It was the Jesus Prayer, on the lips of Orthodox Christians at all times. ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’ Sarah didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but something in the priest’s touch or in the timbre of his voice settled her. The gestures were alien to her. She was not a religious woman and had not been a particularly religious child. But whether it was the posture she had adopted or the laying on of hands that her kneeling had inspired, it was as if a shudder passed through her, and after it a stillness had followed. She got to her feet, still a little unsteady, like someone rising from her sickbed ready to walk. All around her the shadows stirred, and to her the lights of candles shimmered across the rich colours of the iconostasis, with its portraits of Jesus, Mary, and a high host of saints.
‘Let me take you to a place where we can talk without being overheard.’
The archimandrite led them out of the church. The building, which in some ways resembled a French chateau, was set in the centre of a square whose sides were made up of the defensive outer walls. They left through the south door, then went on to a doorway set in the southern wall. A half moon hung in a cradle of light, as though suspended directly over the monastery. Father Iustin took a large key from his pocket. It fitted a lock that had not been changed since the seventeenth century.
Once inside, the priest pressed a switch and the ceiling flickered and blazed with electric light.
‘I’m sorry about the lights,’ he said, ‘they’re a little harsh. This is our conference room. Putna is one of the country’s chief monasteries, so we end up hosting conferences for just about everybody. Let’s go to the table over there.’
They followed him to a large octagonal table and sat round four sides. The priest looked at Sarah with concern.
‘After this,’ he said, ‘I will take you to the refectory for food. There is always a table for guests. Until then, I want to talk to you. Later, you can ask me any questions you want. When we are with the other monks, say nothing about what I have told you. It is vital you say not a word.’
‘You speak very good English,’ Ethan said. ‘Where did you…?’
‘From my wife,’ he said. ‘She was English, from Canterbury. We lived for many years in London.’
Ethan raised his eyebrows.
‘You were in London?’
Father Iustin smiled and shook his head.
‘Romania may not be the centre of civilisation,’ he said, ‘but some of us have travelled. I used to be the senior priest at the Romanian church in Fleet Street, St Dunstan-in-the-West.’
He looked at Ethan as though he expected him to be familiar with the church.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ethan said, ‘I don’t…I don’t know London all that well. I don’t think I—’
‘St Dunstan’s is the oddest church in London. One half is an Anglican church, the rest is Romanian Orthodox. There’s an Anglican altar with icons in front of it, and to its right a large iconostasis. It’s a very special place. I have very fond memories of it. My wife was English, as I said. Her name was Jacqueline. She lived most of her life in Romania, with me. When she reached the age of fifty, she expressed a wish to go back home, and the Metropolitan kindly posted me to St Dunstan’s. And now I am an old man and a widower. My wife is buried in London and I am seeing out my last years here in Putna, singing the divine service morning noon and night, praying for a vision, listening for the voice of God, waiting to be reunited with the soul of my dear wife. I have become a man of sorrows. And now you are here, you and your sister. You have found me in my last refuge.’
‘You sound as if you’ve been waiting for us,’ said Ethan. He was feeling bemused by the monastery and the old man. The priest’s words tangled him in brambles.
‘I have waited for you for many years. Perhaps not you in person. But I knew someone would come in the end. Someone who would bring me news of Egon Aehrenthal.’
‘How do you know—?’
‘Ilona here told me, of course.’
Ilona leant across the table.
‘I spoke to the minister in my church. My church is Hungarian Reform, of course, which is normal for most Hungarians; but my minister knows many Orthodox people, naturally, because he is very ecumenical. I told him about the relics. He sent me here and gave me Father Iustin’s name. When I got here, I explained as much as I could. The good father listened to me and told me to bring both of you here as soon possible. I think we got here a bit faster than expected!’
The priest leant forward. Ethan noticed that the lids of his eyes were red, as though he suffered from an eye condition, blepharitis or conjunctivitis.
‘Ethan,’ he said, ‘I need to know everything you can tell me. In return, I will tell you things you ought to know. Ilona tells me that you have seen some relics, that Egon Aehrenthal has tried to steal them. Can you explain them, please?’
Haltingly at first, Ethan explained. He started with the discovery of his grandfather’s body and repeated some of what he could remember from Gerald’s letter to Sarah. As he told their story, an hour passed, then a second hour. The old priest fixed his eyes on Ethan and did not take them off him once. Despite the bright lights, the room shrank to the confines of their table. On the walls, the photographs of long-dead priests and monks looked down on them, as though listening to Ethan’s narrative.
When he finished, Sarah took over, relaying what she knew and what she guessed, bringing her expertise to bear on Gerald’s story.
It was late by the time she finished. At first Father Iustin said nothing. The only movement he made was to rub his eyes with his knuckles, then cup them for a few moments beneath his palms.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘My eyes are painful. I have sat up every night praying ever since Ilona came to visit me. All things have their time. Now our time has come, and I pray for it to pass well, for if it does not, this beginning will have a bad ending.’
He breathed deeply several times, then murmured the Jesus Prayer for as many times again.
‘You must all be very hungry,’ he said. ‘You have travelled far today. I am sorry, I should have fed you when you first arrived, but I felt a great urgency to learn what you had to tell me. After we eat, I will tell you what I have to tell you.’
They ate together in an empty refectory, by candlelight. The food was plain, a mushroom stew and stuffed cabbage washed down with a weak red wine and followed by apricot dumplings. They ate with keen appetites, and the plain food tasted like dishes from a banquet. Sarah avoided the wine, and by the end of the meal she was too tired to go on. Ilona took her to a little house just outside the walls, where nuns looked after female guests. The long journey had worn Ilona out: she’d driven all the way, through harsh weather and sometimes difficult terrain. From Bistrita, they’d crossed the Carpathians, reaching high altitudes on icy roads. She needed sleep more than anything now. A smiling nun took her to her room and gave her nightclothes to wear. Before she even had a chance to undress, sleep took her and threw her sideways on the bed.
20
A Man for All Seasons
The ring of hunters that had been closing in on the little hut had been broken. A wolf was missing, and the two men leading it disabled by pepper spray. From deep in the forest, the screams had been muffled, impossible to trace. None of the hunters had carried a mobile phone. Aehrenthal himself had gone away for the day, and would only return that evening. A senior member of the Arrow Cross was in charge of the hunt, and as the day passed without result, he grew more and more worried that his prey might have slipped the net.