Now he was hoping to lead a wider revolt, and chase the same rumors that we were.
While we waited for Kapodistrias to make contact, Cuvier and Smith began surveying the ancient caldera from the cliff rim, trying to calculate the cataclysm required to make it. Fulton wandered off with his bagpipes, saying he wanted to experiment with oils to fill the instrument, and sketch the workings of the island’s windmills. I practiced my fencing against imaginary opponents, worked on temperance by hiking to island vintners for what I told myself was only a judicious tasting, and kept a celibate distance from island women who reminded me of my half-Greek Astiza, dark-haired and olive-skinned. Was I supposed to find some clue about her on this island?
It was a lazy idyll, for one dazzling Mediterranean day.
And then as I walked the trail on the cliff edge at the end of the second day, congratulating myself again on self-discipline, I saw two corsairs sailing into the vast bay at sunset, their sails the color of dried blood. They flew no flag or banner and made no sound, but their decks were crammed with men. Was this Ioannis Kapodistrias, bringing a small Greek army with him? Or Ottoman soldiers, come to catch him or us?
Or some other menace entirely?
Their approach triggered every self-preservation instinct I had.
I hurried back to where we were staying to announce we might not have time to wait for our rendezvous, or Dragut, either. We might have to hide.
Fortunately, our Greek patriot was already there.
Kapodistrias came cloaked and shielded with a broad hat, slipping in quietly from wherever he’d been sequestered here in Turkish territory, since he could be arrested for this trespass. His entourage consisted of only two bodyguards, and he carried no weapon. But once he cast his cloak off with a whirl, he impressed us immediately. The minister was a lean and handsome doctor with cheekbones that could have been chiseled out of Athenian marble. He had a voice that would give credit to the ancient orator Themistocles. Like many of the most able men, he was also refreshingly modest.
“I’m afraid I had no fleet to come with,” he said with a slight frown after I described the new ships. “No navy, no army, no diplomatic passport, and no time. Are you sure it isn’t a routine cargo or ferry to this island?”
“It looked like armed men to me. Did the Turks get word you’re here?”
“Possibly. But it might be pirates, too. In any event, our meeting must be brief.”
“Maybe it’s the gondola men,” Smith said. “We seem to be drawing enemies wherever we go.”
“Gondola men?”
“We were attacked in Venice by a fleet of gondolas. A beautiful woman threw a bomb at us, and a Muhammadan captain charged us two hundred francs to escape. Gage here says there’s some kind of cult called the Egyptian Rite pursuing the same legends we are.”
“By the saints: for a quartet of intellectuals, you attract quite the excitement.”
“Just Ethan. He finds trouble wherever he goes.”
Kapodistrias looked at me warily, as if uneasy that he’d been caught up with my dubious luck. “It’s imperative no one knows I was ever on this island. You realize that if my people did not possibly need French help someday, I wouldn’t have come at all?”
“Then help us with our mystery and we’ll investigate while you depart,” Cuvier said. “And tell Napoleon how you helped us. He can be a powerful ally.”
“A sensible suggestion from a famed naturalist,” Kapodistrias said. “I’m honored to meet Georges Cuvier, and have read of your important work organizing nature. You must know, however, that I fear France as much as I admire it.”
Cuvier nodded reluctantly.
“The French soldiers behaved poorly when they occupied our islands.”
“They were young men, far from home.”
“And not well disciplined. However, the revolutionary ideals that the officers brought were like a bolt of lightning. For the first time, every Greek dares dream of freedom from the Turkish yoke, of standing firm as we did at Thermopylae and Salamis. We don’t know if salvation will come from Russia, France, or Britain, but our tiny republic in the Ionian Islands is just the start of our hope. All of Greece deserves to be free.”
“Then we’re friends,” Cuvier said. “Bonaparte wants an independent Greece as counterweight to Turkey, Russia, and England. But the British have driven us from Egypt, the Russians have driven us from your own islands, and the English admirals dream of making the Mediterranean their own little lake. Napoleon asked us to sound out Greek sentiment for independence through you, but also to get your help investigating rumors of a secret on Thira that might benefit both of us.”
The Greek’s look was cautious. “Buried cities and ancient weapons.”
“Is it true at all?”
“Old stories. I’m glad your Englishman is enthralled by rocks, because there’s probably little else on this poor island. It’s a shattered volcano, home to a few poor fishermen and farmers. But stories persist, as stories tend to do. There’s a rumor that this island has a gate to Hades.”
“Hades!”
“I think that legend comes from literal truth. You can burn your hand in the vents of steam on that island in the harbor. This island was old, and hot, when Pericles built Athens. It has Venetian castles, Doric temples, prehistoric tombs, and stories of people who lived when religion and witchcraft were one. Pile up three thousand years of history and the web of legend, prophecy, superstition, and lies becomes as thick as the weavings of the mythical Arachne. Who knows what’s true and what isn’t in a place like this? Idols were their gods, and fable their science.”
“Sometimes the two intersect,” Cuvier said quietly. “I’ve seen drawings from Bavaria of an ancient reptile with wings like a bat. It too is extinct, I hope, but it looks as if it could have flown from the gates of hell. Perhaps our medieval iconographers drew from nature.”
“And there’s really a Greek rumor that the ancients had some kind of powerful weapon?” Fulton interrupted to clarify. “If true, it could instruct modern inventors like me. And Ethan here is our expert on ancient mysteries and hidden powers.”
“Is he now? Hidden powers? I would like some of those.” There was a twinkle in the Greek’s eye.
“Count Kapodistrias, the French helped my own nation win independence,” I said. “Greece will most likely need help as well. Napoleon can be a good friend or a deadly enemy. If we carry back word that you’re a friend to the ideals of the revolution, it will open the way for possible partnership—not conquest—in the future. In return, is there anyone in Thira who might help us with these old legends? The rumors have reached as far as Paris, and our charge is to determine their truth before greedier and less scientific people come here instead.”
He looked at me shrewdly. “Yes, a curious group. You have the look of an opportunist, your friend is a mechanic, and then we have scholars of rocks and bones. One Frenchman, two Americans, and an Englishman. Why did Napoleon send you?”
“Out of hope the Ottoman authorities would find us odd and inconsequential.”
“And why did you agree to go? Besides your rocks?”
“We have legal problems that Monsieur Gage caused in Paris,” Cuvier said. “This mission for Bonaparte will erase them, so we’re doing what we have to do—that’s the way the world works. Are you not obligated yourself to the Russians and Admiral Ushakov?” It was Ushakov who’d thrown the French off Corfu.
Kapodistrias nodded. “All men are in debt. All right, then. The missive I received from your agent said you have a clue for me that might help us find this secret.”
I took out the ring with its picture of dome and grave, with a man climbing out of the sarcophagus. “Do you recognize that building?”
“A church, perhaps. There are two dozen on this island alone.”
“Look at the dome. It’s broken, or half completed.”
“Ah.” He looked carefully. “But of course. Agia Theodosia! The Compromise of the Cannon!”
“The what?”
“The church and a Venetian fort rose in concert in the village of Akrotiri, faith through one gate and the state through another. But then artillery evolved, and as its guns were installed it became apparent that Theodosia’s dome was blocking the field of fire. The Venetian officers said the church should move, and the Orthodox priests said the fort should give way to God. It was proposed that the dome be lowered, but the monks refused even that—opinions are held strongly in Greece. Finally an impatient Venetian Catholic fired a cannon ball through the Greek Orthodox cupola, and threatened to destroy the entire church. Instead, the fathers reluctantly carved out a slice of the dome to allow the sighting of the gun toward enemies that, in the end, never came. The original dome architecture has since been restored, but the story of the ‘bitten dome’ is well known. There’s no other church in Thira this ring could refer to.”
I imagined the dome with a scoop out of it, one side concave, and admired the compromise. I think everyone should get along.
“Where is this church?”
“Not far—two kilometers, perhaps. But we had better hurry. If Ethan Gage is correct about those approaching ships we may be in a race, gentlemen, for the gate of Hades. And in that case, you will have to race alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s too coincidental we have all arrived at the same time. I will direct you to the church and wish you well, but I must not be caught with you. Do you have a ship of your own?”
“Gone to a neighboring island but promising to return.”
“Then look to your weapons and your wits, and hope your captain hurries.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The village of Akrotiri, on the southwestern arm of Thira’s crescent island, looked like a scrabble of stucco dice stacked on a grassy slope. It culminated in the modest ruins of a small Venetian fortress, half dismantled by the Turks more than a century before. What had once been some lordly fiefdom was now a ruin, on a lonely island at the edge of a decaying empire. Next to the fort entrance was a Greek Orthodox church, and it was here Kapodistrias led us under a half-moon. Akrotiri was still except for the bark of a dog or two, and in the silvery light looked empty and timeless, the peeling brown and white houses seeming to grow out of its geology like angular rocks. We, on the other hand, made far too much noise. Our weaponry clanked. Our boots tramped. In a hundred yards we gave away more evidence of our presence than a tribe of Dakota would while galloping through Saint Peter’s. Fulton had insisted on bringing his bagpipes, and every once in a while they would let out a wheeze, low groan, or odd sloshing.
“Please don’t play,” I said.
“I’ve a different kind of song, inspired by our night at the Palais Royal. This the French navy might actually buy, if I can set things on fire.”
I wondered if we were at the right place at all. Thira, like all of Greece, is dotted with churches of plain, whitewashed stucco topped by faded blue domes, as ubiquitous as stables and not a great deal fancier. The windows are tiny, the doors stout planks of weathered wood, and the interiors without pews—Greek worshippers stand before God. Was this nondescript place a door to a fabled weapon?
It was night, the church locked, and so Kapodistrias—who seemed to be enjoying his moment of skulduggery—rousted the village priest from his cell next door and convinced him that Greek patriotism required the opening of doors for us.
“But why?”
“We’re looking for the gate of Hades, Nikko.”
“And why would you seek such a thing? Are you devils?”
“We’re friends of Greece.”
“But why are you at Agia Theodosia?”
“An old signet ring has told us to look here. These men won’t be but a moment. They are men of science, patros, who want to understand the past.”
“The past is best left in the past. That’s what the past is for.”
“No, Greece will learn from them.”
He reluctantly unlocked the door. “Wait here.” He went ahead to light some candles, and then came back. “You’ll see. This is a poor church in a poor village. There’s nothing here.”
The Greek pulled him aside. “Then let them see for themselves.”
We passed through the anteroom, or narthex, and on into the main nave, lighting more candles on their manoualia stands. The structure was small and, compared with a Catholic or Protestant church, sparser of furniture and richer in decoration. My stable analogy had been too hasty. There was a primitive but grand picture of Jesus in the dome overhead, ready to uplift or condemn. Hanging below was an elaborate brass chandelier called a horos, and beyond it was the most decorative part of the church, a polished brass dividing wall consisting of a grilled gate flanked by enameled panels of angels and saints. By custom, only the priests passed up the steps and through the gate to the altar in the sanctuary beyond. The succession of spaces reminded me of the ancient Egyptian temples I’d seen: a penetration to the holy.
“The church seems rather small,” Cuvier said. “What are we supposed to be looking for?”
“A sarcophagus. I don’t see one.”
“In the sanctuary, perhaps?” asked Fulton.
Smith went up to the gate and tried it but it, too, was locked. “All I see is an altar.
Where’s the priest?”
We looked around.
“Kapodistrias is gone, too,” Cuvier said. And indeed, we realized the Greeks had not followed us inside but instead closed the main door behind us, leaving us alone. If we were to discover the gate of Hades, it seemed, we were on our own.
“Gage, is this a trap?” Fulton asked.
I tried the church door. “It’s been locked or braced from the outside. Maybe they’re trying to give us time to explore undisturbed.”
“Or maybe Kapodistrias doesn’t trust the French after all,” Cuvier said.
“He just can’t share the risk, I think, and endanger his republic. But I’d feel better if Hamidou was waiting for us. I wasn’t expecting those new ships, with all those men.”
“What if Ottomans are following us? We should flee, too,” Fulton said. “This place isn’t like Fouché’s ring at all.”
“We’ve come more than a thousand miles. Let’s at least see if anything’s here. There’s a bar—let’s lock the door from the inside, too.”
Unfortunately, except for the Byzantine decoration typical of the Greek religion, the nave was barren. It took about as long to search as my purse, which is to say almost no time at all.
“There’s nothing here,” Cuvier said, rather obviously. “Ethan, I agree with Robert. We should retreat.”
“Absolutely. Just as soon as we check the sanctuary.”
“But that’s locked.”
“Which is all the more reason to enter it. Gentlemen, I have some experience in this kind of thing and I’ve found the more difficult it is to get into a place, the more it pays to do so. People are always sticking things in hidden cellars or sealed attics or armored armoires, hoping the rest of us won’t have energy enough to peek. Why keep anyone out unless there’s something to find?”
“Because it’s sacred?” Smith ventured.
“Well, that, too.”
I went to the grilled wall that separated the nave from the altar sanctuary. Three steps led up to it, and painted icons were on either side of the gate. Jesus looked disapprovingly at me from one side, and Mary—seeming as skeptical of me as some of the other women I’d dallied with—frowned at me from the other. Saints and angels stood guard, too, looking no friendlier. I eyed the keyhole. “Cuvier, bring me one of your pistols.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Fulton said, appropriately. He set his bagpipes down, the instrument making a soft buzz as he did so, and hopped up the steps beside me. Out came a set of wiry steel instruments. “There’s no need for a gunshot, which will only jam the lock. I made a study of these mechanisms as a boy and found that patience can open most anything.” He began fiddling with the lock. �
�I don’t make a habit of this, but there’s utility in being able to manipulate a keyhole. Of course there’s nothing to see, as you can tell by looking through the bars, and if the village catches us doing this we’ll be stoned as sacrilegious heretics, or worse.”
“I just want to make sure this sanctuary isn’t the front porch to Hades.”
“Do you smell any sulfur?”
“Let’s take that as a good sign.”
“And no lightning bolts for trespass yet, either,” Smith added.
The inventor had the gate open quick as a thief, and we gingerly passed into the sanctuary, feeling we were trespassing on divinity itself. There was a wooden cabinet to one side with a chalice and other instruments of worship. A censer to provide scented smoke hung nearby. In the middle was the altar itself, draped with a tapestry. There was a cylindrical container and gospel on top, and a processional cross and gilded fans behind.
“What’s the coffee urn then?” Smith asked innocently.
“A tabernacle, you Protestant heathen,” Cuvier said. “It’s where they hold the sacraments.”
“Ah. Could it have a clue then?”
“To get to Heaven, not Hades.”
I bent and walked the stone floor, looking for a crack or pull indicating a way downward. There was nothing I could see. The coin and Kapodistrias’s advice seemed a dead end.
Outside, dogs began barking again. Someone was coming.
I stood, considering. Then remembering a temple in Egypt, I decided to take a closer look at the altar by lifting one corner of its cloth and peering underneath.
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