The
Seated on the ship’s bridge, Pitt studied a video monitor of the sonar images, watching an undulating, rock- strewn bottom scroll by. Standing nearby, Giordino took a break from staring over Pitt’s shoulders and gazed over at the beachfront with a pair of binoculars.
“Enjoying the scenery?” Gunn asked.
“Could be better,” Giordino replied. “Although it is enhanced by a pair of lovely young ladies seeking refuge from the sun in a sea cave.”
The beach off Pissouri was a narrow strip of sand backed by high cliffs, atop which sat its namesake village. Though popular with the British servicemen stationed at the nearby base of Akrotiri, the beach was still one of the quieter ones along the southern coast.
“It looks like we’ll soon be running out of beachfront real estate,” Giordino noted as the ship slowly worked its way east while conducting the grid survey.
“Then that can only mean that we’re getting close to the wreck,” Pitt replied optimistically.
As if responding to his prophecy, the Pissouri wreck appeared on the screen a few minutes later. Giordino and Gunn crowded around as the image unfolded on the monitor. Far from appearing like an actual ship, the site was little more than an elongated mound, with small sections of the keel and frame exposed by the shifting sands. That even that much remained of the seventeen-hundred-year-old ship was a miracle in itself.
“It certainly presents the image of an old wreck,” Gunn said.
“It’s the only wreck we’ve found off Pissouri, so it must be Perlmutter’s fourth-century ship,” Giordino said. “I’m surprised it wasn’t closer to shore, though,” he added, noting that they were nearly a half mile from the beach.
“You have to remember that the Mediterranean was a bit shallower two thousand years ago,” Gunn said.
“That would explain its position,” he replied. “Are we going to dive it up?” he asked, turning to Pitt.
Pitt shook his head. “No need to. First, it’s already been picked clean. And second, it’s not our wreck.”
“How can you be so sure?” Gunn asked.
“Summer called. She and Dirk saw the artifact exhibit at the Limassol Museum. The archaeologists who excavated her are certain it is not a Roman galley. Dirk believes it could be a secondary pirate vessel involved with the attack on the Romans. It might be worth a dive later on, but Summer indicated that it had been pretty well plundered before the archaeologists got to it.”
“So we use this as a starting point?” Gunn asked.
“It’s the best data point we’ve got,” Pitt replied with a nod. “If the pirate ship came ashore here and wrecked, we can only hope that the Roman vessel is somewhere in the neighborhood.”
Giordino took a seat near the monitor and tried to get comfortable.
“Well, let’s keep searching, then,” he remarked. “As the man said, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
89
Summer drove east on the main coastal highway from Limassol, with Dirk relinquishing the driving duties since she had just come from England. A Crown Colony of Great Britain during the first half of the twentieth century, Cyprus still held visible reminders of its former British rule. English was spoken most everywhere, the currency in the southern Greek half of the country was denominated in pounds, and the road traffic traveled on the left-hand side.
Summer turned their rental car inland, following the well-paved highway toward Nicosia. The road began a gentle ascent as they approached the eastern extremes of the Trodoos Mountains. Traveling through mostly desolate hills, they turned off onto a narrow asphalt crossroad. The road climbed sharply, twisting its way up a small mountain. Perched dramatically atop the summit sat the monastery of Stavrovouni.
Summer parked the car in a small lot at the foot of the complex. Walking past an empty entry station, they approached a long wooden stairway to the summit. A beggar dressed in ragged clothes and a wide-brimmed hat sat nearby, his head hanging down in apparent slumber. The siblings tiptoed past, then climbed the stairs to the grounds of the monastery, which offered commanding views of the entire southeast portion of the island. Passing through an open courtyard, they approached a stern-faced monk in a woolen robe standing near the monastery entrance.
“Welcome to Stavrovouni,” he said with reserve, then gazed at Summer. “Perhaps you are not aware, but we are adherents to the Athonite Orthodoxy here. I am afraid that we do not allow women into the monastery.”
“My understanding is that you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for a woman,” she replied tartly. “Does the name Helena ring a bell?”
“I’m very sorry.”
Summer rolled her eyes at the monk, then turned to Dirk.
“I guess I’ll stay here and look at the frescoes,” she said, motioning toward the painted courtyard walls. “Enjoy your tour.”
Dirk leaned over and whispered to his sister, “If I’m not back in an hour, then it means I decided to join up.”
With his sister seething, he turned and followed the monk through an open wooden door.
“Can you tell me about Helena’s role with the monastery and the history of the site?” Dirk asked.
“In ancient times, this mountaintop housed a Greek temple. It had been long abandoned and in a state of disrepair when Saint Helena arrived in Cyprus after her pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The good saint is said to have put an end to a thirty-year drought that had been baking the land. While on Cyprus, she had a dream in which she was told to construct a church in the name of the venerable cross. Stavrovouni, in case you didn’t know, means ‘Cross Mountain.’ It was here she built the church, leaving behind the cross of the penitent thief she had brought from Jerusalem, along with a fragment of the True Cross.”
The monk led Dirk into the small church, guiding him past a large wooden iconostasis to reach the altar. On the altar stood a large wooden cross, encased in silver. A tiny gold frame set within the cross protected a smaller wooden fragment.
“The church has suffered much destruction and vandalism over the centuries,” the monk explained, “first by the Mamelukes and later by the Ottomans. I’m afraid little is left of Helena’s legacy but for this sacred piece of the True Cross,” he said, pointing to the gold-encased fragment.
“Are you aware of any other relics of Jesus that Helena may have left on Cyprus?” Dirk asked.
The monk rubbed his chin a moment. “No, none that I know of, but you should speak to Brother Andros. He’s our resident historian here. Let’s see if he is in his office.”
The monk led Dirk down a corridor to their left, which housed a number of austere guest rooms. A pair of small offices occupied the end, where Dirk could see a thin man shaking hands with a monk and then turning his way.
As they passed, Dirk said, “Ridley Bannister?”
“Why, yes,” Bannister replied, looking at Dirk with startled suspicion.
“My name is Dirk Pitt. I just read your last book about your excavations in the Holy Land. I recognized you from the dust jacket. I have to tell you, I’ve enjoyed reading about your discoveries.”
“Why, thank you,” Bannister replied, reaching out and shaking hands. A tentative look then crossed his brow. “You said your last name is Pitt? You don’t by chance have a relative named Summer?”
“Yes, she’s my sister. She’s waiting out front, as a matter of fact. Do you know her?”
“I believe we met at an archaeology conference some time ago,” he stammered. “So what brings you to Stavrovouni?” he asked, quickly changing topics.
