‘But there are young novices, are there not? When I was bundled from the net I saw one lad standing behind the monks. He looked no more than twelve.’
‘Some of the young boys from the village come up to the monastery to learn to read and write. They are the servants of the caloyeri. He must have been one of those.’
One of the monks had approached them and was trying shyly to attract their attention. He spoke to the lawyer, his words a jumble of half-familiar Greek words uttered so swiftly and in such a marked accent that Adam was unable to follow them. Rallis, it seemed, had no such problem.
‘His name is Theophanes,’ he interpreted for Adam. ‘He will show you and Mr Quint and the professor to rooms where you can rest.’
Theophanes beckoned to Adam and his companions, who had both been engaged in peering over the monastery’s perimeter wall at the plain beneath. Leaving the lawyer, the three men followed the monk through an arched opening into one of the buildings off the courtyard. A short flight of stone steps led upwards, which through the centuries had been worn away by the feet of generation after generation of long-departed monks. As they began to climb it, Fields gave a short cry and fell to his knees. Quint, following close behind, nearly tumbled over him. The professor peered downwards in the gloomy light of the stairwell.
‘Most interesting, most interesting,’ he said, removing his glasses and crouching even lower to examine one of the steps.
Brother Theophanes had stopped when Fields did and was looking down at him with polite puzzlement. Adam smiled at the monk as if to suggest that the professor’s action was odd but not entirely unexpected.
Fields struggled to his feet. ‘Fascinating, Adam, simply fascinating. It is a burial stele. I can make out the words “Attyla, daughter of Eurypothus”.’
‘How did it come to be here?’
‘I have no idea. I can only presume that the monks in the Middle Ages, when they were building this place, brought it up from the plain. I must look at the other steps.’
Adam glanced at the monk, who was wearing the bemused expression of a courteous man faced by the inexplicable behaviour of foreigners.
‘I think that task must be postponed a while, Professor. Our host is patient but we cannot keep him waiting for too long.’
‘Ah, of course, you are right.’ Fields was unmistakably disappointed but he waved his hand to Theophanes to indicate that he was ready to move on. ‘Another time, perhaps, another time.’
As midnight passed, Quint and Adam prepared for a nocturnal excursion. Brother Theophanes had led the travellers to the sparely furnished stone cells which were the monastery’s guest rooms. Adam had explained to their host that they were weary and wished to rest. They required no food. They needed only to sleep. The day was drawing to an end and darkness had already fallen. The monk, accustomed to retiring early to bed himself, had seemed to understand. Hand on his heart, he had bowed and left them. After a little conversation, the professor, Quint and Adam had gone their several ways to their own rooms. Some hours later, the manservant, obeying whispered instructions he had been given earlier, had tapped on his master’s door. Now the two of them stood in Adam’s room, ears cocked for the sounds of other people moving about, and prepared to reconnoitre the monastery.
‘We must not spend too long in exploration,’ Adam said. ‘But I cannot resist the temptation to escape the eagle-eyed scrutiny of the monks and look at the place myself.’
‘Ain’t some of these bearded buggers going to be still awake?’
‘They will all rise in the night at least once to perform their devotions. Probably several times. But they will be asleep now. I think we have an hour or two in which to investigate the monastery. Lead on, Quint.’
The manservant opened the door and peered out.
‘What can you see?’ Adam asked.
‘Sod all. It’s as black as Newgate’s knocker out there.’
‘There will be light in the courtyard. Light from the moon. Let us take candles for the corridors.’
Adam crossed the room and took the candles from the two iron sconces attached to the far wall. He handed one to Quint and the two men crept furtively into the passageway outside.
‘Which way?’ Quint hissed.
His master motioned to the left and they began to shuffle in that direction. They passed the doors to other rooms and then came to the top of the flight of stone steps they had ascended earlier in the day. Even with the light from the candles, they found it difficult to see where they were going and Quint, in the lead, nearly stumbled and fell before he realised where he was. He cursed briefly and began to edge down the stairs. At the bottom, the archway opened onto the courtyard, which as Adam had predicted was lit by the moon. Quint cupped his hand protectively round the flame of the candle but the night was so still that he had scarcely need to do so.
‘Through the archway, Quint,’ Adam whispered. ‘Keep moving to the left. Let us see what other buildings face onto the court.’
The servant made his way through the next arched doorway, his master close behind him. They found themselves in what was clearly a chapel. It was tiny, only a few yards square, but its walls and roof were covered in paintings. In the flickering light of the candles, Adam could make out the figure of Christ in majesty, surrounded by what were, he guessed, images of the saints. Peering more closely, he could just see the Greek lettering that identified them all. Even in the poor light, the rich colours the painter had applied three centuries earlier still glowed. One saint had a model of a church in his hand and was holding it out as if inviting the viewer to admire its architecture. As Adam turned to the left, an image of the Virgin and Child swam into view, the pudgy infant grasping the middle finger of its mother’s hand. She stared serenely into the middle distance. Fields would claim these paintings were nothing but primitive daubs, he thought, and yet there was something about them that held the attention. Numinous and otherworldly, they lodged themselves in the imagination.
A smell of incense percolated through the chapel. Adam moved his candle again to look at the next wall. Here the painting appeared to depict the martyrdom of two saints. On the left of the picture, a man hung upside down from a gallows while another, not much more than a boy, was stabbing him in the neck. Blood was dripping to the ground. To the right a gridiron stood over open flames and another saint, recognisable by his halo, was strapped to it. Given his circumstances, he seemed to be remarkably cheerful. There was even the slightest hint of a forgiving smile on his face, as if he pitied his tormentors and wished he could point out to them the uselessness of torturing one of God’s elect.
The last of the paintings the candles revealed before the two men turned and left the chapel was the pièce de résistance. It was a depiction of the Last Judgement. At the bottom a huge and hideous devil was sitting in a pool of fire and gnawing upon the bodies of several unfortunates. Around him capered a troop of merry imps armed with tiny tridents who prodded the damned as they milled aimlessly around the flames of hell. Up above sat the souls of the blessed, appearing unsurprisingly smug.
‘Look at them little bastards with the forks,’ Quint whispered. ‘They’re ’appy as pigs in shit.’
‘They do look as if they are enjoying their work, don’t they?’ Adam agreed. ‘But we cannot stay to admire their devotion to duty. We must move on.’
They left the chapel and entered once again the small, paved courtyard which looked to be the centre of the monastery. In the dim light from the half-moon they could now make out two cypress trees in the far corner. Two more arched stone doorways opened off the courtyard. Quint looked briefly into the first one they approached.