Kat enacted a smile while she worked at the twine that bound her wrists. Her skin burned, but she had begun to make progress. She leaned forward, as if mesmerized, and even allowed him to touch her hair again without flinching.
“The history of the crest dates back to the start of Christianity in Russia, with the conversion of St. Vladimir, Emperor of Kiev around 990 A.D. The Crest was a wedding gift from Basil II, emperor of Byzantium, where Turkey now sits, to his sister Anne, on the occasion of her marriage to Vladimir.”
“So it’s over a thousand years old?” The surprise in Kat’s voice was real, and even more so as she worked the twine halfway down her hand.
“No, it’s even older.” Grazovich’s voice heightened, aroused as he was by his own tale. “The Crest of St. Basil was presented to Leo, the son of Basil I, emperor of Byzantium, as a gift of good faith from Rome, around AD 890 when the union with Rome was reestablished. The Roman church hoped to bring about peace and draw under their wing the country of Byzantium, the ‘New Rome’, as they called it. Perhaps you ignoramuses in America have heard of the capital of Byzantium -- Constantinople?”
Kat jerked her hand free, but kept it tight behind her back. Her eyes narrowed appropriately at Grazovich’s sneer. “Yes, of course. But I thought Byzantism, the religion that started in Byzantium, was the foundation of the Russian Orthodox Church. And they claim to be separate from the Roman Catholic Church.”
Grazovich smiled, as if happy with her knowledge. “Constantinople had a love/hate relationship with Rome. Eventually, after years of crusades, she broke away from Rome’s control. Vladmir, the Emperor of Kiev, decreed that all Kievans were to become Christians and Russian orthodoxy, through Byzantium, started to spread across Russia. When Constantinople re-established a relationship with the Roman Church around 1450 AD, the Russians rebelled and established Russia’s own order. The Russian Orthodox Church.”
“So what happened to the crest?” Kat slid the twine off her other hand, and closed her fist around it. She would find a way to slam it into his smug face if he kept on playing with her hair. Her stomach knotted.
“After Vladimir, it worked its way up from Kiev, surfaced in Pskov, and passed to the Czars until it finally disappeared at the hands of Anton Klassen in 1918.”
He ran a long, sweaty finger down her cheekbone. “And will be recovered with the help of his great-granddaughter eighty years later.” His voice held a dangerous lilt that cut right to Kat’s soul.
Kat stiffened, and pulled away, her courage dissolving through her chest. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I don’t know where it is.”
He cupped her chin with his hand. “The Vatican has been waiting for over one thousand years to reclaim their lost treasure. Let’s see if you can help them.”
Kat closed her eyes and prayed.
-
Vadeem found Ryslan laying on the grave like some sort of sacrificial offering. Blood darkened his neck and matted the hair on his wide chest. Vadeem swallowed a wave of revulsion as he approached the body, his Makarov pistol drawn. “I’m watching you.” Grazovich’s words stabbed at him, and he squinted at the clutch of forest, dark and foreboding, on the far side of the monastery. The moon bathed the ground in luminescence, a surreal and pale landscape to his nightmare.
Kat was going to die. Because he had no idea how to find the crest. None. Zip.
And that made him nearly rabid with frustration.
He crept up to the corpse and noticed a glint of light against the mass of darkness. He nearly cried when he saw the key, hung like a cross around Ryslan’s neck. Grazovich, smuggler, warlord, and murderer had a shred of decency. That, or the man really believed Vadeem could find this mythical icon, instead of simply playing an agonizing game of finders-keepers.
He had the key. And the book. Vadeem’s breath chafed his lungs as he fought to keep calm. Oh yes, he needed a friend, and for the first time, he was considering seriously the words Pyotr had spoken to him only two nights ago. “There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother. . .”
The urge to pray, to scream out for help, filled his chest and made him gasp with its ferocity. Scraping up control, Vadeem opened Anton’s journal. Answers. Obviously, Grazovich believed there were answers in this ancient text, and Vadeem had no choice but to scour the pages in desperation, with the faint hope he might discover the treasure they were all searching for.
It was too dark to make out the words, and the deadly odor of his recently deceased partner soured Vadeem’s stomach. He scrambled to his feet, gave another look around, and dashed toward the chapel that had held so many terrors during his last visit. Maybe tonight it would revive answers instead of heartache.
The musty cave chapel chilled him to the bone. He found matches and lit a candle, then two, three, and more until the tiny church glowed with flickering light. Standing before the cross of Jesus, he stared up at the artist’s portrayal of the Divine on earth and his heart felt huge in his chest. Jesus hung there, his fingers curled in pain, his eyes downcast, thorns on his head, an unusual expression of peace on his face. Mesmerized, he saw for the first time something beyond the pain. I am the Resurrection and the Life. Eternity beyond the grave.
Joy despite earthly suffering. Vadeem’s throat tightened and he was transported back, through time and grief and stood beside his father.
Father, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! Vadeem’s knees were wet in the snow. “It’s my fault papa. . .I’m sorry!”
Papa reached up, his big hand on his cheek, his breath coming in gasps. “This is not forever, Son. Lift your eyes to heaven and God will show you the light. Trust Jesus and you will see God’s glory.”
Vadeem hadn’t looked up. Not once. He couldn’t, not after they buried his father, not after they scattered his family. Light didn’t inhabit a communist orphanage. . .and despair had taken its place in his dark soul. A soul so accustomed to the darkness that, when light arrived, in the face of Kat, it hurt. Vadeem rubbed his chest, feeling the knot of anguish tighten.
“We have a choice, Brothers and Sisters. When we walk in the darkness, we will stumble. But we can lift our faces to the light and trust in He who will never forsake. He who weeps.” Vadeem closed his eyes, hearing Pyotr’s sermon, trying to breathe past the wad of pain in his throat.
Faith destroys.
No, Faith is a gift. Faith starts with gratitude. Vadeem forced his gaze up, to the cross. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies, and whoever lives and believes in me will never die. The verse filled his chest, and found fertile soul. Hope could be found in the Savior’s face…not only hope, but joy. Eternal joy.
This was God’s glory. The defeat of death. Forever. A man who walked in the light would never know eternal defeat, despite the darkness around him. A man who walked in light radiated joy.
Like Kat. She knew what it meant to trust in God. Perhaps it made her foolish, but above all, Kat radiated joy. Vadeem winced, seeing for the first time indeed, that God had sent Kat to remind him of the Almighty’s constant love. A friend who never forsakes.
Maybe now was the time to walk in the light. He needed God now more than ever before. And a wise man considers his options.
Faith is a choice. Pyotr’s words resonated in the recesses of his mind.
Vadeem dropped to his knees, trembling. “God, Please, I’m begging you. Give me faith. Help me look to you for hope, for strength. I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve forsaken the healing and the comfort I could find, to embrace despair. Please forgive me.”
The book dropped onto the floor with a thud as Vadeem sunk his face in his hands. “I don’t know what to do? Help me find Kat. Please.”
The echo of his own desperate words in the conclave made him shudder. But in that moment, he drew breath, and it was not his own that filled his lungs. Supernatural, ethereal, and thick with hope. Vadeem gasped and put a hand to his chest. Tears glazed his eyes. Yes, this is what he’d missed. The presence of God, holding him up, helping him take
one step at a time.
He sucked in ragged breaths, the tight band of despair that had encircled his chest breaking, tearing, ripping to shreds. Vadeem’s chest expanded to breathe in grace. The lightness of forgiveness swept through him and he tingled down to his toes. Tears pushed into his eyes and his throat thickened at the immensity of the emotions swelling within. “Thank you,” he whispered, looking at the statue of his Savior. “Thank you for weeping, for sacrificing, for setting me free.”
He leaned forward, climbing to his feet and his hands fell on the book. Anton’s words whooshed through his mind. His light has illuminated my dark paths. He has set me free. Peace can be had for those who have faith. Yes, he understood those words. Vadeem’s heart thundered as he scanned through the pages for the passage, written by another, voicing Vadeem’s own joy.
July 1918
Banya with Timofea. I cleared my soul as we sat as brothers in the Lord. He understands. He is a good friend, and will help carry my burdens. He says God will find a way to keep His promise. I know it now to be true. I tucked my past into the darkness, then turned toward the light. I even found a verse to cling to. John 11:9 His light has illuminated my dark paths. He has set me free. Now, my prayer is that Timofea will keep his promise, in due time. Only God knows the future, and I am trusting in His word. Peace can be had for those who have faith.
He has set me free. Vadeem breathed deeply, feeling like he intimately knew this man, this ancestor of the woman he loved.
Kat. Wild, impulsive Kat, who could run like the wind and had an iron will to match his own. Quick-witted Kat, who could spot escape and nab it, like a rabbit. Kat, a woman who had come to Russia, armed only with a key and a picture, in search of her brave, quick-witted ancestor—an ancestor that knew what it was like to bear burdens, to be imprisoned in despair.
An ancestor who had been set free. John 11:9. Vadeem suddenly longed for a Bible. It only took a moment to find an ancient monastery text sitting on a shelf beside the altar. Vadeem flipped through the pages until he found the verse.
‘Jesus answered, Are there not twelve hours in the day? If any man walk in the day, he stumbleth not, because he seeth the light of this world’.
But Anton had a light. A light in the darkness.
Vadeem slowly stood, and turned. Banya with Timofea. Fulfill the promise. Whose promise? God’s or Anton’s? What light would Anton have seen in the darkness?
Vadeem stumbled out of the cave, into the moon-bathed cemetery, and knew.
-
“Don’t touch me.” Kat pushed her back into the seat, yanking her hair out of Grazovich’s slimy grip. She spit at him.
His face darkened.
She’d learned in basic self-defense training that a woman in danger should be as disgusting as possible in order to repulse her attacker.
She was ready to do just about anything, and the first thing wouldn’t be too difficult. Her stomach was already rolling.
She smiled, just barely.
Grazovich’s eyes narrowed.
Then, she saw him, exiting the chapel. Kat’s heart nearly leaped out of her chest with hope, delight, and not a little panic when Vadeem stepped out into the moonlight, the wind skimming his hair, his face to the heavens.
She gasped. Oh no.
At the sound, Grazovich turned. And saw her hero.
Her breath clogged in her chest when the terrorist said, “Let’s go for a little walk.”
-
Vadeem stumbled along the perimeter of the monastery walls, digging through his brain files for his research on the Pskov monastery. What had the monk said? It had been built in the fifth century, the cliffs and caves used as the first chapels. Timofea had loved the grottos, and spent much time here, preferring it to the monastery grounds. Vadeem scanned the ring of caves, dark mouths open without words. Anton had known Timofea well enough to take a banya with him. Shed his secrets. Vadeem closed the book, the passage already memorized. Banya was a place where men talked in low tones, under the cover of steam and a cathartic layer of sweat. In the early 1900s, where would the monks have built the banya? Somewhere outside the grounds, perhaps. Or in a cave? Vadeem scanned the grounds, the array of grottos that looped in a semi-circle along a jagged shoreline. A banya, in a cave would have ventilation, or a pipe of some sort.
Long since removed. . .
And a path that wound down to the river, perhaps. He started for the caves, then realized his mistake.
Timofea had helped carry Anton’s burdens. Could one of those burdens be the crest? Timofea had to be the key to the entire puzzle. He not only had the real key. . .but the crest as well.
Where would Timofea hide Anton’s most precious treasure?
Vadeem blew out a breath. He knew where he’d keep his treasure. Close. Close enough to keep his eyes on it. Where he should have kept Kat. Vadeem forced the thought away. Okay, Timofea, where would you hide a religious icon from the Communists?
His cell? Vadeem scanned the dark caves. Yes, Timofea had relished the caves. . .could he have been checking on the crest, keeping it tucked away all these years? But which cave?
I tucked my past into the darkness, then turned toward the light.
The light. The moon, the bright crest of the wee morning hours, blazed a glorious path from behind him, alighting the row of caves, like a spotlight. I have seen the light. It has illuminated my path. . .
Vadeem tucked the journal into his pocket, turned, took a guess, and strode toward a darkened cave, carrying a candle from the chapel. Please, Oh God.
The dark grotto mocked his assumptions as he stood in the lip of darkness, firelight pitifully striping the cave wall. Shallow and wide, the cave’s gloom left him cold and discouraged. Vadeem took a quick tour around and moved to the next one. Again, pitch darkness filled the well made by the spoon of God ages past.
He’d been hoping to find a swatch of light in the dark folds of the sandstone. Somewhere. Anywhere.
He searched each cave, praying he might find some clue to Anton’s cryptic words. He dragged his hands along the rough walls until they were dirty, nicked, and sore—searching for a crack, a hole where a monk might hide a priceless gem.
The moon’s power waned thin as Vadeem’s desperation grew. The futility of his efforts rose like the dust, mocking, choking him, until nothing but desperation drove him to the next dirty sandstone hole. His candle finally flickered out, leaving only his fear to direct his search.
The alcove pushed musty, dry dust into his lungs. The mouth was wide enough for a cot, perhaps even a table. But it tunneled back quickly into darkness. Keep your eyes on the light. Vadeem angled back, hope pressing him into the shadows. He squeezed between a pinch of rock, and his eyes made out a swath of moonlight filtering in through a hole in the sandstone roof.
Vadeem began feeling the walls of the grotto. Hard, jagged rock, grooves and curves, crevasses. Nothing big enough to hide a lock box, or a precious necklace. He worked his way farther back, feeling in turn each side, high and low. Nothing. Frustration pinched his nerves. The moon had begun to pale. Dawn wouldn’t be long behind. I tucked my past into the darkness, then turned toward the light. Vadeem stood in the wash of lunar light, looking up, through the crack. The moon hovered in the lightening magenta backdrop; a beacon of majesty, pointing to God’s ever presence, breaking through life’s darkest hour. Deliberately, Vadeem turned his back to it, and put his hands against the far wall.
He reached into a crack, nearly up to his armpit, and felt something solid. Metal. Wedged tight.
He plunged the other hand in. His cheek grazed the rock as he felt around in the furrow of shadow. Catching a fingernail, he wedged the tips of his fingers around something sharp and cold. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tugged. Grunts bounced against the grotto walls, but hope kept his fingers on the object, even when dirt came loose from the walls and sanded his eyes. He thought he felt a creature crawl up his arm under his coat sleeve, but kept at the task until. . .it budged. A
screech and then more tugs, past jagged rock. The skin scraped off the back of both his hands as Vadeem dragged the box out.
It grated against the rock as it released and fell into his arms. He cradled it appropriately, like Anton or even his faithful friend, Timofea, might have. A burden of incalculable wealth. A treasure that could redeem the life of Anton Klassen’s great-grandchild, a lady beyond worth. A lady used by God to remind Vadeem about the pearl of great price—salvation in Jesus Christ.
The breath whooshed out of Vadeem, and he realized he’d been holding it, counting his heartbeats. He set the box gently on the floor, nearly weak with relief. Fumbling for the key, he dropped it, then scraped it up, and fitted it in the gnarled lock.
It turned.
He opened the box, and inside found a dingy gray cloth. Slowing drawing it open, he could see, even in the milky moonlight, the dazzle of rubies, sapphires, and amethyst. He released his breath as he pulled it up by its golden chain.
The Crest of St. Basil. It glimmered, catching the moonlight, radiating mystery and awe. How had this jewel come into the possession of Anton Klassen and why had he chosen to hide it in a cleft of rock? What secrets had the walls of this cave heard as Anton spilled out his secret to the then-young Timofea? What images had that monk held onto until his deathbed?
The crest dangled in Vadeem’s grip, twisting slightly. It was everything he’d imagined, the fulfillment of every myth, the dazzling icon of faith and hope, once worn by Czar Nickolas, and every czar before him from the 13th century. The emblem of salvation.
But whose? A rush of indecision swept through Vadeem. He could surrender this treasure into the hands of a murderous smuggler and forfeit everything Anton Klassen, Timofea, and even Kat had suffered for. Or he could leave, now, with the crest tucked in his coat and run straight for Moscow, turning it over to the church and restoring the tradition, the glory for which it was made.
Ekaterina (Heirs of Anton) Page 22
