windows are tiny, the doors stout planks of weathered wood, and the interiors without pews—Greek worshippers stand before God. Was this nondescript place a door to a fabled weapon?
It was night, the church locked, and so Kapodistrias—who seemed to be enjoying his moment of skulduggery—rousted the village priest from his cell next door and convinced him that Greek patriotism required the opening of doors for us.
“But why?”
“We’re looking for the gate of Hades, Nikko.”
“And why would you seek such a thing? Are you devils?”
“We’re friends of Greece.”
“But why are you at Agia Theodosia?”
“An old signet ring has told us to look here. These men won’t be but a moment. They are men of science, patros, who want to understand the past.”
“The past is best left in the past. That’s what the past is for.”
“No, Greece will learn from them.”
He reluctantly unlocked the door. “Wait here.” He went ahead to light some candles, and then came back. “You’ll see. This is a poor church in a poor village. There’s nothing here.”
The Greek pulled him aside. “Then let them see for themselves.”
We passed through the anteroom, or narthex, and on into the main nave, lighting more candles on their manoualia stands. The structure was small and, compared with a Catholic or Protestant church, sparser of furniture and richer in decoration. My stable analogy had been too hasty. There was a primitive but grand picture of Jesus in the dome overhead, ready to uplift or condemn. Hanging below was an elaborate brass chandelier called a horos, and beyond it was the most decorative part of the church, a polished brass dividing wall consisting of a grilled gate flanked by enameled panels of angels and saints. By custom, only the priests passed up the steps and through the gate to the altar in the sanctuary beyond. The succession of spaces reminded me of the ancient Egyptian temples I’d seen: a penetration to the holy.
“The church seems rather small,” Cuvier said. “What are we supposed to be looking for?”
“A sarcophagus. I don’t see one.”
“In the sanctuary, perhaps?” asked Fulton.
Smith went up to the gate and tried it but it, too, was locked. “All I see is an altar.
Where’s the priest?”
We looked around.
“Kapodistrias is gone, too,” Cuvier said. And indeed, we realized the Greeks had not followed us inside but instead closed the main door behind us, leaving us alone. If we were to discover the gate of Hades, it seemed, we were on our own.
“Gage, is this a trap?” Fulton asked.
I tried the church door. “It’s been locked or braced from the outside. Maybe they’re trying to give us time to explore undisturbed.”
“Or maybe Kapodistrias doesn’t trust the French after all,” Cuvier said.
“He just can’t share the risk, I think, and endanger his republic. But I’d feel better if Hamidou was waiting for us. I wasn’t expecting those new ships, with all those men.”
“What if Ottomans are following us? We should flee, too,” Fulton said. “This place isn’t like Fouche’s ring at all.”
“We’ve come more than a thousand miles. Let’s at least see if anything’s here. There’s a bar—let’s lock the door from the inside, too.”
Unfortunately, except for the Byzantine decoration typical of the Greek religion, the nave was barren. It took about as long to search as my purse, which is to say almost no time at all.
“There’s nothing here,” Cuvier said, rather obviously. “Ethan, I agree with Robert. We should retreat.”
“Absolutely. Just as soon as we check the sanctuary.”
“But that’s locked.”
“Which is all the more reason to enter it. Gentlemen, I have some experience in this kind of thing and I’ve found the more difficult it is to get into a place, the more it pays to do so. People are always sticking things in hidden cellars or sealed attics or armored armoires, hoping the rest of us won’t have energy enough to peek. Why keep anyone out unless there’s something to find?”
“Because it’s sacred?” Smith ventured.
“Well, that, too.”
I went to the grilled wall that separated the nave from the altar sanctuary. Three steps led up to it, and painted icons were on either side of the gate. Jesus looked disapprovingly at me from one side, and Mary—seeming as skeptical of me as some of the other women I’d dallied with—frowned at me from the other. Saints and angels stood guard, too, looking no friendlier. I eyed the keyhole. “Cuvier, bring me one of your pistols.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Fulton said, appropriately. He set his bagpipes down, the instrument making a soft buzz as he did so, and hopped up the steps beside me. Out came a set of wiry steel instruments. “There’s no need for a gunshot, which will only jam the lock. I made a study of these mechanisms as a boy and found that patience can open most anything.” He began fiddling with the lock. “I don’t make a habit of this, but there’s utility in being able to manipulate a keyhole. Of course there’s nothing to see, as you can tell by looking through the bars, and if the village catches us doing this we’ll be stoned as sacrilegious heretics, or worse.”
“I just want to make sure this sanctuary isn’t the front porch to Hades.”
“Do you smell any sulfur?”
“Let’s take that as a good sign.”
“And no lightning bolts for trespass yet, either,” Smith added.
The inventor had the gate open quick as a thief, and we gingerly passed into the sanctuary, feeling we were trespassing on divinity itself. There was a wooden cabinet to one side with a chalice and other instruments of worship. A censer to provide scented smoke hung nearby. In the middle was the altar itself, draped with a tapestry. There was a cylindrical container and gospel on top, and a processional cross and gilded fans behind.
“What’s the coffee urn then?” Smith asked innocently.
“A tabernacle, you Protestant heathen,” Cuvier said. “It’s where they hold the sacraments.”
“Ah. Could it have a clue then?”
“To get to Heaven, not Hades.”
I bent and walked the stone floor, looking for a crack or pull indicating a way downward. There was nothing I could see. The coin and Kapodistrias’s advice seemed a dead end.
Outside, dogs began barking again. Someone was coming.
I stood, considering. Then remembering a temple in Egypt, I decided to take a closer look at the altar by lifting one corner of its cloth and peering underneath.
“Is that allowed?” Smith asked.
“We’re not even allowed on this island,” Fulton replied.
Aha. The altar was not made from a wooden table but a stone box, I saw. I stepped back. It was the length and width of a man. “There’s our sarcophagus.”
“Where?” Cuvier asked.
“It’s the altar. They hide it by covering it. Their altar is a grave, if you can believe that. Take the tabernacle off there and set it aside.”
“I will not. I’d fry in hell.”
“I thought you French revolutionaries don’t believe anymore.”
“Didn’t. I went to the service at Notre Dame.”
“Well, I’ll do it, then. I’m damned anyway, despite my reforms.” Feeling oddly queasy, I lifted the holy objects off the altar and placed them on the preparation table to one side. Surely God wouldn’t mind for a moment or two. Smith helped me fold the altar cloth—we tried to be careful—and we revealed a stone sarcophagus similar to the one cast into the signet ring. The lid overlapped the box. When I tugged, it seemed cemented in place.
“I think we’d better pry,” I said.
“You can’t be serious!” Cuvier wasn’t used to treasure hunting, which generally involves a fair amount of burglary, desecration, demolition, and dust.
