Augusta knew what she had to do. Everything she had learned over the past four months—her travels across the world, her father’s wise words, her woodland wandering with the wise Xenia—crystallized into one thought: Go with the flow. Turn it to your advantage. You are the Pythia.
She stood up imperiously and strode toward the man with the torch. “Where are my robes?” she said in Greek.
He bowed his head and indicated the small temple behind them. “In here, Pythia.”
Augusta brushed past the crowd gathered on the portico, swept into the temple’s small antechamber, and, seeing nothing inside, walked into the rear chamber. She hoped against hope that she was doing the right thing, that this was not going to blow up in her face. But given her choices at the moment, this seemed to be the best option.
In the rear chamber a loose-fitting white dress lay draped over a tall stool. Augusta breathed a sigh of relief. She must be on the right track. This area of the temple was no bigger than a closet, but it was private, and she stripped off her wet clothes, making sure the tracking chip was still embedded in her underwear. She couldn’t tell if it was working or not, but it gave her a spark of hope in the misty uncertainty of the night.
She put the dress on and picked up a long purple veil that had been resting under the dress. What beautiful fabric this was. She felt almost as if she were a child playing dress up, or maybe just attending a costume ball. The clothing really helped her get in character. Augusta marched out confidently, her chin held high in the air.
Her two bodyguards were waiting on the front portico. They had put on the same ceremonial robes as the others, and as she emerged from the temple they clustered close beside her, nudging her forward. She found herself glad, for the first time, that they were telling her where to go.
The man with the torch fell into step behind her, and the rest of the crowd followed. With the path illuminated only by torchlight, shadows rippled beside them as they passed overturned stones and pediments, which looked for all the world like rows of white marble tombstones. Augusta couldn’t shake the feeling they were walking through a magnificent graveyard—the final resting place of ancient Greece.
As they processed slowly up the hill, she considered her position. She had no idea why these people had selected her to be their prophetess, or even how seriously they took the whole prophecy idea. Did they truly believe she could convey a divinely-inspired oracle to them? What would they do to her if she didn’t? Her brain clicked into motion, trying to think of a prophetic warning she might deliver against murdering priestesses. Could she tell them to go home quietly and cease all prophetic activities forevermore? Somehow she didn’t think that would work.
The group was approaching a large, raised platform at the center of the ruined city. This must be the Temple of Apollo, where Pythia had produced her prophecies. Even in the dark Augusta sensed it was quite large and must have been significant in its prime. Today, though, it was completely flattened, its marble foundation accentuated only by five columns sticking up unevenly at one end. They reminded her of a ghostly pipe organ, ruined and struggling valiantly to stay standing.
Her two bodyguards led her up a ramp toward the columns, onto the platform, and over the uneven foundation of the temple. In the center a large pit was open to the ground below. In the torchlight she could see something large and golden glinting from inside the pit. What could it be? It looked a bit like a large trophy cup, or maybe—no, it was a stool. An oddly-shaped, solid gold stool sitting in the muddy grass inside the temple.
The crowd walking behind her had stopped. They waited at the main entrance of the temple, while Augusta and the two bodyguards, along with the man holding the torch, proceeded toward the opening at the center. Now she could see into it quite clearly. In front of the stool, on what appeared to be a stone altar, was a silver platter and a bundle of neatly trimmed tree branches. Laurel. Her mind sprang instantly back to her last afternoon stroll through Xenia’s garden. What had Xenia said? Laurel leaves were good for cooking but when chewed they could produce hallucinogenic visions. Goosebumps pricked up on the back of her arms. She had a sinking feeling she would be made to chew the leaves.
The four of them were now standing beside the open pit. The man holding the torch lifted it high in the air and intoned in a gravelly voice, “Unveil yourself, Pythia, and descend into the adyton, the most sacred center of the Temple of Apollo. Set the branches alight, eat of the leaves, and tell me if the god finds favor with his most humble servant. Rumelov stands ready to receive your prophecy.”
Rumelov! Augusta jumped at the name. So this was Rumelov himself. She slowly lifted the purple veil over her head and peered for an instant into his face, half-lit by the torch, trying to make out his features. She noted his neatly manicured white goatee, his thin, perhaps once-handsome face, and his expression of utter ecstasy as the ceremony unfolded around him. Aglow with fervent devotion, his arms stretching up toward the heavens, her arch-enemy sank to his knees in front of her and kissed the hem of her dress.
Augusta felt herself shaking. She wasn’t sure she could pull it off. How could she make up a prophecy that would satisfy Rumelov and his followers? What would happen if they saw through her and decided she was a fraud? Taking a deep breath, she forced her mind back to the scene in front of her. Focus on the facts. Go with the flow. Turn it to your advantage.
With as much dignity as she could muster, Augusta took the torch from Rumelov’s outstretched hand, stepped down into the muddy grass, and walked gracefully over to the altar. She placed the bundle of laurel branches on the silver dish and ceremoniously ignited it with the torch, setting the torch down carefully on the stone.
So far so good. But now her gaze now fell on a small crystal bowl sitting at the end of the altar, filled with carefully prepared laurel leaves. She couldn’t eat those leaves. The last thing she needed now was to lose control of her thoughts. Her mind was the only thing she had left—the only thing she could depend on—in this bizarre reenactment.
Maybe she could fake eating them. In the dark, from a distance of ten feet away, Rumelov wouldn’t be able to tell if she really consumed them or not. With her back to the audience behind her, she daintily removed a laurel leaf from the bowl and brought it up to her mouth, letting it flutter down in front of her, hopefully unseen. She could feel Rumelov’s eyes boring into the back of her head. She picked up a second leaf and mimed eating, hoping against hope her ruse wasn’t discovered.
Trying to appear as regal as possible, Augusta turned away from the altar and sat carefully on the edge of the golden stool. The burning laurel branches were giving off a soft, pleasant aroma, and in the warm glow of the fire she felt herself relax. She inhaled deeply and felt a calming warmth spread throughout her body. Now it was time to get into character.
Still seated, she raised her arms above her head and intoned dramatically, “The god is favorably disposed to receive his servant. Rumelov, you may present your request to glorious Apollo.”
Behind her, she could Rumelov almost weeping for joy. No one else made a sound.
“Fair one, most admired Apollo,” Rumelov boomed. “Offer words of wisdom to your humble follower as he revives your glory and restores your cult throughout your former dominions! Tonight we launch our campaign to destroy the pretenders that have claimed your realm, those pernicious weeds of religion that have usurped your rightful domain! They will be stamped out and exterminated. We supplicants ask for your blessing as we go into battle for you. All is planned for the first moment of the new year. When the sun rises tomorrow, he will delight in the destruction of the house of worship built by the usurper Justinian. Offer us, Apollo, your divine sanction! Light our way!”
Despite the warmth of the fire, Augusta’s blood ran cold. Rumelov was clearly raving, but what if he really did intend to wreak terrible destruction tonight? His plan sounded more than metaphorical. Did that make her guilty, by participating in this ridiculous prophecy charade? She couldn’t allow herself to become party to his evil intentions. She would have to try to dissuade him, even at risk to her own life.
Augusta closed her eyes and began slowly rocking on her stool, preparing for a great announcement. But what could she say that would sound prophetic but also convince him to give up this malicious plan?
At that moment, she heard the clamber of heavy boots and a loud yell: “Freeze! Hands in the air!” Stunned, Augusta opened her eyes to see half a dozen uniformed men surrounding the Temple of Apollo, pointing their weapons at the crowd behind her. Then, emerging from the darkness of the hillside, Nicolas Carter stepped into view.
“Game over, Rumelov,” he said, pointing a pistol at Rumelov and walking steadily toward the crowd on the platform. “Time’s up.”
Rumelov, whose smile of ecstasy had twisted into a malicious sneer, laughed uproariously.
“Oh no,” he said in heavily accented English. “I believe you’ll find time is not quite up.” And with that he sprinted with unexpected speed to the edge of the temple platform and dove out into the soft, dark grass below.
Nicolas took off after him but could see nothing in the intense darkness of the Delphic mountainside. His flashlight beam scanned out through the night, revealing only fog and a few stony ruins. Pursuit was pointless out here. Rumelov was gone.
Augusta felt frozen to her golden stool as she watched the special ops team handcuff the remaining occultists and herd them into all-terrain vehicles parked nearby. Her father returned and jumped down into the pit beside her, pulling her into a giant hug. In the still-bright glow of the laurel-twig fire, he looked her over with concern.
“How do you feel? Everything okay?”
Augusta nodded stiffly. She only now realized how cold it was up here, and that she couldn’t feel her fingers and toes at all. She began shaking violently.
“Here.” Nicolas took off his parka and slipped it around her, taking out a flask of warm, dark liquid. “Drink this. It will warm you up and calm you down at the same time.”
Wrapping one arm around Augusta, he helped her climb out of the pit and move slowly across the temple platform, back down the processional ramp and into a waiting ATV. She scrambled in clumsily and sat down, still numb from the cold and unable to speak.
“Drink,” Nicolas told her, climbing onto the driver’s seat and turning the key. “You were brilliant. The definition of thinking on your feet. You stayed calm, played along, and you gained incredibly valuable information for us. Do you know what Rumelov just told you?”
Augusta shook her head weakly, taking small sips from the flask. The electric ATV glided silently down the path behind the captive occultists.
“He disclosed his next move. And if we’re lucky, we’ll be there in time to stop him.”