‘Bibliotheka,’ the monk said, with a hint of pride in his voice. Silence followed as the two visitors stared in dismay at the shelves Demetrios had revealed. One of the books, disturbed by the monk thrusting aside the curtain, fell sideways on its shelf. Small clouds of dust rose upwards.
‘This is the library we have come so far to see?’ Adam asked eventually. He spoke to Rallis with a hint of reproach as if the Greek was solely responsible for the reputation the monastery had gained. The lawyer looked abashed.
‘Many scholars I know in Athens tell me that Agios Andreas has very interesting books in its possession.’
‘Your Athenian friends must have been misinformed.’
‘Perhaps the books are more valuable than they seem.’
Adam reached out and took a volume at random from the middle shelf.
‘The Divine Liturgy of St John Chrysostom.’
He put the book back in its place and extracted another.
‘St Basil on the workings of the Holy Spirit. These are the sort of works we could find in many eastern monasteries, Rallis,’ he said, deeply downcast. ‘I doubt very much there is anything here for us.’
Demetrios had been standing by the library, beaming with pleasure and taking deep breaths, as if intending to inhale an aroma of scholarship that clung to the books. Now he sensed the disappointment of his visitors. He put a hand on Adam’s arm and began to speak to him with great earnestness.
‘Rallis, I cannot understand the Greek our friend here speaks. I would be most grateful if you would translate for me.’
‘He is telling you that you are not the only Englishman to see the library. Another of your countrymen came here last year.’
‘He must have been as disappointed as we have been, then.’
‘No, the other Englishman liked very much what he saw in the library.’
‘Did he, indeed? He is certain the visitor was English?’ Adam asked, his interest now aroused. ‘Perhaps he knew only that he came from the West.’
Rallis conferred with the monk once again.
‘The man was most definitely English. He spoke English. And he behaved all the time as if the monastery belonged to him.’
The Greek’s face was impassive as he translated.
‘Brother Demetrios is also telling me that he was once English himself.’
‘Was he, by Jove?’ Adam said. He looked at the bearded and bedraggled monk who grinned at him, revealing a mouthful of blackened teeth. ‘But he is no longer?’
The monk spoke rapidly to Rallis. Adam could make out only a handful of Greek words and could not connect them into any meaningful sentence.
‘He was born in Cephalonia, he says. The English ruled there when he was born but they gave the island back to the Greeks. He likes to be Greek now but sometimes he wishes he still was English.’
The monk nodded as if in vigorous approval of the precision of Rallis’s translation and then began to speak again.
‘There is another library which the monks keep hidden,’ Rallis said after Demetrios had finished. ‘But for English travellers he opens it. Because he remembers being English himself. He opened it for the Englishman last year. He is asking if you also would like to see this hidden library.’
Adam could scarcely contain his delight at this information. ‘I rather think I would,’ he said. He bowed his head several times in Brother Demetrios’s direction and was rewarded with another black-toothed grin. The monk moved to the large wooden cupboard in the corner of the room and opened its door. Inside, was a second door which he threw back to reveal a small chamber cut into the thick stone walls. Shelves had been fitted round the chamber and sitting on them were dozens of musty volumes.
‘Holy books,’ said Demetrios in English.
Adam began to examine them. Clouds of dust arose as he picked each book from the shelf. On first inspection, most seemed as commonplace as the ones in the outer room. Gospels and liturgies by the score. Works by long-dead Orthodox theologians. Editions of Greek classics that would have been welcome enough additions to college libraries back in Cambridge but hardly worth the trouble of travelling most of the way across Europe to consult. Adam continued to feel that only disappointment awaited them but he moved on into the dark recesses of the hidden chamber. Demetrios, who had left them briefly, returned with a lantern which lit up the furthest shelves. Beyond the last of the printed books were what looked to be the few bound manuscripts the monastery possessed. As Adam moved his hand to reach for them, the old monk spoke.
‘Those are the ones the English always like,’ Rallis translated. ‘The other Englishman wanted to buy one of them.’
‘Did they sell it to him?’ Adam asked anxiously. The other Englishman, he felt certain, could only be Creech. The man with the crescent scar had been asking in Athens about travelling to the monasteries. He must have succeeded in doing so. He had found the manuscript he had been seeking. If he had been able to buy it, their own journey would be in vain.
Rallis spoke quickly to the monk, who sounded indignant as he replied.
‘No, they did not sell to him. There is not enough gold in the whole of the country to buy any of the holy books.’
‘This one is not very holy,’ Adam said, examining one of the more ancient-looking manuscripts. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, it is a collection of poems by Anacreon. It is probably just as well that the monks choose not to read this.’
‘Some of the caloyeri would not be able to read it, even should they wish to do so. They are very close to illiterate.’
‘Well, that would save their blushes. Anacreon on drinking, they might like. But Anacreon on women might be rather strong meat for them.’
Adam continued to root through the volumes on the innermost shelves, picking up the occasional one and turning the pages swiftly. The smell of long-neglected literature hung in the air. Demetrios’s hidden cubicle was not, he thought, so dissimilar to some of the darker corners of a college library back in Cambridge.
‘Which was the manuscript the other Englishman wanted to buy?’ he asked.
Rallis spoke again to the monk.
‘It is the one by your left hand. The small one bound in black leather.’
Adam took hold of the volume indicated and carefully opened it.
‘It is written on vellum,’ he said.
‘Are they not all written on vellum?’
‘The majority will probably be paper. Vellum manuscripts will, I assume, be the oldest.’
‘Is it the one which we seek?’ The lawyer’s voice was as hushed as if he was in the monastery’s church.
Adam turned the leaves of the manuscript one by one. He blew gently on one of them and a small cloud of dust particles rose into the air.
‘Adam, is it the book we have come for?’ Rallis sounded as if he was struggling to maintain his usual calm.
In reply, Adam held out the manuscript, open at the page on which he had blown. He pointed to the Greek lettering inscribed on it hundreds of years earlier. The ink was fading but the letters were still clear and legible. He indicated one of the words at the top of the page.
‘ “Euphorion”,’ he said in a hushed voice. ‘Unless my ability to decipher Greek has deserted me entirely, that word is Euphorion.’
‘It is,’ Rallis replied. ‘And there beneath it is the word “Periegesis”. There can be no doubt about it. This is the missing manuscript of Euphorion’s travels.’
The two men looked at one another with poorly suppressed excitement. For a moment, neither man could think of anything further to say.