The Lost Throne(65)

Dial said, “My father was an assistant football coach, which is one of the least stable jobs in America. When he succeeded, he was hired by better colleges. When he failed, he was fired and we were forced to move. Either way, it meant I was always the new kid at school. And the new kid was always treated like this.”

Andropoulos smiled. It was the first time Dial had opened up to him. Even at dinner the night before, the two of them had mostly talked about the case, not their private lives. “Don’t take it personally, sir. These men have chosen a life of solitude. They view us as a link to the outside world. A world that recently claimed eight of their own.”

“Don’t worry. I never take things personally. I didn’t back then, and I don’t now.”

Great Metéoron, also known as Megálo Metéoro, is the oldest and largest of the six local monasteries. Founded in 1340 by Saint Athana sios Meteorites, a scholar monk from Mount Athos, it had expanded several times over the years, housing as many as three hundred monks in the mid-sixteenth century. What started as a single building carved into the rock had expanded to a small town on top of it—more than two thousand feet above the valley below. There were four chapels, a cathedral, a tower, a refectory, a dormitory, a hospital, and several other structures.

Most of them made of stone. Most of them centuries old.

Dial soaked it all in as they followed the stone pathway between the buildings. Thankfully, Andropoulos knew where they were going, or Dial would have been forced to ask directions from one of the monks. A conversation that would have been, undoubtedly, one-sided.

A few minutes later, they met Joseph, a fair-haired monk and one of the youngest at Great Metéoron. Because of his low standing in the order, he had been assigned to be their tour guide while Theodore finished his research in the library. Joseph, who was so young he couldn’t even grow a decent beard, was waiting for them outside the monastery’s katholikón, an Eastern Orthodox term for cathedral. Dedicated to the Transfiguration of Christ, it was often called the Church of the Metamorphosis. Built in 1544 to replace a smaller katholikón that still served as its sanctuary, it was the most important building in the entire complex.

“Come,” Joseph said as he opened the door, “I shall show you the interior.”

Dial stepped inside the katholikón and felt as though he had been transported to another time, another place. While Holy Trinity was dusty and quaint, filled with simple relics and neutral tones, the Church of the Metamorphosis was just the opposite. It was bold and vibrant, bursting with a rainbow of colors that would have looked more at home in the Sistine Chapel.

Joseph pointed toward the center of the church and recited a speech that sounded well rehearsed. Like a bored tour guide. “The nave is topped by a twelve-sided dome, which is twenty-four meters high and supported by four stone pillars. The frescoes were added eight years later. Most of them were painted by Theophanes the Cretan or one of his disciples. His fame as an artist grew in later years, when he worked on the monasteries at Mount Athos. If you visit Russia, some of his work is displayed at the Hermitage Museum in Saint Petersburg.”

Dial stared at the nave and recognized several key scenes from Christian mythology—the raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, and the Transfiguration of Christ. All of them were well preserved or had been remarkably restored.

“Sir,” Andropoulos called from the narthex, the western entrance to the nave. His voice echoed through the entire cathedral. “You need to see this.”

“Lower your voice,” Dial ordered as he walked between two pews that led to the other end of the church. “What is it?”

Andropoulos whispered, “When we were inside the tunnel, you asked me if there was any unusual artwork in the local monasteries, and I said I couldn’t think of any. . . . Well, I completely forgot about this place.”

“What are you talking about?”

Andropoulos pointed toward the ceiling to illustrate his comment.

Dial glanced up, expecting to see the same type of frescoes—images from the Bible that illustrated the glory of God—that filled the nave. Instead, he saw the exact opposite. It looked as though Satan had been given a paintbrush and told to finish the ceiling.

“What the hell?” Dial mumbled as he stared at the grisly scenes.

Everywhere he looked he saw death and destruction, most of it more gruesome than a horror movie. Bodies pierced by ancient spears. Blood spurting everywhere. Headless bodies strewn on the ground like leaves from a dying tree. Christians persecuted by Roman soldiers. Chunks of flesh being ripped and torn. Saints slaughtered and martyred in multiple ways. Everything graphic and disturbing, like a maniacal painting by Hieronymus Bosch.