Edward Trencom's Nose

by Giles Milton

  ‘Ticket?’ said Elizabeth. ‘Flight?’

  And then, as frosty icicles pricked her heart, she realized that her husband – her Edward – had lied.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said, desperately trying to compose herself. ‘Ticket – to …’

  ‘Well, the flight from Salonika to Athens is fine,’ said the voice at the other end of the phone. ‘But it’s the return from Athens that is the problem.’

  Elizabeth nodded silently, forgetting that the person on the phone could not see her.

  ‘Hello?’ said the voice. ‘Are you still there?’

  Elizabeth let out a slight murmur.

  ‘You see, what with all the troubles in Greece at the moment, all our flights are subject to change. And we are in the process of reducing our schedule to just three flights a week.’

  ‘Right,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Well …’

  ‘I presume you can contact your …’

  ‘Husband.’

  ‘Yes, you see, he left us no address or number in Greece. The home number was the only one we had.’

  Elizabeth felt giddy and leaned against the kitchen cupboard for support.

  ‘Yes, well, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll make sure the message gets through.’ And with that she replaced the receiver on the phone.

  ‘His father,’ she whispered to herself, ‘and his grandfather – and all of them. And now him.’ And she had the sudden realization, as she thought these thoughts, that her husband’s life was in the gravest danger.

  12 MAY 1969

  When God created man, he singled out Father Seraphim for special treatment. He provided him with a broad grin, a quirky dimple on his left cheek and a pair of mischievous eyes that invited one to step into his company and share a little private joke. In another age he might have been a wag or a courtly fool, for his wisdom was always dispensed with a light-hearted jest. Instead, he had been anointed Abbot of Vatopedi Monastery on Mount Athos and had spent half a lifetime infusing the monastic corridors with his felicific charms.

  Father Seraphim was rarely to be found unaccompanied by a smile. He smiled when he hoed the courgettes. He smiled when he fished for octopus. But rarely did he have more occasion to smile than on the morning of 12 May 1969. For three decades he had wished, hoped and prayed to set eyes on Edward Trencom. Now, at long last, those prayers were going to be answered.

  ‘Ah – yes. Now, let me have a look at you,’ he said, as Edward was ushered into the room. ‘Exactly – exactly as I thought. You’re the very picture of your father.’ He reached out towards Edward’s chin and gently rotated his head sideways in order to examine the profile of his nose.

  ‘It is he – the very image of Peregrine.’

  The abbot took three dwarf-sized glasses from the cupboard and poured a drop of distilled liqueur into each. ‘Now let’s drink,’ he said. ‘We must drink to your health.’ After welcoming Edward to Mount Athos and making a short toast, he drained his glass and encouraged Edward and Papadrianos to do the same.

  When both men had performed this pleasurable duty, Father Seraphim motioned to the door. ‘And now, before we do anything else, you must see around our monastery. For it holds something – several things – that I think will interest you greatly.’

  ‘But wait,’ interrupted Edward. ‘Wait – wait. This monastery – it’s called Vatopedi?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said the abbot. ‘Vatopedi.’

  Edward reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper bearing the code-word A+9VATPD70+O.

  ‘Then this,’ he said, ‘this word in Humphrey’s book, is connected with here – with this monastery?’

  Father Seraphim nodded and draped his arm across Edward’s shoulders. ‘Come,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’ve been kept in suspense for too long. But you won’t have to wait much longer.’

  He ushered Edward out of the back door of the monastic gatehouse and into a large paved courtyard surrounded by half-derelict buildings. On one side of the courtyard was the monastery’s principal church, a Byzantine edifice built of worn red brick. On the other side, opposite the church, was the refectory, whose exterior walls were adorned with frescoes by St Theodore the Cretan.

  ‘We shall look at these later,’ said Father Seraphim. ‘All in good time. First we must visit the church. It is the church that I wish you to see.’

  He led Edward across the courtyard and pushed open the door. Edward took a deep intake of breath as he entered the little church. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said under his breath. ‘At long last it’s returned.’

  The abbot cast him a quizzical smile and asked if he could share in the secret.

  ‘My nose,’ explained Edward. ‘For more than three months it’s been failing me – it hasn’t been working well. But now …’ He sniffed again at the pungent air. ‘Now, it’s detecting everything.’

  ‘Just as it always was,’ said the abbot. ‘It was thus with your father, and it was thus with the others.’

  ‘My father? The others?’

  ‘Come,’ replied Father Seraphim, ‘let’s descend into the crypt.’

  At the same time as the two men made their way towards the crypt, Mount Athos was to find itself welcoming another English visitor on that warm spring morning. For more than thirteen hundred years, no woman had set foot on this holy peninsula. No female guests had ever visited the monasteries; no female animal was permitted to graze on the flower-strewn slopes of the mountain. This rocky finger of land was dedicated to the Mother of God – the only woman whose name was ever mentioned in the hushed chapels of the monastic foundations.

  But all that was to change on the morning of 12 May 1969. At shortly after 11 a.m., an attractive and rather prim-looking English lady could be seen stepping off a fishing boat, aided by two elderly and unkempt Greek men.

  ‘Mercy,’ said one to the other as he made the sign of the cross. ‘May the Mother of God have mercy on us.’

  The other man nodded in agreement. ‘She knows what she is doing,’ said the other.

  ‘Who? The Mother of God?’

  ‘No – this lady here.’

  Mrs Trencom thanked the fishermen, paid them their fare and strode off along the pebble beach. As she made her way towards Vatopedi Monastery, which was set back from the shoreline, she reflected on the extraordinary events of the last forty-eight hours. What a topsy-turvy time she’d had. No sooner had she learned about her husband’s voyage than she’d decided to track him down and rescue him. She bought herself a ticket to Athens with a connecting flight to Salonika and headed for the airport – the first time she had ever made a plane journey by herself.

  It was evening by the time she’d arrived in the city and she spent more than an hour trying to find accommodation. Scarcely had she settled into her room in the Olympus Hotel than there had been a knock on her door. After briefly debating whether or not to open it, she turned the latch and found herself face to face with a tall, impeccably dressed Greek man.

  ‘I’m Mr Makarezos,’ he said, putting out his hand. ‘I think you’ve heard of me. Can we talk?’

  Mrs Trencom was quite taken aback at being visited by a strange man in an unfamiliar hotel, yet she betrayed no sign of surprise or fear. She had been awaiting a confrontation with Mr Makarezos for many weeks and was so relieved that the moment had finally arrived that she did not even consider it strange that he had followed her to Salonika.

  ‘Come in,’ she said with extraordinary calmness. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak with you for some time.’

  ‘Before you say anything,’ he replied, ‘you must allow me to speak. I bring you news that they know you’re here – yes, the junta. They’re watching you, and they’re hoping that you’ll lead them to your husband. You must not contact him. You must not. You will place his life in the greatest danger.’

  ‘Oh, come now, Mr Makarezos,’ said Mrs Trencom in a voice that sounded unnaturally composed. ‘I hardly think that I can place my husband’s life in even greater danger. He is far more
likely to be in harm’s way if I don’t find him. Can’t you see? Nine generations of Trencoms have died because of their obsession with their nose. They can’t help themselves. It’s their noses that lead them astray.’

  There was a long silence as Mr Makarezos considered how best to deal with this stubborn and most inflexible woman. He’d never warmed to English women and Mrs Trencom was about as English as they came.

  ‘But do you know where he is?’ he asked. ‘Would you know where to find him?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Trencom with a note of triumph. ‘I know exactly where he is. You see, his old friend, Herbert Potinger, managed to unravel all of Humphrey Trencom’s riddles and red herrings. He told me exactly where I’d find my husband. And I’ve no reason to doubt that that’s precisely where I will find him.’

  ‘But surely you won’t go – you can’t possibly. It is absolutely forbidden for women to set foot on Mount Athos. Don’t you understand? It’s preserved for the Mother of God.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Trencom, folding her arms. ‘That’s all about to change. I am going to Mount Athos, Mother of God or no Mother of God. I thank you for your advice, Mr Makarezos, I really do. But I assure you that Mrs Trencom is quite capable of looking after herself. If there’s anyone in danger, I’d suggest that it might well be you.’

  In spite of these bold words, Mrs Trencom experienced a sudden flutter of nerves as she approached the stout walls of Vatopedi Monastery. She stared at the stonework for several minutes before making any move towards the gatehouse. The walls stood more than thirty feet in height and encircled all the buildings within – a great stone rampart that had been built to protect the monastic treasures from the Barbary pirates who had once raided these shores.

  ‘Well, well – here we go,’ said Elizabeth to herself as she walked up to the main gate. ‘I only hope that Herbert was right.’

  The gatehouse was empty and Mrs Trencom was able to enter the enclosed courtyard without being seen. Dressed in a lilac cotton dress and wearing a large straw sun hat, she looked the very picture of Englishness. She made no attempt to conceal her presence in the courtyard. Indeed, for several minutes she wandered around, admiring the climbing roses and pulling together her thoughts. She saw no sign of anyone in the monastery and was beginning to wonder if everyone was at work in the nearby fields.

  When she was at long last spotted, there was considerable confusion. Two monks entered the courtyard from the refectory and looked on with absolute incredulity at what appeared to be a woman – or the vision of a woman – sniffing at the roses that surrounded the porch of the church.

  ‘What in the name of God!’ exclaimed one.

  ‘Merciful Father!’ said the other.

  The two monks remained rooted to the spot for more than a minute, wondering whether or not they were beholding the Mother of God.

  ‘Is it She?’ said one, who was on the point of falling to the floor in obeisance.

  ‘I – don’t – think – so,’ said the other in a faltering voice. ‘She looks too – English.’

  As they debated what to do next, Mrs Trencom looked up, saw the two monks staring at her and walked briskly over to them. She asked if they spoke English, but both looked at her blankly.

  ‘I’ve come for my husband,’ she said, speaking loudly and rather more slowly than usual. ‘Edward Trencom – that’s his name.’

  When still this elected no response, she pointed at her wedding ring.

  ‘Ah!’ said one of the monks, who proceeded to converse with his fellow monk at a rapid pace. As the identity of this mystery woman slowly dawned on them, and they realized why she might have come, they both pointed towards the monastery’s church.

  ‘There,’ they said. ‘He’s in there.’

  ‘Thank you very much indeed,’ said Mrs Trencom with customary politeness. And after giving the two monks a little bow, she entered the narthex of the church.

  Father Seraphim was blithely unaware of Mrs Trencom’s unorthodox arrival at Vatopedi Monastery. He was still celebrating the fact that Mr Papadrianos had managed to coerce Edward into coming to Mount Athos and could scarcely conceal his contentment as he led his English guest towards the crypt staircase, passing blackened frescoes and icons lit by candlelight.

  ‘Can you see those?’ he said, pointing to three reliquaries. ‘St Athanasius, St Antonius and St Nicholas, the founders of this monastery. They’ve been here for nine hundred years.’

  The air inside the church smelled of frankincense and floor wax, but Edward noticed that every time he passed an icon lamp he caught a whiff of burned vegetable oil. He wondered why they didn’t use olive oil. ‘It would smell much nicer,’ he thought. ‘And it wouldn’t be that expensive.’

  ‘Now, do be careful on the steps,’ warned the abbot. ‘We wouldn’t want you to – how do you say in English? – come a cropper.’

  He disappeared round a sharp corner and Edward followed, clutching tightly at the thin metal banister. The steps were smooth as pebbles and the only light came from a single bulb at the top of the stairs.

  Down they went, around three more twists in the staircase, until Edward noticed that the darkness was at last being softened by a low pale gleam of light. He followed the abbot down two larger steps and suddenly found himself in a large chapel lit by dozens of oil lamps. As he scanned the room with his eyes, he was most startled by what he saw. An open stone sarcophagus stood before him, and at its furthest end there was an icon of someone who had exactly the same nose as his own. It was long, thin and aquiline with a prominent dome over the bridge.

  Edward’s eyes switched to the sarcophagus itself and was horrified to see that it contained a complete human skeleton. He gulped and swallowed hard.

  ‘My God’, he said. ‘Who is it?’

  The abbot made the sign of the cross and stooped down to venerate the icon. He then walked back to Edward and led him to the side of the tomb.

  ‘Tell me,’ said the abbot, ‘tell me what you know about Humphrey Trencom.’

  ‘Humphrey Trencom?’ repeated Edward in a whisper. ‘Well, he left Constantinople with a parcel – some precious object. And he came, well, it’s clear that he must have come here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the abbot. ‘You see, his code was not so difficult after all. Come, show me your paper.’

  Edward pulled out the sheet for a second time and unfolded it.

  ‘The “A” and “O”,’ said the abbot, ‘well, they stand for Agion Oros. The Holy Mountain. Mount Athos. And the numbers, well, 970 was the year in which our monastery was founded.’

  Edward took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Of course,’ he thought, harking back to his previous conversation with Herbert Potinger. ‘And as for the hermaphrodites – why, he must have meant monks. Monks have lived here for generation upon generation, but, in the manner of hermaphrodites, they seem able to reproduce themselves.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said the abbot. ‘Humphrey Trencom came here, to Vatopedi. He came here with the package that he had found in Constantinople.’

  ‘But what on earth did it contain?’ asked Edward. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to discover all along.’

  ‘Bones,’ said the abbot.

  ‘Bones?’ repeated Edward. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Is that all!’ exclaimed the abbot as he pointed towards the sarcophagus. ‘He brought these very bones. These relics – these holiest of holies. They are holier, even, than the relics in the church above.’

  ‘But whose bones are they?’ said Edward. But even before he had completed his sentence, he realized that he knew the answer.

  ‘They are the mortal remains of the last Byzantine emperor, Constantine XI Palaiologos. He was killed during the siege of the city in 1453. Cut down by the infidel as he was valiantly defending the Porta Aurea. His death marked the end of an era. It brought about the demise of the most noble, most glorious, most Christian empire the world has ever known.’

  There was a long silence as Edwar
d digested everything that Father Seraphim had told him. But it still didn’t quite make sense.

  ‘But why Humphrey?’ he asked. ‘And why me? I still don’t know why I’m here.’

  ‘I think you do,’ said the abbot. ‘But first, let me explain something else. Something important. Once the Turks had captured Constantinople, they began a desperate search for the emperor’s body. You see, many people believed he was not dead; that he would rise again; that he was immortal and would return to crush the Turks. The Turks themselves believed these prophecies. It was said that Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror could not sleep for fear that his lifelong enemy was regrouping his forces.’

  The abbot cleared his throat and started to sing in a low clear voice:

  ‘King, I shall arise from my enmarbled sleep,

  And from my mystic tomb I shall come forth

  To open wide the bricked-up Golden Gate;

  And, victor over the Caliphs and the Tsars,

  Hunting them beyond Red Apple Tree,

  I shall seek rest upon my ancient bounds.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Edward, when he had finished. ‘What are you singing?’

  ‘It’s by Palamas. One of our most famous Greek poets. He’s speaking of Emperor Constantine. You see, many in Greece also believed that the emperor would come again, and stories of his resurrection eventually entered our folklore.’

  ‘So why were his bones brought here?’ asked Edward.

  ‘Well,’ said Father Seraphim, ‘the monks in Constantinople were no fools. They realized the importance of keeping the emperor’s death a secret – of safeguarding his body and perpetuating the stories of his impending return. They knew it would help them keep alive the dream of recapturing Constantinople. So they buried Constantine’s body for seven years, as is our custom, and then disinterred his bones. They were kept for more than two centuries in a secret chapel under the Porta Aurea.’