Mystras, outskirts of Sparta
Peloponnese, Greece
Present Day
Mystras. Spreading its tentacles across the face of a hill outside the modern town of Sparta (itself a small provincial town these days, its past glories long gone) were the ruins of the long-ago thriving city-state. A popular tourist destination for those who ventured into the romantic idea that was Sparta and Mystras.
Yet one felt something stir in them when walking through the ruined arches and the few surviving, and in some cases still used, churches and former monasteries.
Mystras held its mysteries and secrets well. Aristo and Katerina had no way of knowing that they were riding into the mouth of a horror that would be soon unleashed.
They used Elli’s private jet this time. From Pergamon they drove to the nearest airfield where the jet was waiting for them. They landed at a small airfield near Sparta and drove to Mystras.
The place was deserted as they entered through the main gate of the lower city, coming to rest in the square with the ruin of the Despot’s palace throwing an ominous shadow over them, giving them a brief glimpse into what was at one time a glorious, vibrant, powerful and very wealthy stronghold with a Byzantine heart.
It was in Mystras that the last Emperor was crowned Emperor of Constantinople and the Byzantine Empire. It was the first time that an Emperor was crowned outside Constantinople, outside the church of Ayia Sophia in Constantinople, a shocking break with the tradition of centuries. There was no proper ceremony. No Patriarch was there to perform the deed and invest the last Emperor with the crown and the power and the heritage of centuries of Imperial glory and Empire.
The last Emperor, Konstantinos XI Palaiologos never did have a choice. It was a thankless task, a worthless position, but somebody had to do it, somebody had to steer City and Empire, the tiny territories that still proudly carried the name of an Empire in its dying hours, somebody to lower the curtain on a glorious history and switch off the lights.
But of course the spirit of that long and proud tradition could never be crushed. Its people would spread it to the West and the rest of the world, an infusion of knowledge and enlightenment to inspire and form the basis for the Renaissance that followed soon after the fall of Constantinople in 1453 A.D.
There was no competing claim to the Emperor’s right to the mighty throne. Nobody else craved the empty trappings of glory and power and prestige and wealth of a non-existent empire, a fool’s gold, a luckless game with the odds stacked against the holder of that office.
Aristo stood with Katerina in the square, unsure what to do. The place was deserted. There were no people wandering the meagre ruins, the meandering streets, gaping doorways, hollowed out windows and jugged walls.
‘Katerina, don’t you find it strange that today during the busiest tourist season there is nobody else here?’
And it was then that the Despot’s palace that had lain dormant and forbidding for so long, began to transform and come to life along with the rest of the square and the streets around it, and the transformation was gaining traction and spreading throughout the city.
Ruins were re-arranging themselves. One could no longer accuse the city of being a ruin. People started to populate the landscape that had become a hive of buzzing activity. The noises of a busy city sifted through the air.
It seemed that nobody could see Aristo and Katerina. The scene changed and continued changing. The throng of people multiplied and declined at an alarming rate and the scene was now changing at lightning speed.
Two hundred years of illustrious history flashed before their eyes and then the scene settled. Aristo and Katerina searched for respite from the spectacle. They saw an inn that took their fancy and they quickened their pace, making a dash for its welcoming cosiness.
Their destination was within reach when Aristo felt a pull at his sleeve. He stopped and Katerina, who had walked ahead, stopped in her tracks and turned back. Aristo found himself looking down at a tiny old man dressed in rags and beckoning him over to a shop of curiosities.
They followed and upon entering the shop were surrounded by shelves upon shelves of potions and beautiful-smelling mouth-watering food delicacies. The old man had a face marked with a multitude of scars that drew frightening patterns across his face, scars that gave the impression of movement, or was it an illusion?
‘I have been expecting you. I have something for you. A gift and a message.’
The old man handed Aristo what appeared like a package wrapped in a delicate luxuriant cloth. Aristo unwrapped it, but there was nothing inside. He looked suspiciously and with faint anger at the old man.
‘Who gave this to you?’
The old man was silent and without a word rushed to the back of the shop. After a momentary hesitation Aristo and Katerina ran after him, but as they pulled away the thin curtain standing in their way and separating the public face of the shop from its private quarters, they saw nothing but an empty courtyard with a bunch of ruins and nothing else, totally deserted.
The surreal quality of the moment and the disappearance of the old man allowed a sneaking suspicion to enter their minds. They were tempted to explore further, but defeated the curiosity bug and declined the invitation. They retraced their steps to the front of the shop and the door to the street they used earlier.
As they exited the shop, they walked into hushed silence and the silent ruins of Mystras. No soul was in sight. Aristo turned to Katerina.
‘Where have all the people gone?’
‘Aristo, it’s as if we have come out of a dream.’
They looked back at the entrance to the shop for an explanation, half-suspecting the shop not to be there. Their suspicion was confirmed. There was nothing there but a gaping hole where the door and the window display used to be.
They appeared to be back to the ruined Mystras of their timeline as it was at the time that they arrived. The old man had said that they were to receive a gift and a message, but neither of the two had yet materialised. Little did they know that a splendid show was about to commence.
It suddenly went dark. From amongst the ruins, figures appeared, slowly approaching them. They counted one, two, three… seven… eleven and it went on and on until countless numbers of them started to fill the square. At the same time lightning and thunder split the sky and a light rain began to fall. It felt as if the sky was being bled dry.
In those brief moments of lightning, Aristo and Katerina got a haunting glimpse into the identity of the figures surrounding them. They were wearing the Vlachernaic emblems of dark purple with the double-headed eagle looking as if it was alive and ready to take a sweep at its prey and blight it out of existence. The figures started to speak with one voice.
‘We are the Vlachernae. We are Constantinople. We are the Empire. We are the last Emperor. Open your arms and receive what is yours. Find the heir and bring us life.’
Katerina turned to Aristo confused and worried, wondering what to make of the spectacle before them. ‘Aristo. They are dead aren’t they?’
‘I think so.’
One after another the figures came and stood in front of them and placed small bags at their feet. They then bowed and walked away, disappearing into the ether.
Suddenly there was a ray of light that lit up the far Eastern corner of the square revealing the entrance to a previously unseen doorway. Aristo and Katerina collected the bags and put them in Aristo’s rucksack and started to make their way to the glowing doorway.
They had only gone a few metres when another set of figures, dressed in black cloaks with a strange red symbol on their chest, descended on the square and seemed to be fighting an invisible army, the ruthless vein of hatred and vengeance clear in their violent actions. Aristo and Katerina were ignored, as if they were not there.
Some of the figures detached themselves from the battle and started to make their way towards Aristo and Katerina.
‘Let’s make a run for the doorway. Come on. Hurry.’ Aristo grabbed Katerina’s hand and they ran. They reached the doorway as the black-clad figures fell one by one and the purple-and-gold-clad figures they first saw, appeared, and, after a short hand-to-hand combat, defeated the figures pursuing Aristo and Katerina. The purple-and-gold-clad figures then turned to Aristo and Katerina.
‘We are the Pallanians, guardians of the temple of knowledge. Those were Ruinands, our mortal enemies. You are now safe.’
Aristo and Katerina both mouthed a ‘thank you’ and then turned towards the interior of what appeared to be a tunnel leading away from the doorway. They followed the tunnel to a chamber. Their eyes were drawn to the middle of the chamber where like a lone warrior, like the forlorn leftover of a battle, dominating the space and crashing its surrounding setting, was a statue, a defiant look in its strangely life-like eyes.
The statue appeared to switch between a standing and a reclining pose. When they went closer, the statue settled into the reclining position. It seemed to be breathing, like a man asleep. The veins pulsated. The chest rose and fell.
‘Katerina, I have seen this face before. From images we have of the last Emperor, Konstantinos XI Palaiologos, this face does not appear to be his, but there, nevertheless, seems to have a strong resemblance to him. We are in Mystras, so judging by the man’s clothes and the diadem on his head, I would say that this is Demetrios Palaiologos, the brother of the last Emperor and Despot of Mystras or Morias, as it was also called.’
Without realising that she was speaking in a low voice, as if she wanted to be careful not to disturb the sleeping man, Katerina turned to Aristo. ‘Shall we try and wake him?’
They whispered in the man’s ear and gently shook him. They then repeated the action more forcefully, but the man remained sleeping. Suddenly, as if out of thin air, a ghost appeared before them. Katerina noticed a resemblance between the ghost and Aristo.
‘He looks like a carbon copy of yourself. I wouldn’t be able to tell you apart had it not been for the different clothes.’ Then the ghost spoke.
‘Aristo, I am Michael Symitzis, your ancestor. I am here to wake our sleeping beauty there.’ The ghost of Michael Symitzis laughed loudly before the laugh ceased abruptly and he continued. ‘I’ve heard this tune in the palace of Vlachernae in Constantinople and at the Despot’s palace here in Mystras.’ He revealed a cube that began to vibrate and emit birdsong of the most hypnotic beauty that filled the space and echoed against the threadbare walls.
‘Who dares wake me?’ The sleeping man, formerly a statue, had a voice and turned to look at them. Recognition mapped the man’s face. The ghost of Michael had disappeared.
Katerina and Aristo remained silent and waited, still trying to take in what was being enacted before their disbelieving eyes which thought that they were being deceived and were struggling to absorb the strangeness of the scene, what resembled a play with not exactly the most comprehensible plot.
The now woken man continued. ‘Ah, it’s Aristo and Katerina, isn’t it?
Katerina was quicker to recover and reply. ‘And you are Demetrios Palaiologos, brother of the last Emperor, Konstantinos XI.’
‘I am indeed. I just want to remind you about the inscription that Giorgos found in Cappadocia. That is the purpose of your quest. The unit that has been dismembered needs to be reunited and made whole again before the final rest will come. Inside the bags you will find the keys to places you will need to unlock to take you to your final destination. I mourn for my brother and his family and I don’t want to see them restless any more. Please, help us.’ And with that final word he went back to sleep and then, before their eyes, turned into a lifeless statue once more.
Then a different ghost appeared.
‘I am Zozo. My father was Antonios Symitzis. Before you go I must tell you a story. It happened in 1921 A.D. in Smyrna. It was the day that Kostas Vendis…’
Here the ghost of Zozo paused as she saw Katerina’s eyes expand in surprise at the mention of that name. She inexplicably nailed Katerina to the spot with a piercing gaze that made Katerina feel uncomfortable, as if she was being intensely probed inside the innermost reaches of her brain. Katerina recovered and fixed the ghost of Zozo with a piercing stare of her own.
Zozo relented from her challenge, turned away, and assuming a gentle expression, resumed her story. ‘… yes, Katerina, that was your ancestor. He visited my father to show him an object that had recently come to his possession. It was an icon, more specifically one of the pair of Likureian icons, thought lost for centuries, since well before Constantinople fell to the Ottomans.
‘I was present during the meeting and I asked to hold the icon and study it. At some point, after the discussion had concluded, Kostas Vendis asked to see my father’s famous garden and they went outside. But I stayed behind. I was lost in my own thoughts admiring the extraordinary artistry of the icon when I heard a noise behind me.
‘When I turned, Stephanos, brother of Nikitas and Manuel Symitzis, son of the redoubtable Zoe Symitzis, was standing at the study’s garden door, which only seconds earlier my father and Kostas Vendis used to get outside. I welcomed him and asked him to sit with me. But I knew something was wrong when he didn’t extend his usual warmth nor did he give me a hug. He just kept standing there staring at me.
‘I didn’t try to go close to him and the awkwardness of the moment transformed to unease when in the next few seconds we had a staring-down match. Then he made his move. He walked briskly into the room. I was expecting that he would come to me and make up for his earlier reticence. However, he moved to the door of the study leading to the rest of the house, turned the key to lock the door and just stood there.
‘Realising the danger I was in, I sought a chance to escape and began to walk towards the door leading into the garden. When I reached it and was starting to feel the, as it turned out, premature relief of being outside, my path was blocked by two huge muscle-bound giants.
‘They gave me no time to react. Besides, I didn’t stand a chance to keep them at bay let alone go past them. Even if I were an insect, squeezing past them would only have a high probability, in no way would it have been a certainty. They held me, tied me up and gagged me and one of them picked me up as if I was a rug and weighed no more than a feather.
‘Before they left with me over their shoulders they turned to look inside the room. Stephanos was absolutely still when he spoke to them. He didn’t even dare to look me in the eye, which I would expect at least out of courtesy for old times’ sake. Perhaps there was a part of him, a human part that was embarrassed that he had to treat me in such a barbaric and humiliating way. “Give my regards to your master.” Stephanos said. “Tell him I will be joining him later today. I have to do something first.”
‘With that the two gigantic men left, but Stephanos stayed behind. He took the icon that I had dropped on the sofa. I know that, because I saw it in his hands later that day. This is what happened next.
‘An hour later, Stephanos was boarding a ship and welcomed by the attendant to the powerful Malenca Pasha. Attendant was a soft and unsuitable term. Bodyguard was more appropriate, for he was a sequoia of a man, wholly-built of and bursting at the seams with muscle piled upon layer of muscle, all dressed in black and with a menacing posture, leaving Stephanos in no doubt that he was in for a rough ride, if he put even the slightest foot wrong.
‘Stephanos knew he would no doubt have to use all his guile and play his cards right to get what he had come for. If the muscle robot before him was hoping to intimidate him, it was not working, Stephanos said to himself. Stephanos, despite his smaller size compared to his welcoming committee of one that looked as if he had devoured a few of his mates, was immune to fear and intimidation.
‘His host was relaxing on deck on a plush divan, a throwback to the Ottoman days of old and out of place in the Smyrna and the Ottoman Empire of 1921 A.D. With an almost imperceptible wave of his right hand, bowls with morsels of food and fruit and jugs of wine magically appeared before him. He motioned for Stephanos to sit down on some cushions next to him, but at a lower level than the divan, unashamedly indicating that Stephanos was beneath him.
‘Stephanos obeyed. Being summoned by such an important man as the Malenca Pasha, daring to cross him would be foolhardy at best. Even the slightest hesitation would be a challenge to the Pasha’s authority, a grave personal affront and possibly fatal.
‘His host looked at him with contempt while his eyes and the corners of his mouth belied his amusement. “Here comes the messenger. What do you have for me? I hope you have not come empty-handed.”
‘Stephanos’ nose twitched in a discreet sign of disgust at the arrogance and greed of the man, and resisted from looking away from the gluttonous specimen lying in front of him. Lying, surely, because he could not move by his own volition, on his own fuel, as he could not be bothered to waste the energy to do so.
‘Stephanos wondered whether his host ever stepped on firm ground; most likely the Pasha was always being transported on a glorified stretcher with reinforced suspension and undercarriage. Stephanos knew of the avaricious nature and appetite of the man for food, flesh and disposal of rivals or those he did not like and of anyone who dared cross him or merely cause him displeasure after having crossed his path. Stephanos cautioned himself to be careful.
‘The Pasha was studying Stephanos with intense curiosity. Was he trying to guess Stephanos’ thoughts? “I can smell your fear. Why are you still standing? Nobody is allowed to tower above me. Now, come and sit down. I promise I will not harm you, at least not on my home ground and not until you have ceased to have your uses.” The Pasha certainly did not mince his words. Stephanos knew the rare and priceless value of the Pasha’s promises. “Zoe does me an honour. Sending her most faithful and favourite lieutenant, or is it perhaps her second favourite lieutenant? Hmm?”
‘Stephanos cursed under his breath. The Pasha certainly knew to hit where it hurt the most. Stephanos had always been sensitive where it came to his brothers. And he was prone to constantly playing the game of rivalry with them for his mother’s affections, admiration and respect. But now was not the place to admit his weakness, his jealousy.
‘He would not allow himself to get riled or rise to the Pasha’s petty challenge. He would deny the distasteful specimen of a man, if he could be defined as such, lounging before him, the pleasure of being proven successful in his deliberate attempt to force an extreme reaction that would demean Stephanos in the eyes of those present by exposing his biggest weakness. Stephanos kept quiet.
‘“Now, I have been told that my other honoured guest has decided to join us and grace our humble gathering and honour us humble servants with her high and mighty presence. Tasty morsel, isn’t she?” At that moment, I, Zozo Symitzis, proud daughter of Antonios Symitzis, was being brought in on a chair carried by the two giants that abducted me, my hands and feet tied. The Pasha paused and looked at me, smacking his lips at a delicious thought, a lascivious expression distorting his face that looked as if it couldn’t hold its shape together and was sagging fast, surrendering to the will and charms of gravity to the point of melting, if it did not burst first. “We cannot deny her the pleasure of our company, now can we? Now, Stephanos, do you have my other gift?” The Pasha paused and clapped his palms together with glee. “Oh, I am so lucky, twice blessed in one day. Allah must love me so.” But delivery of the Pasha’s second gift, me, Zozo, being the first, would have to wait a bit longer as shuffling, sighing and whistling (surprisingly as such expression of approval was punishable with death which luckily for them the Pasha chose to ignore) interrupted proceedings with the promise of some kind of entertainment organised by the Pasha. The revelation was more exquisite than even the highest expectations of those present.
‘Ten pairs of eyes followed me, fully and beguilingly transformed into a jewel, as I was paraded in front of the crew and then put down on the deck next to the Pasha and, as far as I was concerned, too close for comfort. I made no attempt of resistance to the Pasha’s suggestive and blunt caresses which also indicated to those present that I was his and his alone, and none other had any right to look at me in a hungry way let alone touch me. And of course the prohibition to look at me was literal as my face was half-covered. I knew the Pasha was at that moment my master of mercy that held my fate in his hands, the power of life or death over me. Stephanos kept his counsel and said nothing. But the Pasha was evidently becoming excited and the first signs of drooling were visible.
‘The Pasha continued to caress my arm ever more intensely and invitingly, which made it all the more impressive that my self-control kept me from flinching away from the Pasha’s reptilian caress and affection. The Pasha’s actions, his open declaration of his intentions, made Stephanos tremble in disgust at the thought that the Pasha was planning to take me there and then before a cheering crowd, oblivious to the disgust and jealousy such an act might provoke. Stephanos had no doubt his horrible suspicion was not far off from what was going on in the Pasha’s mind at that moment. The Pasha broke the strange moment and partly allayed Stephanos worst fears, or, at least, postponed them.
‘“Welcome my dear. I trust you are enjoying the refreshing sea foam. And the salty sea air will do wonders for your complexion and that lovely glossy hair. Don’t let any worries enter your pretty little head. And don’t get any funny ideas of escape, now will you?”
‘Stephanos had been witnessing this one-way exchange with acute interest. And now he felt his turn had come to speak. He opened his bag and took out a package wrapped in an unadorned white linen cloth. He bowed and extended his hand to the Pasha.
‘“Your highness, your gift as promised.”
‘The Pasha snatched it impatiently from Stephanos’ hand and rushed to unwrap it excited like a child whose wish had come true. After a few seconds admiring the icon, he looked at Stephanos. “You’ve done well, my dear Stephanos. You have been a great source of joy today. Now, it is time for you to collect your reward.” A subtle click of the fingers and a small bag carried by the Pasha’s attendant was dropped at Stephanos’ feet. Stephanos wanted to open it and look inside, but knew that such a gesture would be a sign of mistrust and an offence to the Pasha, so Stephanos refrained from any movement. He bowed once more and, politely, thanked his host. He made no attempt to stand up and leave, as his host had not yet dismissed him.
‘“Will you not open it to check the contents? Let me tell you that it’s over and above what we agreed.”
‘“I have no doubt your generosity will be beyond measure.” Stephanos smiled politely and conspiratorially and bowed with the reverence demanded of such an exulted personage as the Malenca Pasha, the holder of several records achieved through his physical appearance and his compulsive consumption of excess.
‘The Pasha allowed his vanity and his ego to be massaged. That was his weakness. He was accustomed to worship after all. He relished any attention lavished on him for whatever reason. “It is indeed. And you are not wrong there. It’s quite a bit more than what we agreed, more than your usual fee. But it was worth it.”
‘“I am glad to be of service to a great man such as yourself. I remain your humble servant. Just your honouring me with the pleasure of serving you is the greatest gift I could ever expect to receive.”
‘“I can see through your flattery and your use of the right words, but it pleases me, nonetheless. Now, enough business. I feel an expanding hole in my stomach, right here.” The Pasha indicated a tiny spot on his gargantuan barrel of a belly. Stephanos had an image of him at an attempt at belly dancing, and smiled inwardly, keeping a straight face, with not the slightest twist, tick or twitch, for the benefit of his host.
‘The Pasha could not be held from his meal any longer. “Let’s eat.” He said and swooped down on the food with no delay, even before Stephanos had a chance to see what was there. And before he knew it, more than half of the dishes had vanished into that cavernous cave of a mouth, through an ample and well-practised throat and pharynx, all the way down to his grateful gut, that other cavernous cave above his private parts which would, surely, by now have been absorbed into the folds of his bountiful flesh that hung like an extra attire. Oh, Stephanos just could not imagine it any more. Too descriptive, too gross.
‘With the bowls polished by the Pasha, and Stephanos having managed only a few mouthfuls, and as they were relaxing with the Pasha falling asleep and snoring, four men appeared dressed in black with the red Ruinand symbol on their chest.
‘Stephanos was stunned, but was too weak to react. He was bemused at his sudden physical weakness. His body failed him, refusing to obey any of his commands. Perhaps something had been put into his food or drink. But how was that likely? The Pasha ate the same food and drank the same drink. Unless the vessels he had used had been coated with some sort of substance. His speculation went no further. His brain was now failing him too. He had run out of time.
‘The four Ruinands took him away to their underwater city near Marathon Bay in Greece. They replaced him with a carbon copy of himself ready and trained to play his part in their infiltration of the Order of Vlachernae and the great almighty Symitzis family and their powerful Valchern Corporation.
‘And that is how I was forced to become one of the Pasha’s wives. I bore him four children, and was treated like a queen and had a relatively happy life. But the shame never left my heart, nor did the yearning for my family, my home, my second mother, Mrs Manto, who raised me after my mother died too young, soon after having given birth to my youngest brother. I thought about getting away many times and formulated many escape plans, but always changed my mind just before taking the final plunge.
‘I was afraid I would bring danger and tragedy to my family. And of course there were my children. I couldn’t take them with me nor could I leave them behind. If I could have found allies who might have helped me I would, but it was a huge risk to even attempt to test the waters and find out who was on my side. The Pasha used my abduction to blackmail my father and use him for his own ends, to commit atrocities against his family, his company, his people.
‘Now I’m ashamed for my cowardice, but cannot go back and change the past. If only I could have one day, just one day, with my family… All I had to hang onto were dreams or nightmares; one specifically kept repeating itself. I would be standing in a deserted Smyrna when out of nowhere throngs of people, adults and children waving Greek flags, would appear to block my vision from different directions.
‘They would be parading and celebrating independence day and Smyrna would be standing intact as it was back then, when I was there, nineteen years old, but a mere child in all other respects and protected, very protected and naive. I would try to join in the celebrations, but all those present would ignore me as if they could not see me. They would come at me as if to crush me instead, like an insignificant ant, but of course they would pass right through me and continue on their way as if nothing had happened.
‘The tragedy of being invisible in my home city and on such a special day as that, compounded with the faint memory of my situation at the time as a captive of the Pasha escaping my subconsciousness and invading my nightmare, would make me feel that I had outlived my usefulness.
‘Suddenly the crowds would disappear and people would go back to their normal business and their everyday lives. A tall clock near the harbour in front of me would show the current date as 1981 A.D. But that could only be my wishful thinking, my hope that history had turned out differently or that someone had gone back in time to change it.’
Then Zozo changed tack, came out of her ruminating, fixed them with a hard stare and suddenly her face brightened like an innocent child’s that hoped for a treat or had an inspiration for further mischief.
‘And I ask you, is there someone of you who can do that? Who could do that for me?’
As she said this she knew it was just a dream and it could not happen. The next moment she seemed to have forgotten all about it and her face would go hard and unblinking as if nothing was said, as if nothing happened, and she would just smile at them.
She would switch from imploring to a blank expression and a warm welcome and an offering of refreshment and refuge from the burning sun in the shade of her lovely humble home and mansion and monument to her Pasha whom she grew to care for and love with all her heart; or so she now said.
‘Aristo, how can my grandmother have had both icons, if one was stolen back then? Unless…’
‘Unless a copy was left in its place. We need to talk to Ariana and see whether she can tell us more about the events of that day.’
Zozo had a last word for them. ‘As you have correctly deduced, the icon is a fake. There’s going to be an auction soon of Byzantine icons. One of them is or hides the real Likureian icon.’ With that she disappeared.
Aristo and Katerina exited the chamber and followed the tunnel back to the entrance to the square. They stood there, hungrily taking in mouthfuls of fresh air, a relief from the stale air inside.
They were confronted with a harrowing scene. It was the exceptionally bloody aftermath of a battle, a scene of absolute carnage. They found the Pallanians sitting on the ground apparently asleep. When the Pallannians sensed them, it was their wake-up call and they came out of their slumber, looked at Aristo and Katerina, smiled and disappeared.
Aristo and Katerina calmly walked to their car, which they had parked outside the entrance to the lower city. They drove off to the direction of the airfield where Elli’s jet was waiting on the tarmac, refuelled and ready to take off.
There was no doubt about their destination; Limassol in Cyprus and an urgent chat with Elli and Ariana about the icon and the inscription on the tablet found in Cappadocia, catching up with Giorgos on progress with his research and finding out about that auction.
When they got back to Limassol, Katerina’s grandmother, Ariana, told them that when Antonios Symitzis and Kostas Vendis returned to the study they found the icon on the sofa where Zozo had been sitting before they went out. But of Zozo there was no sign. They thought none of it at the time, but became concerned a couple of hours later when they were about to sit down to dinner.
Zozo was never late, nor did she ever miss a meal. In fact she would be down early helping Mrs Manto with the setting of the table and with the preparation of the meal, Mrs Manto pretending annoyance at Zozo’s interference and Zozo loving every minute of it, ignoring Mrs Manto’s protestations, and smiling to herself amused at Mrs Manto’s play-acting. They were in reality as thick as thieves. And it had been like that since Zozo was a child running around the house like a whirlwind causing delightful mayhem. The kitchen was a second home to her.
A search of the house yielded no clue. Nor did discreet enquiries in the city later reveal anything about Zozo’s whereabouts. It was a mystery that haunted them all from that moment onwards and almost cost Mrs Manto her life when she had a sudden heart attack two days later while cooking. She simply collapsed and was found a few minutes later by Antonios. She was lucky not to have sustained head injuries or any other serious injury.
She recovered quickly, but only physically. She was never the same again. It was just a case of going through the motions. Her heart was broken for her little one and never recovered. Ariana was shocked when told that the treasured for so long icon was most probably stolen on that day and replaced by a perfect copy.