The Lost Temple (14 page)

Muir rasped a match against the box. “Good fucking riddance.”

Grant looked at him in disgust. “You know her brother wasn’t a Communist.”

“As far as she’s concerned he was. And she’s hiding something.”

“She’s angry as hell because of what happened to her brother.”

“Then why don’t you tell her the truth about it? Is there any more wine in that bottle?”

Grant picked up the bottle of Moschato. It was unlabelled and covered in dust from the hotel owner’s cellar. He jammed in the cork and lobbed it across the room to Muir. Muir winced as he stretched to catch it.

“Marina knew Pemberton, she knows the archaeology and she can handle herself in a fight. She probably saved our skins on the beach last night.”

“Grow up. She killed that Russian because she had no choice. If we’d captured him he’d have spilled the beans on her.”

Grant shook his head. “I don’t buy it. She could have shot me instead. You were down, Reed was unarmed, the Russian had the tablet. They could have jumped in the boat and been halfway to Moscow by now.”

A chair scraped on the floor. Reed had stood—and flinched, as two angry stares pinned him back. “I, er, thought I’d get a little air.”

“No you fucking won’t. We’ve almost lost you once already this weekend. Don’t know what nasties are lurking out there.” Muir gestured out of the window. The street below was filled with noise and light as the townsfolk hurried to church for the midnight Easter service.

“I’ll go with him.” Like Reed, Grant was desperate to get away from the stale anger in the room.

“Keep your eyes open. Especially with Marina on the loose.”

Grant buckled the Webley’s holster round his waist, then pulled on a jacket to cover it. “We’ll be careful.”

The fresh air was a relief. They stood on the hotel’s porch and breathed it in for a few moments, not speaking. They didn’t have a destination in mind, but the moment they stepped into the street they found themselves carried on the current of the crowd. They were all dressed in their Sunday best: fathers in three-piece suits, however threadbare; mothers in high heels dragging along children with scrubbed faces and pigtails. All of them, even the smallest child, carried long white candles.

“I hope Marina’s all right,” said Reed. “She seemed rather upset about her brother.”

“She should be. We killed him.”

“Oh.” Reed grimaced and didn’t ask any more. After a
pause: “I suppose you’re not troubled by this sort of thing. Midnight raids. Russian spies trying to kidnap you. Guns being waved all over the place. People dying.”

“Troubled?” Grant laughed. “Maybe. You get used to it.”

“It’s funny. I suppose, in a way, I’ve spent all my life with war. Homer,” Reed added, seeing Grant’s surprise.

“I thought you said that was a fairy tale.”

“Some of the stories are. But Homer . . .” Reed paused, his eyes half shut, as if savoring a fine wine on his tongue. “He puts the truth back into them. Not the literal truth—though actually, his poems are far less fantastical than most versions. The poetic truth.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Professor. There’s not much poetry in war.”

“ ‘My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.’ ”

“Wilfred Owen was a hopeless romantic. There’s not much pity in war either. I learned that much from my dad.”

Reed, far too steeped in the ways of an Oxford don to enquire further, fell silent. They walked on with the crowd, out of the town and toward the church on the headland at the mouth of the bay. The flash of fireworks lit up the sky like a distant storm.

“It was the smell, you know.”

“Pardon?” Surprised from his thoughts by Reed’s unexpected remark, Grant looked up.

“The story Miss Papagiannopoulou . . .”

“Call her Marina,” Grant interrupted. “It’ll save you years of your life.”

“The story she referred to. The women of Lemnos didn’t just spontaneously murder their menfolk. They did it because they’d been shunned. They’d been afflicted by a curse that gave them terribly bad breath—they’d offended Aphrodite—so, naturally, their husbands refused to kiss them. Or offer other, erm, marital favors. So they killed the men.”

“Doesn’t exactly solve the problem.”

“That’s what they discovered. A few months later Jason and the Argonauts popped by on their way to find the golden
fleece. The women practically held them at spear-point until the Argonauts obliged them.”

“Must have been a hard life, being an Argonaut.”

“Hm?” Reed wasn’t really listening. “It’s funny how all these old stories about Lemnos revolve around odor. Philoctetes’ stinking wound, the women’s foul breath. Almost as if Lemnians had a reputation.”

He trailed off, lost in his own thoughts as they reached the end of the promontory. A square, whitewashed church rose above them—but they couldn’t get any nearer, for the crowds had completely surrounded it. From inside, Grant could just make out the drone of the priests chanting the Easter liturgy, though no one seemed to be paying much attention. Children chased each other through the forest of legs, while adults greeted each other and gossiped quietly.

“Not quite C of E, is it?” Reed grinned.

A hawker, with pairs of candles hanging from his arms like onions, moved up toward them. Grant would have sent him packing, but Reed beckoned him over and, after some brief haggling, came away with two candles. He handed one to Grant. “The Greeks say if you burn it down it burns away your sins.”

Grant squinted down the length of the slender taper. “Do they come any bigger?”

A hush fell over the crowd. Up on the hilltop a spark appeared in the door of the church. It hovered for a second, divided in two, then again and again, multiplying from candle to candle as it passed through the crowd.

“The original light comes from Jerusalem,” Reed whispered. “Every year the patriarch of Jerusalem crawls into the Holy Sepulcher—Christ’s tomb—and a holy fire spontaneously kindles itself out of the air. The patriarch lights a candle from it and passes the flame on to his congregation.”

“Sounds like hocus-pocus to me. He’s probably got a lighter stuffed down his pants.”

“Maybe.” Again, Reed seemed to filter out everything but the sound of his own thoughts. “Extraordinary to think, though, that in ancient times the islanders waited for the
boat to bring the sacred fire. And here we are, three thousand years later, doing exactly the same thing.”

Grant trawled through his memory. He felt as if he’d learned more history in the past week than all the previous thirty years of his life combined. “You mean the fire ritual? The one where they turned out all the lights for nine days?”

“Indeed. Interestingly, according to one of the sources, the ritual was meant to purify the island after the episode I told you about earlier. The darkness was a time of penance, symbolic death to atone for the historic murder of the menfolk. Then the light arrived, symbolizing new life and rebirth.”

“Pratolaos.” The name jumped into Grant’s mind. “The first man, reborn in a cave.”

“Not so different from another man who was buried in a cave and came back to life.” Reed stopped talking as the man in front of him, a burly farmer in an ill-fitting suit, turned round. Grant braced himself for a complaint, but the man only smiled and reached out his candle, tilting toward Reed’s. The wicks touched; Reed’s took the flame and flared into life. A bubble of wax trickled down toward his fingers.

“
Christos anesthi,
” said the farmer.
Christ is risen.

“
Alithos anesthi,
” Reed replied.
He is risen indeed
. All around them the greeting and counter-greeting whispered through the crowd, like moths on a summer night. He turned to Grant and offered him the flame. “
Christos anesthi.
”

“If you say so.” Grant lit his candle and held it awkwardly, trying not to drip wax on his shoes.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

Grant gave a bashful grin. “Confused. I’m not sure if I’m burning away my sins, apologizing for those husband-slaughtering women, worshipping Jesus or conjuring up Pratolaos.”

Reed smiled. “Now you’re getting the idea. But you mustn’t hog the fire. You’re supposed to pass it on.”

Grant turned round. The fire had already spread beyond him: most of the candles behind were lit. But one seemed to have missed out. He reached forward. The two candles
collided, knocked against each other a few times in a clumsy courtship, then finally settled long enough for the flame to leap between them.

“
Christi anesthu,
” Grant mumbled.

She retracted her candle and held it up in front of her. Orange light shone on her face and the reflected flame burned in her eyes.

“Marina?” Grant almost dropped his candle. “Jesus Christ!”

“. . . Is risen indeed.” She turned away; Grant half lifted a hand, but she was only passing the fire on to the man behind her. When she had finished she turned back. She had been crying, and even among the crowd she looked strangely vulnerable, as if she couldn’t decide whether to spit in his face or run away.

“I’m sorry about Muir,” said Grant. “He’s . . . He’s an asshole.”

“I didn’t sell you out to the Russians.” Her voice was brittle.

“I never said you did. But you can see why Muir’s jumpy. Someone must have told the Reds where we were. And it’s a shame you shot the Russian. It would have been useful to find out what he knew.”

He gave her a sideways glance, which she answered with an uncompromising glare. “There was a bulge under his coat and he was reaching for it. What would you have done?”

“That was the tablet.”

“Then it’s lucky I didn’t hit it.”

He reached out a tentative hand and brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her cheek. She didn’t stop him.

“Anyway, Muir doesn’t matter any more.” A breeze stirred through the crowd and Grant cupped his hand round the candle to protect it. “There’s nothing at that sanctuary. This trail was three thousand years old before we started. It’s not just cold: it’s bloody frozen in the depths of time. Might as well give up now and go back to Crete.”

There was a discreet cough from behind. Grant and
Marina turned, to see Reed watching apologetically. With the candle clutched in his hand, he looked like a choirboy on Christmas eve. “Actually, I think the trail’s warming up nicely.”

Grant and Marina stared at him in disbelief. “How?”

Reed tapped the side of his nose. “The clue was in the ancient stories.” He smiled. “You just have to follow your nose.”

Therma, Lemnos. Next morning

Are you sure you’ve got this right?”

They were standing in a shallow valley at the end of a dirt road. It was a pleasant spot: poplars and cypress trees shaded the stream that bubbled down the valley, while in front of them stood a neat, four-square, neoclassical building. It felt vaguely Swiss to Grant: its red-tiled roof and vigorous white walls; the fresh paint on the doors and the starched curtains in the windows. Everything seemed healthy and efficient. Everything except the smell, which festered in the valley: the eggy, noxious stink of sulfur.

“Perhaps not,” said Reed. He sounded unaccountably cheerful. “But this is where the hot springs are. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. They’ve been in use since at least Roman times.”

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but a hot spring isn’t the same as a volcano. Even the ancients probably knew the difference.”

Reed shrugged. “All the legends about the foul-smelling Lemnians will have been rooted in some sort of collective memory. If this was the place where they had their shrine, they must have smelled rather unpleasant after nine days of rituals.”

They had walked the few miles from Myrina that morning. There wasn’t much to be found in the town on Easter
Sunday, but between them Grant and Marina had managed to scrounge a few tools, an oil lamp, a length of rope and a donkey to carry it all to the spa at Therma. Now they were there, breathing in air that seemed anything but healthy to Grant.

“So what do we do? Ask the attendant if he’s found a three-thousand-year-old meteorite in the bath?” He pointed to the locked door and the dark rooms behind the lace curtains. “It looks shut.”

“Bank holiday.” Reed peered around. “But the thermal springs don’t rise inside the spa. The water gets piped in from somewhere. Let’s have a look.”

A brief reconnaissance of the buildings didn’t reveal much. They left Muir with the donkey and spread out, gradually working their way further up the valley behind the spa. The sulfurous smell faded away, drowned out by the sticky scent of wildflowers, and their pace slowed as they waded through the long grass. At the top of the valley the stream disappeared. Grant spent a fruitless quarter of an hour looking for its source but found nothing. He sat down on a rock in the sun, watching the lizards dart among the stones. The withered husk of a snakeskin lay coiled at his feet.

“What’s over there?” Reed had come up behind him, his face flushed under the sunhat. He was pointing up the hill, where a mounded hilltop swelled out of the rolling landscape. The valley had hidden it, but from the ridge they could see it quite clearly. Reed took the field glasses that hung round his neck and pressed them against his spectacles, then handed them to Grant. Unsure what he was looking for, he twisted the dial until the blurred image came into focus.

“There’s a cross on top of it.” It was a steel cross about six feet tall, held in place by four guy ropes. A hawk was sitting on one of the transepts, preening itself.

Grant lowered the field glasses. “I know I’m not a historian, but aren’t churches a bit later than what we’re looking for?”

“Have you ever been to the Roman forum? When Christians took over the empire, they just bricked up the pagan temples and turned them into churches. You can still see the classical columns built into the walls. The Parthenon in Athens was used as a church—and a mosque when the Ottomans captured it. Buildings come and go, but sacred places have a way of persevering.”