Stepping inside the mosque was like entering a different world. Outside the raucous calls and laughter of the crowd, and the intense buzz of anticipation in the air, felt like a carnival. Inside all was quiet. The massive stone walls of Hagia Sophia, designed to withstand earthquakes, wind, fire—and invading armies—kept the world firmly shut out.
Treading quickly, noiselessly, through the small side entrance, they crossed into a realm of marble and gold. Beautiful stone slabs of every hue interlocked along walls, above doors, in every direction. Augusta couldn’t believe the sheer artistry of the stonework. Any other day she would have stopped to caress the finely-chiseled marble framing the doorway, to admire the intricately-wrought moldings and pediments that filled the space. But tonight she was on a mission. The sculptor in her would have to wait.
As they passed through the side hallway, golden mosaics glittered at them from the ceiling, hinting at the incredible sights that awaited just beyond the main door into the mosque. Augusta looked away uneasily as the piercing gaze of saints followed them out under the main dome of the holy building. She stopped short as they stepped out from under the side eaves and into the cavernous basilica of Hagia Sophia. Nothing could have prepared her for its grandeur.
They were standing beneath three domes of jaw-dropping imperial splendor, soaring up twenty stories into the night sky. Even in the dim light the immense proportions of the former grand cathedral of Constantinople were impressive. Augusta suddenly understood why Rumelov would want to make a statement here. This was a triumph of religious devotion and secular power, of human ingenuity and progress—the ultimate expression of one civilization superseding another. No wonder he wanted to wipe away all traces of the Hagia Sophia, which had played such a pivotal role in history. It represented everything he stood against.
Threading between an arcade of marble columns, which gave off an iridescent glow in the lamplight, Nicolas led Augusta and Erol toward the center of the basilica. Soft, emerald-green carpet padded their steps. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and held up a hand to his lips in warning, motioning them to duck behind the nearest column. He had spotted Rumelov up ahead.
Heart pumping fast, Augusta peeked around her column, trying to see what Rumelov was doing. He appeared to be doing nothing. Still wearing the ceremonial robes from Delphi, he was standing in the middle of a paved marble circle, surrounded by many other marble circles of various sizes and colors: a solar system of red, green, amber, and slate-blue.
“The omphalion,” Nicolas whispered in her ear. “The navel of the earth. There was one at Delphi too, when it was considered the center of the world. The Byzantines built one here, in Constantinople. They used to crown the emperors in the center of this disc. Highly symbolic for Rumelov.”
Nicolas turned to his daughter, placed both hands on her shoulders, and looked earnestly into her eyes. “Wait here for me. You have your firearm with you—don’t hesitate to use it. Protect yourself. If things go wrong you and Erol can still run back toward the outer edges of the mosque, toward the entrance. In the case of a detonation, you’ll have a better chance of surviving underneath the arcade than under the main dome.”
He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and then stepped out into the basilica, pulled a pistol from his jacket pocket, and walked straight toward Rumelov.
It was like the slow-motion action of a bad dream. Augusta watched in horror as her father approached Rumelov, pistol pointed at his heart, and saw Rumelov look up and break into a wide smile.
“I thought you might find me here,” he said gleefully, opening his arms wide and lifting his chin up to the expansive domes above. His eyes shone with the fervor Augusta had seen up close in Delphi.
“But you’re too late. At the stroke of midnight my work will be complete. These domes will come crashing down. It is time for the defilers of the faith to be rid of their disgusting monument. I will be remembered as the one who accomplished what others before me could not!”
“Anyone can blow up a building, Rumelov,” Nicolas said, holding his gun steady. “There’s no glory in that. No one will remember you for destroying one of the most beautiful pieces of architecture the world has ever seen.”
“Ha!” Rumelov sounded triumphant. “You’re wrong. Do you know where these marble columns came from?” He waved a hand casually around the basilica. “These were pilfered from the legendary Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, one of the great wonders of the ancient world! The usurper Justinian looted the finest treasures of antiquity to build this shameful, gaudy palace. That temple was burned to the ground in 356 BC by Herostratus, whose name lives on today. The Greeks tried to stamp out his name—they forbade anyone from speaking it aloud or writing it down. And yet his name survived, passed down through the ages. Herostratus! Destroyer of the magnificent temple of Artemis. We know it even today.”
He grinned grotesquely at Nicolas.
“Now what do you think they will say about Rumelov? Tomorrow morning, in the aftermath of the explosion, the name Rumelov will be spoken by lips all over the world. And they will start to wonder, start to investigate—why did he do it? They will find all the writings I have laboriously, painstakingly prepared. They will start to understand why this was necessary. To begin the renewal, the healing, the return of the true faith. Then they will start to understand.”
Beside Augusta, Erol was squirming uncomfortably as he stood and watched. His jaw was set, and he was gripping the stone column in front of him with alarming ferocity. One fist clenched and unclenched as he snorted at Rumelov’s words. Erol was so angry he could barely speak.
“Hey, calm down,” Augusta whispered, pulling him back behind the marble column. “Rumelov is crazy. Of course he’ll say crazy things. Don’t let him get to you.”
“Start to understand what?” Nicolas was saying, his gun holding steady in his outstretched arms. “That Rumelov knew only how to destroy, but not to build? Like a spoiled child, knocking over his friend’s block tower because it was better than his.”
In the dim light Rumelov’s face flushed dark red. “How dare you speak to me in this manner!” he boomed, stretching up to his full height. “Do you know who I am? In me resides the spirit of the greatest men who ever walked the earth. I am Alexander! I am Julianus! Like Julian before me, I will rescue the gods from the clutches of the unworthy!”
This was too much for Erol. With a growl he lunged out from behind the column and charged into the center of the basilica, toward the omphalion where Rumelov was standing. Startled, Rumelov reached into his robes and pulled out—was that a phone? He held it aloft with a menacing grin.
“So we have company,” he jeered. “The more the merrier. But you might want to stop where you are. Come one step closer and I detonate.” He flashed his phone toward Erol. “There is a powerful bomb planted exactly below this circle. As you can see, I have the controls right here. If I do nothing, it goes off at midnight.” His eyes glowed with anticipation. “But I can always trigger it earlier if I want to. After all, why not? What difference does ten minutes make?”
Watching from her hidden post, Augusta felt her stomach clench in fear. She looked at her watch. It was indeed ten minutes until midnight. Her thoughts flashed to Eda and Mark, who were at this very moment somewhere below them furiously searching for the bomb. Would they find it? Would the team defuse it? All in the next ten minutes?
“You don’t scare me, Rumelov,” Erol told him defiantly. “If I die, I die defending something I believe in. Truth. Justice. Preservation, not destruction. You have no right to decide for yourself whether Hagia Sophia stands or falls. This is more than the will of one single person.”
“Insubordination!” Rumelov thundered. “You are a single, insignificant person. I am the reincarnation of Alexander, the greatest general who ever lived! And of the greatest emperor who ever lived, Flavius Julianus! Julian recognized that he was the reincarnation of Alexander, and I have been given signs that their spirit is reborn in me. I get to decide the fate of empires! It is all up to me!”
“Yes, but somehow you failed to recover the lost discourses of Epictetus,” Erol said nonchalantly. “How did that happen, if you’re so powerful?”
Erol’s arrow had hit its mark. Rumelov began visibly shaking with anger. “You!” he snarled. “It was you who denied me the foreknowledge of ancient divination! Long I have sought to understand the ancient conception of cosmic sympathy—the key to reconciling fate and divination. There are those who believe Epictetus never revealed the ancient secrets of divination, but I am certain this is false. He was a sage, a magus, a seer of incalculable wisdom. He must have known, must have encoded it in his teachings. But it is only there for those with eyes to see. For me! By rights, the lost discourses should be mine!”
Looking disdainfully at his adversary, Erol yawned dramatically. “I hate to break it to you, but I read the lost discourses and they say nothing about divination. But they do say a lot about not killing people. I think you need to read Epictetus a little more carefully.”
Rumelov was almost gnashing his teeth. “Imbecile!” he roared. “You are just too stupid to understand. You and all the others. You think philosophy is about understanding life, understanding death. ‘The unexamined life is not worth living,’” he said, in a mocking tone. “You don’t realize it has nothing to do with your paltry efforts to find the truth. Controlling the elements, manipulating the world to do my bidding. That is my truth. That is my philosophy. That is the life worth living!”
Augusta shuddered at his words. She knew her father and Erol were just trying to keep Rumelov talking as long as possible, hoping that the disposal team would have time to neutralize the bomb ticking away beneath their feet. But it was horrible, standing here listening to the crazed rantings of a lunatic, preparing to be blown up at any moment.
She looked at her watch. Five minutes to midnight. She wished, more than she had ever wished anything in her life, that she knew what Eda and Mark were doing right now. What if they couldn’t find the bomb in time? What if they couldn’t defuse it? All of them would be blasted to bits, along with the magnificent basilica above their heads. A disaster not just for them, but for the whole world.
Rumelov was working himself into a frenzy of angered excitement. “I am quite pleased to know,” he said viciously, massaging his fingers along the spine of his phone, “that my explosion will also destroy the person responsible for preventing my final acquisition—the lost discourses.” He narrowed his eyes at Erol. “I shall take great pleasure in taking you with me. Let’s go ahead and get this over with, shall we?”
“Put the phone down, Rumelov,” Nicolas said, taking a step closer to the omphalion, his gun held steady. “He’s not the one who stopped you from stealing the lost discourses of Epictetus. I am the owner of the lost discourses. It was me.”
“Don’t come any closer!” Rumelov shrieked, pointing at Nicolas. “You, you stole my book! You interrupted me at Delphi, my second chance for divine foreknowledge. You desecrated my temple! You destroyed my Pythia!”
“No, he didn’t.”
Somehow, although it sounded far away, the voice was her own. She suddenly knew—had known all along that the task would fall to her. And now that the time was at hand, she was ready. No more knots twisted in her stomach. No fear, no anger overlaid her mind. All was clear, radiant even. Without thinking, without hesitating, she slipped the shoes off her feet and the parka off her shoulders. It fell onto the floor, revealing the white gown she had donned at Delphi. In one fluid motion, she stepped out from behind the column and began gliding regally up the aisle toward the omphalion.
“Rumelov! The gods are displeased with you!” she hissed, raising her arms dramatically above her head. “You have disgraced the name of sun-bright Apollo! You have brought shame upon his house!”
As she approached Rumelov froze, recognition dawning in his eyes. For the first time all evening, she saw fear written across his face. He covered his face with his arms, crouching down on the marble circle, as if shrinking away from her. Augusta advanced steadily, with measured stride, her gaze unyielding against his face. Rumelov was sobbing. “Pythia! Messenger of Apollo! I have not failed. Give me two more minutes. You will witness my work on Apollo’s behalf. The destruction of this sacrilegious structure will be complete! Give me more time.”
“Time—ha! The gods laugh at your request.”
Augusta had now reached the marble circles on the floor. She was mere feet away from Rumelov. Her long hair flowed loosely down her back, her bare feet tread silently on the cold marble. Rumelov cowered at the edge of the omphalion, trembling, kneeling, his head bowed forward toward Augusta, his hands covering his face, his phone lying forgotten beside him. “Please, please, have mercy on me,” he wept. Ignoring him, Augusta picked up the phone, on which a control panel was blinking furiously, and pressed a few buttons. Straightening up, she turned on her heel away from the prostrate Rumelov and calmly walked over to her father.
“Here,” she said, handing him the phone. “I deactivated it. But maybe you’d better have the team double-check.”
Nicolas, watching his daughter’s performance with wonder, lowered the gun and began immediate communications with the Cosmopolis technicians. Erol wasted no time in leaping toward Rumelov, pinning him down, and twisting his arms behind his back. Augusta retrieved her parka from the side of the mosque, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and tossed them to Erol, who clicked them across Rumelov’s wrists.
“Have mercy on me,” Rumelov was still sobbing, lying prone on the floor. “Pythia, priestess of Apollo, why do you abandon me? I am your devoted servant!”
Augusta walked over and squatted down beside him with a look of disgust. “I’m not your Pythia,” she said coldly. “My name is Augusta Carter. I’m the true owner of the lost discourses. My grandfather left them to me. And no matter how many people know your name, you’ll never be half the man he was.”
“Deactivation confirmed,” Nicolas called out, with a sigh of relief. Two minutes till midnight.
“Let’s get him out of here. The police are outside.” With his pistol pressed against Rumelov’s back, Nicolas prodded their captive across the grand basilica and toward the massive stone exit. Filing along behind Erol, Augusta turned back to cast one last look across the magnificent holy building. The illuminated domes twinkled benignly in the dim light, as if they had known all along that Rumelov’s megalomania couldn’t touch them. Hagia Sophia would stand guard over the beautiful city on the Bosporus as, once again, the old year turned into the new.