Dial stared at the brutality, trying to comprehend why any of it was in a church, when he spotted the most shocking image of all in the mural: a large pile of severed heads.
“Jesus,” Dial said as he angrily turned toward Andropoulos. “How did you forget about this? There’s a pile of fucking heads on the ceiling!”
Andropoulos was about to defend himself when he was saved by Joseph. The monk heard Dial’s vulgarity and charged toward him like an angry rhino protecting its young.
“This is a house of God!” he snarled. “You must show respect in here.”
“Sorry,” Dial apologized, quickly realizing his mistake. Embarrassed, he lowered his head to convey his shame. It was a technique he had learned while working in Japan. “Please forgive me. I forgot where I was. I’m truly sorry for my behavior.”
The young monk paused, as if he had been expecting a confrontation that never materialized. He was so surprised by this development that his anger melted away, replaced by mercy and forgiveness.
“This is our church,” Joseph said, his voice much kinder than a moment before. “Treat it as you would your own.”
Dial nodded, apologetically. “Speaking of churches,” he whispered in a reverential tone, “I was wondering about these paintings. They seem out of place in a house of worship.”
“Not to us.”
“I don’t follow.”
Joseph gazed at the ceiling, his eyes twinkling with awe and admiration. “In the Orthodox faith, one must ask himself what he would do if his beliefs were ever challenged. Would he display the courage and stamina that is necessary to overcome the pains of the flesh? Does he have the devotion in his heart that would lead him to martyrdom? Most people would crumble like ancient ruins, unwilling to fight for what they believed in. But some, like those brave souls honored above, were willing to die for their cause. And to them, we give our respect.”
Dial realized that Joseph was talking about Christianity. But given the circumstances of the massacre and all the connections that Dial had found to soldiers and war, he couldn’t help but wonder if the monks had died for a cause as well—something that had nothing to do with their Orthodox faith. That would explain why seven elderly monks, from different parts of the world, were secretly meeting at Holy Trinity. The odds were pretty damn good they weren’t debating religious doctrine. That type of conversation would be held during the day in a city like Athens, not in the middle of the night on top of a rocky plateau.
So what had they been discussing? What was worth dying for?
Andropoulos pointed at the ceiling. “What is the significance of the heads?”
The monk glanced upward. “Those are the heads of saints, the men we admire most. They gave their lives for their faith. . . . If you look closely, you will notice halos above them. It is our way of showing reverence to their sacrifice.”
In the dim church light, Dial strained to see the halos. On closer inspection, he noticed tiny gold loops above the severed heads. It was a strange twist to an already strange painting.
“Come,” Joseph said. “If you are interested in heads, I have a special treat.”
A few minutes later, the three of them were standing in front of a wooden door. It was spotted with black knots and cracked down the middle from centuries of rot. Yet it still hung on its hinges, protecting its occupants from the outside world. The smell of incense leaked from a foot-high arch that was cut in the door. Dial moved closer and saw candlelight flickering inside the room. As the flames danced, he saw death.
“This is the ossuary,” Joseph explained as he opened the door. “Some call it a bone room. Or a charnel house. This is where we keep our dead.”
Dial walked in first, not the least bit scared by what he saw. If anything, he was captivated by the morbidity. Seven rows of wooden shelves, all of them lined with skulls that stared back at him with empty eye sockets. He moved closer, marveling at their shapes, the curve of their craniums, the hollowness of their nasal cavities. Even in death, after years of rot and decay, he could imagine their faces. He could picture the way they had looked when they were alive.
“These are our founders,” Joseph whispered. “They remind us how short our life is on earth and how insignificant we truly are.”
Dial stared at the lowest shelf. Stacks of bones—femurs, tibias, ribs, and more—were wedged under and between the bottom row of skulls. Entire skeletons crammed into a tiny space like books in a library. None of it seemed respectful to Dial, who had seen burial traditions in many countries. But he realized different cultures believed in different things, so he wasn’t the least bit offended by the way they treated their dead. Just intrigued.