“You might have seen pictures of the oracle, a beautiful young woman, levitating in a cloud of mystical vapors,” he was saying, “but that’s not quite the truth. It’s true that in the early days, a young virgin was chosen — being beautiful was not a requirement — consecrated and given the title Pythia. Or I should say, virgins since there were at times, as many as three Pythias, sharing the duties, which involved breathing poisonous volcanic gasses. Communing with the gods was not good for one’s health and the life expectancy of a woman chosen to be Pythia was not long. You children, listen to your parents when they tell you not to smoke cigarettes.”
There was a ripple of laughter, right on cue.
“The idea that Pythia was a young virgin is also somewhat inaccurate. Sometimes, the women chosen were older, married women. Later on, they were chosen from among the very poor and uneducated. In any case, those seeking the advice of Pythia never actually saw her. She sat behind a wall, breathing the vapors and chewing bay leaves. The questions were written down and given to the priests, who gave them to Pythia and received her answer, which they in turn wrote down in the form of a poem.
“And it wasn’t as simple as writing your question and handing it over. There was an elaborate procedure that had to be followed. A supplicant had to travel to Delphi in person. If you think the drive here from Athens took you a while, just imagine what it was like two thousand years ago. The supplicant would have to provide a gift to the oracle and present their question to be reviewed by the priests. Just as with today’s psychics and mediums, there were some questions the oracle didn’t want to be asked; questions that might have made people question her abilities.”
More chuckles. It was evident that the tour guide wasn’t a believer.
“Pythia also had to go through quite a bit of preparation to get ready for communing with the gods. She would have to undergo a period of fasting, followed by a ritual cleansing at the baths, which I showed you on the way up here, and then make the final ascent to the Temple here. Because the oracle would only speak nine times a year, on the seventh day of each month from spring to fall, a supplicant might have to wait for weeks to have his question answered.”
“Why the seventh day?” asked Professor, raising his hand like student in a classroom.
“Seven was a sacred number for Apollo,” the guide replied, offhandedly as if he had heard the question many times before, and then went right back into his spiel. Professor however had stopped listening.
He leaned close to Ophelia. “I need to talk to Paul. Can you arrange that?”
She nodded. “Why?’
“I think I know why he didn’t find anything here. He wasn’t looking in the wrong place, but he might have been looking at the wrong time.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do either. But I think he might.”
SEVENTEEN
A small park, nestled between blocks of flats, occupied the land where Dr. Dee’s summer house had once stood. Jade, who had traded in her normal working attire for a pair of light cotton slacks and a loose fitting silk blouse, waited there gazing out at the peaceful water of the Thames. She watched scullers darting across the river channel like water skippers, thinking about the people that might once have contemplated the same view: Dee, himself, Queen Elizabeth, who visited her favorite astrologer on several occasions, and of course, the man whom she was most interested in, Gil Perez. She was alone, though Dorion and the security detail were in a car parked nearby on Mortlake High Street.
“Miss Ihara?”
She turned to greet the speaker, a fit looking man in his late twenties or early thirties. It was not Roche, she was certain of that; a personal assistant or more likely a bodyguard. She affected her most supercilious demeanor. “Doctor, actually.”
The man blinked as if the distinction meant nothing. “Mr. Roche will see you. Follow me please.”
“I thought I was going to meet him here?”
“No ma’am.”
Evidently, that was all she was going to get from the flunky. No doubt the assignation at the park was merely to give Roche or one of his lackeys a chance to check her out, maybe look for surveillance or perform an electronic sweep to see if she was wearing a hidden microphone.
Paranoid much? “Where are we going?”
“Mr. Roche’s flat is nearby.”
“That wasn’t what we arranged.” She tried to sound irritated to hide just how pleased she was. If Roche did have the crystal, she had a much better chance of getting him to show her in the privacy of his home. She wasn’t too worried about being on his home turf, though considering how whacky some of his ideas were, maybe that was a naïve belief.
The man led her toward the water, and then along the river walk. From here, it was impossible to tell exactly where she was in relation to the street; the buildings eclipsed even her view of the tower at St. Mary’s parish church. About a hundred yards from the park, they turned onto a flight of steps that led up to a patio overlooking the river. There, seated at an outdoor table calmly sipping from a cup of tea, was the notorious Gerald Roche.
He rose and inclined his head in a gentlemanly bow. “Miss Ihara? Or rather I should say, Dr. Ihara. You are much more beautiful that your reputation led me to expect.”
It sounded rehearsed to Jade, but she managed a charmed smile. “I might say the same about you. I mean, you don’t appear to be an ogre after all.”
It was true enough, though she could have judged that from viewing the headshots on his website. Roche was in his late fifties, pleasantly rotund with a beatific smile on his ruddy face, hands in the pockets of his silk smoking jacket. He looked positively jolly, like an off-duty Buddha or department store Santa Claus on holiday. Looks, Jade knew, could be deceiving.
He laughed, then continued. He had a deep, radio friendly baritone voice, colored with a broad Yorkshire accent. “You’re American? When I heard the name, I naturally assumed you were from Japan, but I don’t hear even a trace of an accent.”
“No. I was raised in Hawaii by my mother. If you listen to me long enough, you might hear a little pidgin creeping in.”
“Jolly good. Can I interest you in a spot of tea?”
Jade wasn’t a tea drinker, but decided it would further her cause by accepting. She nodded and Roche passed the nod to the man who had escorted her from the park. He promptly went into the flat and returned a moment later with a tea service. Jade took a cup with milk and sugar.
“Now,” Roche said, clapping his hands together. “At the risk of being rude, I’m eager to hear about this journal you recovered.”
Jade’s plan was simple, and had the benefit of resting on a mostly factual foundation. She was no con artist, not even a very good liar. Instead, she would lead with the truth. Offer the journal for sale as a collectible, and then when a deal was more or less concluded, try to wrangle a peek at the Shew Stone. She would only need just a few seconds with the crystal ball to pull this off.
She launched into her only slightly modified version of what had actually happened. “I was excavating a ruin in Mexico and found the remains of a Spanish tomb robber. In his possession was a journal, which described how he had learned of the tomb from a manuscript stolen from Dr. Dee. I asked around and was told that you were the leading authority on the good doctor.”