“Just an idea. Could you do me a favour?”
“Of course.”
“These pictures that alarmed the director of your museum. In Charanis’s collection. Could you find out what they are?”
“A pleasure,” he said, looking at his watch. “Anything else?”
“I wouldn’t mind a decent photograph of this man as well. One which isn’t so hazy.”
Gyorgos smiled, and reached into his pocket. “Nothing easier,” he said handing over an envelope. Flavia opened it up. “If you meet him again, do let me know. We are very interested in him, you know.”
“I will.”
“Now I must go. It has been a delight meeting you, signorina.”
And then he left, leaving Flavia with the remains of the nuts and just enough champagne in the bottle for another glass. What the hell, she thought, and poured it out.
Buoyed up by a pep talk of thanks and encouragement over breakfast from Flavia—who thought she might start learning the business of man-management with an easy target—Argyll returned to do battle with the intricacies of medieval handwriting and the complexities of dog Latin in a more determined frame of mind than he had managed the previous day.
He had, after all, something to work on. Previously, all he had known about the icon was that it was old and eastern. Now, from Fostiropoulos via Flavia, he had a bit more focus. Byzantine icons. Those travelling scholars and exiles the records had referred to so elliptically; they were the place to start, he felt sure, especially as the reference to the plague the painting fended off placed its arrival in the middle fifteenth century.
Constantinople falls to the Ottoman empire, and those who get away on western ships do so at the last moment. They bring what they can with them. Many are given pensions by the pope, or sympathetic monarchs in the west, guilty at not having gone to the aid of the Byzantines before it was too late. Some plan to launch a counteroffensive against the infidel, and travel the world, begging for help. others realize it is all over, that all hope died when wave after wave of Turks swept through breaches and brought two thousand years of Roman history to a violent end. These souls live out their lives as best they can, teaching if they cannot abandon the Orthodox faith, or entering monasteries if they can. They could at least console themselves in their exile that it all ended courageously, and that the last emperor, Constantine, had lived and died in the finest traditions of Rome, leading his dwindling band of troops until he was cut down by the enemy, and his body so dismembered it was never identified.
It was a gripping and poignant story, and Argyll felt a faint ripple of pleasure at the prospect of getting to grips with even the smallest fragment of it. Some of these lost and shocked exiles came to the monastery of San Giovanni. He was prepared to bet that one of them brought the icon as well. But so what? Many of these people brought lots of booty with them; some of them almost shameful amounts, the boats stuffed with valuables when they could have brought out citizens who were left behind. What was one picture amongst hundreds? How did it connect the end of the second Rome, and those who wanted to raise the third back to its traditional place?
The vigil had grown greater overnight. The number of flowers and prayers tagged to the door had grown, so that scarcely any of the old wood could be seen for as high as an arm could reach. Instead of a small handful of people encamped outside the door of the church, there was now a couple of dozen, and the sleeping bags suggested they were serious. A surprising number of them were young, as well. Yesterday nearly all had been old women, brought by sentiment and a feeling that yet another part of their universe had been forcibly taken away from them. Now ten or fifteen were young, some with the intense air of theology students, others drifting Europeans in search of something and hoping to find it on the steps of this old monastery. Argyll talked to them for a few moments; one seemed conventional in religion, another talked vaguely but intensely about the Great Mother. Two at least had thought it was a good place to spend the night. All appeared to have passed by and sat down for reasons which even they did not understand. They seemed perfectly tranquil and certain about it all, but Argyll felt very uneasy. He noticed Signora Graziani sitting on her own, and said hello to her. She smiled at him, and seemed uninterested when he said that the police were still at work. She didn’t appear to think it was necessary for the police to do anything, but was grateful for their efforts.
A little unnerved, Argyll went into the monastery, to find that the members of the order were even more jittery than he was. They had divided into two camps; one group regarded the show of piety on the steps as a nuisance that would have to be endured until it faded away of its own accord. The others felt that the whole business was an absurd display of sentimentalism and were inclined to employ more positive action to shoo people away. Only Father Paul, in fact, seemed perfectly tranquil and even quite pleased at what was going on outside.
“It’s real,” he said softly as he stood by the gate and placidly regarded the group on the steps outside. “This is how great movements have started, from simple, popular piety. Do you know, I think I am the only person here to have considered the possibility that this might be the work of God? Don’t you think that is strange?”
“I suppose it is. I don’t really know. I was brought up an Anglican; I’ve never really had much to do with religion.”
Father Paul smiled at what he took to be a joke, closed the door and made sure that Argyll had everything he wanted.
“I suggested that maybe the doors of the church should be flung open, to allow people inside in case it rains,” he said as he prepared to go off. “The idea was turned down for fear of disturbing Mr Menzies.” He shook his head and left Argyll to his labours.
The file was just as thick, and almost as impenetrable; with the sort of intense concentration that ultimately produces a raging headache, Argyll laboured in silence, translating, reading, thinking and noting. At least he made progress. in 1454, the monastery admitted two people; both, irritatingly if predictably, took new names for the occasion—Brother Felix and Brother Angelus—and neither was referred to by any other name. But, given the date, and the fact that there was a note that baptism was especially waived for them, it was reasonable to assume that they were fresh off the boat from the ruins of Constantinople, especially as one was in late middle age, and the other was described as a widower.
So, two new monks, and it would surely have been unusual for them not to have made the usual contribution to the order’s coffers when admitted. Where, Argyll thought, was the ledger of deeds and goods? And had they brought that icon, anyway? He leaned back in his chair and tapped his teeth with the end of his pencil, then smiled broadly. Like a crossword puzzle, he thought. Obvious when you know the answer. He bent over and crossed Brother Felix from the list. No point worrying about him. The picture had been brought by an angel, and here was Brother Angel himself, in the right place at the right moment. You could almost hear the wings flapping.
So, Brother Angel, he thought. Where did you get this fine piece of work? Did you pick it up on the way to the port, looting it from some church as it went up in flames and you dodged through the back streets to avoid the enemy soldiers? Was it an old family heirloom you’d sent on ahead, realizing disaster was looming? Did you steal it even from one of your fellow exiles so you could buy your way into a comfortable monastery when you reached journey’s end? What sort of person were you? Priest, nobleman or simple subject?
All good questions, which the documents in front of him did not answer. He didn’t even know who had arranged the collection. A strange assemblage it was, as well, different sorts of papers, dating from the fifteenth to the eighteenth centuries, brought together without rhyme or reason. But some body, and not too long ago, had collected them. Father Charles, perhaps, before he’d taken to running the order. If it had been him, he had then locked them all away in this special file, and allowed no one to see them. There seemed little point; there was nothing even remotely terrible, or even interesting, so far.