“I guess that’s what I’m here to find out.” Pearse smiled.

“Yes.” It was clear he’d expected a bit more by way of explanation. When none came, he nodded to the little group and said,“Well, let’s get you to your rooms, perhaps a quick tour. It’s late for us.”

Pearse’s was the last of the cells they came to, more of the flagstone, stark white walls, a small desk and iron bedstead below a single window. The glass panes were pulled open, the smell of minted olives in the air.

As he had done for Gennadios and Dominic, the monk retrieved two bowls from the shelf by the door, one filled with dried fruit and nuts, the other with rose-scented loukoumi, the Greek version of Turkish delight. He placed them on the desk.

“In case you get hungry during the night. We’re up before the sun, first prayer at four.” He turned to go, then stopped. “Oh, I meant to ask-are you Orthodox or heretic?”

It was a question Pearse had hoped to avoid. He knew that the few non-Greek Orthodox they permitted on the mountain were generally of the harmless tourist variety. Those who wished to see the manuscripts were put to far greater scrutiny. Too long a history of disappearing documents, miraculously reappearing in the British Library and the Vatican, had made the monks justifiably wary. Their distrust of Catholics verged on mania.

“I’m a Catholic,” Pearse responded.

“Oh, I see.” Nikotheos’s expression remained unchanged. “How sad for you.” Again, he moved to the door, then stopped. “I wouldn’t make that public knowledge. Several of the brothers feel quite strongly about it, the abbot included.” A smile. “But we’ll make sure you get to see the manuscripts. I’d love to find out how Ambrose ties in with us here.” And with that, he was out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Pearse tossed his pack onto the bed and stepped to the window, a light mist having settled in the last few minutes. Such was the whim of mountain air. It hung on the upper reaches of the buildings, the moon lost behind it. Even so, he could see the monastery stretch out in front of him, the slope of the mountain giving his third-floor cell a near-panoramic view.

It was far bigger than he had imagined, wide pockets of open area extending up to unseen distances, all of them surrounded by a wide assortment of fifteen centuries of architectural evolution. Closer in to his right, the fountain continued its endless trickle of water, the patter echoing in soulful meter; only the occasional brush of leaves and a flapping of wings broke through the silence. As he continued to stare out, he saw Nikotheos arrive in the courtyard, the monk moving slowly, snuffing out lamps as he went. The area grew dark, save for one or two paraffin lamps glowing in the windows above, late-evening prayers, last-minute assurances.

For the most part, Pearse had little idea what lay out in the darkness. Nikotheos’s quick tour had been just that-quick. One or two of the smaller chapels, refectory, library-all in swift succession, only the last of them, he had discovered, behind locked doors.

“There was an incident at the Great Lavra a few years back,” the monk had explained. “Raiders in motorboats with guns. They stole quite a few manuscripts, gold reliquaries, even a few icons. They were caught, thank heavens, but the damage had been done, illuminations ripped out, destroyed. We keep these doors bolted at night now. Not what I would like, but what can you do?”

Pearse had been relieved to hear that the rest of the place remained open. From Angeli’s notes, he knew he’d have no need for the library and its manuscripts.

Unfortunately, that was all he knew. Little of what he now saw resembled the map she had drawn. Much had changed in nine centuries, most of the buildings fourteenth- and fifteenth-century additions, still others from the golden age of the czars, when Russian Orthodoxy had taken Athos under its protective wing. The one piece that tied the ancient Photinus to its more modern progeny was the outer wall itself, a basic triangle, the entrance doors a fixed landmark situated at the center of its base. He had to hope Angeli’s calculations were accurate enough to lead him from the fountain courtyard to the “Vault of the Paraclete,” a room somewhere within one of the more ancient buildings still standing.

It was odd to think how close he was to whatever was hidden within the Vault, how long the parchment had waited to be found.

If, of course, it was still there. And if Angeli had deciphered the scroll correctly. Too many variables.

A breeze lifted off the water, more of the olive and mint, a gentle reminder of the world he now inhabited. For some reason, the face of the priest from San Bernardo filled his thoughts, the ancient shoulders swaying back and forth, the whispered chant from his weathered lips. Pearse imagined the old man would have liked it here.

He turned to the bed, and he noticed a monk’s robe hanging on the door, evidently the preferred garb even for guests. Perfect, he thought. He would rest for an hour, then go. Better with everyone asleep.

After all, he had to be back by first prayer.

“O existent in very truth.

O being which beholds the aeons in very truth.

Unseen unto all but me.

Unseen unto all.

Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.

O self-originate that lacks nothing and is free,

I have come to know you and to mix with your immutability.

I have girded myself to dwell in your armor of loveliness and light.

And I have become luminous.”

The boy, no more than sixteen, rose from his knees, trying his best to mask the relief pounding in his chest. It was the last of the prayers he would have to recite on his own. The rest, he knew, he could do in his sleep, had been doing in his sleep for the last six months. Preparation on preparation.

Hair parted neatly to one side, he wiped away the few beads of perspiration that had collected on his brow and upper lip. Dressing this morning in his hotel room, he’d assumed the air in the grotto would be cooler, the four floors of solid rock beneath the Ninety-fourth Street armory enough to fend off the heat. No such luck. The thick initiate’s robe wasn’t helping matters, either.

It just went to show how little an Ohio boy knew about New York summers.

Six others waited with him on the beama, the raised platform at the grotto’s center, each of their faces illuminated in a billowing light from torches placed along the walls. Several ancient tapestries hung down as well, not even a hint of air to ruffle their faded colors. If the elect were hoping to shroud the ceremony in a kind of medieval patina, they were more than succeeding. The young men stood entranced.

“You have been formed within the orbit of the light,” chanted the trio of elect, who stood behind the group of initiates.

“So that in your company I might have life in the peace of the saints,” they responded as one.

“And so we welcome you. For the light is within your bosom, an unreproachable light, the sign of the prophets within you.”

“O Iesseus-Mazareus-Iessedekeus.”

“O Mani Paraclete, prophet of all prophets.”

“Eternally existent in very truth.”

“Eeema, Eeema, Ayo.”

The princeps-the highest of the elect-now passed behind each of them, the ritual laying on of hands, a silent prayer. He wore a white cotton shawl pulled up over his head, the rest draping to his knees, a distant cousin of the Jewish tallis in all but the missing Hebrew lettering at the collar. Even the way he manipulated the fringed corners bespoke a connection to an Aaronic past. When he had finished, he kissed each of them on the cheek, followed by the sign of the cross on their foreheads, the sign of the trihedron at their breasts. One by one, the boys stepped down from the beama and took their places among the thirty or so men seated in the chamber. The boy returned to his father’s side.