to understand.
He squinted against the sun, which at midmorning had risen above the mountain's peak. They passed the turnoff to the stable and workshop, and continued ahead a short distance until they reached a trail where an ancient wall had once surrounded Delphi. The trail would take them above the sacred precinct, and they would make their ap proach from the steps of the theater, which overlooked Apollo's Temple. It was a longer route, but no one would see their arrival.
'She won't listen, Father,' Grigoris said as he hurried alongside Panos. 'She is an intellectual. She will laugh at you. She will think you are a silly peasant with supersti tious ideas.'
'Is that what you think, too?'
Panos was confident that his son was deeply committed to the Order, but nonetheless he tested him from time to time.
Grigoris hesitated before he spoke. 'If I had grown up in Athens and attended one of the colleges, I am sure that is what I would think.'
Panos gave him a sharp look of rebuke. He had taught his son to answer questions directly, not with obscure comments.
'But I know too much,' he quickly continued. 'I am not as shortsighted as the intellectuals. I am open to what
Panos nodded in agreement. It was the answer he had hoped Grigoris would give; he beamed with pride.
Some day his son would lead the Order of Pythia. As the high priest of Delphi, and emissary of Apollo, he would grow into a determined, disciplined man. But first he must learn to understand and control his darker emotions. If he failed to do so, Panos knew that the years he had spent preparing his son for his role would be lost.
Whenever he became concerned about Grigoris's tem perament, he thought about the Olympian gods.
They behaved at times as poorly as his son. They were a tempestuous lot, who had come to power through a brutal struggle with their predecessors, the Titans. Apollo, in particular, showed the same sort of aggressiveness that Grigoris did. When Apollo was consulted at Delphi about the viability of undertaking a war, more often than not he had recommended invading the enemy.
The trail turned and they emerged just above the bowl of stone benches that formed the old amphitheater. Below, the temple was blanketed in mist, the way it was in early morning. He could barely see the columns. But this was no ordinary fog; it was too late in the morning. It was the mephitic gases—ichor, the vapors of the gods— welcoming him. Somehow, he had known that the vapors would be rising as he arrived. They were another sign the timing was right.
He gazed a moment at the thatched hut outside the temple, between the Sacred Way and the place where the Sanctuary of Poseidon had once stood. Doumas had told him that it was built in such a way that several men could carry it to the edge of the fissure where he and Pythia would hold court for the king and others who requested their service. Later, when Delphi's renaissance was widely recognized, there would be plenty of money available to build a new temple. As far as Panos was concerned, the remains of the old buildings could be cleared away for the new.
More than anything, Panos was anxious to hear Pythia speak. He knew he would instantly recognize what others heard only as babbling. The cryptic language of the gods was the legacy of the Order. It wasn't taught like an ordinary language, but learned at a deeper level. For sixteen hundred years, generation after generation, centu ry after century, the Order had served as the caretaker of the sacred knowledge and the secrets. At times, the Order had fallen to one or two members, but always the knowl edge and the secrets had survived.
Panos had no doubt that the gods had watched over the Order, guiding its members, always instilling them with the understanding that the Oracle would return one day to the world. The gods and destiny after all were one, and the return of Pythia was inextricable. Now, at last, after all the centuries of awaiting, the new epoch was about to begin.
At that moment, he saw Dorian Belecamus—Pythia— walking away from the hut. He stopped and watched as she entered the temple and disappeared into the mist. He wanted to shout for joy. He had puzzled over how he would draw her into the vapors to prove to her that she was truly Pythia. But she was doing it on her own, and that made him even more confident that everything was work ing out just as it was meant.
He hurried down the stone steps, Grigoris just a step behind him, and as they neared the base of the theater two more figures moved into view, trailing after Pythia. 'They're going into the temple,' Grigoris shouted.
Then, before Panos could tell him to watch and wait, Grigoris called out to Doumas. He and Indy stopped and turned toward the theater.
'You have no sense of caution,' Panos snapped, even though as he said it he knew Grigoris was right. It was time to act, not watch.
'Panos,' Doumas yelled. He waved his hands frantical ly. Grigoris charged ahead, and Panos hurried to keep up with his son. When they reached him, Doumas explained what they already knew. Belecamus was in the mist and there was no sign of her. Jones stood several steps away and watched them with curiosity.
If the incident at the taverna had frightened him, he didn't show it.
Grigoris stepped between Jones and the temple. 'I'll watch him, Father.'
'What's going on?' Jones demanded.
'None of your business,' Doumas said. 'Do not forget what I told you last night.'
Grigoris took a step closer as if to reaffirm that he was the one who had attacked Jones.
Panos turned his attention back to the temple, and asked Doumas the exact location of the fissure. The wide-girthed archaeologist waddled forward and pointed. Just then an eerie shriek pierced the veil of mist.
The sound sent shivers up and down Panos's spine.
'Stay here and wait for me,' Panos said, and rushed toward the temple. He climbed over a rope and the remains of the wall, and hastened toward a mound of rubble that was partially enveloped in the mist. He knew that the vapors would only affect those who were suscepti ble to trance states and that as a priest of the Order he was protected. Still, he took a deep breath and held it as he climbed the mound.
He reached the top and glanced around. No sign of her. He expelled his breath, and cautiously sniffed at the air. There was no odor to the mist, and no immediate effect. He took a step forward and gazed down into the yawning mouth of the abyss. His heart plunged in his chest as he realized that the scream he had heard might have been her last utterance as Pythia plummeted into the void. There would be no return. Not in his lifetime. Belecamus was the one; no one else could replace her now. But how could he have been so wrong?
He suddenly felt dizzy, the way he would if he stood quickly after drinking a couple of glasses of retsina.
Dizzy, yet his head was clear. He felt acutely aware, and sensed that something was about to happen.
Cautiously, he took a step back from the chasm; a hand gripped his elbow. He turned, startled, and jerked his arm free. It was Belecamus
and her hands were raised as if she were about to shove him into the hole. Then he saw her face. Her eyes were rolled back, her mouth hung open, and her tongue lolled to one side.
He gaped, astonished. 'Do you know who you are?'
Her mouth moved, her head rocked back and forth, but no words came out.
'You are Pythia. You must understand. The Oracle is returning, and you are Pythia.'
She took a wavering step forward, shook her head from side to side. Her jaw was working up and down, but no sound came out. Then, with a wild burst of energy, she whirled in a circle, flailing her arms, and tottered near the edge of the crevice. She was going to jump.
Panos grasped her firmly around the waist, pulling her back. 'You must accept; you must accept.'
She rocked back and forth in his arms. Then, from deep within her, a wail rose, a bellow of uncontrollable pain, of a mother giving birth. She shuddered violently and collapsed.
Panos lifted her, and as he did, he realized that the air was clearing. He carried her away, knowing that the transformation was complete. Dorian Belecamus was Pythia, and the next time the vapors rose she would be drawn into the mist again and he would be there, her guide, her interpreter, and her voice to the world.
13
