Sean noted that some of the construction seemed more recent than the date their Arab friend had given. “It looks like some of this was built later than 642.”
Jabez nodded. “The original chapel was built in that year. More was added, as we see it now, in the mid-17th century.”
“How do you know so much about this place?” Firth chimed into the conversation with his usual, snide demeanor.
The Arab stopped just short of the entryway and spun around. A bearded priest in dark robes and black shoes stood under the arch near the doorway, smiling at the visitors as they approached.
“In the thousands of years since the ark’s disappearance, there have been but a handful of people who sought to uncover its location. In between those few travelers, it can become quite boring. So, we study.” There was a glimmer in his eye that told Sean the man was attempting humor. Though, Firth didn’t really appreciate it.
Sean burst out laughing for a few seconds while Adriana and Firth watched on with rapt curiosity.
A moment later, Jabez was laughing too, and grabbed the professor on the shoulder. “Of course I am joking, Doctor. We make it our business to learn as much as we can about this region and surrounding areas. It is part of our calling.”
“And here I thought you were just nomadic assassins,” Firth said sardonically.
Jabez’s laughter ceased and his face became serious again. “We are that when necessity requires it.” He turned around and stalked towards the priest who had opened his arms in greeting.
Firth glanced at Sean, who shrugged off the comment. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Professor,” he added and followed just behind their Arab guide. “He’s helping us. And try and remember, you could be dead right now if we hadn’t come by your house. So, try and lighten up a little.” Firth stopped in his tracks, briefly appearing insulted.
He thought for a moment before following Adriana to the threshold of the chapel.
Jabez introduced them all to the still-smiling priest, who now had his hands folded behind his back. His name was Sarmen Ovesian. Jabez said that he had been at the monastery for over twenty years. Sarmen had come to serve in the ministry as a young man of only 16 years. He was now nearly forty and had specks of gray in his thin, black hair. A life of service had suited him based on the smile on his face.
“Welcome to Khor Virap,” he said in thickly accented English. “It is a rare pleasure to have visitors this time of year. Please, follow me in out of the cold.”
Sarmen led the way through the dark wooden door and into the sanctuary of the little chapel. The expanse of the room was fairly small with only a few rows of pews on either side of the aisle. From front to back, the sanctuary only stretched about thirty to forty feet. Dark walls were dotted with candle sconces, dripping with wax. The light from the tiny flames flickered against the stone and some ancient paintings of saints, priests, and patriarchs, just as Sean imagined it would have centuries before. The altar was a simple white stand draped with red velvet cloth. Matching material hung from the wall behind the altar in two places. It was much different than many of the flamboyant cathedrals that dotted the European landscape.
After heads spun around for a moment, taking in the sanctuary, the priest ushered them towards a door just off to the right of the altar. “Through here is where you will find what you are looking for,” he explained.
They passed through opening into a room that was much smaller. It was a tiny alcove, lit only by a few candles on the floor. There were a few crosses painted in gold standing against the walls. What lay in the middle of the room, though, was what really caught their attention. In the center of the floor, an iron set of steps descended into the ground through a hole about three feet wide.
Sean stared, wide-eyed at the depression. “So this is the pit,” he said, more statement than question.
The priest nodded. “Gregory spent thirteen years of his life down in that place, with very little food or water. Only divine power could have sustained him for that long.”
Sarmen’s words hung in the cool, musty air. It would have been a living nightmare to be kept prisoner in such a place. There were no sources of natural light, just complete and utter darkness, twenty-four hours, seven days a week. In the ancient world, there weren’t many things worse than being kept in a dungeon. This pit, however, was one of those worse things.
Standing over the cavity, Sean gazed down into the darkness. There was a faint shimmering light mixing with a steadier, whitish light at the bottom of the steep steps.
“We burn candles to honor Saint Gregory,” the priest explained. “There is also a light bulb to provide better illumination. Please, you may take as long as you like to look around. I have a few other tasks I must attend to.” He smiled and motioned for Sean to go ahead and climb down the steps. Sarmen’s flowing robes followed him out of the alcove and back into the sanctuary in dramatic fashion.
Sean was dubious. “He’s just going to leave us here?” he asked Jabez.
“Sarmen is a very trusting person. And he is especially sympathetic to the brotherhood.” The Arab stepped past Sean and began climbing down the almost ladder-like steps, disappearing beneath the floor.
Sean twitched his head to the side for a second. The answer was good enough for him, so he followed Jabez down into the hole. The ladder-like staircase dropped almost straight down for about twenty feet then cut off at an angle the rest of the way down until it reached the floor. The vertical passage also became narrower below the mouth, slimming down to a two foot wide cubed shaft.
In the bottom of the pit, it took a few moments for everyone’s eyes to adjust to the darkness, even with the light the solitary bulb was putting out. In a small, arched recession cut into the wall, a painting of Saint Gregory stood alone.
Firth examined the canvas for a few seconds. “This painting is around four hundred years old, he declared in shock. “It should be in a museum, not down here.”
Sean wasn’t about to get in an argument about where the artwork should be. It belonged to the monks, and they could do with it as they pleased. Though, he was somewhat distressed over the graffiti that lingered on the rock above the painting’s alcove. It was a wonder the canvas had never been tampered with.
The pit had been carelessly hewn out of the mountain in some places, but braced with large blocks of stone and mortar in others. Whoever had done it wasn’t concerned with aesthetics. This place was meant to be a place of torture and death. The walls had become blackened over the years, though there were still flecks of white here and there displaying the original color of the rock. The hard floor was jagged and uneven with a coating of dirt over the top of it. Sean had expected it to smell worse than it did. But the stench of the ages had worn away. He imagined when the place had been transformed from a prison to a sacred site, some cleaning must have occurred.
“It is hard to believe someone lived down here for thirteen years,” Adriana commented reverently as she gazed around at the dismal setting. Her voice hummed off the rock walls.
Jabez agreed. “It was a difficult trial, for certain. And yet, after he was released from it, he ministered to the man who put him here. Above that, Gregory served the king for the rest of his days. I do not know many men…” he corrected himself for Adriana, “people who would do something like that after being so poorly treated.”
The portrait of Saint Gregory stood quietly off to the side in its little archway. He was adorned in priestly garments and a miter, standard for someone in the employ of the church in those days.
Even Dr. Firth seemed to be impressed by the gravity of such a tortured existence. He crossed his arms and rubbed his stubbled face with one hand, wiping his nose a little as he did. “I couldn’t imagine living in this place for a month, one year, much less thirteen.”