The Delphi Agenda (17 page)

“She had indeed befriended Orestes, the prefect of Egypt, an implacable enemy of Cyril. Some suggested Orestes was a moderate politician struggling to maintain order in a time of high tension when Christians Jews and pagans were attacking each other, and recently a mob of monks had even assaulted the prefect himself.

“Hypatia supported her friend, as did the leaders of the Jewish community. This was too much. Cyril believed that if he could get rid of the witch he would at the same time weaken or destroy the prefect. So in 415 he had her dragged from her chariot, hauled into the church of Caesarion and flayed alive with broken tiles. Her dismembered body was taken outside the city and burned.”

“So she became a martyr to the cause of reason,” Lisa said. “But…”

The breeze stopped momentarily and the flowers fell still, as if waiting for him to speak. “You’re going to ask me what this has to do with the Oracle.”

“Yes, I’m going to ask you what this has to do with the Oracle.”

“I’m getting to it,” he said, when a bell in the kitchen began to ring shrilly.

Ted leaped to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards. “Are you expecting anyone?”

Marianne started for the house without a word. It was as if they had rehearsed.

“Of course not,” Steve answered. He and Lisa stood as well.

“Wait here.” Ted went inside. Through the open door they saw him take a shotgun from a storage closet and follow his wife toward the front.

Steve and Lisa exchanged glances. “Come on,” she whispered. They passed through the kitchen and hid behind the stacks of books in the next room. Lisa peeked around and saw Ted by the arch, out of sight of the front door, the shotgun held tight to his side.

Marianne’s voice was saying, very clearly, “Can I help you?” Her French had a distinctly British flavor.

“I’m very sorry,” a man apologized, speaking French with a slight southern accent, probably a local. “I’ve been looking for a couple, the Greens. She’s American, I believe. I seem to have the wrong address. I’ve tried all the houses along this street, but no one seems to be in.”

“I’m most awfully sorry,” Marianne said. “I’m afraid I don’t know anyone with that name.”

“Are you sure you haven’t seen a couple like that? He would be French, but she’s definitely American. It’s most important.”

“Really, I’m very sorry, but no. We live here, you see, retired, from Brighton, but we seldom go out. Gardening, mostly. We do love to garden. I guess that’s a British thing, since the other yards along this street seem quite overgrown.”

The man at the door said, “Very well, I’m sorry to have troubled you.” He started to turn away and hesitated. “You wouldn’t know why no one seems to be home along this street?”

“No. I suppose some of these houses must be rented to foreigners, so probably they’re out sightseeing. It’s such a lovely afternoon.”

“Yes, it is,” the man replied. “Well, goodbye then.”

“Goodbye.” The door closed firmly.

When Ted reappeared, Lisa and Steve were back in the garden beside the wrought iron table. Ted poured another round of Calvados.

“Anything important?” Steve asked.

“No.” Ted grimaced. “Nothing important, I hope. Just a man looking for some people called Green.”

“Do you really think it was nothing important?” Lisa asked.

“No,” Ted admitted. “He was a bit too curious about a couple very much like you two, and despite being dressed as a workman he had a distinctly Churchly air. So no, I don’t think it was unimportant.”

A cloud brushed a shadow over the garden as Marianne brought a plate of crackers and cheese from the kitchen.

“But we’ve taken some precautions, haven’t we, Mrs. Maintenon?” Ted said heartily.

“Yes, Ted, we’ve taken some precautions. We’ll be ready.”

“What do you mean, ready?”

“If he’s from the Order, he won’t quit and he won’t be alone. Perhaps we should pick up the pace, so to speak. Where was I?”

“The Oracle.”

“Ah, yes.” He continued as if there had been no interruption. “Well, you see, there was something different about Delphi, something that set it apart. It had become an institution, something more than a cult. This had not been an intentional transformation; it just happened. By the fourth century the Oracle at Delphi had created a kind of expertise.”

“A science of divination.” Lisa’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Perhaps not exactly a science,” Ted replied. “A philosophy, a technique, an art? We don’t really have a term for it today, not in English, not in French. It wasn’t divination, but it involved the collection of as much information about a subject as possible, and a rigorous analysis of that data – historical, social, geographical, natural philosophy, astronomy, mathematics, anything that could contribute. Philosophers came, usually quietly, to talk to the priests of Apollo and gradually Delphi became a focus for the ancient world in a way no one really understood. No city, tyrant or politician could act without first consulting the Oracle. The supplicants were never disappointed, though there were cases when they demanded a second opinion, as when Athens sent envoys to ask the Oracle how she should respond to the invading Persians. The Oracle answered, in effect, run for it, but the envoys couldn’t go back to Athens with this response so they asked again the next day. This time the Oracle said, ‘Trust in the wooden walls.’ Themistocles interpreted this, correctly, to be the ships of the Athenian fleet, and not, as others did, the palisades around the Acropolis.”

“But the Delphic Oracle was like all the others, part folk wisdom, part crackpot mystery babble.”

“No,” Ted cried, chopping downward with the edge of his hand. He relaxed and continued more softly, “Delphi was different. Despite all the mumbo-jumbo and show business of the temples, the sacrifices, the smoke, the speaking in tongues, Delphi harnessed philosophy and reason with intuition and insight and whatever other techniques only the Pythos, or Pythia would know about.

“Delphi had become, in effect, an intelligence organization. You could say it was the CIA of the ancient world. And because it was effective, it became rich and powerful. And as with its pronouncements, it applied reason and science to its own existence. It saw the world was changing, and it adapted. It saw that the world needed it, and at the same time new circumstances would suppress it, so it went underground. Even before Theodosius closed the temples, the Oracle had told Julian the Apostate’s quaestor that it was out of business.

“Yes,” Lisa interrupted. “Swinburne translated it:

Tell the king on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling,

And the water springs that spake are quenched and dead,

Not a cell is left the god, no roof, no cover;

In his hand the prophet laurel flowers no more.

This was the last utterance of the Oracle’s we know about.”

“Yes, Lisa, you’re right, of course, it is indeed the last
public
utterance,” Ted said soothingly. “But although many who worked for the Oracle were not professionals but part-time amateurs, there was a rich and complex organization of others who maintained the records (yes, they had historians even then) and analyzed what they knew and learned. These people did research, studied their clients, and were protected and nourished by Clio, the muse of history. Without the Oracle, these people had nowhere to go.

“The last priest of Apollo, the one who gave that verse to Julian’s envoy, was a clever man, and a wise one. We don’t know his name, but we do know that in the spring of 394 he went to Alexandria and met with Hypatia, at that time perhaps the most famous philosopher in the world. We know that he was struck by her beauty, as were all men, and by her poise. She and her circle called themselves
hetairoi
, companions, and constituted a closed, even secretive, if not secret, society. And we know she agreed to help.”

Lisa was shaking her head. “There’s no evidence…”

Again Ted held up his hand. “Ah, but there is evidence, and in his own words. However, the papyrus recording the founding of the secret Pythos was hidden. Its location and contents have been carefully guarded for over sixteen centuries, though we suspect it contains the secret of the Pythos’s power of divination. Some say it might be like the Messiah Medicine, that mythical unguent used to anoint Moses and the prophets and kings of Israel. At any rate, Hypatia also knew the world was changing. Even today some suggest that at that time it was falling apart, but it didn’t seem that way to those living then. There are always people who complain about the state of the world and cling to the past, but Hypatia was not one of them. She wanted to preserve the past, yes, along with the powerful culture and philosophy of Hellenistic Greece, the long tradition of thought in her native city, yes, again, but she knew the prophecies of Antoninus and Olympius had foretold the fall of the temple of Serapis in Alexandria even before Theodosius’ decree. She also looked to the future, and when the temples were destroyed, she knew time was limited. So she and the priest of Apollo devised a way for the Oracle to continue to do its work.”

“Why didn’t she become the Pythia?”

Ted shook his head. “She was wiser than that. She was too well known, too much in the public eye. The Pythos would have to be discreet, and for the most part they were. Also, she knew little of music save the music of the spheres – astronomy – and music is an important talent for the Pythos, who needs more than logic and reason.”

“Raimond certainly loved music.”

“And so, I believe, do you. But to continue, she felt, in the end, she could do more good as a private citizen advising and protecting the organization than as a Pythia. Besides, she was more interested in reason and abstract philosophy. A true Pythos would have to care more about what effect such things could have in the world if applied appropriately.”

Ted sighed. “It’s a shame, in a way, because she was certainly an amazing person, and in our opinion would have been a wonderful Pythia. But it was not to be, was it, Marianne?”

Before his wife could answer a small red light above the kitchen door began blinking rapidly and Ted jumped to his feet. “Do you know, Marianne, I do believe we had better get inside.”

She gathered the glasses onto the tray. “I believe you are correct, Mr. Maintenon.”

Ted walked without haste toward the kitchen. “Lisa, don’t leave anything behind. We will be moving soon.”

Lisa swept her bag from the ground beside her chair. Moments later, just as Ted was closing the kitchen door behind them, an explosion obliterated the back yard, filling the air with smoke and a swirling confetti of flower petals.

The passport control officer at Ataturk International Airport saw the cardinal’s vestements and passport and waved him through with a pleasant nod.

The Prior General nodded back. He found that his religious dress allowed him to move more freely through the various inconveniences of international travel.

He was hurrying past the baggage claim toward the exit, when he stopped suddenly. It had struck him that the transcript of Rossignol’s confession in the calfskin briefcase swinging at his side, the confession he had read and reread on the flight from Paris, contained too many parentheses that said (moan) or (long pause).

Something about it rang false.

Yet it clearly revealed the location of the inner disk, the keyword to the cipher, and the very clever location of the message itself.

It had to be true. After all, the Order had long experience extracting information from reluctant witnesses. The tradition had come down through the Inquisition and all the shadowy organizations that preceded it.

He could trace it back to the destruction of the witch Hypatia herself. Her death was that event that in retrospect seemed to have put into motion the whole long Struggle. First pagans, then heretics, had fallen under the inexorable march of the Church’s inquisitors.

Yet, he thought, extorted confessions were sometimes unreliable. Rossignol could have sent him here to the very edge of Europe for nothing.

Ridiculous! They already had part of the disk. The rest was here in Istanbul. The end was in sight.

The Order’s black Mercedes E 320 was just pulling up to the curb. The Prior General pursed his lips and hurried outside. The heat stunned him and when the driver opened the door for him he settled gratefully into the air-conditioned comfort of the back seat.

They left the airport behind, and soon they were cruising on the highway along the water’s edge. Lacatuchi stared through the darkened windows at the landscape sliding by.

Perhaps the Struggle had been a tragic mistake. If Saint Cyril hadn’t killed the witch, would it have come to pass at all? Would the Order still have been forced to wage this war, with its terrible losses and more terrible triumphs? Would they have had to kill so many people, crush so many heresies, begin so many crusades? Would the Order even exist? The Pythos?

No, he thought, the Order and the Pythos were reflections, one of the other. It was useless to play this game of What If.

He sighed. There was no turning back. It had to end. This was the twenty-first century and again secularism, humanism, evangelicals and infidels beset the Church from all sides. Compromise and concessions were always failures in the long run, weakening the power of true doctrine. This was war, not blessing the flock or granting indulgences. The Pythos was a threat and always had been, a sharp and possibly mortal danger to the body of the Church. It must be eliminated once and for all.

The Sea of Marmara sparkled darkly in the early afternoon. Ships dotted the surface, their twin reflections rippling. A few puffy white clouds floated over a freighter steaming toward the entrance to the Bosphorus. The Mercedes rolled smoothly between the sea and the old district of Sultanahmet.

Much as the burden of his office weighed on him, and much as he would have desired the advice and counsel of the Holy Father, the current Pope was unaware of the Struggle. Lacatuchi knew it was better that way. The Vatican had other matters to weigh and resolve. Best to continue in the shadows, separate from the official, and very public, world. Only those directly involved knew how important the work of the Order of Theodosius really was. It must remain a closely held secret.