The Lost Throne(41)

But Andropoulos didn’t disappoint him. Less than five minutes later he was standing in the back room, right next to Dial. And this time there were no signs of discomfort. No coughing. No hacking. No dry heaves. The color had even returned to his face. Somehow the kid had steadied himself without stepping outside for a breath of fresh air. To Dial, that was more impressive than someone with an iron stomach who wouldn’t have gagged in the first place.

It showed that Andropoulos had character. That he could overcome setbacks. That he wouldn’t let his shortcomings keep him down.

And strangely, Dial felt a hint of paternal pride.

“Look over there,” he said as he pointed to several garbage bags in the corner. The interiors of the bags were covered in blood, as was the floor in front of the altar. “I’m guessing they stuffed the heads inside the bags and carried them down here for their little display.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To send a message. You don’t lug a bag of heads around if you aren’t sending a message.”

“To us?” Andropoulos asked.

“Definitely not. If they wanted us to find it, they would’ve left a blood trail.”

To prove his point, Dial walked through the archway and shined the light on the floor in front of the empty shelves. As expected, there was no sign of blood outside the altar room.

“No,” he surmised, “they used plastic bags to conceal this location. They wanted someone to find the heads—someone who knew about this place—but not us.”

“Someone like Nicolas?”

Dial shrugged. It was a fair question, but one he didn’t have an answer for quite yet. Not this early in the investigation. To change the topic, he said, “Any thoughts on the pyramid?”

“Actually, sir, I was going to ask you the exact same thing.”

“I told you, I always have a theory. But I’m more concerned with yours.” Dial handed him the penlight and told him to take a closer look. “Let me know if you find anything.”

Andropoulos gulped and leaned closer to examine the heads. Although decomposition had started—which was the source of the horrible smell—they still had their hair and skin and looked remarkably lifelike. Expressions of horror were frozen on their faces like Hallow een masks, as if they still felt the sting of the Spartan’s sword. To Andropoulos, one head stood out among the others. It was someone he recognized the moment he set foot in the room.

“The man on top is the abbot,” he said.

“Really? What about the others?”

“Sorry. I don’t know the others. Just the abbot.”

Dial nodded, wondering if the order of the heads or their configuration had any meaning. “Refresh my memory. What’s the name of the local monastery with the bone collection?”

“Great Metéoron.”

“Do they stack their skulls like this?”

Andropoulos closed his eyes, trying to get a mental picture of the bone room. It had been many years since he had visited the site. “No, sir. They sit in six or seven rows, one row above another. But the skulls are not touching. They are separated by shelves.”

Dial pointed to the first chamber. “Do their shelves look like that?”

“No, sir. The shelves at Metéoron are simple boards. Not fancy at all.”

“What about the altar? Does it look familiar to you?”

Until that moment, Andropoulos hadn’t paid much attention to it. The sight and stench of the heads had been far too distracting. But now, under Dial’s watchful gaze, he had no choice. He had to narrow his focus. He had to concentrate on the stone altar.

Made out of white marble, it stood in the center of the rear wall and nearly came up to his waist. The heads rested on a rectangular slab that was smooth and ten inches thick. All four sides were adorned with carvings of Greek soldiers. Some of them marching, some of them fighting, all of them looking courageous. The slab itself was supported by four legs that resembled ancient swords. But unlike the blades used in the massacre, these were one-sided and topped with intricate handles that were designed for pageantry. The type of swords used by kings, not hoplites.

“Sorry, sir, I’ve never seen it before.”

“And you’ve been to all the local monasteries?”

Andropoulos nodded. “Yes, sir. All six of them.”

“Tell me about their artwork. Do they have any themes?”

“Themes, sir?”

“Does the art have anything in common? Like angels or whatever.”

“Most of the paintings are religious. Like scenes from the Bible.”

“In other words, typical church shit.”

“Yes, sir.”