“So we use this as a starting point?” Gunn asked.
“It’s the best data point we’ve got,” Pitt replied with a nod. “If the pirate ship came ashore here and wrecked, we can only hope that the Roman vessel is somewhere in the neighborhood.”
Giordino took a seat near the monitor and tried to get comfortable.
“Well, let’s keep searching, then,” he remarked. “As the man said, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
89
Summer drove east on the main coastal highway from Limassol, with Dirk relinquishing the driving duties since she had just come from England. A Crown Colony of Great Britain during the first half of the twentieth century, Cyprus still held visible reminders of its former British rule. English was spoken most everywhere, the currency in the southern Greek half of the country was denominated in pounds, and the road traffic traveled on the left-hand side.
Summer turned their rental car inland, following the well-paved highway toward Nicosia. The road began a gentle ascent as they approached the eastern extremes of the Trodoos Mountains. Traveling through mostly desolate hills, they turned off onto a narrow asphalt crossroad. The road climbed sharply, twisting its way up a small mountain. Perched dramatically atop the summit sat the monastery of Stavrovouni.
Summer parked the car in a small lot at the foot of the complex. Walking past an empty entry station, they approached a long wooden stairway to the summit. A beggar dressed in ragged clothes and a wide-brimmed hat sat nearby, his head hanging down in apparent slumber. The siblings tiptoed past, then climbed the stairs to the grounds of the monastery, which offered commanding views of the entire southeast portion of the island. Passing through an open courtyard, they approached a stern-faced monk in a woolen robe standing near the monastery entrance.
“Welcome to Stavrovouni,” he said with reserve, then gazed at Summer. “Perhaps you are not aware, but we are adherents to the Athonite Orthodoxy here. I am afraid that we do not allow women into the monastery.”
“My understanding is that you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for a woman,” she replied tartly. “Does the name Helena ring a bell?”
“I’m very sorry.”
Summer rolled her eyes at the monk, then turned to Dirk.
“I guess I’ll stay here and look at the frescoes,” she said, motioning toward the painted courtyard walls. “Enjoy your tour.”
Dirk leaned over and whispered to his sister, “If I’m not back in an hour, then it means I decided to join up.”
With his sister seething, he turned and followed the monk through an open wooden door.
“Can you tell me about Helena’s role with the monastery and the history of the site?” Dirk asked.
“In ancient times, this mountaintop housed a Greek temple. It had been long abandoned and in a state of disrepair when Saint Helena arrived in Cyprus after her pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The good saint is said to have put an end to a thirty-year drought that had been baking the land. While on Cyprus, she had a dream in which she was told to construct a church in the name of the venerable cross. Stavrovouni, in case you didn’t know, means ‘Cross Mountain.’ It was here she built the church, leaving behind the cross of the penitent thief she had brought from Jerusalem, along with a fragment of the True Cross.”
The monk led Dirk into the small church, guiding him past a large wooden iconostasis to reach the altar. On the altar stood a large wooden cross, encased in silver. A tiny gold frame set within the cross protected a smaller wooden fragment.
“The church has suffered much destruction and vandalism over the centuries,” the monk explained, “first by the Mamelukes and later by the Ottomans. I’m afraid little is left of Helena’s legacy but for this sacred piece of the True Cross,” he said, pointing to the gold-encased fragment.
“Are you aware of any other relics of Jesus that Helena may have left on Cyprus?” Dirk asked.
The monk rubbed his chin a moment. “No, none that I know of, but you should speak to Brother Andros. He’s our resident historian here. Let’s see if he is in his office.”
The monk led Dirk down a corridor to their left, which housed a number of austere guest rooms. A pair of small offices occupied the end, where Dirk could see a thin man shaking hands with a monk and then turning his way.
As they passed, Dirk said, “Ridley Bannister?”
“Why, yes,” Bannister replied, looking at Dirk with startled suspicion.
“My name is Dirk Pitt. I just read your last book about your excavations in the Holy Land. I recognized you from the dust jacket. I have to tell you, I’ve enjoyed reading about your discoveries.”
“Why, thank you,” Bannister replied, reaching out and shaking hands. A tentative look then crossed his brow. “You said your last name is Pitt? You don’t by chance have a relative named Summer?”
“Yes, she’s my sister. She’s waiting out front, as a matter of fact. Do you know her?”
“I believe we met at an archaeology conference some time ago,” he stammered. “So what brings you to Stavrovouni?” he asked, quickly changing topics.
“Summer recently found evidence that Helena may have shipped more than just the True Cross from Jerusalem and that these relics may have been lost in Cyprus. We’re hoping to find clues to the whereabouts of a Roman galley that sailed on her behalf.”
The dim corridor light masked Bannister’s sudden paleness. “A fascinating prospect,” he said. “Do you have any inkling where the relics might be?”
“We’re starting with a known shipwreck near a place called Pissouri. But as you know, two-thousand-year-old clues are hard to come by.”
“Indeed. Well, I’m afraid I must be running along. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pitt, and good luck with your search.”
“Thank you. And be sure to say hello to Summer on your way out.”
“I will.”
Bannister, of course, had no such intentions. Walking quickly down the corridor, he reentered the church and found a side exit on the opposite wall. Stepping into the sunlight, he crept cautiously toward the courtyard until spotting Summer studying a wall fresco. Waiting until she turned her back toward him, he quietly scooted across the grounds, reaching the upper stairway without being observed.
Jogging down the stairs, he nearly tripped on the beggar at the base before making his way to his car. He drove quickly down the winding road until reaching the highway, where he pulled to the side, parking behind a cluster of carob trees. There, he sat and waited, watching the road for Dirk and Summer.
Seconds after he sped out of the monastery parking lot, another car started up. The driver wheeled alongside the base of the stairway, then stopped and waited as the mangy beggar rose to his feet and climbed into the passenger seat. Removing his hat, the beggar revealed a long scar on his right jaw.
“Quickly,” Zakkar snapped at the driver. “Don’t let him get out of our sight.”
90
Summer was standing across the courtyard when Dirk stepped out of the monastery.
“How’s things in the boys’ club?” she asked with a touch of bitterness.
“Not the frat party you might think it is.”
“Any luck?”
Dirk described what he had learned of the church’s history and the display from the True Cross.
“I met with the resident historian, but he had little to add in the way of Helena’s visit to Cyprus. The place has been ransacked so many times, there’s no archival data left. The bottom line is, nobody has any knowledge of relics beyond the True Cross.”
“Did he know anything about Helena’s fleet?”
Dirk shook his head. “As far as anybody knows, Helena arrived and left Cyprus without incident.”