The Relic Hunters

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“Look at the mad monk.”

He heard it often as he walked by. These unenlightened scum, wandering pointlessly with their unwashed children. These ignorant cattle, followers of the herd, bleating through life without the slightest inkling that every day, their every step, their every breath, was being judged, controlled and manipulated.

He would snuff them out at the merest hint of an order.

But not today. One surprising event had already occurred this morning, and he was about to be the author of at least one more. The earlier event, a true shock indeed, was hearing the unease and disarray in his master’s voice. A first, and probably last, for this life.

He scanned the road quickly, assimilating every scrap of information offered by his surroundings. The path that followed a slight incline up toward the front of the Athens Archaeological Museum was clogged with tourists and gawkers. He slowed, absorbing the environment. It was loud, colorful and upbeat. That would soon change. He kept the grave smile to himself as a man and woman barged past his right shoulder.

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