rode a horse north to help organize the resistance in these hills. The old men are weak, his grandmother had told him before he left Athens, all the good men are dead.
“People are starving down there,” the priest insisted.
“I know that, too.”
“Of course you know, your men have taken everything. These people have given their food, their sons, their lives for you. What are you prepared to do for them?”
“Not waste their sacrifice.”
“Nothing, then.”
“I have only twenty men here.”
“Where are the rest? Every boy in the four villages has gone to join you, if only to get something to eat. You should have twice that many.”
“They’re on an operation.”
“Without you?”
“Who told you the Germans would burn the village?”
The priest shook his head in disgust.
“All you want is that name. If he’s wrong, shoot him as an agitator. If he’s right, shoot him as a collaborator. Either way you’ll do nothing.”
The fact that the truth was more damning than the priest’s insinuations did not prevent the words from stinging. Before Elias had taken over this group of andartes-a motley assortment of republican and royalist-minded farmers and ex-soldiers-they had spent more time fighting the local communist guerrilla band than either faction had spent fighting the Germans. It had taken the British commandos to halfway reconcile the feuding parties and direct their actions in any meaningful way. Despite a deep suspicion of the foreigners, and his shame at the necessity of being instructed by them, Elias had to concede that he had learned much from the Englishmen. How to plant explosives. How to kill silently. How to work side by side with men who might, on another day, be your enemies. Perhaps he had learned some lessons too well. He had seen how much stronger and better organized the communists were; now the Italians had surrendered, and it was only a matter of time before the Germans withdrew. He could no longer ignore the warnings of his superiors regarding where the long-term threat to the country lay. Thus the present, hateful subterfuge.
“Captain.” Kosta’s voice reached them from the mouth of the cave, in a tone demanding attention. Elias, Mikalis, and a few others shuffled through the darkness, gathering their old, battered rifles as they went. “Above, Leftheris has seen something.”
The cave entrance was screened by a short stand of cedar, but the ledge above commanded a view of the entire valley. Leftheris grabbed the captain’s sleeve as he came up, and pointed toward a low hilltop a kilometer or so away. Elias recognized the black silhouette of the church tower against the indigo sky, then saw the odd, multihued flickering of light below. Flames, seen through the rose window. Something had gone wrong.
“Looks like they got started early,” said Kosta, “and with your church, Father.”
“Quiet, you ass,” said Spiro.
Elias grabbed Mikalis’ shoulder, even as the priest began to struggle down the slope.
“There’s no point. The whole thing will be on fire before you get there.”
“The Holy Mother,” whispered Mikalis, and several of the men crossed themselves in the darkness. Most had not known until that moment that their protectress was still in the church, hidden behind a false wall. In his mind’s eye, Elias saw candlelight on gold leaf, saw the sad black eyes burning out of the wood as the object was brought forth, saw a church full of strong, cynical men fall to their knees in reverent silence. Saw even the Snake hypnotized by its beauty. Love of the icon could undo all his plans.
“Where is it?” Leftheris asked. “Will someone down there retrieve it?”
“No-no one else knows where it is.”
“What do we do?”
“Leave it,” the captain pronounced, but they were all speaking at once now. The fire had not been part of the plan, but it would hide the icon’s disappearance, assuming the Prince had been quick enough to get it out first.
“Listen to me,” Mikalis broke in. “If we can’t put out the flames, at least I can save the Holy Mother. Let me go.”
“We all go,” said Spiro.
“No,” Elias commanded, but he could feel the men balking at his resistance. They seldom disobeyed orders, and never contradicted him to his face, but he was fighting a higher power here and risked losing control. Besides, something had gone wrong, and he should see what could be salvaged. He took the priest by the shoulders and pushed him in the direction of Leftheris.
“Keep hold of this one,” he told the sentry. “Kosta, Spiro, come with me.”
“But how will we find the Mother without him?”
“I know where it is.”
The priest’s objections pursued them briefly down the rugged hillside, then all was silence. Trees loomed and disappeared in the dark; they crossed a low stone wall. There was no clear path from the cave to the church, but each man knew the way easily, even on a moonless night. Elias could hear old Spiro’s labored footfalls behind him, but Kosta was impossible to pinpoint, though the boy was just yards away. Everyone had said Elias was mad to take Kosta under his tutelage, but he had known better. Few men could be trained to move silently, convey complicated messages in code, kill without hesitation. It had been strange for Elias to be teaching these skills so soon after learning them himself, but Kosta had proved an apt pupil. It was always the outcasts who were the best at the game.
Stamatis Mavroudas was Katarini’s leading merchant, a black-marketeer and suspected collaborator with the Germans, and so his son Kosta, while tolerated for his good humor, was trusted by no one. That meant nothing to Elias; insurgency work was full of compromises. And the boy had taken to him quickly, all the more so since the father had virtually disowned him: what idiocy, to join the guerrillas when there was money to be made from this war. Now it was rare to see Kosta and the captain apart. Elias wondered at the cost to the young man. Cut off from his family, with no real friends, Kosta seemed unmoved by the occasional deaths of comrades, and a little too eager for the kill when the time came. Yet he was completely dependable, able to execute the most difficult tasks with speed and creativity. Elias could have used ten more men like him.
In a short time they ascended the slope below the church, and crawled on hands and knees until they could crouch behind the north wall of the front courtyard. The old stone edifice was lit from within, wild, jumping flames playing against the sooty stained glass. The crack of burning timber was audible, and the cool air stank of smoke. Across the courtyard a dozen German soldiers milled about, some still strapping on helmets and checking rifles, seemingly having arrived only minutes before the guerrillas, and so far unaware of them. An officer was backing out of the church entry, from which black smoke billowed. Probably Muller, the SS man, thought Elias, but it was hard to tell in the strange light. There was nothing in the officer’s hands, no treasure taken from within. Had he arrived too late?
The captain swore silently. The plan was turning to shit. It had been a miserable scheme from the start; damn the Snake for talking him into it.
“Spiro, go and see if the crypt entry is clear.”
The old andarte slipped away silently.
Now the German officer-definitely Muller, the Prince as they called him-was moving off, around the south side of the church, and most of the soldiers followed. A glance passed between Kosta and the captain, and the younger man looked away quickly. Was he ashamed of his commander, ashamed of his own knowledge? Kosta was the only other person besides the Snake and Muller to know the captain’s plan, and had run messages between various parties when Elias needed to be elsewhere. Was the secret proving too great for him?
There was a commotion of snapping branches from the base of the hill behind
