them, and the two guerrillas swung their rifles up to fire.
“Hold,” said the captain.
Mikalis emerged from the trees and came recklessly up the slope, Leftheris on his heels. Kosta slid down the incline and yanked the priest to the ground.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Leftheris, unable to look the captain in the eye. “He said I would be damned if I didn’t let him go.”
Elias did not waste time berating his man, but looked hard at the priest.
“Threatening damnation to get your way. You surprise me, Father.”
“Brother, let me get into that church.”
“See those soldiers?”
“They won’t shoot me.”
“The fire is in the front, you can’t get in.”
“Then let us try the back. Or the crypt.”
As if in answer, Spiro reappeared at the captain’s shoulder.
“The crypt is no good. Too many Germans that way.”
“Then we try the back,” Mikalis insisted. “There are trees, they won’t see us.”
Again, the men were eager, and the captain could not justify inaction. Nor could he trust the errant priest to anyone else.
“Stay by me. On my left, and just behind me, understand?”
“Yes.”
They skirted the tree line to the north and came up on the rear of the old stone structure, where the cleric’s private entry lay in shadow. The fire had indeed started in front, but they could chart its progress through the tall, murky windows, and it seemed that the better part of the interior was now in flames.
“It’s too late,” Leftheris said mournfully.
“No.” The priest began to force his way past the captain, who seized him.
“Leftheris is right.”
“Let me at least try. The icon…”
“Is wood and paint, Mikalis. Let it go.”
The long face thrust itself at Elias, forehead to forehead, whispering.
“You’re wrong. There is more to it than you see.”
“What?”
“But even if you were right, faith may invest objects with power. The Mother has cured the ill here for centuries; it means everything to these people.”
The captain could not respond at once. The cult of the icon had always seemed an old woman’s obsession to him, something his father had scorned, as he scorned all religion, something the young people of the local villages would surely grow up to reject, or ignore. Elias was no communist, but he was a man with his eye on the wider world, where science trumped superstition, where worship of the Mother of God did not guide men’s actions. Athens had given him a taste of that world, but perhaps he had been there too long. Or perhaps he’d done wrong to return here. His young fighters trusted priests even less then he did, yet in moments of fear they turned not to each other, like their brothers with the communists, but to God, and to Panayia, the forgiving Mother. How had it happened? If the priests and old women had no hold over them, from where had this belief emerged? Where had Mikalis, whose own father was utterly godless, found his faith? And how could Elias look such faith in the eye after setting such mischief in motion?
“Listen to me.”
There was nothing to say. His words would have hung unfinished in any case, but at that moment the captain noticed shadows on the far side of the church, moving among the graves. Muller and six or eight soldiers, looking for the rear entrance. They had gone the long way around but would be upon the andartes in moments. Distracted, Elias loosened his grip fractionally. It was enough; the priest was gone from beneath his hands, leaping the broken wall and racing up the remaining slope for the dark portal. The captain froze, unable to call out. The Germans apparently recognized the black cassock and did not shoot, but one soldier darted forward to intercept the cleric.
“Halt, halt.”
A rifle boomed to the captain’s left-Spiro’s old Mannlicher-and the soldier sat heavily, listed sideways to the ground. A moment later shots came from the other side, springing hot chips from the stone wall, and the guerrillas ducked their heads as the Germans sought cover. Mikalis stumbled over the fallen soldier but righted himself and disappeared into the entry.
Elias, calmed by the eruption of fighting, found his voice and commanded his men to spread out along the wall and shoot as fast as they could reload. Accuracy was not important. The crosses and narrow tablets gave the Germans no refuge; their only real cover was the corner of the church-and since only one or two men at a time could fire from that position, the guerrillas might keep them pinned briefly, while disguising their own paltry numbers. It would be four against fifty once the rest of the Germans arrived, presumably in minutes, but perhaps the priest would emerge before that.
Then a second figure was leaping the wall and making for the door. Black shirt and kerchief, running low and swift. Kosta. What the hell was the boy up to? He had no love for priests or icons, but so be it: the action was undertaken. Reloading the Enfield was too slow; the captain tossed the rifle aside, drew his pistol, and fired blindly at the shadows, wasting precious ammunition. Spiro and Leftheris picked up their fire as well, and Kosta raced through the doorway.
Captain Elias bent to reload his hot pistol and consider his position. A bad business, no helping that now. Spiro should not have shot but must have thought Mikalis was in danger. The dead German would cost the village dearly unless Elias could put it right with Muller. Muller, with whom he was now exchanging hostile fire, never a good place from which to negotiate. To hell with it all. If he had the men the Snake had taken to retrieve the weapons, he would scrap the whole dirty plan and kill as many Germans as he could. If. No, this was a foolish action, thoughtlessly undertaken, his own fault.
Never mind. From the woods to the north, almost behind them, he could just discern the sound of creaking rifle straps. From the lane behind the church, clattering boot heels. They would be encircled in minutes.
“Withdraw.”
He scrambled along the wall to Leftheris and Spiro, and when they would not listen he knocked their rifle barrels up and forcibly pushed them toward the wood line.
“Withdraw, damn you. Not the cave, the old monastery.” An eight-kilometer trek, hard on old Spiro, but the Germans would not pursue them so far in the dark, and they must by no means expose the cave.
Slowly, the men obeyed, disappearing into the trees, leaving the captain alone. He rushed back along the broken wall and slipped over it at a point closer to the front of the church, out of sight, he hoped. A heavy machine gun suddenly opened up from the graveyard, spraying the position were Elias and his men had been half a minute before. On his belly, he arrived at the church wall and slid upright against it. The tall stained-glass window above him had already shattered from the heat. Kerchief against his face, Elias peered in. The fire was nearly out in the front-having consumed everything there-but still in full fury near the back. The altar and ancient iconostasis were lost in smoke. Venerable wooden pews were skeletal beneath fiery cowls, roof timbers exploded above. The church was old, much of it contents centuries older, and even the godless captain felt the loss. He could not see the place where the icon was hidden, and there was no sign of any man.
He ducked down again. There were voices and rushing feet in the woods below. A lantern swung wildly. They would be up the slope any moment, finding only their fellow Germans in the graveyard beyond. With any luck the bastards would shoot each other. Elias dropped to his stomach and crawled back toward the front of the church.
The few soldiers who had been left in the courtyard had abandoned it, presumably to join the encircling troops. That left the front entrance clear, if the men inside had been able to fight
