The Collectors Book Two: Full Circle (The Collectors Series 2) (6 page)

Chapter Six

The following morning, Yannis’ body ached. A power shower massaged his muscles but he walked with difficulty down the stairs to the kitchen where his mother and Alexis greeted him.

“You walk like your papa,
Yannis,” said his mother as she placed bread on the table.

“Too much lifting buckets of dust.”

“The bookworm can’t stand the strain, Mama. We’ve agreed one more day,” said Alexis.”

Yannis
stared at his mother unsmiling. “Where’s Papa?”

“In the top field.
Why?”

Yannis
turned on his heel, marched out of the house and up the hill to where his father laboured. “Papa, I need to talk.”

His father remained silent while he finished pruning a vine.

“Come,” he said at last. “Sit in the shade and drink your mama’s lemonade.”

They sat side by side on a large log under the canopy of an aged olive tree.

“Yannis, this tree we are under, my father planted the seed before I was born. I love the shade it gives when I’m hot. It will outlive me and you.” He sipped his lemonade. “Tell me your news.”

“Papa, Alexis and l discovered a tunnel.”

“You walked all the way here to tell me that?”

“Papa, you don’t understand.”

“This island is littered with ancient graves and artefacts. You must have explored it and found nothing.”

“So far, nothing, but imagine if I unearthed gold and jewellery? I’d like you to come with us.”

His father stood. “My son, you are a dreamer, but who will ready these vines for next year?”

For a minute
Yannis did not answer. “Papa, I’ll work in your fields now, until it is dark. Tomorrow, will you come with us?”

“Well,” said
Tasos, “why are you doing nothing?”

Yannis
began to cut and tie the vines, a task that often made tender hands bleed. But he soon became bored, for his calloused hands allowed him to prune his father’s vines with ease.

The pink-tinged sky signalled the end of the working day. Through a break in the vines,
Yannis considered the long straight lines that vanished into the valley. Every year of his adult life his father, like his father before him, had tended the vines, picked the crop, and sold it. A good harvest meant they lived well for a year. Even so, his parents had struggled to scrape together the fees for his education. He decided the first monies he accrued would go to them.

He followed his father home. The aroma of
moussaka greeted them. The two men washed their hands and joined Alexis for dinner.

His mother placed the large steaming tray on the table and served her husband, then Alexis, and finally
Yannis.

From a fresh loaf,
Yannis tore a large chunk and ate eagerly. With his appetite sated he turned to his father. “What time in the morning, Papa?”

“When the sun hits your pillow.”

“Thank you. Alexis, set your alarm – Papa’s coming with us. I’m going to bed now.”

*  *  *

The next morning on the kitchen table, covered by a cloth, were the remains of the loaf, fresh Halloumi cheese, and tomatoes.

“Mama has left us breakfast,” said
Tasos. “Eat. There will only be warm water until we return.” The three men ate in silence.

Ropes, kerosene lamps, torches and tools filled the back of the truck.
Yannis and Alexis clambered into the cab and waited for their father.

Tasos
leaned closer to Alexis. “Today is a misused day but tomorrow you can clean out the carob store. It’s a complete mess in there. Your brother’s done his bit to help me.”

Alexis frowned.
“If you say so, Papa.”

Tasos
turned the ignition. The old engine started in a wheeze of smoke but once warmed, settled into its rhythmic beat. The battered truck dragged its way across the fields and onto a rough concrete covered road. Here it rattled and screamed along at a top speed of forty kilometres an hour. When the road petered out the condition of the track became appalling. Although the truck coped with every obstacle, Yannis and Alexis had to hold on tight when the wheels bounced over rough ground. They passed men and boys in the fields tending their goats, despite the land being burnt brown by the sun.

Yannis
directed his father. “Over there, Papa.”

The three men left the truck and walked towards the deep hole.

“So you found an old well,” said Tasos.

“Papa, it’s Roman, over two thousand years old. This,” he pointed, “
this on its own is a fabulous find.”

Tasos
faced him with a grim smile. “I’m pleased the generator has not been stolen. A hundred pounds that cost me. How much fuel is left?”

“Enough for today.”

Yannis and Alexis unloaded the truck while their father filled storm-lamps with kerosene.

“These are better than torches,” said
Tasos. “They’ll last for hours.”

“Papa, when we go into the tunnel, please
stay close to your truck. If we’re not back in four hours don’t come to find us, go and get help.”

Tasos
shrugged. “If that’s what you want.” 

Yannis
paused before answering. “Papa, you’re not young, but you’re the one person I trust, apart from Mama. The fact that you’re here is comforting. If something happens, help will arrive.”

The cool of the dawn had gone and the sun gave the promise of a blistering day.

Tasos strolled to his truck, sat in the shade and lit a cigarette. “Yannis, Alexis. Be careful.”

*  *  *

The Foden generator started on the first pull, its regular beat echoing off the pit wall. The necklace of lights lit up the first hundred metres. With a pole over each shoulder supporting twelve full kerosene lamps, Alexis followed Yannis on the walk to the chamber. When it became impossible to see further, Alexis stopped, lit a lamp, trimmed the flame and continued. The last lamp illuminated the area enough for them to traverse the ledge. With the aid of their torches, they searched.

Yannis
spotted several passages. Approaching the nearest with caution, he shone the narrow beam along its walls. At the end, a narrow stairway rose, curved up and became lost in the dark. One at a time he climbed the worn steps until he found his path blocked with debris. With no choice but to descend, he rejoined Alexis and continued along another corridor, their feet disturbing the dust. This too ended in a pile of rubble. They retraced their steps to the sump and set off again down another passage hewn out of the sandstone rock. Here the walls were much smoother and decorated with frescos. Yannis flashed his torch along its length. At first it appeared to be another dead end. With nothing to lose, they continued. At an arched entrance the walls turned sharp right. They played the two beams of light into the dark. Statues of Roman gods and goddesses stared silently back.

Like the marble figures before them, the boys were unable to move – stunned by what they saw.

Yannis recognised Minerva, the Goddess of Wisdom. The head of Pluto lay on the floor. Dumbstruck, he stepped over it and let his hands touch the smooth, dust-covered figures. Pots filled with beads and covered with archaic script scratched into the clay, rested at the base of every god.

Alexis found his mind going into overdrive as he calculated the value of the treasures sprawled on the ground before them. The powers that be must never know. These statues alone would make his family rich. He drew closer to a goddess he could not recognise. At her feet lay a decorated and sealed clay pot exactly where it had been placed centuries ago. He lifted it; for its size, it seemed heavy.

Yannis glanced at his watch; time had run out. He considered the scale of their find. “Alexis, time to get back or Papa will worry.”

“I hope he’s doing what he does every afternoon – sleeping.”

“He’ll be surprised with what we’ve found,” said Yannis. As they walked he wondered how this system had remained undiscovered for what must be almost two thousand years. At that moment, reality surged through his brain. He was staggered at the truth and for a moment rested while history unfolded in his mind. The Romans occupied Famagusta for over four hundred years. They had built this. On their defeat, what forces remained would have left Cyprus and their battle-damaged city. Buildings ravaged by fire collapsed in on themselves, the debris filling and sealing the entrances to the chambers. Local peasants, unaware of the underground rooms, stripped the surface of the valuable building materials. The small coastal village remained intact for a thousand years. He racked his brain. King Henry constructed the first known castle on the Roman ruins. Many years elapsed before the Venetians built the famed walled city.

On passing each kerosene lamp, he turned it off. An important decision needed to be made: fame and glory – or money?

“Papa!” Alexis shouted when he neared daylight. He clambered up the ladder and puffed with exertion. Tasos lay next to his truck, his hands clasped across his stomach, asleep. A warm wind wafted over the fields from the sea as Alexis woke him.

Tasos
rubbed his eyes. “You’ve ruined my dream. You’re both filthy! Sit, have a drink of water. Apart from dust, what have you found?”

Yannis
gave his father the sealed pot. “Open it, Papa.”

Tasos
unsheathed a knife from his belt and cut the bindings. The circular top fell to the ground. He gasped.  “Where did you get this?”

Breathless with excitement, Ale
xis removed a necklace of rough-hewn gold. A dozen nuggets of different sizes covered its length. He emptied the pot onto the ground. Jewel-encrusted gold pins and other trinkets lay in the dust.

“Papa.
Take them. They’re yours. If anyone asks, tell them you found them in the fields. Don’t you understand? You and Mama can stop working.”

“Stop?
This is stealing,” said a confused Tasos.

They sat and talked for over an hour. In the end, they agreed to tell no one. For the moment, the entrance needed covering up.

Yannis waited while his father and Alexis drove back to the house, loaded the truck with sheets of corrugated iron and returned to the site. Between them, they covered the entrance.

Chapter Seven

Paphos District, Cyprus. October 2010

Bishop Costas
Protopapas rolled over in his bed, tossing the cover off his hot body. Without power to supply the air conditioning, the room temperature rose rapidly. The dream he endured every night had woken him. Had anyone found his precious icons? In his dream, he pictured each icon held high in the air while the bidding began. Who would buy religious artefacts? He knew the answer: every week the
Cyprus Daily Mail
advertised things for sale.

A bronze sculpture of the Roman Goddess Artemis fetched twenty eight million US dollars at auction. Had the Turks desecrated his church, destroyed, or altered it to a mosque? Many who visited the north told stories of vandalism and wanton destruction.

He turned on the bedside lamp. “Nitsa,” he shouted. “Bring me a glass of cool water.”

Nitsa
Charalambous never knocked on his bedroom door. She served him in every way. Twenty years ago, as a girl aged thirteen, she arrived from her home in the mountains. Every week she sent her wages to her parents.

Costas, a member of the black monastic order, could never ask
Nitsa to marry him; on broaching the matter she habitually answered, “I give you everything a wife can. All are aware of this fact but choose to close their eyes. I prefer to have my freedom.”

He took the water and patted the side of the bed.

“Father, it’s hot and the wrong time.”

“
Nitsa, I need to talk to you.”

She sat on the bed. The light from the moon shone through her worn linen shift, outlining the sensual curves of her body. He did not touch her.

“I have a secret.” For a moment, he hesitated; he needed to talk to someone. His skin dripping with perspiration, he took a sip of water. His throat refreshed, he began again. “When the Turks invaded our land it fell to me, the Deacon of my church, to hide the icons of our holy order. This I did. You are aware that I scour magazines with regard to art and religious paintings. Did you ever wonder why?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I thought you liked art.”

He told her how in fear he hid the icons in the holy chamber under the altar. She listened with interest.

“How many?”

“More than forty, but it’s not the number, it’s what they represent. One possesses a piece of the holy cross embedded in its frame. The Templar Knights protected this with their lives and delivered it to Cyprus. Legend tells us it possesses inexplicable healing powers. This collection would be worth millions.”

She turned her head towards him and smiled reassuringly. “You know where they are. Why don’t you retrieve them?”

“I can’t.” He leaned towards her, catching the faintest hint of her perfume. “The Turkish army stole icons to sell to the highest bidder. The Church and the government recovered a few but the whereabouts of hundreds remain unknown. I don’t think the Turks would let me walk out of the occupied territory with them under my arm.”

Tired, they lay back on the bed. The storm struck with high energy and ferocity. Thunder filled the sky with a deafening clamour while lightening lit up every corner of the room. When she shook with fear he held her close.

Costas rubbed his eyes as the first light of dawn shone over the eastern horizon. Exhausted from lack of sleep, he grabbed his towel and went for a shower.

“Nitsa,” he shouted down the stairs. “My clothes, are they packed? I’m flying to London at midday.”

“Bishop, every year at this time you go to London and every year I pack your clothes. Why should I forget?”

Costas smiled but said nothing. His car arrived at ten-thirty and proceeded to Paphos airport. He listened to the radio newscaster commenting on the storm, stating that eight inches of rain fell in two hours and triggered devastating flash floods across the island. Costas stared at the trees battered and bent, many broken and on the ground. The buzz of chain saws carving through thick trunks echoed all around.

The driver carried the bishop’s bags to an empty check-in desk. The dark-haired young girl behind the counter checked his baggage. With his boarding card held high, he made his way through passport control and the search area. A uniformed policeman directed him to the first-class lounge.

An attractive attendant let him find a seat.

“Bishop, can I get you something?” 

“Cyprus coffee, please, and a biscuit.”

Thirty minutes before take-off, Costas and the other first class passengers boarded. He made himself comfortable as the captain announced they were missing one passenger. Costas knew that this was every flight captain’s nightmare. After a thirty minute delay, Flight BA 2675 raced down the main runway and lifted off into the murky grey sky.

Three hours and fifty minutes later, the Seven-four-seven landed at London Heathrow. First-class passengers disembarked straight away. Economy, like greyhounds in the trap, waited for their release. Costas strolled through passport control with ease while overworked customs officers waited for the stampeding horde to arrive.

Twenty minutes later he carried his bags into the arrival lounge. Waiting behind the barrier stood his friend Georgiadis
Stamati, headmaster of the Greek Secondary School in Enfield.

“Welcome,” said Georgiadis. He wrapped his arms around the bishop and hugged him.

Costas gazed at the man in front of him. He was dressed in the same style of clothes he always wore. In many ways it had become his uniform; a tweed jacket over an Arran sweater and cord trousers with highly polished brown shoes. No hat covered his mop of wavy black hair that now had streaks of grey at the temples. Though tired and mentally used up, optimism still emanated from his green eyes.

“My apologies for the delay,” said Costas. “I eagerly await my visit and your housekeeper’s cooking. Out of interest, what are we eating tonight?”

Georgiadis smiled. “Mrs Aggeliki never stays after six, and to be fair, she has a husband and five children. Due to the late hour her meal of steak pie, mashed potatoes and cabbage will have to suffer the microwave treatment.”

“The wonders of technology,” said Costas.

*  *  *

Nitsa
Charalambus lay naked on the bishop’s bed. Her lover, Pavlo Constanides, snuggled close. Most of the men in her life arrived, stayed briefly and were then discarded. Pavlo satisfied her sexual needs. She in turn dangled the use of her body as bait. Always wanting more, he would obey like a well-trained dog.

She gave
Pavlo a hard nudge in the ribs. “I need to talk to you.”

“Not now,
Nitsa, it’s hot and I’m tired. Let me sleep. I have work tomorrow.”

“Wake up or I shall deny you what you want most.”

Pavlo turned towards her and sighed. “What’s your problem?”

“A million
euros?”

Pavlo
shrugged. “Dream on. Go back to sleep.”

“Very well,” said
Nitsa. She lifted her knees, placed both feet on his back and pushed hard. She laughed when Pavlo tumbled onto the tiled floor. “If you don’t want the money, you can’t have me. I’ll find someone who does.”

He picked himself up. “Jesus Christ,
Nitsa,” he exclaimed. “Where is this money?”

“It’s not actual money, but it’s hidden in an old church in Famagusta.” After explaining what Costas told her,
Pavlo understood.

“I want those icons but we must wait until the time is right.”

Pavlo stroked Nitsa’s thighs.

“The thought of money excites me.”

Nitsa moaned when he pulled her against him. She changed her position and sank onto his chest.