Jeffrey Siger: An Aegean Prophecy

If that was where Dimitri was headed, Andreas wasn’t interested. He’d heard it all before. Everyone in Greece had heard it all before. That scandal was the most talked about subject in Greece — until the country’s massive, unrevealed debt crisis exploded across the EU, blowing everything else off the front pages. He was tired of it. All of Greece was tired of it. In fact, that’s what some said was the idea: get everyone so tired of the subject that no one cared whether anyone was ever prosecuted.

‘Christodoulos is as sharp as any of his predecessors. He’s kept this monastery out of trouble and away from scandal, despite the efforts of everyone with a microphone and news camera to bring Mount Athos’ problems here.

‘Look, I’m not a fan of the abbot, I know he’s the reason those bastards in the town hall won’t give me the permit I need to expand my business, but I’ve got to give him credit. Patmos and Mount Athos are linked together by the Book of Revelation — it’s the spiritual force behind much of what drives Mount Athos life. Some call Patmos the church’s ‘spiritual eye,’ and monks through the ages have come here from Mount Athos to be closer to it.

‘But, despite all that Patmos shares with Mount Athos, Abbot Christodoulos did not allow his monastery to share in its mistakes. Perhaps that’s because he’s a more astute politician or because his monastery exists in the midst of a cosmopolitan site filled with tourists, while Mount Athos remains virtually as it always has, accessible only by boat, and only to Eastern Orthodox men over eighteen given express permission to visit and the few non-Orthodox men approved for reasons of pilgrimage or study. Women are never allowed. And there’s no TV. I’m not even sure they have Internet yet.’

He shook his head. ‘Do I have to tell you what that sort of life can lead to? Especially the no women part. Why, even here-’

‘Time to go.’ Andreas pushed back his chair and stood up. No reason to let him get into that subject. ‘You’ve been great, and I really like your place. Thanks.’ Andreas reached into his pocket to pay.

Dimitri put up his hand and gestured stop. ‘Please, all you had was coffee. It’s on me.’

Andreas knew it was a waste of time to argue. ‘I owe you.’

‘Great, you can tell that abbot when you see him to stop holding up my building permit.’

Andreas smiled. ‘If he raises the subject I’ve got you covered.’

As soon as they were out of Dimitri’s sight Kouros started to laugh. ‘I think he was serious about us raising his building permit with the abbot.’

‘I’m sure he was. But I get the impression that’s not a subject likely to endear us to the abbot.’

They were on the far side of the piazza on steps leading up to a set of brown metal doors. ‘Yeah, like telling him we think one of his monks was assassinated will make us best buddies.’

Andreas laughed and smacked Kouros lightly on the back of his head as they passed through the brown doors. A few paces later they stopped between two rectangular guard towers framing the entrance to the monastery, looked up, and stared.

Brown-gray and medieval, the monastery’s soaring stone walls embraced a multi-level complex of courtyards, chapels, formal rooms, warrens of smaller rooms, and corridors, all arranged around the main church and built upon a once nearly inaccessible height. Its irregular exterior flowed with the land. At its greatest, the complex stood at 230 feet east-to-west, and 175 feet north-to-south.

In an arch above the doorway an icon of the ever vigilant Saint John stood as spiritual protector of the monastery. Toward the top of the wall sat an opening once used to rain hot oil and molten metal down upon invaders threatening harm of the secular sort. Andreas wondered what kind of reception the abbot had in mind for them.

He gave another quick glance toward the top of the wall, nodded to Kouros, and stepped inside.

A gray-bearded monk met Andreas and Kouros just beyond the entrance and gestured for them to follow him, never bothering to ask who they were. He led them into the courtyard and with a quick turn to the left, into the main church. An elaborately carved, wooden iconostasis covered in icons separated the main part of the nine-hundred-year-old church from the altar area, and a large mural of the Second Coming seemed to grow up and out of the east wall. They passed through the main sanctuary into a small chapel lined with Byzantine paintings, then outside and down some steps to arrive at what seemed just around the corner from where they’d first entered the main church.

Andreas wasn’t sure if the monk was taking them the quickest way, or one intended to impress them with the majesty of the place. As they followed the man up a flight of stone steps to a second floor, Kouros whispered, ‘Do you think we should drop some bread crumbs?’

Andreas stifled a laugh.

The monk turned right, stopped by a heavy wooden door, opened it, and gestured for them to enter. It was a large room with two windows. At the far end there looked to be more than enough chairs to seat every monk in the monastery. The monk pointed to two unadorned wooden chairs in front of a massive wooden desk, then left, leaving Andreas and Kouros alone. They sat and waited.

Andreas was a cop, his father was a cop. He was not into art and never had been, but Lila was. They’d met when he called upon her knowledge of ancient Greek art for help in an investigation. It almost cost Lila her life, and Andreas swore never to involve her in another case. So they talked about other things, and she laughingly gave him lessons on her passion for all things ancient. He was far from expert, but thanks to Lila’s lessons, he realized this austere-looking abbot’s chamber was anything but. The discreetly displayed icons, objects, and ancient texts were priceless, intended to deliver an unmistakable message to any visitor in the know: here was a very old, very holy, and very rich bastion of church influence.

The door swung open and a tall, lean man in traditional monk’s garb strode in. ‘Welcome, my sons.’ He extended his hand.

For most, the ancient silver and wood cross about the abbot’s neck would be the first thing noticed, but Andreas was drawn to his long, jet-black beard. The man was young, looked to be forty at most. Not that much older than Andreas.

Andreas and Kouros immediately rose and kissed his hand. ‘Good afternoon, Your Holiness,’ said Andreas.

‘Please, sit.’ The abbot gestured with his right hand, then stepped behind his desk and sat in a tall-back Byzantine-era chair. ‘So, Chief Kaldis, how may I help you?’ He was looking directly into Andreas’ eyes and smiling.

‘Thank you for seeing us. I know how busy you must be during Easter Week, and now, with all that’s happened…’ Andreas shrugged.

The abbot’s smile faded and he nodded. ‘Yes, Vassilis was one of my favorites, all of us loved him. He will be missed.’ He drew in and let out a breath. ‘I cannot imagine who would have done such a thing.’

‘You anticipated my first question.’

‘It makes no sense. None at all.’ He shook his head.

‘There must be something. Has to be.’

The abbot gestured no. ‘I cannot think of a single person with whom he ever had even a cross word.’

‘What did he do at the monastery?’

‘Do?’

‘Yes, what were his duties?’

The abbot smiled. ‘He was a scholar. Loved the library. When we started modernizing — digitizing texts for computers — Vassilis insisted on taking part, “so nothing went wrong,” he used to say. He made himself computer literate and kept the younger monks on their toes.’

‘Was it unusual for him to be out of the monastery so early in the morning?’