The man's voice turned defensive. "I am here because the king is coming to visit Delphi next week."
"Coming here?" Panos was skeptical.
The man smiled, because he knew something that Panos, the local man, did not. "Yes, of course. He will be coming to inspect the damage at the ruins, and he will stay for two nights." The man put on his cap, and turned back to his work.
Panos stared out over the valley, considering what he'd heard. He knew the king had a mountain retreat a couple of miles away, but he rarely visited it. Now he was certain the prophecy was right. The timing was perfect.
"Papa. There you are."
Panos looked over his shoulder to see Grigoris hurrying across the square towards him. His son, now grown, was almost a duplicate of him: muscular, with slender hips and dark curly hair. No doubt he'd just heard about the king's visit, and was expecting to surprise his father.
"You won't believe it, Papa. It is happening already."
Panos rose from the bench, took his son by the arm, and led him away from the workmen. "I know. Come on."
"How could you know? You've been here. I just talked to Stephanos outside the camp."
Panos stopped, and turned to face Grigoris. "I told you to stay away from the ruins, and it's the first thing you did when I left this morning."
"I didn't go into the ruins. I stayed outside. She didn't see me. Neither did the foreigner. I was very careful."
Panos shook his head; his son tried his patience. Grigoris had made a mistake in Athens when he'd let himself be seen at the Acropolis. Then, before Panos could stop him, he'd complicated matters by chasing the pair.
"I said I was sorry about what happened. How many times do I have to apologize? I'm not a child anymore. Now will you listen to me?"
"What would you have done if they had stopped and waited for you?"
His son rolled his black eyes, exasperated. "I told you I was just trying to scare the outsider. Maybe I would have told him to stay away from here."
Panos stared at Grigoris a moment, silently reprimanding him. "This is no reason to apologize to me.
Apologize to yourself." He was about to invoke one of the sacred directives: "Know thyself," but Grigoris interrupted.
"Father, the veil has parted. The vapors are rising again from the temple."
"What?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you."
"Are you sure?" There was always mist around the Temple of Apollo in the mornings and on many occasions he'd imagined that the vapors were rising again and the prophecy of the Return had been fulfilled.
"I didn't see it myself because you told me not to go into the ruins. But it must be true."
Panos knew that Stephanos thought Grigoris was naive; maybe this was one of his jokes. "We'll see," he said.
"What are we going to do?" the younger man asked anxiously.
"We've waited many years. We can wait a few hours or a few days longer."
Panos thought back to the prophecy. After Estelle's death, Milos had predicted the Return and had given all the clues. At the time, Milos had been the last surviving member of the Order of Pythia, but over the years he had slowly passed the knowledge to Panos. Finally, the time had come for Panos to invoke his authority as the new leader of the Order.
He would talk to Stephanos himself, but he already sensed it was true. It was finally all coming together.
There was no longer any reason to fear Dorian Belecamus because of her power at the sacred site. It was clear now; she was the one.
She would be the new Pythia; he would be the inter preter, and the first prophecy, he was certain, would be for the king himself.
10
Ichor Rising
A lantern rested on a wooden table, illuminating the interior of a primitive thatched hut. Next to the lantern lay a thick book which was open to a page filled with ancient Greek script. It was the text of a stone tablet, which had been salvaged from Delphi's archives, and its author was Plutarch, who served as a priest at Delphi in the first century a.d.
For the past several minutes, Indy had been slowly translating the inscription on a piece of paper.
Although an English version was available on the next page of the book, he wanted to test his abilities.
There were only three words that he wasn't certain about, and he'd guessed their meaning from the context.
He blew on the paper, drying the ink, and laid the fountain pen on the table.
"Okay, let's see," he mumbled, and held the paper closer to the light. As far as he could tell, the script was a response to a question about why the prophecies of the oracle were often ambiguous. He read his translation in a low voice:
"For it was not just a question of some individual person consulting the oracle about the purchase of a slave or some other private matter, but of very powerful citizens, kings and tyrants with mighty ambitions, seeking the gods' advice on important issues. To anger or annoy such men by harsh truths which conflicted with their desires would have had its disadvantages for the priests of the oracle."
Indy turned the page, and saw that there was more of the text. This time he translated it verbatim without writing the words. Like a child learning to read, he slowly read the text, stumbling over words here and there.
"As for the answers... given to ordinary people, it was also sometimes advisable that these... should be concealed from their oppressors or... hidden from their enemies. Thus these too were wrapped up in...
circumlocution and... equivocation so that the meaning of the oracle, while hidden from others, could always be grasped... by those whom it concerned if they applied themselves to unraveling it."
It sounded like a politician explaining why he hadn't carried out his campaign promises, Indy thought as he turned the page. He scanned the accompanying English translation, and smiled. He was pleased with his accuracy, and confident he could translate the tablet that awaited him in the fissure. Now, if Dorian would stop wasting time, he could get on with it.
He pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. Without exception, the vapors rose from the crevice for twelve minutes before they dissipated, but the length of the quiet periods was slowly increasing. The first time they'd measured an interval it had lasted three hours and five minutes. The next time the vapors had risen, three hours and eleven minutes had elapsed. It hadn't taken long for them to realize that each interval was lengthening by six minutes. But now, their third day at Delphi, Dorian was still insisting they continue taking the measurements.
Indy had been watching the fissure since 1:00 P.M. The gases had risen at 4:16 P.M., and had been quiet now for four hours and five minutes. If the schedule that had been established continued, the vapors would rise in eighteen minutes, at 8:39 p.m.
Ironic, he thought. He'd left his studies in midsemester for what seemed like the chance of a lifetime. But so far all he'd done was play watchdog for a hole in the ground. He shook his head in disgust. At least he could look forward to dinner. He'd be relieved at nine, then he would head into the village.
He held his hands out over the charcoal brazier which heated the hut. When he was satisfied that he was as warm as he would get, he pulled aside the cloth which covered the door. He reached for his hat, which lay on the table, but his hand hit the lantern and tipped it over. It rolled toward the edge of the table. He lunged for it and caught it just as it was about to roll onto the floor.
He carefully stood it up in the center of the table, eased his hands away. "Now, stay there." He took a step back ward, and his heel knocked over the brazier. Hot coals catapulted across the dirt floor, and bounced toward the walls.
He cursed, and scurried about kicking one coal after another toward the center of the hut, then out the door. He glanced around; he sniffed.