Augusta awoke with her head throbbing. She was lying in the back of a windowless van, shivering in her wet clothes. She couldn’t see anything. Had she gone blind, or was it really pitch-black in here? She blinked and squinted, trying to make out the wall in front of her. Nothing.
Her other senses, however, seemed heightened by the lack of sight. With her ear pressed to the floor, she could hear the van’s engine accelerating powerfully, could feel the whirr of its wheels over a smooth road, was jostled and shifted to one side as it took a turn at high speed.
She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, or what time of day it was, or how she had gotten here. All she knew was that someone, for some reason, had knocked her out and stuffed her in this van, and that she was now being transported somewhere. Was it the Rumelovs? Why would they want to kidnap her if she didn’t have the lost discourses with her? Her heart suddenly seized up in fear. What if they were going to torture her? What if they used her to blackmail her father? All the scenarios she and Nicolas had discussed came flooding into her brain. In the darkness of the van, they played through her mind in cinematic color, menacingly real. Her heart began pounding ferociously.
Lying on her side, listening to the steady rumble of the van’s engine, Augusta took a deep breath. This was the time for her training. She brought to mind her father’s face, smiling as he reviewed her self-defense techniques. Go with the flow, he had said. Look for the opportunities around you. Her grandfather’s face swam into view, laughing, smiling, hugging. Carve with the grain, not against it.
Okay, Augusta told herself, turning over onto her back and looking up in the direction of the ceiling. Go with the flow. How do I do that? She couldn’t see, her hands were tied, and she had no idea what awaited her when the van stopped moving. But somehow she had to make the best of it.
The tracking chip. A spark of joy erupted through the bleakness. She still had on the tracking chip. As long as it hadn’t been damaged by the rain, her father would know exactly where she was. He would find her swiftly and everything would be fine. She smiled to herself in the darkness, envisioning her father’s helicopters rescuing her and Erol at the top of Camlica.
Just then, the van slowed and came to a stop. The engine switched off, and a few minutes later the loading gate opened. Augusta instinctively closed her eyes as a weak gray light filtered into the compartment.
“Look, she’s still unconscious,” said a man’s deep voice, in Greek. “You hit her too hard.”
“I had to make sure she was knocked out,” said another, defensively. “She’s not hurt. She’ll wake up soon.”
Augusta could hear the man climbing into the truck close to her. “Hey!” he shouted, tapping her face. “Wake up!” A bottle of water materialized, and he poured a few drops on her face, slapping her cheeks. “Wake up!”
“Ow! What are you doing?” Augusta opened her eyes and glared at the man. He was middle-aged, bearded, heavyset, wearing a blue knit sweater. Completely unremarkable in every way, except that he had just kidnapped her. They stared at each other for a moment, then the man looked away and jumped back out of the van.
“Come on,” he said gruffly, motioning for her to follow. “You come with us.”
Augusta stood up, bent double so as not to hit her head on the low ceiling, and slowly made her way out of the vehicle. Her legs felt like rubber. Stepping out of the van was almost like stepping onto dry land again after being on the yacht. Except this time, instead of smelling the salty air of Piraeus, the earthy scent of cold, wet soil greeted her nose.
She was high in the mountains, looking at a stunning scene below. In the fading evening light, gray-green hills billowed out in every direction, interrupted by craggy peaks striking out at improbable angles. This was even more mountainous than Crete, Augusta thought to herself as she surveyed the territory around them. They must be somewhere in the highlands of Greece. Where could it be? Then it struck her: Delphi. They had come for the oracle of Delphi.
Augusta’s mind raced as the two men grabbed her arms and forced her across the roadway, away from the spectacular view below. Why would these men kidnap her and bring her to Delphi? She recalled her father saying that sites of historic symbolism were extremely important to the Rumelovs. Would she be forced to witness some kind of prophecy? Was she to be the victim of some strange ritual sacrifice?
She began shaking as the men led her over to a large, empty basin lined with stones. Trees hovered around its edges, as if poised to jump in for a swim, and moss climbed up its dry walls, which evidently hadn’t seen water in many years. She would have been touched by its poetic beauty had she not been so scared.
But the men walked past the basin over to a small rivulet running down its side.
“Wash your hair,” one of them said, pointing at the trickle of water.
“What?” In spite of her fear, Augusta couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice. She had not expected this.
“Wash your hair,” the man repeated. Without releasing his grip on Augusta’s arm, he cupped one hand and splashed water over his own hair. The other man followed suit.
Bending her head toward the little stream running down the mountainside, Augusta cupped her own hands and splashed water over her long brown hair. She had already been soaking wet for most of the day—what could a little more water hurt?
“Now walk.” The men clutched her arms and forced her along a path behind the fountain, at first up stone stairs, and then over rough mountain terrain. They were walking sideways, parallel to the road below, but hidden by the trees and undergrowth.
When would her father come to her rescue? As they trekked along, Augusta couldn’t help but think he should have already been here by now. Surely he was using her tracking coordinates and was approaching at this very moment.
But what if he doesn’t come? What if something had happened to him—maybe the Rumelovs got him too! Perhaps he was being led to the sacrificial altar at this very moment from the other direction. Or perhaps he was already dead. The thought was too horrible to contemplate.
Focus on the facts, Augusta told herself. Don’t allow the fear to take over. It was essential to keep an open mind. In situations like this, her father had told her, don’t allow your imagination to run rampant. Think only of what you know for sure. That will guide you to your next step.
Stumbling over rocks and tree roots in the semi-darkness, they made their way along the mountain path in silence. Augusta forced herself to focus on one step at a time, one foot in front of the other. Where were the facts guiding her this time? Maybe she should try to break away and make a run for it. But where would she go? It was dark, and freezing, and she was in the middle of nowhere. All the archeological sites were closed by now, and everyone would soon be celebrating the new year. Trying to make her way back to civilization in the dark while fleeing her pursuers didn’t seem like a viable option.
What would her father do in this situation? Augusta had spent enough time with him to know that he would focus on what he could do, not what he couldn’t do. Okay, what can I do now? She forced her mind to think about what she knew of Delphi. Xenia had told her the oracle, the Pythia, would chew laurel leaves to enter a hallucinogenic trance. And that the most important people of the ancient world, emperors and generals, would consult her before undertaking anything new. Keep thinking, she told herself. Keep going. She felt calmer already. She just needed to stay focused on what she knew and what she could do.
“Where are we going?” She decided to test her luck with the man in the blue sweater.
“To the temple.”
“Why are you taking me there?”
The man didn’t respond, but dug his grip more tightly into her arm.
They had reached the edge of the ruins. In the misty darkness, Augusta could just make out an array of marble columns, felled stones, and the remains of an extensive settlement stretching out in front of them. To their right the ruins continued up the mountainside, and to their left she could see the empty blackness that indicated the valley below. So this was Delphi.
Fog was rolling in thickly now. The weather from the coast must have caught up with them here. On a normal night, she might have had the moonlight or a few bright stars to guide her way, but tonight she had only the two surly men by her side, clutching her arms as if their lives depended on it. They prodded her down a walkway to the left.
The three of them walked on through the crumbled remnants of temples, houses, gymnasiums. Up ahead Augusta could see fire—a torch, held aloft by a man. Somehow the primitive flame, alight in the midst of this eerie, long-lost civilization, gave her the creeps. As they drew closer, she could see more shadowed figures surrounding the man with the torch. They were standing on the front stoop of a small, well-preserved stone temple, apparently watching as she approached. Except for the man with the torch, each person held a long thin branch of laurel.
Augusta and her captors were now no more than ten feet in front of the temple. The men suddenly halted and knelt, pulling her down to the ground beside them. The man with the torch said, in Greek, “Welcome, brothers. We greet you in the name of Apollo Manticus. And you, Pythia. We welcome your return to your ancestral home.”
Apollo, the Delphic god of prophecy. Augusta silently congratulated herself on being right—there was some sort of ritual going on. She must be here to witness a prophecy. And from the sound of it, they had invited someone to be the prophetess. Her interest was piqued.
Looking past the man with the torch, she tried to make out a woman in the crowd around the temple. The bystanders looked almost identical in white ceremonial robes, but she was fairly sure they were all men. She ventured a glance behind her. There was no one. Beside her, the two men remained kneeling, their eyes fixed on the stony ground ahead. Where was the Pythia?
“Arise Pythia, and prepare yourself for the ceremony.” The man with the torch processed slowly toward Augusta, holding out his hand as if to take hers.
Understanding swept over Augusta, like a wave washing over her head and pulling her under the sea. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. The man was talking to her. All eyes were on her. The ritual, the prophecy, was all up to her. She was the prophetess. She was the Pythia.
She was the oracle of Delphi.