Their journey to Mount Athos took all day. First, he and his men had to navigate through some of the Cyclades Islands—Kythnos, An dros, Tinos, and Kea. Later they passed Alonnisos and Skyros and the rest of the Sporades Islands. The farther north they traveled, the less familiar they were with the blue waters of the Aegean. Still, with the aid of a compass and a simple map, they kept a correct heading and reached their destination before the sun set in the western sky.
At first glance, Mount Athos was much taller than they had expected. The rocky terrain was covered in thick layers of green trees, and footpaths were nonexistent. But the topography worked in their favor. They were used to training in the Taygetos Mountains. They knew how to fight on a slope, how to hide in the brush, and how to use the hills to their advantage. If they were forced to wage battle in an open field, they wouldn’t stand a chance. Guns, bullets, and modern weapons would tear through their flesh before they could even raise their swords.
But here, on the rock-strewn peninsula where Xerxes’ army once marched?
Apollo loved his chances.
Dial’s tour continued as Clive drove his boat past Xenofóntos, a waterfront monastery that was founded in A.D. 1010. Over the centuries, it had been destroyed and rebuilt multiple times, and this was reflected in the newer architecture of some of the buildings.
“Coming up is one of my favorites,” Clive said as he pushed the throttle forward, doubling the boat’s speed in a heartbeat. “It goes by many names: Agíou Panteleímonos, Saint Panteleimon, and Rosikón. Around here, they simply call it ‘the Russian one.’ ”
Even without an introduction, Dial would have known its country of affiliation. The onion-domed churches and colorful roofs were a dead giveaway. The complex was built like a small Russian town. Buildings of various heights and colors surrounded a courtyard that could not be seen from the water. A century ago, more than 1,400 monks had lived inside. That was no longer possible, not since 1968 when a fire ravaged the guest wing that once housed 1,000 people.
Nowadays the community was much smaller than it had been in previous centuries. Fewer than fifty monks lived there, but since it was the only Russian monastery in Mount Athos, it was one of the most popular to visit—especially for followers of the Russian Orthodox faith.
Three of the Russian monks were working near the shore. Despite the sunny weather, they wore black stovepipe hats and long black cloaks. Their beards were dark and bushy.
Clive slowed his boat. “Not only are their chapels gorgeous, but you haven’t heard chanting until you’ve heard one of their services. The Slavonic Liturgy is like a symphony.”
Dial smiled. “I’ll have to take your word on that.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’m still hoping I can get you inside.”
“I hope so, too. Speaking of which, how much farther to the main port?”
“I could gun it and get you to Dáfni in two minutes, but the harbor police are stationed there. It might be best if we approach with a modicum of respect.”
Dáfni is a small port town in the center of the Athos Peninsula. From its position on the western coast, boat traffic is monitored and visitors to the Holy Mountain are screened. A maximum of 120 Orthodox Christian visitors are allowed daily. The number of non- Orthodox Christians is capped at 14 per day. A visitor’s permit, known as a Diamoneterion, must be acquired well in advance—unless a special invitation was issued by Karyes, the capital of Mount Athos.
Dial hoped for one of those invitations. But he knew his odds were slim.
After tying his boat to one of the smaller docks, Clive led Dial and Andropoulos toward the front gate. It was made of metal and looked rather flimsy. The man standing beside it did not. He wore the uniform of a customs officer. His muscles bulged against his sleeves. A sidearm hung at his hip like a sheriff from the Old West. His face was intense; his eyes were focused.
“Let me talk to him first,” Clive said as he walked along the quay. “Our goal is to get you past this gate. Once inside, you still have to get through customs and his supervisor.”
“Do they speak English?” Dial wondered.
“Some do, some don’t. I’ll introduce you in Greek, just in case.”
“Marcus is Greek. He can serve as my translator, if that will help.”
“That can’t hurt,” Clive admitted. “Neither can your badge.”
Dial glanced around the port. It was completely empty. Early in the day, when the ferry arrived from Ouranoúpoli, a line of pilgrims stretched out to the dock. By mid-afternoon, the place was devoid of activity. It would stay that way until the ferry came again.