‘Now I’m ashamed for my cowardice, but cannot go back and change the past. If only I could have one day, just one day, with my family… All I had to hang onto were dreams or nightmares; one specifically kept repeating itself. I would be standing in a deserted Smyrna when out of nowhere throngs of people, adults and children waving Greek flags, would appear to block my vision from different directions.
‘They would be parading and celebrating independence day and Smyrna would be standing intact as it was back then, when I was there, nineteen years old, but a mere child in all other respects and protected, very protected and naive. I would try to join in the celebrations, but all those present would ignore me as if they could not see me. They would come at me as if to crush me instead, like an insignificant ant, but of course they would pass right through me and continue on their way as if nothing had happened.
‘The tragedy of being invisible in my home city and on such a special day as that, compounded with the faint memory of my situation at the time as a captive of the Pasha escaping my subconsciousness and invading my nightmare, would make me feel that I had outlived my usefulness.
‘Suddenly the crowds would disappear and people would go back to their normal business and their everyday lives. A tall clock near the harbour in front of me would show the current date as 1981 A.D. But that could only be my wishful thinking, my hope that history had turned out differently or that someone had gone back in time to change it.’
Then Zozo changed tack, came out of her ruminating, fixed them with a hard stare and suddenly her face brightened like an innocent child’s that hoped for a treat or had an inspiration for further mischief.
‘And I ask you, is there someone of you who can do that? Who could do that for me?’
As she said this she knew it was just a dream and it could not happen. The next moment she seemed to have forgotten all about it and her face would go hard and unblinking as if nothing was said, as if nothing happened, and she would just smile at them.
She would switch from imploring to a blank expression and a warm welcome and an offering of refreshment and refuge from the burning sun in the shade of her lovely humble home and mansion and monument to her Pasha whom she grew to care for and love with all her heart; or so she now said.
‘Aristo, how can my grandmother have had both icons, if one was stolen back then? Unless…’
‘Unless a copy was left in its place. We need to talk to Ariana and see whether she can tell us more about the events of that day.’
Zozo had a last word for them. ‘As you have correctly deduced, the icon is a fake. There’s going to be an auction soon of Byzantine icons. One of them is or hides the real Likureian icon.’ With that she disappeared.
Aristo and Katerina exited the chamber and followed the tunnel back to the entrance to the square. They stood there, hungrily taking in mouthfuls of fresh air, a relief from the stale air inside.
They were confronted with a harrowing scene. It was the exceptionally bloody aftermath of a battle, a scene of absolute carnage. They found the Pallanians sitting on the ground apparently asleep. When the Pallannians sensed them, it was their wake-up call and they came out of their slumber, looked at Aristo and Katerina, smiled and disappeared.
Aristo and Katerina calmly walked to their car, which they had parked outside the entrance to the lower city. They drove off to the direction of the airfield where Elli’s jet was waiting on the tarmac, refuelled and ready to take off.
There was no doubt about their destination; Limassol in Cyprus and an urgent chat with Elli and Ariana about the icon and the inscription on the tablet found in Cappadocia, catching up with Giorgos on progress with his research and finding out about that auction.
When they got back to Limassol, Katerina’s grandmother, Ariana, told them that when Antonios Symitzis and Kostas Vendis returned to the study they found the icon on the sofa where Zozo had been sitting before they went out. But of Zozo there was no sign. They thought none of it at the time, but became concerned a couple of hours later when they were about to sit down to dinner.
Zozo was never late, nor did she ever miss a meal. In fact she would be down early helping Mrs Manto with the setting of the table and with the preparation of the meal, Mrs Manto pretending annoyance at Zozo’s interference and Zozo loving every minute of it, ignoring Mrs Manto’s protestations, and smiling to herself amused at Mrs Manto’s play-acting. They were in reality as thick as thieves. And it had been like that since Zozo was a child running around the house like a whirlwind causing delightful mayhem. The kitchen was a second home to her.
A search of the house yielded no clue. Nor did discreet enquiries in the city later reveal anything about Zozo’s whereabouts. It was a mystery that haunted them all from that moment onwards and almost cost Mrs Manto her life when she had a sudden heart attack two days later while cooking. She simply collapsed and was found a few minutes later by Antonios. She was lucky not to have sustained head injuries or any other serious injury.
She recovered quickly, but only physically. She was never the same again. It was just a case of going through the motions. Her heart was broken for her little one and never recovered. Ariana was shocked when told that the treasured for so long icon was most probably stolen on that day and replaced by a perfect copy.
CHAPTER 31
Constantinople (Istanbul)
Topkapi Palace Museum
Present day
Istanbul was the location and the Topkapi the stage. The gala event had been billed as the biggest charity auction of the century. It was expected to draw the attention of the world’s greatest art collectors. Also in attendance would be the cream of the world’s most powerful people, from ambassadors and the diplomatic corps to royalty and other illustrious figures of the international political scene. And there were others with vested interests.
The world’s media was in full attendance, on site days before the auction. The eyes of the world were on Istanbul and the Topkapi.
Elli had sent to the city and the former palace of the Ottoman Sultans members of the Order of Vlachernae ahead of the scheduled viewings. She wanted to monitor the build-up to the auction. If it had not been a charity auction she wouldn’t be present. She was one of the world’s greatest collectors, after all. The mere mention of her name drove up prices. Her presence at an auction drew too much attention and drove prices up even more.
But her presence at this particular auction was intended to ruffle a few feathers, even if it would have the effect to put the Ruinands on their guard. Her spies had told her that they recognised Ruinands, including a certain Ducesa, under a not very successful disguise, milling about during the series of viewings. That to Elli was a strong sign that there was more than some truth in the tip, courtesy of Mystras.
The stolen Likureian icon should be one of the objects up for auction. But which one was it? The viewings came and went and the day of the auction arrived and Elli was surprised that there was no attempted theft of any part of the collection. Surely, the Ruinands would have planned to steal the item before the auction. It would have been easier, would it not?
The main hall was brimming to the beams with people. Their conversations rose as a jumbled murmur to the ceiling, deafening and scaring the silent tiny unseen inhabitants of this revered space that had witnessed, God knows, what secrets.
Enter stage left, a glamorous woman, cocky, posing and gliding like a peacock, shaking her lovely feathers begging for attention, and all eyes in the hall turned to her. The crowd involuntarily slipped slowly away like a unified beast, moving as one, like the parting of the waves of the Red Sea, opening a corridor to ease her progress.
Walking a few paces ahead was one of her aides, opening a route for her mistress. Her mistress added a touch of higher class to the proceedings and itched to be heard, as well as to be seen, to be admired for her mellifluous voice as well as for her presence. The impression was one of wonder and jaw-dropping involuntary reverence.
She dispensed grace and elegance and “hellos” and “how do you dos” and “darlings” and air kisses and cheek brushes in a soft delicate warm voice. The aide took her task very seriously and was bent on achieving it.
