“Why not use the crypt?”
The burned face seemed to size the captain up, weighing words.
“He tried. There was someone waiting there.”
“Germans?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Can’t you guess?” Shifting in his chair, Kosta grimaced painfully. Whatever relief the wine had provided was fading. There was no morphine or anything else within reach that would stem the hurt of such burns. Then a lifetime of disfigurement. I will be doing him a favor, thought Elias.
“Why did you have to kill him?”
“I didn’t want to. I nearly had him turned around when my father came out of the crypt, with the painting. Mikalis understood at once. He fought my father for the icon. I tried to drag him off, but he began to shout. You must have heard him.”
“We were shooting; we heard nothing. But that didn’t matter. He had seen what you were up to, so you had to kill him.”
“The first blow was only to silence him.”
“It is a vicious kind of wound, usually fatal.”
“I had no time to think. Even then, he kept fighting. The flames were all around us. I had to strike him again. He fell down the stairs to the crypt, still cursing us.” Kosta’s gaze was almost reverent with the memory. “I thought he might live.”
“He did not.”
Kosta nodded, his expression as sad as if his own brother had died. What strange animals we are, thought Elias.
“How did you get out?”
“The fire was mostly out in front by then. We made a run for it, through the burning.”
Images came to the captain, less like conjuration than memory. He saw the wall of flame, death on this side, survival on the other, but at a cost.
“I pulled the counterpane off the altar and wrapped it around me,” Kosta continued. “Then I went first, my father just behind. There was a charred timber, and I fell.” His voice cracked. “My father…”
“Left you.”
“No, he tried to help me.”
“He left you.” The scene unspooled in Elias’ mind, a vision, clear and absolute. “Worse. He ran over your fallen body to safety.”
“No.” But the young man was overcome, shaking in grief and pain.
“He is a dog, Kosta, who would kill his own child for gold.”
“He pulled me from the flames.”
“After. After he had placed the icon away from the fire.”
“You saw?”
“No. Who tended your burns?”
“My aunt. She is a poor nurse, I think. The balm does no good. My flesh is fire.”
“She had no time. Your father sent you away, so that he might stay behind and bargain. But he miscalculated.”
“How is my father?”
“Such burns take long to heal, Kosta. May never heal. Have you seen yourself?”
“I have not tried to. I must be hideous. Ioannes will not look at me.”
The boy groaned at the mention of his name, tried to sit up, bent, and vomited. Only then did Elias snatch up the heavy pistol by the child’s side. He was growing forgetful; he would soon make a serious mistake.
“Look, my friend, your brother lives. For how long, I wonder?”
“That is in your hands, Captain. I know how you and your master like to play God.”
“What is between Dragoumis and your father?”
Kosta only smiled, a lopsided leer with no heart in it.
“Come now,” scoffed Elias. “Your father, at least, I understand. You have no reason to protect Dragoumis. Every reason to tell me the truth.”
“That is so, I suppose. Except for the pleasure of seeing you struggle in the dark. You two spend more time keeping secrets from one another than fighting. You are feeble men.”
“You want to watch the boy die before you?”
The burned man rocked in his chair, the agony of his dead flesh relentless now.
“You will not kill him, I know you.”
Elias looked at the child, who looked back with a stunned incomprehension. He would not kill Ioannes, though he had not been certain of that until Kosta spoke.
“How is my father?”
“Why should you care?”
“He is still my father.”
Perhaps this was the way. Kosta should have known that his father was dead by now, but every man had his blind spot. Elias looked for a place to sit, but there was no place.
“The Snake has him. He will die, unless I intervene. Which I will not do unless you tell me precisely what happened back there.”
“You know what happened. What do the details matter?”
“What part did Dragoumis play?”
“And how will that help my father? You would believe anything I told you now, me, a dying man. I could set the two of you against each other. To what end? What do I care?”
“The men follow me. I can protect your father.”
“They follow you, but they fear the Snake. They will not cross him. I do not think that you will cross him either.”
“You think I fear him?”
“No, my captain knows no fear. You are a slave to duty.” Kosta began to laugh, then flinched. “My God, it hurts. Why do you not shoot?”
“Tell me what I ask, damn you, or I will make it hurt worse.”
“The truth, yes, I will tell you the truth. Listen to me. Everything was my idea. The Snake knew nothing. My father cooperated only because I threatened him. I threatened to tell you all of his dark schemes. No, wait, this is better. He stole the icon to keep you from giving it to the Germans. He is a patriot, a hero even, my father. What do you think of that? Tell your master that story.”
The boy was only taunting him. He had pushed him in the wrong direction. Now Elias would have to use other methods, and his spirit sickened at the thought.
“Kosta, I will make you speak to me.”
“I have told you everything. I did it all, stole the icon, killed your hypocrite brother.”
“What did you say?”
“All priests are hypocrites, liars. Religion is a lie. You have told me so yourself.” The false smile was now pinned solidly on the burned mask. “I did not think you even liked your brother.”
“Bastard.”
“Truly. I thought you might be happy that I killed him.”
“Be silent, you bastard.” The captain squeezed the words out, barely able to speak, his entire body a clenched muscle.
“Why should I be? I am beyond the commands of men. I have nothing to fear, or to hide.” He took a deep breath. “I am damned, and I will see your bastard brother in hell, where he burns right now.”
The action was involuntary, instantaneous. The roar and flash filled the small chamber. Kosta’s head flew back and a bright mist sprayed the ancient wall behind him, like an abstract gloss to the three-quarters vanished image of the saint painted there. The ringing persisted long afterward in Elias’ ears. Days and weeks. The arm holding the hot pistol dropped to his side. He understood immediately that he had been played, had probably understood it before he fired. The two of them had conspired in this ritual of provocation and reaction, so that they each might avoid what must otherwise follow. Yet Elias could not help feeling made a fool of. He had learned little. Kosta died protecting a father who was already dead, and Fotis kept his secrets.
The captain lifted up the icon, too small and light to support its reputation, it seemed to him. A stream of daylight through the door struck the surface, setting the gold leaf ablaze. Out of the shadows, the eyes no longer accused but seemed more frightened or sad. Like a mother who knew her son was doomed. The two panels were indeed out of alignment, looking as if someone had dug at the seams on one side.
Was he really going to give it to Müller? His brother had died trying to save it; should he not try to honor that brave, futile action? What then, keep it? Fotis or Müller would pursue it wherever it went. And forty villagers would be shot. Then Mikalis truly would have died for nothing. No, the last good thing Elias could do was trade the work for those lives. And the guns, he must not forget the guns, the original purpose behind this madness.