The Lost Throne

38

The library at Great Metéoron was rarely seen by anyone outside the monastic order. Its books and manuscripts, some of which were over a thousand years old, were far too valuable to be touched by the general public. In fact, many of the earliest volumes were so delicate they were accessible only to a chosen few.

One of those monks was Theodore. He had been trained in archival science and knew the proper way to handle ancient documents. Although a lack of funding prevented the monastery from building a climate-controlled facility, they took pride in their preservation techniques, locking away their most valuable books in a hidden room that was properly ventilated.

Joseph, the fair-haired monk, was not permitted to enter the library. He knocked five times on its thick wooden door and waited for it to be opened from the inside. A few minutes passed before anyone responded. The inner locks clicked, then Theodore pulled the door toward him using his body weight and momentum. Inch by inch, the portal swung open. As it did, the metal hinges squealed, echoing through the stone corridor like a woman’s scream.

“That will be all,” Theodore said.

Without saying a word, Joseph nodded. Then he turned and walked away.

“Please, come in.”

Dial went in first, followed by Andropoulos. Both of them glanced around the library, not sure what to expect. Neither of them was disappointed.

All the walls were lined with shelves, and all the shelves were lined with books. Hundreds of antique codices, manuscripts, and documents. All of them locked behind black metal bars. A carved wooden desk and three matching chairs sat in the middle of the floor. A simple chandelier hung above them, casting light in all directions.

“May I?” asked Dial as he gestured toward the shelves on the left.

“Of course.”

Theodore stepped aside. He was wearing the same cassock and cap as the day before, yet because of the bags under his eyes, he looked as though he had aged several years since Dial had seen him last. He had spent half the night doing research, hoping to learn more about the secret tunnel and the artwork at Holy Trinity.

“Our library is the finest in central Greece.”

Dial tilted his head to the side, trying to read some of the ancient titles. All of them were written in languages that he couldn’t decipher. “How did you acquire the books?”

“Great Metéoron was blessed by good fortune. A Serbian ruler named Simeon Uroš gave us a large endowment in the mid-fourteenth century. It allowed us to build the original katholikón and expand our cloisters. Eventually, his son, John Uroš, joined our order. He took the name Iosaph and ran our monastery for many years. His wealth and guidance helped us persevere.”

“And the books?”

“Some were donated. Some were bought. Some were written here.”

“Really? What type of books did your brethren write?”

Slipping a pair of gloves on to protect the ancient relics, Theodore walked to the front corner of the room. With a set of brass keys, he unlocked the metal cage and removed a single book. It was nearly six inches thick and covered in tan-colored goatskin. He carried it to the wooden desk and carefully laid it open. “This is one of our recent volumes. It is less than a century old. Yet it reveals the quality of our bookmaking.”

Dial and Andropoulos leaned closer, both of them anxious to inspect it.

Even though it was written in Greek, Dial was overwhelmed by its beauty. The pages were filled with the most elegant calligraphy he had ever seen. Words flowed into one another like waves on the sea. The margins were illustrated in bold, bright colors — images that were so detailed, so transcendent, that Dial was able to understand the story without reading it.

“The birth of Christ,” he said. “It’s magnificent.”

Theodore nodded. “Pride is discouraged by our order. Yet it is hard not to be proud.”

Dial gestured toward the shelves. “How many of these books were made here?”

“Many,” he said cryptically. “Centuries ago, every book of significance was either written in monasteries or protected by them. Our library has volumes on virtually every field: history, alchemy, philosophy, grammar, politics.”

“And religion. Don’t forget religion.”

Theodore nodded. “We never forget religion.”

Dial laughed as he walked to the right-hand side of the room. Andropoulos followed closely, browsing the bookcases for anything that looked out of place. As a native speaker, he was able to read most of the titles. Occasionally, for Dial’s benefit, he translated their names aloud. But nothing stood out to either of them. No volumes on war or weaponry — other than some Grecian classics that were available in most libraries. Books like the Odyssey and the Iliad.

“So,” Dial said when he was tired of browsing, “what did you learn about the tunnel?”

Theodore slid behind the desk and took a seat. He motioned for Dial and Andropoulos to sit in the two chairs across from him. “Regrettably, not much.”

“Really? With all these books, I figured you’d find something of value. Didn’t you say the entire history of Metéora was chronicled here?”

“Yes, I did.”

Dial shook his head and grimaced. “I don’t know about you, but I find it odd that something as elaborate as that tunnel is not mentioned in any of these volumes. In fact, I’d be tempted to go one step further. I might even use the word unlikely.”

Theodore said nothing. He simply folded his hands on the desk in front of him and returned Dial’s stare. Unfortunately, because of the monk’s beard, Dial found it difficult to read his facial expressions. Was he smirking? Or grinning? Or gritting his teeth? Dial couldn’t tell. All he could do was study Theodore’s eyes, hoping to find a clue as to what he was thinking.

“Marcus,” Dial said, as he started to stand, “are you ready to go?”

Andropoulos glanced at him, temporarily confused. “We’re leaving?”

“The library, yes. The grounds, no. This monastery is filled with potential witnesses. Let’s go pester some.”

Andropoulos nodded in understanding. He knew what Dial was doing and was anxious to play along. “Should I call the station? I can get some reinforcements.”

“Let’s start with five. Make sure they bring dinner. We might be here awhile.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

In unison, the two of them headed toward the door. They made it halfway across the room before Theodore cleared his throat. Dial tried not to grin as he stopped in his tracks.

“Yes?” Dial said over his shoulder.

“Sometimes, more can be learned by what is missing than what is found.”

He refused to turn around. “Meaning?”

“Please have a seat,” the monk implored. “There is something I must show you.”

Andropoulos glanced at Dial, who nodded his approval. The two of them returned to their chairs while Theodore fetched a book from the back corner of the room, where some of the shelves were dotted with old black-and-white photographs of monks posing on the grounds. None of them smiling. Just standing there as if it were torture. Dial knew that feeling. A similar photo used to hang on his parents’ wall. It documented the day he graduated from college. It was a proud moment for his family, so he willingly stood there and let them take picture after picture to commemorate the occasion. But he sure as hell hadn’t been happy about it.

“Who are they?” Dial asked, pointing at the photographs. As far as he could see, it was the only section of the room that had any personal items.

Theodore replied as he carried a single book back to the desk. “They are monks who lived at Metéora. All have since moved on.”

“Moved on as in transferred, or moved on as in dead?”

“A little of both.”

“Why are the pictures kept in that corner section?”

“It’s where our historical records are stored. The photographs are part of our history.”

Dial nodded. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

Theodore said nothing.

“So,” Dial continued, “what did you want us to see? Or not see, as the case may be?”

“The history of Holy Trinity,” said the monk as he carefully opened the book.

Its cover was hard ornamental leather, dark brown in color. An Orthodox cross had been embossed on the front. It stood a quarter-inch higher than the rest of the leather. Tiny brass studs had been inserted into all four corners of the front and back, which lifted the book off flat surfaces, protecting it from dust or spills. The spine was etched with rustic gold, the same color as the outer edge of the pages. They glistened under the light of the chandelier.

“Over the centuries,” he said as he turned the pages, “my brethren have documented every significant moment at Holy Trinity. This includes all new construction. Whenever the monastery expanded, so did this book.”

“And you’ve done this for every monastery?”

Theodore nodded. “We chronicle the past to enrich the future.”

“That’s very noble of you. But unless I’m missing something, your brethren weren’t very thorough. If they had been, they would’ve noticed the tunnel that I found.”

“It isn’t you who is missing something. It is this volume.” Theodore turned it toward Dial and Andropoulos so they could see it better. “Pages have been taken.”

Dial stood up. “How do you know?”

The monk ran his gloved finger down the center crease of the book. A section had been removed, obvious from the torn fragments that still remained. “I do not know who and I do not know when, but someone butchered this book as they butchered my brothers.”

Dial glanced at the monk and saw fire in his eyes. They were like two burning embers. Considering the lack of emotions that most of his brethren had shown, it was a surprising display of passion. Still, something about it seemed strange. Unless Dial was mistaken, the rage had surfaced over the mutilation of the book, not the execution of the monks. Which was eerily similar to Joseph’s reaction earlier in the day. He had practically spat venom when Dial cursed inside the katholikón, plus he had been emotional over the painting on the ceiling. However, he had barely blinked an eye over the death of the abbot or the caretaker of Holy Trinity — two men he knew.

Dial wasn’t sure why, but something was seriously wrong with their priorities.

Andropoulos asked, “Is this the only book that has been vandalized?”

The monk shrugged, visibly upset. “It is too early to tell. I will know more later.”

Dial nodded as he walked over to the corner where the historical records were kept. He wasn’t concerned about the books on the other shelves — the ones about grammar, alchemy, and religion. His main concern was the history of Metéora. If Holy Trinity had a secret tunnel, maybe the other monasteries did as well. Or something similar. “Did you check any of these?”

“They were the first ones I inspected.”

“And?”

“I found nothing wrong.”

Dial looked through the iron bars that protected this section. The bars were solid and the locks were unharmed. There was an open slot on the third shelf from the top. It was where Holy Trinity had been pulled by Theodore. All the surrounding titles were written in Greek, which prevented Dial from reading them. But he noticed all of them had been bound in the same ornamental leather as Holy Trinity. He counted twenty-three volumes. Twenty-four, if he included the one on the desk. That was the original number of monasteries at Metéora.

That meant none of the other journals had been stolen.

Frustrated, Dial looked at the other shelves, hoping to find anything that might help his case. His eyes were immediately drawn to one black-and-white photograph. It featured seven monks standing on the balcony of Holy Trinity. The distant valley could be seen behind them, although much of it was blocked by the tall caps that they wore. Focusing on their faces, Dial tried to imagine what they looked like behind their beards. Remarkably, all of the monks looked different, a diverse mix of facial features that could best be explained by geography.

Dial had traveled enough in his lifetime to recognize ethnic features in certain people. Whether it was the shape of their eyes, the slant of their brow, or the curve of their mouth, he was often able to guess where people were from. And these men were not from the same country. They looked too dissimilar to be from the same regional gene pool.

“Theodore,” Dial said, pointing, “may I see this photograph?”

The monk nodded and walked toward the corner shelf. With his key, he undid the latch and reached inside the case. The picture was displayed in a polished brass frame. He grabbed it and showed it to Dial. “That was taken decades ago. I would guess forty years or so.”

Dial did the math in his head and came up with a date. “Who were they?”

“I am not sure. That picture is older than I.”

Dial grunted. “I wish I could say the same.”

“I know I can,” Andropoulos said from his chair.

Dial sneered at the young cop. “I might be old, but at least I’m on my feet and working.”

Andropoulos got the hint and decided to search the library for clues.

Dial returned his attention to the picture. The moment he did, his eyes locked on the young monk in the middle of the back row. A wave of recognition swept over him. It was so strong that a gasp emerged from his lips. “Holy shit.”

Theodore frowned at the profanity.

“Sorry,” Dial said as he pointed at the picture. “But I know that man.”

Andropoulos heard the comment from across the room. “You know who?”

Dial tapped on the picture’s glass. “He’s several years younger, but I’d recognize him anywhere. That’s Nicolas, the old monk from Holy Trinity.”

“You’re sure of this?” asked Theodore.

“I’m positive.”

Theodore considered this information as he walked toward the desk. With the picture in his gloved hands, he carefully removed the bottom of the brass frame and pulled the photograph out. He flipped it over and laid it flat on the desk. Dial and Andropoulos leaned forward as the monk silently translated the caption on the back. It was written in light pencil.

“You are right,” the monk said. “His name is Nicolas. He once lived at Holy Trinity.”

“And the others? Who are they?”

“I can tell you their names, but they mean nothing to me. That is, except one.”

Dial raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

Theodore flipped the photograph over and pointed to the tall man on the far left. Other than Nicolas, he was the youngest man in the picture. All the other monks ranged in age from thirty to seventy. “This was our abbot. The one who was killed.”

Andropoulos nodded in agreement. He had met the abbot a few times.

“And neither of you recognize anyone else in the photo?” Dial asked.

Both men shook their heads. The other monks were from a different generation.

“Is there anyone — maybe an older monk in the monastery — who might know them?”

“Probably not,” Theodore admitted. “Ours is a younger community. After a certain age, most of our older members move on to Mount Athos to continue their spiritual growth.”

“Mount Athos?” Dial asked, unfamiliar with the name.

Theodore nodded. “Catholic priests have the Vatican. We have Mount Athos.”