The Oracle, page 19
Sophia’s going to die.
Soon.
It feels strange to trust the man she knows will kill her, but Sophia is out of options. She’s alone—the last high priestess of Pythia. Sophia has to do something, and this is all she can do. For her, the Oracle represents a cause greater than her own life. It has spanned thousands of years. Regardless of how long she lives, its reign will continue for thousands of years to come, and she respects that. All Sophia can do is her best to ensure its longevity. If dying prevents the Oracle from falling into communist hands, so be it. Private Karl Meier is the only other person on the planet who understands the power of the Oracle. Sophia doesn’t trust her brother, and yet she knows she has to trust someone, and that leaves her no choice but to trust Karl.
Her mind runs to the Iliad.
Myth and legend are all she has to hold onto.
After Achilles killed Hector, he desecrated the champion’s body, dragging it behind his chariot, humiliating the fallen hero of Troy as he rode along in front of the walls of the city, tormenting the inhabitants. That night, the King of Troy left the safety of his fortified city. He crossed into the enemy camp alone and snuck into Achilles’ tent. There, he begged for mercy, wanting nothing more than to bury his son.
Achilles had won.
He had the King of Troy kneeling helplessly before him. Achilles could end the war with a single thrust of his sword. But Achilles listened to the king as the old man humbled himself before him, saying, “I have endured what no one on Earth has ever done before–I put my lips to the bloodied hands of the man who killed my son.” And honor won over hatred. Compassion defeated anger. War gave way to virtue.
The next day, Achilles announced a truce, halting the fighting for upwards of a week to allow for the fallen prince to be given funeral rites. Little did he know, but Achilles himself would die when the fighting recommenced. He was struck in the heel by an arrow fired by Alexandros, the brother of Hector and prince of Troy. In the days that followed, Odysseus faked a withdrawal of Greek troops, leaving behind a wooden horse as an offering to the goddess Athena. On breaching the walls of the city, Neoptolemus, the bereaved son of Achilles, murdered the King of Troy in the sacred sanctuary of Zeus.
For Sophia, the story speaks of the heartache of fate. All anyone ever has in life is their honor. For Achilles, that meant showing mercy. For Neoptolemus, it meant defiling the will of the gods. And for that, he was killed when he returned to Delphi. Sophia has visited his tomb. Seeing it in person highlighted the futility of his unbridled anger against the King of Troy. Everyone dies. Riches cannot follow someone into the grave. Fortune and fame hold no value in the underworld. All anyone will ever be remembered for is honor or infamy.
Sophia hopes Karl is like Achilles—a fighter bound by honor. In the long run, she can only hope he does the right thing.
The Monastery of the Prophet Elisha
Sophia and Niko walk ahead of Karl, following a mountain track to the Greek Orthodox Monastery of the Prophet Elisha. The monastery is on the edge of the plateau overlooking the northern valley of Sernikaki. It joins the valley in which Delphi sits, forming a V-shape, with the Gulf of Corinth at its base. Karl looks out across the trees dotting the hillside. Somewhere down there, the German Army is withdrawing, driving up toward the Greek city of Lamia. From there, his troops will follow the highways along the plains up toward Albania.
Karl isn’t convinced by the idea of grabbing a religious artifact to fool the communists, but he knows the three of them will be safe at the monastery. The only people the Greek Orthodox Church hates more than the Germans are the communists because they’re atheists. Karl may not be able to pass as Greek, but his English is good. He can pass as an Englishman who knows Greek, that is, if Niko doesn’t expose him as a fraud.
Wild goats run ahead of them, scrambling along the rocky track, upset by the noise they make as they trample through the undergrowth. The blue waters of the sea glisten several miles away at the base of the broad open plain.
A warplane flies through the valley. Its engine drones. It banks, being roughly level with them on the hillside, but it’s impossible to make out any insignia. Given that the British have taken the Port of Athens and the airfield on the coast of the Aegean Sea, it’s probably a reconnaissance flight to observe German troop movements. Its presence will put the communists on edge. They will have headed to Chryso, being the only village between Delphi and the coastal towns of Itea and Kirra.
Looking down through the broad valley, Karl can see the main road leading to the coast. He wonders where the truck is and if it’s already at the docks, unloading its precious cargo. From here, the communists will sail around the Peloponnesean peninsula, into the Aegean and up through the Bosphorus Straits and into the Black Sea before sailing on to Russia. They’ll run a gauntlet of British ships to get there, but if Niko is right and they’ve ransacked Greek mansions and museums, they’ll be carrying a king’s ransom.
Karl worries that the three of them are too late. They should have risked being caught by the communists in Chryso and rushed straight to the port on the coast. Once that truck left the mountains, tracking it became impossible. Even if they can get a fake relic from the monastery, what are the chances they’ll find the truck? The communists are going to keep it quietly hidden away until they can get their stolen treasure onboard a freighter.
With the sun setting behind the mountains, they walk into the grounds of the monastery. Wildflowers grow alongside the path. Sophia doesn’t care, which surprises Karl. Yellow and white flowers dot the hillside, bringing the parched land to life. Greece has a rugged beauty that speaks of its antiquity. Whereas the trees of Germany are tall and lush and grow close together, blotting out the sun in the forest, in Greece, trees are scattered across the countryside. They cling to life, defying both war and drought, growing in straggly clumps with twisted, gnarly roots reaching up to a tangle of branches and scattered leaves. The wildflowers, though, are stunning. Bees buzz around, dancing between them.
The monastery was built in a square around an old church and separated from it by a vast, breezy courtyard. What few windows there are on the ground floor are small, merely slits in the stone allowing air to circulate and thin rays of light to enter, but being too narrow to climb through. The rocks are old, forming a wall reaching up over fifteen feet in height. The upper floor of the monastery is relatively new, being only a few hundred years old. Wooden shutters have been built into the upper section of the white stucco outer wall. Clay tiles line the roof, giving the monastery a distinctly Mediterranean look that, for Karl, is unmistakable and unforgettable. Bullet holes mark the thick wooden doors. In several places, the outer wall has collapsed into rubble. Burnt timber beams mark the outline of the roof, revealing how fire has gutted parts of the monastery. Nothing is sacred.
Several Greek Orthodox priests meet the three of them outside the gates of the monastery, having seen them approaching on the narrow track. Men and women alike are dressed all in black, with the women wearing dark cowls and the men wearing flat-top hats. The men have ornate silver crosses hanging around their necks, matching their silver beards.
The lead priest greets them on the edge of the courtyard, asking, “What comfort can we bring pilgrims from the valley?”
“Your Reverence,” Sophia says, bowing slightly. “We bring news of the war.”
“What news, my sister?”
“The British have landed in Athens. The Germans are withdrawing to the north.”
Although the head priest seems content to talk with Sophia, Karl notes that the others eye him and Niko with caution. They’re suspicious. Given their vow against violence, it must be unsettling whenever anyone intrudes on their life within the monastery. Karl suspects they’re curious as to why a woman is taking the lead when talking to them.
The priest says, “We have heard rumors of a withdrawal.”
“We have seen the retreat from Delphi,” Sophia says. “The Germans are gone.”
“Why tell us? Why have you come here?”
“For help. We are seeking your help, eminence.”
“Kindness is all we have to offer,” the priest says. “You are welcome to commune with us and share our bread, but ours is a sanctuary. No weapons are allowed within these walls.”
“I understand,” Karl says.
As a show of friendship, he swings his rifle down from his shoulder, making sure the barrel is pointing harmlessly out across the valley. Karl opens the breech and pops the ammo clip out, showing them the chamber is empty. He steps forward, offering both the rifle and the magazine to the nearest priest. From the way the priest takes both the rifle and the loaded magazine, it seems to Karl that he’s comfortable holding weapons. He’s not withdrawn or pensive. He’s done this before. Many times.
Sophia seems unusually distracted. As she’s standing in front of Karl and off to one side, she’s looking back at the blood red sky stretching over the valley.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the lead priest says, noting her interest in the astonishing vista unfolding as night falls around them.
“It is,” Sophia replies in a whimsical tone of voice, which surprises Karl.
The clouds appear as daubs of paint splashed on the stretched canvas of the sky. The palette is rich, with deep reds, brilliant pinks and dark purple hues being set against the coming night.
Karl may have known Sophia for less than a day, but she has always seemed focused to him. As they trudged over the hills toward the monastery, he looked down at the sea and along the valley in awe of the beauty that persists in defiance of war, but Sophia never took her eyes off the path. Even when they reached the meadow full of wildflowers on the outskirts of the farms surrounding the monastery, she seemed unduly focused. She could have been walking through a bland, featureless desert.
Karl is about to say something to her, but he knows he’s not finished. He needs to hand over both his knife and the Luger. He unbuttons the sheath on his belt and pulls out his German fighting knife. Karl hands it to one of the other priests with the handle facing them and the blade lying flat on his palm. It’s a simple gesture and one he hopes shows his respect for their beliefs.
“Thank you,” the priest says, taking the knife from him and holding it as though it were a relic.
As Karl reaches around behind his back to grab the Luger, he’s struck from behind. Someone slams into him, striking him with their shoulder and catching him off guard. Karl sprawls out on the cobblestones by the marble archway marking the entrance to the monastery. He has to catch himself with his hands. Gravel digs into his palms. The priests scatter. Sophia looks shocked. Before he can react, Karl feels the Luger being pulled from the small of his back.
“No,” Sophia yells.
Karl scrambles to get back to his feet, but he can’t seem to move fast enough. To him, it feels as though he’s crossing a river or wading through mud. His muscles fight, driving hard, pushing against the inertia holding him back, but he knows his efforts are futile.
Niko levels the pistol at Karl. Firing from a distance of not more than five feet, he can’t miss. The Greek teenager snatches at the trigger, jerking as he squeezes the curved steel, but the gun doesn’t fire. Niko pulls on the toggle at the rear of the Luger, loading a round into the breach. Karl swings at him, but his tightly clenched fist misses. Again, Niko pulls on the trigger, but still the gun refuses to fire. He has forgotten about the safety catch.
As Niko turns the gun sideways, wanting to find the safety and flick it off, Karl lunges at him, swinging wildly. He strikes Niko, punching his jaw with every fiber of strength in his arm. Pain surges up Karl’s wrist from a fractured knuckle in his hand. Niko staggers back, grabbing his jaw.
“No, my brothers,” the lead priest says, trying to step between them with his arms outstretched to stop the fighting.
Niko fires.
The priest’s black robe is drawn in toward his stomach. He keels forward, grabbing his abdomen. Birds take to the air from the surrounding trees. The report of the shot echoes off the granite bluff overlooking the monastery. The priest crumples to the cobblestones with blood oozing between his fingers.
Sophia yells at her brother, “What are you doing?” She has her arms up, holding her hands on either side of her head, grabbing at the thin air in anguish.
Karl grabs Niko’s right hand. His fingers grip Niko’s wrist like a steel vise. He has to take control of the Luger to prevent it from being turned on him. He tries to wrestle the gun from Niko’s grasp as the priest writhes in agony on the cobblestones.
The two teens come face to face with the gun twisting between them. It can point at the sky or the ground or the walls of the monastery, but the one place Karl can’t allow the barrel to turn is toward his chest. The teens grunt and snarl as they fight over the Luger.
The other priests grab the wounded man and retreat, dragging him with them, abandoning the three outsiders in front of the monastery. Heavy wooden doors are slammed shut. A steel bolt is locked in place.
Sophia screams, yelling at them to stop fighting. Her cries sound distant, almost muted.
The gun fires again and again as the two of them struggle. With each shot, thunder seems to break between them. The recoil causes the gun to kick and buck in unpredictable ways, making the pistol difficult for either man to grasp. With blistering hot shell casings flying and the bolt action cycling, the Luger thrashes around like an angry snake as it fires yet again.
Niko is stronger than Karl. He’s bigger, taller and far more muscular. He needs only to shift his weight, and Karl is left staggering to stay close to him and prevent him from bringing the Luger to bear on his chest. Karl does the only thing he can—he headbutts Niko, slamming his forehead into the Greek’s nose. Blood squirts across the young man’s face, and that surge of pain is the opening Karl needs. For a fraction of a second, Niko is shocked by the explosion of pain in the center of his face. He relaxes his grip on the Luger, not by much, but it’s enough for Karl to twist and wrestle the gun from his grasp.
With the Luger in hand, Karl doesn’t hesitate. He strikes Niko with the butt of the gun, slamming it into the middle of his forehead and causing him to stagger. By doing this, Karl is knocking him back, forcing some distance between them and allowing him to wield the Luger effectively.
Niko sways. Blood streams from his nose. Drops splatter in the dust. He crumples, surrendering and falling to his knees. The Greek teenager holds his hands to his nose, trying to stem the flow of blood running down his face.
Karl levels the Luger at Niko, aiming for the dead center of his forehead. His finger tightens on the trigger. Five rounds—that’s how many he counted in the olive grove on the outskirts of the village of Delphi. There have been four shots. There’s only one bullet left. One bullet is all he needs. This time, there will be no mercy.
Karl is surprisingly calm. He towers over Niko as the young Greek man whimpers in pain, and Karl realizes that there must only be a year or two between them in age. War has stolen their teenage years. Whether someone lives or dies, war destroys all lives. War is the savage beast within being unleashed. War, it seems to him, is an excuse for violence over reason. War offers no respite, only death. There’s no right or wrong, only the living and the dead.
Karl feels cold. The sun has set. The wind swirls around him. Standing there as night falls on the monastery, he feels a sense of power overwhelm him. The Luger has allowed him to prevail over his enemy. And now the fight comes to an end. For him, pulling the trigger and firing a lethal shot is no different from putting down a rabid dog on the old family farm on the outskirts of Potsdam in Germany. There’s no hatred. No anger. No bitterness. Just a job that needs to be done. Niko whimpers. Karl stands tall with the gun outstretched before him.
And it’s then he sees her.
Sophia.
She’s leaning against a low stone wall forming a lookout over the valley. A trail of blood has been smeared on the cobblestones as she pushed her way along the ground, trying to get clear of the two young men fighting. She looks down at her chest as blood seeps between her fingers at a steady pace.
Karl whispers, “No…”
He rushes over to her, mumbling, “No, no, no.”
The Luger falls from his fingers. The German pistol clatters on the cobblestones.
Karl kneels beside her. He reaches for her, but he can’t bring himself to touch her. It’s as if he does, he’ll break something. His fingers hover near hers. Deep red blood oozes from a bullet hole in her sternum. It’s slightly off center, but the shot had to have hit her lungs, if not an artery. The blood is thick.
Their eyes meet.
She takes his hand in hers.
“I—I’m sorry,” Karl says with tears streaming down his cheeks. “I am so sorry.”
“I know,” Sophia says, choking back tears. She coughs. Blood trickles from the corner of her lips.
Karl is manic. He looks around, taking in the dark hills, the blood-red sky, the moody clouds with the last rays of the sun catching the thin streams of cloud high in the stratosphere. Although the gates of the monastery are closed and locked, several of the wooden shutters on the upper floor are either open or ajar, allowing the priests to see what’s happening.
Niko hasn’t moved. He’s still down on his knees, sobbing, but he’s looking at the two of them. His shoulders are hunched. Blood stains his shirt. It’s only then that Karl realizes Niko saw Sophia being shot. That’s what caused him to crumple. It wasn’t physical pain that hurt him; it was the realization of what he’d done—what they’d done.
“It was you,” Sophia says with a soft look in her eyes as tears well up in the corners. “It was always you… Only it wasn’t you who would kill me. It was you for whom I’d die. To distract him and save you.”
“Sophia, please,” Karl says with quivering lips. He squeezes her hand gently. “Don’t… Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”
