Fifteen minutes into the lecture, the monk pulled the truck over.

“… which might have changed Augustine’s entire outlook. Anyway,” he said, shouldering his door open and tossing the keys onto the dashboard, “you should come out my side. We wouldn’t want to lose you over the edge on your first night.”

Pearse peered out at the sudden drop off to his right, then slid across and joined the other two at the front of the truck. Gennadios handed him a lantern.

“The rest, we do by foot.”

The climb did little to help conversation, a rigorous pace through the interior of the mountain. The trees and brush sprang up far thicker here, paths just wide enough for a mule laden with supplies, gnarled undergrowth making for precarious footing. The lanterns were more to keep Gennadios in sight than to give any sense of the tip of the peninsula. Even with a breeze off the water, Pearse felt the sweat mount under his shirt, a balmy midsummer evening moistening the air. It felt good, something his body had been craving. If not for Gennadios wheezing his way up, Pearse would have pushed the pace, happy to lose himself in the physical exertion.

They climbed in dim silence for perhaps twenty minutes before emerging on an open bluff, a tiered expanse of rock, earth and sage beyond. Fifty feet to their right, the mountain seemed to come to an abrupt end, the drop-off some eight hundred feet, a full moon perched just beyond the edge of the cliff. Below, they could hear the roll of the surf. Above, a faint glimmer of light poked through.

It was St. Photinus staring down at them.

“It gets easier from here,” intoned Gennadios, clearly winded. “Another twenty minutes or so.”

He was spot-on, the monastery inching out over the last of the hillocks some fifteen minutes later. Smaller by a considerable degree than the rest of the “cities” on the mountain, Photinus still managed a rather imposing glare from its frontal assault. A stern line of cypresses stood guard along the outer wall, bits and pieces of which dated back as far as the fourth century. Most of the loose stone had been replaced by brick and mortar over time, Byzantine and Ottoman architecture colliding in a wild melange of turrets and flying buttresses. On either side, the walls matched the rise of the mountain, uneven steps climbing high along the slope, disappearing into an overgrown wood perhaps two hundred yards above, the overall effect that of a headless turtle attempting to take flight.

But it was the sight directly in front of them that demanded attention. Two ironwork doors-vast shields arching to a stone gate thirty feet high-recalled a time when the monks of Athos had been forced to fight for their piety, pirates a constant menace, a long-abandoned gunwale still visible along the topmost part of the wall. Even Photinus’s motto, etched crudely into the stonework above the doors, conveyed the dual message of refuge and resistance.

Take Peace Within These Walls and Gird Yourself to Dwell in an Armor of Loveliness and Light.

As the peninsula’s first line of defense against attack from the sea-and forever caught up in the squabbles of distant emperors and sultans-Photinus had long ago learned to guard its privacy well. Even now, it was considered the most insular among a community renowned for its isolation.

And yet, the doors stood ajar, three or four lamps from the courtyard inside lighting the last few yards of their approach.

As they entered, Pearse was astounded by the silence, no monks coming out to demand their papers. Instead, they walked undisturbed to the fountain at the center-a simple pool with a strangely ornate spout. It was a monk in prayer, the water trickling from his eyes, as if tears. Pearse stared at it for several seconds. He couldn’t help but wonder if the tears were meant for the one true and holy Christian church, a disturbing thought as he joined the other two. They were cupping great heaps of water, Gennadios on the fountain’s ledge, handful after handful to his neck. The hike had gotten the better of him. Only then did Pearse realize how thirsty he was himself. It was several minutes before any of them spoke.

“Nice climb,” Pearse finally said. “I suppose you must make the trek quite often,” he added, dabbing his neck and shoulders.

The monk breathed heavily before answering. “Maybe twice in the last six months. It’s not something I look forward to.”

“You don’t get out much, do you?”

“Get out much? I don’t understand.”

“Well, if you’ve left only twice-”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said, the smile returning to his face. “Dominic obviously didn’t explain. I’m not a Brother of Photinus. My home is the Great Lavra,” he added, giving a quick flick of a finger somewhere off to the east, “the second oldest on the mountain, a mere babe compared to this one. We go back only as far as 963. But Photinus, well, it’s been around since-what is it, Dominic, 384, 85? No one’s quite sure.” He returned to the water.

“Not my period,” Andrakos answered.

“Always the best excuse,” said Pearse, Angeli’s smile appearing in front of him.

Andrakos started to respond, then stopped.

Gennadios laughed. “You’ve actually shut him up with that one. I must remember it.”

Pearse waited for Andrakos’s smile, then asked, “So it’s all right for us to be here?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have made that trip with you if I weren’t sure,” said Gennadios.

“All of the monasteries have a kind of open-door policy with one another,” Andrakos explained. “If you and I had walked in here alone, we’d be in a lot of hot water right now. As long as we’ve got the bearded one with us, they know it’s okay. I’ve actually never been to Photinus myself.”

“Five, six hundred years ago,” added the monk, “that wouldn’t have been the case. Now, with fewer than two thousand of us scattered among the monasteries, we’ve let things loosen up a bit.”

“Without this one here”-Dominic placed an overly enthusiastic hand on Gennadios-“I wouldn’t have been able to see half the archives I’ve needed for my work.”

“And with this one,” the monk nodded, taking Andrakos’s hand from his shoulder, “you’ve managed to get me in all sorts of trouble with half the abbots on the mountain. Brother Timotheos at Stavronikita still isn’t talking to me.”

“That’s because he’s taken a six-month vow of silence.” Andrakos laughed.

“It’s still no excuse.”

Pearse laughed as well, the sound echoing throughout the empty courtyard. It seemed to prompt movement from one of the far buildings, a strange aggregation of striped archways topped by a maroon attic with gabled roof. A small figure appeared from a side door, another black cassock gingerly making its way across. He seemed to glide across the flagstone.

“I see you made it without too much trouble,” he said as he neared them, catching Gennadios in middip, the larger man spinning around and at once pulling the diminutive monk into his barrel chest, an embrace that would have gotten the better of a man twice his size. Still, the little monk held his own.

“You need a bath” were his first words as he disentangled himself from the bear hug. “And our fountain won’t do.” The two laughed.

“It’s good to see you, too,” said Gennadios as he stood to make the introductions. “Professor Seldon, Dominic Andrakos, this is Brother Nikotheos, librarian of St. Photinus, and a man with a finely tuned nose.”

There was an almost feminine quality to his face, delicate olive-shaped eyes, soft white skin amid the wrinkles. Even his beard seemed to soften its texture. His hands, however, betrayed his years, browned and bony. Pearse guessed Nikotheos to be somewhere in his early seventies. “We don’t usually allow guests to arrive after the second meal-in fact, we don’t usually have guests at all-but Gennadios explained your work on Ambrose. I wasn’t aware he’d ever made the trip.”