are questioning me about your conversion. They are less patient than I.” His gaze lingered on hers, something he rarely allowed. “I vowed to protect you, but I do not know how much longer I will be able to do so.”
She nodded. “I understand. I do not want you to endanger your favor with the church. I am prepared to accept the consequences.” She turned on her heel and followed the path back to the monastery. Her heart hammered against her rib cage. She interpreted it as a warning. Longing to be alone, she began to run.
“Aristea!” Sophronios called behind her.
She did not stop. She ran uphill until she reached the arched entrance into the stony realm of the lower cells. At that moment, her only refuge was her prison.
That night, sleep eluded Aristea. She spent long hours gazing out the window, her slim, dark fingers wrapped around the iron bars that held her against her will.
She could not shake Sophronios’ words from her consciousness. He’d made it plain that the day of her persecution drew nigh. Looking deep within her heart, she’d always known it. She had just lulled herself into a sense of false security, reluctant to accept that she was being sheltered by the enemy. How could she, a creature of exceptional logic and clarity, allow herself such delusion?
In the stars smattered across the midnight sky, she searched for her ancestors, mighty women who spoke the truth at any cost and who would have sooner died than betray the mysteries of their order. It gave her comfort to know she would soon be among them.
A faint sound made her turn abruptly toward the door. She held her breath and listened. Footsteps.
She walked to the door and placed her ear on the splintered wood. The footfalls grew louder . . . louder . . . and then stopped. Fabric rustled. Metal clinked.
They had come for her. She curled her fingers into fists to stop her hands from trembling.
Metal scraped against the keyhole. The key engaged, and two clicks resonated as if they were cracks of thunder.
Aristea stood her ground. Let them come.
The door opened slowly, and the familiar visage was illuminated by the moonbeams. Sophronios started, clearly not having expected to find her awake. He hurried inside and shut the door.
She took a step back. “You should not be here.”
“I took the risk,” he whispered. “I have come to warn you. The archbishop of Byzantium has sent a council to question the converts. Those who do not answer satisfactorily will be taken away—” He pursed his lips and looked toward the window.
“Do not fret about me, Sophronios. If this is my fate, so be it.”
He peeled off his hood garment and exposed shoulder-length raven hair. S
he was shocked to see him remove the symbol of his piety. He held up a bolt of fabric.
In the dark, it took her a moment to realize it was a folded monk’s habit. “What is the meaning of this?”
“This I do with all my heart.” He lifted a corner of the folded garment and exposed a blade. Its sharp edge gleamed in the moonlight. “There is a boat waiting at the edge of the Black Sea. If you hurry, you can reach it before dawn.”
Her eyes misted. “But your oath . . .”
“My oath compels me to help the innocent. If it is a sin to be devoted unconditionally to one’s faith, then I am as guilty as you.” He held up the blade. “Do not judge me, as I do not judge you.”
Aristea turned to the window and stared at the face of the moon. It was scarred but resplendent with light, casting its favor upon the treetops and the exposed basalt crags. It would be full only for a short time, allowing the tides to swell, the eagle owls to take wing, and the wolves to release their haunting howls, before relinquishing its radiance to darkness.
She knew what she had to do.
She turned to Sophronios and nodded. He took two steps toward her, standing so close she could smell the sweet wine lingering on his breath. He placed a gentle hand on her hair and pulled a strand into his palm. She closed her eyes.
“God forgive me,” he whispered.
There was a slow ripping sound as the blade cut through the strand close to her ear. She exhaled a trembling breath. One more mark of her virginity, sacrificed. She let her head drop back into his hand, indicating her full knowledge and consent. It was a small trade for freedom.
With a tenderness that mitigated the violence of the act, Sophronios separated another tress with his fingers. As he sheared off her locks strand by strand, her head and his hands moved together in a kind of dance, forming a curious union.
The cutting stopped. She opened her eyes and saw the pile of cut hair, like a lifeless black fleece, on the stone floor. It was done.
“Put this on.” Sophronios held up the monk’s habit. “There isn’t much time.”
