“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
S
UMMER 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.
“Summer recently found evidence that Helena may have shipped more than just the True Cross from Jerusalem and that these relics may have been lost in Cyprus. We’re hoping to find clues to the whereabouts of a Roman galley that sailed on her behalf.”
The dim corridor light masked Bannister’s sudden paleness. “A fascinating prospect,” he said. “Do you have any inkling where the relics might be?”
“We’re starting with a known shipwreck near a place called Pissouri. But as you know, two-thousand-year-old clues are hard to come by.”
“Indeed. Well, I’m afraid I must be running along. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pitt, and good luck with your search.”
“Thank you. And be sure to say hello to Summer on your way out.”
“I will.”
Bannister, of course, had no such intentions. Walking quickly down the corridor, he reentered the church and found a side exit on the opposite wall. Stepping into the sunlight, he crept cautiously toward the courtyard until spotting Summer studying a wall fresco. Waiting until she turned her back toward him, he quietly scooted across the grounds, reaching the upper stairway without being observed.
Jogging down the stairs, he nearly tripped on the beggar at the base before making his way to his car. He drove quickly down the winding road until reaching the highway, where he pulled to the side, parking behind a cluster of carob trees. There, he sat and waited, watching the road for Dirk and Summer.
Seconds after he sped out of the monastery parking lot, another car started up. The driver wheeled alongside the base of the stairway, then stopped and waited as the mangy beggar rose to his feet and climbed into the passenger seat. Removing his hat, the beggar revealed a long scar on his right jaw.
“Quickly,” Zakkar snapped at the driver. “Don’t let him get out of our sight.”
90
S
UMMER WAS STANDING ACROSS THE COURTYARD WHEN Dirk stepped out of the monastery.
“How’s things in the boys’ club?” she asked with a touch of bitterness.
“Not the frat party you might think it is.”
“Any luck?”
Dirk described what he had learned of the church’s history and the display from the True Cross.
“I met with the resident historian, but he had little to add in the way of Helena’s visit to Cyprus. The place has been ransacked so many times, there’s no archival data left. The bottom line is, nobody has any knowledge of relics beyond the True Cross.”
“Did he know anything about Helena’s fleet?”
Dirk shook his head. “As far as anybody knows, Helena arrived and left Cyprus without incident.”
“Then Plautius and his galley must have been attacked before she arrived.”
She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward one of the courtyard walls.
“Come look at this,” she said.
She led him to a trio of large frescoes painted on a linear section of shaded wall. The frescoes looked faded to the point of invisibility, at a quick glance. Dirk stepped closer and studied the first panel. It was a customary Madonna and Child, featuring a haloed infant Jesus held in Mary’s arms. Both figures’ wide eyes and flat dimensions indicated it was a style of art from long ago. The next panel showed a crucifixion scene, Jesus on the cross, his head hung low in agony. Somewhat unusual for the genre, Dirk noted, the two beggar thieves were illustrated hanging from neighboring crosses.
He then stepped to the third panel, where Summer stood with a pleased expression on her face. It depicted a crowned woman in profile pointing toward the upper corner of the fresco. Her finger was pointing at a towering green mountain capped by a pair of crosses. The geological features of Stavrovouni were clearly visible in the hilltop rendering.
“Helena?” Dirk said.
“It has to be,” Summer replied. “Now, look at the bottom.”
Dirk peered closely at the lower portion of the fresco, observing a section of faded blue that represented the sea. The image of three ships on the water was barely visible beneath Helena’s profile. Crude in representation, each ship was the same approximate size, and was powered by both sail and oars. With the proper perspective, Dirk could see that two of the ships appeared to be pursuing the third vessel. Studying the faded plaster, he pointed to the two chase craft.
“This one appears to be sinking by the stern,” he said, “while the other one is turning out to sea.”
“Look at the sail on the lead ship,” Summer said.
Straining his eyes, Dirk could just see a faint symbol on the ship’s sail. It appeared to be an “X” with a high-legged “P” written over its center.
“It’s the Chi-Rho monogram that was used by Constantine,” she explained. “It was the divine symbol that supposedly came to him in a dream before his victory at the Battle of Milvian Bridge. He used it on his battle standard and as an emblem of his rule.”
“Then the picture is either Helena arriving in Cyprus with an escort . . .” he said.
“Or it is Plautius’s galley fleeing two Cypriot pirate ships,” she said, completing his thought.
A chip in the fresco obscured the path of the galley, but the continuation of a shoreline along the bottom indicated that it was headed toward land. Slightly above the horizon was another small image, of a nude woman emerging from the sea, a pair of dolphins at her side.
“The meaning of that is lost on me,” Summer said as Dirk examined the image.
Just then, the dour monk walked by, having escorted a pair of French tourists through the church. Dirk hailed him and inquired about the frescoes.
“Yes, they are very old,” the monk said. “The archaeologists believe they date to the Byzantine Age. Some have claimed that these walls were part of the original church, but nobody knows for sure.”
“This last fresco,” Summer asked, “is it an image of Helena?”
“Yes,” the monk confirmed. “She’s arrived by sea and envisions the church here on Stavrovouni.”
“Do you know what this figure is?” she asked, pointing to the nude woman.
“That would be Aphrodite. You see, the monastery here was built on the ruins of a temple to Aphrodite. The artist must have been paying homage to the site before Helena commissioned the church to be built here.”
She thanked the monk, then watched him shuffle back to the monastery door.
“Well, we were close,” she said. “Now we know there were two pirate ships, anyway.”
“The image makes it appear that the Roman vessel was still afloat after battling the pirates. It was heading somewhere,” Dirk muttered, staring at the image until his eyes turned blurry. He finally stepped away from the panel and joined Summer in heading toward the exit.
“I guess we got all we can from here,” he said. “By the way, did you talk to Ridley Bannister?”
“Ridley who?” she asked as they descended the stairway to the parking lot.
“Ridley Bannister, the British archaeologist. He said he knew you.”
Receiving a blank look, Dirk proceeded to describe his encounter in the monastery.
“I never saw him,” she said. Then the wheels of suspicion began to turn in her head. “What does he look like?”
“Thin, medium build, sandy hair. I suppose women might find him handsome.”
Summer suddenly froze on the steps. “Did you notice if he was wearing a ring?”
Dirk thought a moment. “Yes, I think so. On his right ring finger. I noticed it when we shook hands. It was solid gold with a funny design, like something out of the Middle Ages.”
Summer’s face turned flush with anger. “That’s the guy who stole the Manifest from Julie and me at gunpoint. He said his name was Baker.”
“He’s a well-known and respected archaeologist,” Dirk said.
“Respected?” Summer hissed. “I bet he’s here searching for the galley, too.”
“One of the monks did mention he was working on a book about Helena.”
Summer was fuming by the time they reached the car. The image of Bannister taking the Manifest in the basement of Kitchener’s manor saturated her mind. She drove aggressively down the winding monastery road, her anger reflected in her driving. Entering the main highway, she never considered that the source of her wrath was in a car now following close behind.
Her temper waned as they reached the outskirts of Limassol. By the time they found the city’s commercial docks, she actually felt encouraged.
“If Bannister is here, then the galley must exist,” she said to Dirk.