The Emperor Awakes (30 page)

A fellow Ruinand woman, companion in the ‘league of fine dark warriors’, standing just a few inches behind the Madame Marcquesa and very acute of hearing, flinched at her insolence. How careless and arrogant she is, the Ruinand woman thought. She should be struck down incurring as she did the wrath of the gods.

If only the sari-woman’s power was not so terrifying, she would have been chewed and unceremoniously spat out, the lurch. The Ruinand woman pondered this image and smiled to herself. The Madame Marcquesa’s companion continued his gentle interrogation to sate his curiosity.

‘Tell me, how do you know this icon is the real thing?’

‘Well, this icon has been handed down through my family for almost a hundred years.’

‘How did you get it?’

‘From a certain Malenca Pasha. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’ The Madame Marcquesa raised her eyebrows in an elegant challenge.

‘The name is vaguely familiar.’

‘For an avid pupil of history and politics you surprise me.’ The Madame Marcquesa could not resist testing her companion’s short temper.

Her companion read through her teasing ruse and did not rise to the challenge. ‘You were telling me about the icon’s authenticity.’

‘Yes, indeed. I was not absolutely sure. That’s why I had to have the other icon stolen from the Metropolitan. I had to know without any shadow of a doubt before I put my plan into action. And for that the real icon is the key. A dangling carrot, if you like, to trap my enemies. If they fall in my honey-trap then that would end this drawn-out war once and for all, in my favour.’

‘So which icon is the one up for auction?’

‘The real one of course.’

‘But why did you put the real icon up for auction? Aren’t you worried of losing it? Or are you going to pay for something that you had already? Either you are very smart or very stupid.’

‘Only you would be allowed to speak to me like that, father.’ Her irony almost formed icy particles in the air between them. ‘If anyone else dared they would have paid with their lives. That was a joke. What do you take me for? Naivety is not part of my vocabulary. But Elli Symitzis with all her power has no way of knowing that at first glance. There is a person who would know, but he has not been seen for years and nobody knows where he is.’ Her companion knew better than to ask and he kept his own counsel. Wise man. ‘I want to see who will bid for it, how far they will go. That will indicate who knows its true value. I do not plan to bid, no.

‘But whoever gets it will not have it for long, trust me. That icon will not leave this place in the winner’s hands. I have arranged a unique show for the benefit of all these honourable hypocrites of benefactors. Vultures, the lot of them. Taketh with one hand and giveth with the other. Ruthless in accumulating money and spending it. So generous in giving it away.’

Her companion saw the irony in her quoted principles, but said nothing. Obviously she was forgetting that one who is not without sin should not cast the first stone.

* * *

Everything was caught on camera of course as part of the extreme security measures and it would make interesting viewing for some people later on.

However, as walls were supposed to have ears, so it was that journalists were circling like discreet vultures ready to pounce, hoping to get snippets of gossip for their scandalous columns that crave to be the first to break great stories, forever seeking the big breakthrough, the highly potent high density seed or subject of a juicy scandal, “I’ objet du scandale”, the explosion of such a news object having the consequences of the equivalent effect of a “Big Bang”, they hope, always hope.

One of those paparazzi would inadvertently witness and overhear something that at the time would seem insignificant, but that would later come close to costing him his life and have seismic ramifications.

Against his colleagues’ and his editor’s advice he wrote an article about these extraordinary things he overheard from the conversations in the hall. But nobody believed him. He was ridiculed by colleagues, rivals and the public alike. He ended his days in a mental asylum.

* * *

‘Dear guests, please take your seats. The auction is about to begin. Firstly, I want to thank all of you who have very generously donated objects for today’s auction.’

The cornerstone and star of the auction was the Roswell Collection that led a bright spark at Malenks, the famous auction house, to use it to attract other valuable objects and organise one of the biggest events ever to take place in an auction room. Hushed silence fell on the hall.

Katerina turned to Aristo. ‘Aristo, will your mother be bidding?

‘No. But we will soon see who will.’

* * *

‘Lot 114, the icon of the birth of Christ, with a depiction of Jesus entering the Church of Ayia Sophia, a rare depiction indeed, never before or since painted. The icon is rumoured to have been hanging on the walls of the Imperial Palace of Vlachernae in Constantinople and had been missing since the looting of the city by the fourth crusade in 1204 A.D. It is believed to have ended up in Venice in the Doge’s Palace next to his throne. There is considerable interest in this item. We are starting the bid at eighty thousand US dollars. Do I hear …?’

The bid price rose to two hundred and fifty thousand … then three hundred thousand … three hundred and fifty thousand … before the gavel came down. An assistant whispered in the auctioneer’s ear.

‘Sold to La Ducesa de Mori Astir for six hundred thousand US dollars. Congratulations. I must confess that the price has exceeded our wildest expectations.’

La Ducesa smiled an enigmatic triumphant smile. Her biggest competitor in this bidding war was a rival Italian art collector who had successfully outbid her numerous times in the past. She was glad to have achieved a one up on him and given him a taste of his own medicine.

Her weakness of winning made her forget her mission, the reason she was there. It didn’t go through her mind at the time, but her ultimate mistress would be furious when she found out about this serious mishap, caused by having her instructions ignored.

* * *

Suddenly the alarm went off. The security measures were triggered and the steel rails came down trapping everybody inside the hall. The lights went off and all was dark apart from a series of red lights circling the hall just below the ceiling. There were screams and panic. Guests running for the exits suddenly had their escape routes barred by the security rails that blocked any hope of salvation.

When after a few harrowing minutes the lights came back on, everybody breathed a sigh of relief that became a wave that travelled around the room with lightning speed, taking a life of its own, its power and intensity magnified by the enclosed space and the abnormally high temperatures caused by fear and tension.

The smell of fear and human sweat was a vicious assault on the nostrils. If predators had been around, they would have fallen on those present like a pack of wolves finding its Shangri-La after a long multi-year search.

A scream echoed around the room and pierced what little vestige was left of the eardrum membrane of those attending. Everybody present turned as one, like frightened animals, a direct fixed stare with the power to cause the explosion of what was there. The reinforced glass encasing the icon was empty.

In the underbelly of the museum, footsteps echoed along the dimly lit corridors, but all above ground were oblivious to them. And the footsteps were further distancing themselves from their pursuers - members of the Ruinands and of the Order of Vlachernae and the security guards of the museum and others with vested interests.

Aristo was in pursuit even before the security bars lifted and the exits opened. As if half expecting it, he looked at the glass case at the exact moment that the would-be thief started to make his move on the icon. Aristo immediately knew what the would-be thief was planning.

Aristo caught the purposeful movement and he saw the cold gaze fixed on the would-be thief’s target. Aristo began to make his way towards the icon in an attempt to intercept the would-be thief, but he was much further away than the would-be thief was and the crowded hall slowed Aristo’s progress. Aristo was becoming frustrated that he wouldn’t be able to stop the thief in time, but he would damn well try. Aristo’s determined progress was rudely interrupted.

The alarm sounded and the lights went out. He momentarily lost sight of the thief. But Aristo’s eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom and with a stroke of luck he saw the thief disappear down a secret passage.

The thief certainly knew his way around the palace. His intimate knowledge of the secret passages seemed to match Aristo’s. Aristo’s lead over the other pursuers was considerable. He had to get to the thief before the thief reached the colonnaded hall and disappeared into the ether. Aristo had to retrieve the icon before it was spirited out. They had to know whether it was the real one.

The Topkapi was neutral territory for both the Order of Vlachernae and the Ruinands and any unusual powers had no effect here whatsoever. Manual combat would have to be the order of the day. Aristo went down a shortcut hoping to intercept the thief. But he reached a dead end, which strangely was not supposed to be there.

The icon was smuggled out through secret passages under the palace known only to the Order of Vlachernae. Aristo was surprised that the thief was privy to those secret passages too. Now there was no doubt that there was a traitor inside the Order, and that Aristo had been beaten by that traitor.

The traitor’s stamp was all over the theft. The thief had been thoroughly briefed. The whole act had been planned meticulously, its execution a masterclass in merciless precision.

* * *

The Ducesa could feel shaking, as if it was an earth-quake. She panicked. It was not a good sign, especially after what happened only a few minutes ago. She was shocked. How could someone fool her like that, her, the master of her craft, the undeniable pinnacle of female power, beauty, charm, craftiness and deviousness?

She then realised that there was no tremor. It was her phone that was set on vibrating alert. She rummaged through her bag and found it. She saw the caller’s identity. Elli. A violent shudder ran the entire length of her body and clogged her brain with no way out, almost giving her a stroke.

‘Hello.’

She was frightfully posh and normally flaunted it. But not now, not to this person. Her arrogance deserted her. Her tone was one of submission to a power greater than hers.

‘I hear you have failed me.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry’s not good enough. I only asked you to do one simple thing; bid to drive up the price to see who’s desperate enough for that item and you could not even do that. I said I wouldn’t mind if you ended up with the icon yourself. That’s the occupational hazard of taking part in a bid with specific instructions like that. You were going really well and then you suddenly stopped. Why? Did you get distracted somehow? And as if that was not enough, you suddenly sprang back to life with a killer bid.

‘Haven’t I taught you about the virtue of patience? An auction is like poker in some respects. You need to keep your cool and your nerve and an inscrutable face and keep others guessing about your true intentions and interest, whether genuine or not. You have to learn when appropriate to control this obsession of yours to win at all costs.’ Elli paused. ‘But never mind. It’s done now. Just get out of there.’

‘But my cover has not been blown.’

‘No, but it may not be safe.

‘You know who did it, don’t you?’

‘I have my suspicions.’

‘Was it someone on your orders? Covering both eventualities, aren’t you?’

‘No. I have to go. We will talk soon.’

‘You never cease to amaze me, Elli.’ But Elli had already hung up.

CHAPTER 32

Present day

The unfortunate journalist’s actions had unintended consequences. The extraordinary story he created from the titbits of information that he gathered at the auction inspired all sorts of conspiracy theories.

Bodies purporting to be those of the last Emperor began to crop up everywhere. The media went into a frenzy. Archaeologists in digs everywhere, attempting to outdo each other, made outrageous claims to grasp the limelight, their fifteen minutes of fame.

Bodies were found from Cappadocia and Athens to
Trapezounta
or Trabson in Northern Asia Minor (modern-day Turkey) and Macedonia (Northern Greece). And the number kept rising.

Which was the real body of the last Emperor? Which was the genuine article? Was it all part of an elaborate hoax or a deliberate attempt to hide the truth? And if it was a hoax, who had it been perpetrated by? Was it by the Greeks, the Ottomans or someone else?

The obscure journalist followed up the story with a series of articles, commissioned by his paper, that became a wildly successful, albeit short-lived and without-legs, franchise and certainly a temporary and rare godsend for the selling of newspapers as the story was picked up by more and more papers, and then reached the nationals.

Other journalists claimed of observations or accidental overhearing of conversations at the Topkapi auction. This clouded even further the already murky and severely stirred waters of not only the archaeological world, but also the wider world beyond it, as all this hype travelled around the globe at lightning speed. Only someone living in a cave, cut out from the big mean world outside, would not have been aware of these stories.