The Emperor Awakes (13 page)

‘Slow down. What suspicions are you talking about? And why did you say “the real Emperor”? What are you not telling us?’

‘I heard rumours that during the siege of Constantinople, before the fall, people had seen the Emperor in two places at the same time. I don’t know how much credence to give to those rumours though.’

‘How can that be?’ interjected Kostas. ‘Surely people must have been confused amongst all that hellish mess of the battle.’

‘I also heard that the person people saw was not wearing Imperial regalia.’

Manuel’s words echoed his anxiety, but also allowed for hope.

‘Is it possible that the real Emperor may have come back, if he were away in the first place?’

Manuel and Nikitas looked at each other and there were dark clouds in their eyes. With their minds they spoke to each other and they knew what they had to do. They knew they had to leave immediately.

* * *

It was later in the afternoon, near dusk, that Manuel was strolling along the promenade, when he suddenly stopped and looked back, but saw nothing. He thought he saw a face he had seen before, but could not identify. And then it hit him. It was his brother, Stephanos, he was sure of it. But what was Stephanos doing here? He was supposed to be on a mission to Alexandria in Egypt. He was definitely up to something.

* * *

A few metres behind him, Stephanos was climbing aboard a ship anchored just outside the harbour. He had spent the day visiting his favourite places, which he could never resist when he was in Smyrna, one of his favourite cities. He loitered around the harbour, spent a couple of hours wandering around the city’s famous central market taking in the intoxicating smells of spices and food; he was tempting fate, he was taking a risk of being recognised, but he could not care less.

He filled his belly and every nook and cranny of his olfactory senses. He satisfied his love of touching and tasting the numerous fares on offer in the richly coloured stalls stacked up with the delicacies of the world. Now he was ready to face a different kind of experience.

Entering the city’s central baths, he felt a sense of tranquillity wash over him. After relaxing in the rich steam and breathing in the mixture of aromatic herbs and spicy sweat, he washed, dressed carefully and left this temporary refuge.

It was on his way to the harbour that he saw Manuel. He recoiled at the thought of it. He could not be sure whether Manuel had recognised him. For a brief moment he saw Manuel hesitate, slow his pace and look back. Stephanos just had enough time to dive into an alley and hide. He saw Manuel walking away and he then knew he was in the clear.

He arrived at the harbour and boarded the small boat that would take him to the flagship of a fleet owned by a man that many people knew by name, but nobody would have recognised, had he walked amongst them, as nobody had ever seen him.

His host was a powerful man. And this powerful man was a bitter commercial rival of Antonios. And Stephanos had met him before.

* * *

At that point the account of events from 1921 A.D. ended. Elli fell into deep thought immersed in the past she still could not shake. Reality could wait for a while.

CHAPTER 15

New York
Present day

It was an August morning in New York, unusually rainy for this time of the year, under an overcast sky that, combined with the rising heat, stifled the city. John Halland woke up with a start and sat up in bed. His dream was still very vivid in his mind and it was unlike anything he had experienced before.

He dreamt he was in a strange place that reminded him too much of Cappadocia in Turkey that he had visited only two years earlier. He dreamt he was walking in an underground cave, when he was suddenly snatched, a hood placed over his head, and led to a place that smelled of damp and rotting corpses.

He could then remember hearing some voices he could not make out, then seeing a plaque with an indecipherable inscription and then being placed in a sarcophagus, the lid safely fastened into place and all going dark. He was entombed and he was having difficulty breathing and he was falling in and out of consciousness and drowning and then a vacuum, silence.

As a final act, a face flashed before his eyes, a face he thought he recognised, and then a voice and something he could just about remember … He could almost touch it, but it was not meant to be.

Whatever it was it kept slipping further and further away, like sand through his fingers, and then he was awake and it was gone. But he was glad he was saved, that he was alive.

He was in his bed. The bedroom was quiet and dark with the curtains drawn and the blinds secured. It took him a while to recover. A part of his brain was dismissing it, but another was drawing him to it, as the nightmare’s vividness kept bugging him.

He looked at the clock. It was time to get ready and go to work. Damn, he had overslept again. And damn, he had no time to go for a jog. Again. He fumbled for the lightswitch, then rubbed his eyes, threw off the bedcovers and jumped out of bed like a spring or as if someone had set him on fire.

He sprinted to the bathroom, probably breaking the hundred-metre record in the process, from where he emerged five minutes later, showered and shaved and he started to get dressed like a maniac.

It was as if he was a space shuttle and the ten-second countdown to launch had began or as if he was trapped under the space shuttle, desperate to escape, but fighting a losing battle against the countdown to the launch that would vaporise him. He was running against the clock and any remnant of his dream flew from his mind. It was later that month that he would remember his dream.

He was running severely late. Within fifteen minutes he was out of the door, down the uneven steps. He cursed. He had to have those steps fixed. They were a challenge and a death trap if you were half asleep or very drunk.

He ran the short distance to the subway without breaking a sweat. He had to thank his intense fitness regime and his crazy climbing expeditions to far-flung placesfor that. That was something he had in common with his boss, James Calvell. Once he was inside the train he relaxed for the first time since waking up. It was only six stops.

Arriving at the Metropolitan Museum, he was greeted by the guard and was waived through.

* * *

Later in the day, John was busy restoring a Byzantine icon, part of the Metropolitan Museum’s famed collection, when suddenly a small piece of wood popped out, revealing a secret compartment. Inside was a ring bearing a seal.

He studied the ring. It could not be anything but the Imperial seal, and the style was typical of the Palaiologos dynasty. It appeared to have some traces of blood on it.

He picked up the phone.

‘James, it’s John. You know I’ve been restoring this Byzantine icon. Well, I’ve found something. I think you’d better have a look at it.’

‘Come right up.’

A few minutes later John Halland was sitting opposite James Calvell. Between them, James’ desk was the temporary stage for the presentation of an item that, most probably, had not seen the light of day for a very long time.

John was observing James studying the ring and the icon that had been the ring’s secret home. John half-smiled to himself. James’s fascination with the two items was written all over his face.

He looked up at John in time to catch John’s expression in the split second before John’s miserable attempt at changing it. James was amused, but chose not to comment. The two men exchanged a knowing look indicating they were, probably, thinking along the same lines. James took the plunge.

‘I think we should speak with Giorgos in Athens. It’s his specialist field and I bet he’d be very interested in seeing this too.’ John nodded in agreement.

James dialled Giorgos’ Athens number. While waiting for Giorgos to answer, James’ mind wandered to his old friend. They had been at university together and had been like brothers ever since. Although they ended up separated by an ocean and a continent, their bond remained strong.

They had shared dangerous experiences, climbing peaks and rock faces around the world that would have defeated lesser men. And they had saved each other’s lives too numerous times to count during those risky expeditions.

Theirs was a bond without petty jealousies or squabbles. Any chinks or scratches inflicted on each other’s armour quickly healed, as they were the result of humour or honesty.

James greatly admired this archaeologist who he knew was worth twenty times all of his rival archaeologists put together. He was glad that Giorgos was down to earth and did not share the pretensions that many of his rivals had adopted, behaving as they did with an academic arrogance that was not justified by their lack of vision and achievement out on the field and on the ground, and with no intention of belittling activity outside fieldwork, the real frontier of archaeological endeavour.

Giorgos had thick skin, which stood him in good stead, as he very often was the target of rival archaeologists’ unfair criticism and mockery. The seasoned and upstanding members of the archaeological establishment somehow could not resist the impulse to rush to deride him, his work and his opinions, without even properly analysing his findings, a reaction, James had no doubt, born of jealousy for this upstart who threatened to upstage them at every turn, and perhaps permanently stand above them, if he made that great discovery he was so obsessed about.

Those knee-jerk reactions and attacks on Giorgos was proof, if any was needed, that his rivals were genuinely afraid of his brilliant mind and relentless pursuit of his theories, which were always backed by meticulous research.

James was devastated and helpless to intervene when Giorgos had to abandon the Cappadocian expedition and return to Athens, resigning himself to a cushy desk job, a mundane life of hard graft teaching at the University, day in day out.

He had since then pestered him not to give up or give into the lazy routine of the daily life he led lately. He was much too talented to waste himself like that. Just because an expedition went wrong due to no fault of his, it was unacceptable for him to give up his life-long dream.

He only wished that Giorgos would chew this one up to experience and move on. Being young and ambitious meant he still had not acquired the cynicism that came with age and kept seasoned archaeologists sane. Then again, how many archaeologists of a certain age and experience had he met who had lost their mind waiting for the big discovery that never came?

He had noticed his spark snuffed out, nothing left to ignite his ever present adrenaline rush, that signature infectious energy gone up in smoke, a defeated man, aged beyond his years.

He could not remember the last time he heard warmth in Giorgos’ voice, the last time he heard that laugh that could melt anyone he met. He now hoped that Giorgos had kept the small flame of his dream alive.

Finally the phone was picked up eight thousand kilometres away. James felt a clutch at his heart as he immediately detected the mechanical note in his friend’s voice.

James decided to avoid pleasantries. The only way to drag Giorgos out of his slumber and trigger his interest was to get straight to the point.

‘Giorgos, it’s James.’

‘Hi, James. How’s your entombment in that most famed of institutions?’

‘Keeping me young and fresh, thank you very much dear Giorgos.’

‘The air is thin there, my friend. You should get out whilst there’s still time and you are still young. There’s hope for you yet, but running out of its hourglass faster than you think.’

James laughed. He would not let Giorgos get away with that. ‘Look who’s talking. I’m following your glorious example.’

‘Have you considered that I may actually enjoy what I’m doing?’ Giorgos sounded defensive and he knew it. And he had no doubt that James had picked up on it and would punish him for it.

‘Yes, I’m sure you are; going through the motions and whiling away the time filling young minds with your knowledge and wisdom and pandering to an ungrateful and sclerotic academic bureaucracy instead of being out there chasing your dreams, trusting your instincts and taking chances on your brilliant theories and at the same time raising two fingers to the sceptical and conservative rival archaeologists mocking you for your wild and bizarre ideas. If it were not for archaeologists, both trained professionals and amateurs, following through on their wild goose-chases, many of the greatest archaeological discoveries of all time would never have seen the light of day. Giorgos, you are lying to yourself and you know it.’

James finished, fixed his eyes on Giorgos and waited. He hoped that something of what he had just said would get through to Giorgos. It was time for him to come to his senses.

As soon as the words about enjoying his work left Giorgos’ mouth, he knew they sounded hollow. He did not need James’ outburst to starkly show him his grim and sad situation for what it was.

Who was he trying to fool? James was right. He had seen through Giorgos’ words, which were more full of self-denial and delusion than fact. Hell, he didn’t believe them himself.

However much he had tried, Giorgos simply could not bring himself to show passion and optimism for his current job. There was no denying the fact that he was in a professional and personal dead end, his life put on hold, frozen until the Great Ice Age passed, which left what? Another few thousand years to go, which in his case, being human, as things stood, with no end of the mundane in sight, meant for the rest of his life.