Katerina had witnessed it all, but decided not to interfere and break whatever spell Aristo was temporarily under. She felt the tense moment and feared unpredictable consequences if she had cut the brain duel short.
‘Aristo, who is she?’
‘She is the Madame Marcquesa de Parmalanski, leader of the Ruinands.’
The Madame Marcquesa leaned closer to her companion to compensate for the height difference, her voice hushed, barely a whisper.
‘I have acquired a strange device, a cube from a member of the Order of Vlachernae. I want to know how it works. I could not power it up. I’ve tried everything I could think of, but it persistently remains a lifeless lump of crystal. I want to know how members of the Order travel in time and whether this cube is the key. And I want to know what kind of fuel it uses, because whatever it is, it’s nothing I or our specialists have seen before. Any ideas?’
‘Have you tried taking it to the wise men of the Tower?’
‘Those old hacks? Well, no, you know I don’t trust them enough to throw them. They spend their time poring over those ancient texts of theirs. They know nothing of the outside world or progress. They are dangerous recluses, charlatans, not worthy of reverence let alone any measure of respect. How they continue to hold sway over us is beyond me.’
A fellow Ruinand woman, companion in the ‘league of fine dark warriors’, standing just a few inches behind the Madame Marcquesa and very acute of hearing, flinched at her insolence. How careless and arrogant she is, the Ruinand woman thought. She should be struck down incurring as she did the wrath of the gods.
If only the sari-woman’s power was not so terrifying, she would have been chewed and unceremoniously spat out, the lurch. The Ruinand woman pondered this image and smiled to herself. The Madame Marcquesa’s companion continued his gentle interrogation to sate his curiosity.
‘Tell me, how do you know this icon is the real thing?’
‘Well, this icon has been handed down through my family for almost a hundred years.’
‘How did you get it?’
‘From a certain Malenca Pasha. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’ The Madame Marcquesa raised her eyebrows in an elegant challenge.
‘The name is vaguely familiar.’
‘For an avid pupil of history and politics you surprise me.’ The Madame Marcquesa could not resist testing her companion’s short temper.
Her companion read through her teasing ruse and did not rise to the challenge. ‘You were telling me about the icon’s authenticity.’
‘Yes, indeed. I was not absolutely sure. That’s why I had to have the other icon stolen from the Metropolitan. I had to know without any shadow of a doubt before I put my plan into action. And for that the real icon is the key. A dangling carrot, if you like, to trap my enemies. If they fall in my honey-trap then that would end this drawn-out war once and for all, in my favour.’
‘So which icon is the one up for auction?’
‘The real one of course.’
‘But why did you put the real icon up for auction? Aren’t you worried of losing it? Or are you going to pay for something that you had already? Either you are very smart or very stupid.’
‘Only you would be allowed to speak to me like that, father.’ Her irony almost formed icy particles in the air between them. ‘If anyone else dared they would have paid with their lives. That was a joke. What do you take me for? Naivety is not part of my vocabulary. But Elli Symitzis with all her power has no way of knowing that at first glance. There is a person who would know, but he has not been seen for years and nobody knows where he is.’ Her companion knew better than to ask and he kept his own counsel. Wise man. ‘I want to see who will bid for it, how far they will go. That will indicate who knows its true value. I do not plan to bid, no.
‘But whoever gets it will not have it for long, trust me. That icon will not leave this place in the winner’s hands. I have arranged a unique show for the benefit of all these honourable hypocrites of benefactors. Vultures, the lot of them. Taketh with one hand and giveth with the other. Ruthless in accumulating money and spending it. So generous in giving it away.’
Her companion saw the irony in her quoted principles, but said nothing. Obviously she was forgetting that one who is not without sin should not cast the first stone.
Everything was caught on camera of course as part of the extreme security measures and it would make interesting viewing for some people later on.
However, as walls were supposed to have ears, so it was that journalists were circling like discreet vultures ready to pounce, hoping to get snippets of gossip for their scandalous columns that crave to be the first to break great stories, forever seeking the big breakthrough, the highly potent high density seed or subject of a juicy scandal, “I’ objet du scandale”, the explosion of such a news object having the consequences of the equivalent effect of a “Big Bang”, they hope, always hope.
One of those paparazzi would inadvertently witness and overhear something that at the time would seem insignificant, but that would later come close to costing him his life and have seismic ramifications.
Against his colleagues’ and his editor’s advice he wrote an article about these extraordinary things he overheard from the conversations in the hall. But nobody believed him. He was ridiculed by colleagues, rivals and the public alike. He ended his days in a mental asylum.
‘Dear guests, please take your seats. The auction is about to begin. Firstly, I want to thank all of you who have very generously donated objects for today’s auction.’
The cornerstone and star of the auction was the Roswell Collection that led a bright spark at Malenks, the famous auction house, to use it to attract other valuable objects and organise one of the biggest events ever to take place in an auction room. Hushed silence fell on the hall.
Katerina turned to Aristo. ‘Aristo, will your mother be bidding?
‘No. But we will soon see who will.’
‘Lot 114, the icon of the birth of Christ, with a depiction of Jesus entering the Church of Ayia Sophia, a rare depiction indeed, never before or since painted. The icon is rumoured to have been hanging on the walls of the Imperial Palace of Vlachernae in Constantinople and had been missing since the looting of the city by the fourth crusade in 1204 A.D. It is believed to have ended up in Venice in the Doge’s Palace next to his throne. There is considerable interest in this item. We are starting the bid at eighty thousand US dollars. Do I hear…?’
The bid price rose to two hundred and fifty thousand… then three hundred thousand… three hundred and fifty thousand… before the gavel came down. An assistant whispered in the auctioneer’s ear.
‘Sold to La Ducesa de Mori Astir for six hundred thousand US dollars. Congratulations. I must confess that the price has exceeded our wildest expectations.’
La Ducesa smiled an enigmatic triumphant smile. Her biggest competitor in this bidding war was a rival Italian art collector who had successfully outbid her numerous times in the past. She was glad to have achieved a one up on him and given him a taste of his own medicine.
Her weakness of winning made her forget her mission, the reason she was there. It didn’t go through her mind at the time, but her ultimate mistress would be furious when she found out about this serious mishap, caused by having her instructions ignored.
Suddenly the alarm went off. The security measures were triggered and the steel rails came down trapping everybody inside the hall. The lights went off and all was dark apart from a series of red lights circling the hall just below the ceiling. There were screams and panic. Guests running for the exits suddenly had their escape routes barred by the security rails that blocked any hope of salvation.