The Emperor Awakes

by Alexis Konnaris

  ‘“Welcome my dear. I trust you are enjoying the refreshing sea foam. And the salty sea air will do wonders for your complexion and that lovely glossy hair. Don’t let any worries enter your pretty little head. And don’t get any funny ideas of escape, now will you?”

  ‘Stephanos had been witnessing this one-way exchange with acute interest. And now he felt his turn had come to speak. He opened his bag and took out a package wrapped in an unadorned white linen cloth. He bowed and extended his hand to the Pasha.

  ‘“Your highness, your gift as promised.”

  ‘The Pasha snatched it impatiently from Stephanos’ hand and rushed to unwrap it excited like a child whose wish had come true. After a few seconds admiring the icon, he looked at Stephanos. “You’ve done well, my dear Stephanos. You have been a great source of joy today. Now, it is time for you to collect your reward.” A subtle click of the fingers and a small bag carried by the Pasha’s attendant was dropped at Stephanos’ feet. Stephanos wanted to open it and look inside, but knew that such a gesture would be a sign of mistrust and an offence to the Pasha, so Stephanos refrained from any movement. He bowed once more and, politely, thanked his host. He made no attempt to stand up and leave, as his host had not yet dismissed him.

  ‘“Will you not open it to check the contents? Let me tell you that it’s over and above what we agreed.”

  ‘“I have no doubt your generosity will be beyond measure.” Stephanos smiled politely and conspiratorially and bowed with the reverence demanded of such an exulted personage as the Malenca Pasha, the holder of several records achieved through his physical appearance and his compulsive consumption of excess.

  ‘The Pasha allowed his vanity and his ego to be massaged. That was his weakness. He was accustomed to worship after all. He relished any attention lavished on him for whatever reason. “It is indeed. And you are not wrong there. It’s quite a bit more than what we agreed, more than your usual fee. But it was worth it.”

  ‘“I am glad to be of service to a great man such as yourself. I remain your humble servant. Just your honouring me with the pleasure of serving you is the greatest gift I could ever expect to receive.”

  ‘“I can see through your flattery and your use of the right words, but it pleases me, nonetheless. Now, enough business. I feel an expanding hole in my stomach, right here.” The Pasha indicated a tiny spot on his gargantuan barrel of a belly. Stephanos had an image of him at an attempt at belly dancing, and smiled inwardly, keeping a straight face, with not the slightest twist, tick or twitch, for the benefit of his host.

  ‘The Pasha could not be held from his meal any longer. “Let’s eat.” He said and swooped down on the food with no delay, even before Stephanos had a chance to see what was there. And before he knew it, more than half of the dishes had vanished into that cavernous cave of a mouth, through an ample and well-practised throat and pharynx, all the way down to his grateful gut, that other cavernous cave above his private parts which would, surely, by now have been absorbed into the folds of his bountiful flesh that hung like an extra attire. Oh, Stephanos just could not imagine it any more. Too descriptive, too gross.

  ‘With the bowls polished by the Pasha, and Stephanos having managed only a few mouthfuls, and as they were relaxing with the Pasha falling asleep and snoring, four men appeared dressed in black with the red Ruinand symbol on their chest.

  ‘Stephanos was stunned, but was too weak to react. He was bemused at his sudden physical weakness. His body failed him, refusing to obey any of his commands. Perhaps something had been put into his food or drink. But how was that likely? The Pasha ate the same food and drank the same drink. Unless the vessels he had used had been coated with some sort of substance. His speculation went no further. His brain was now failing him too. He had run out of time.

  ‘The four Ruinands took him away to their underwater city near Marathon Bay in Greece. They replaced him with a carbon copy of himself ready and trained to play his part in their infiltration of the Order of Vlachernae and the great almighty Symitzis family and their powerful Valchern Corporation.

  ‘And that is how I was forced to become one of the Pasha’s wives. I bore him four children, and was treated like a queen and had a relatively happy life. But the shame never left my heart, nor did the yearning for my family, my home, my second mother, Mrs Manto, who raised me after my mother died too young, soon after having given birth to my youngest brother. I thought about getting away many times and formulated many escape plans, but always changed my mind just before taking the final plunge.

  ‘I was afraid I would bring danger and tragedy to my family. And of course there were my children. I couldn’t take them with me nor could I leave them behind. If I could have found allies who might have helped me I would, but it was a huge risk to even attempt to test the waters and find out who was on my side. The Pasha used my abduction to blackmail my father and use him for his own ends, to commit atrocities against his family, his company, his people.

  ‘Now I’m ashamed for my cowardice, but cannot go back and change the past. If only I could have one day, just one day, with my family … All I had to hang onto were dreams or nightmares; one specifically kept repeating itself. I would be standing in a deserted Smyrna when out of nowhere throngs of people, adults and children waving Greek flags, would appear to block my vision from different directions.

  ‘They would be parading and celebrating independence day and Smyrna would be standing intact as it was back then, when I was there, nineteen years old, but a mere child in all other respects and protected, very protected and naive. I would try to join in the celebrations, but all those present would ignore me as if they could not see me. They would come at me as if to crush me instead, like an insignificant ant, but of course they would pass right through me and continue on their way as if nothing had happened.

  ‘The tragedy of being invisible in my home city and on such a special day as that, compounded with the faint memory of my situation at the time as a captive of the Pasha escaping my subconsciousness and invading my nightmare, would make me feel that I had outlived my usefulness.

  ‘Suddenly the crowds would disappear and people would go back to their normal business and their everyday lives. A tall clock near the harbour in front of me would show the current date as 1981 A.D. But that could only be my wishful thinking, my hope that history had turned out differently or that someone had gone back in time to change it.’

  Then Zozo changed tack, came out of her ruminating, fixed them with a hard stare and suddenly her face brightened like an innocent child’s that hoped for a treat or had an inspiration for further mischief.

  ‘And I ask you, is there someone of you who can do that? Who could do that for me?’

  As she said this she knew it was just a dream and it could not happen. The next moment she seemed to have forgotten all about it and her face would go hard and unblinking as if nothing was said, as if nothing happened, and she would just smile at them.

  She would switch from imploring to a blank expression and a warm welcome and an offering of refreshment and refuge from the burning sun in the shade of her lovely humble home and mansion and monument to her Pasha whom she grew to care for and love with all her heart; or so she now said.

  ‘Aristo, how can my grandmother have had both icons, if one was stolen back then? Unless …’

  ‘Unless a copy was left in its place. We need to talk to Ariana and see whether she can tell us more about the events of that day.’

  Zozo had a last word for them. ‘As you have correctly deduced, the icon is a fake. There’s going to be an auction soon of Byzantine icons. One of them is or hides the real Likureian icon.’ With that she disappeared.

  Aristo and Katerina exited the chamber and followed the tunnel back to the entrance to the square. They stood there, hungrily taking in mouthfuls of fresh air, a relief from the stale air inside.

  They were confronted with a harrowing scene. It was the exceptionally bloody aftermath of a battle, a sc
ene of absolute carnage. They found the Pallanians sitting on the ground apparently asleep. When the Pallannians sensed them, it was their wake-up call and they came out of their slumber, looked at Aristo and Katerina, smiled and disappeared.

  Aristo and Katerina calmly walked to their car, which they had parked outside the entrance to the lower city. They drove off to the direction of the airfield where Elli’s jet was waiting on the tarmac, refuelled and ready to take off.

  There was no doubt about their destination; Limassol in Cyprus and an urgent chat with Elli and Ariana about the icon and the inscription on the tablet found in Cappadocia, catching up with Giorgos on progress with his research and finding out about that auction.

  * * *

  When they got back to Limassol, Katerina’s grandmother, Ariana, told them that when Antonios Symitzis and Kostas Vendis returned to the study they found the icon on the sofa where Zozo had been sitting before they went out. But of Zozo there was no sign. They thought none of it at the time, but became concerned a couple of hours later when they were about to sit down to dinner.

  Zozo was never late, nor did she ever miss a meal. In fact she would be down early helping Mrs Manto with the setting of the table and with the preparation of the meal, Mrs Manto pretending annoyance at Zozo’s interference and Zozo loving every minute of it, ignoring Mrs Manto’s protestations, and smiling to herself amused at Mrs Manto’s play-acting. They were in reality as thick as thieves. And it had been like that since Zozo was a child running around the house like a whirlwind causing delightful mayhem. The kitchen was a second home to her.

  A search of the house yielded no clue. Nor did discreet enquiries in the city later reveal anything about Zozo’s whereabouts. It was a mystery that haunted them all from that moment onwards and almost cost Mrs Manto her life when she had a sudden heart attack two days later while cooking. She simply collapsed and was found a few minutes later by Antonios. She was lucky not to have sustained head injuries or any other serious injury.

  She recovered quickly, but only physically. She was never the same again. It was just a case of going through the motions. Her heart was broken for her little one and never recovered. Ariana was shocked when told that the treasured for so long icon was most probably stolen on that day and replaced by a perfect copy.

  CHAPTER 31

  Constantinople (Istanbul)

  Topkapi Palace Museum

  Present day

  Istanbul was the location and the Topkapi the stage. The gala event had been billed as the biggest charity auction of the century. It was expected to draw the attention of the world’s greatest art collectors. Also in attendance would be the cream of the world’s most powerful people, from ambassadors and the diplomatic corps to royalty and other illustrious figures of the international political scene. And there were others with vested interests.

  The world’s media was in full attendance, on site days before the auction. The eyes of the world were on Istanbul and the Topkapi.

  Elli had sent to the city and the former palace of the Ottoman Sultans members of the Order of Vlachernae ahead of the scheduled viewings. She wanted to monitor the build-up to the auction. If it had not been a charity auction she wouldn’t be present. She was one of the world’s greatest collectors, after all. The mere mention of her name drove up prices. Her presence at an auction drew too much attention and drove prices up even more.

  But her presence at this particular auction was intended to ruffle a few feathers, even if it would have the effect to put the Ruinands on their guard. Her spies had told her that they recognised Ruinands, including a certain Ducesa, under a not very successful disguise, milling about during the series of viewings. That to Elli was a strong sign that there was more than some truth in the tip, courtesy of Mystras.

  The stolen Likureian icon should be one of the objects up for auction. But which one was it? The viewings came and went and the day of the auction arrived and Elli was surprised that there was no attempted theft of any part of the collection. Surely, the Ruinands would have planned to steal the item before the auction. It would have been easier, would it not?

  The main hall was brimming to the beams with people. Their conversations rose as a jumbled murmur to the ceiling, deafening and scaring the silent tiny unseen inhabitants of this revered space that had witnessed, God knows, what secrets.

  Enter stage left, a glamorous woman, cocky, posing and gliding like a peacock, shaking her lovely feathers begging for attention, and all eyes in the hall turned to her. The crowd involuntarily slipped slowly away like a unified beast, moving as one, like the parting of the waves of the Red Sea, opening a corridor to ease her progress.

  Walking a few paces ahead was one of her aides, opening a route for her mistress. Her mistress added a touch of higher class to the proceedings and itched to be heard, as well as to be seen, to be admired for her mellifluous voice as well as for her presence. The impression was one of wonder and jaw-dropping involuntary reverence.

  She dispensed grace and elegance and “hellos” and “how do you dos” and “darlings” and air kisses and cheek brushes in a soft delicate warm voice. The aide took her task very seriously and was bent on achieving it.

  ‘Excuse me, excuse me, coming through.’

  A shrilly voice, definitely not that of an angel, travelled from the right and there suddenly appeared, resplendent in all her magnificence, a stick-thin woman who could have graced the cover of any magazine, and could fit in it with inches to spare and demanding considerable magnification to become visible to the naked eye.

  Eager to share her curiosity and a few tit bits of gossip, she drew to the side of a like-minded creature and uncanny look-alike, which was not surprising as they both belonged to a charmed and exclusive circle of high fashion and high off-the-scale maintenance. She began to chat to her companion in hushed conspiratorial tones. The stick thin woman instantly became the subject of several conversations in the room.

  ‘Who on earth was that? I don’t think I’ve seen her before, although there is something familiar about her. Can you shed any light?’

  ‘Oh, that’s La Ducesa de Mori Astir. You know, the widow of the former French ambassador to the Court of St James and the fourth richest man in France. She’s of course loaded. By passing away he did her the biggest favour, you know, because she really deeply despised him. He popped it only four years after they got married and there were no kids from any of his former three marriages, so she got the lot. And of course she collected from her own previous five marriages very respectable sums, hoarding it all, too much for her to make a dent even with all her spending. And her habit I hear is notorious and deeply ingrained, impossible to shake off, but of course it is unnecessary to do so. Who would want to give up such an exquisite habit or addiction? “Money troubles” is definitely not part of her vocabulary.’

  ‘What’s she doing these days? Surely she doesn’t need to work. Shopping her way through all her millions out of boredom no doubt, but not making much headway as you have so eloquently put it?’

  ‘Oh, she is solely in the pursuit of fun and she has, surprisingly, become an avid and very serious art collector and a very knowledgeable one at that. She gives lectures, you know.’

  ‘Collector, ha! Hoarder you mean. That woman has no taste, absolutely none, none whatsoever. She doesn’t know the first thing about it. She wouldn’t know the difference between Art Nouveau and Art Deco or Regency and Georgian, if it hit her on the head.’

  Aristo and Katerina were accompanying Elli in a show of charitable force. They were enjoying the event, but were on high alert for anything unusual which would be difficult to detect as the tension and excitement in the room was palpable and rising.

  Aristo’s brother, Vasilis, looking very tall and distinguished in his perfectly-and-expensively-tailored suit was quietly talking to a well-known art collector. Aristo could feel Vasilis was up to something, mischief was an irresistible drug for him, and he made an instant decision to watch him closely
.

  In the meantime, Aristo and Katerina circulated and mingled with the crowd, and as expected at these events, greeted old friends and acquaintances, business rivals and allies and stroke conversations about inconsequential matters and, of course, art and particularly the auction itself.

  Aristo stole another glance at Vasilis and his companion. The art collector was gesturing wildly, appearing to be explaining something to Vasilis who was listening attentively, and, either found or pretended to find difficult to understand, which infuriated and tested the patience of the art collector whose gestures became increasingly intense, his flailing arms slicing through the air and sent flying to all directions, like a wind indicator gone insane.

  The collector’s pale face was becoming worryingly animated and turning a gradual beetroot red. He appeared close to imploding. He was clearly extremely distressed. Aristo was intrigued. If only he was a dandruff speck on that suit.

  Aristo swallowed hard, but a faint smile of amusement coloured his face. Vasilis was up to his usual games, entertaining himself and relishing the discomfort and confusion his antics caused in others. Childhood memories, long dormant, rushed in and Aristo remembered when they used to come to blows as kids because of Vasilis’ irresistible pull to play pranks and to tease.

  Vasilis’ teasing and pranks were built to last, causing the maximum effect and bringing people to the end of their tether, to the point of almost bursting with the impulse to strangle him. That was until Aristo got the hang of Vasilis’ mischievous nature. In all honesty, back then, Aristo was not much better himself, and he still had not rid himself of the vestiges of plain naughtiness, disguised as adult eccentricity.

  As Aristo was thinking about this, his eyes wandered and settled on the far side of the hall, on a mismatched couple deep in conversation. The man was short and squatty and a monocle graced one eye like a glorified reverse-engineered eye-patch. When the man turned, that one huge eye was disconcerting. How quaint, Aristo thought. 19th century, you have an escapee. Come and claim your own.