An Evil Eye

13

Brother Palamedes put his fingers across his face.

“Someone came to us, a week ago, maybe longer. Asking about a friend who had gone missing. I thought-perhaps…”

He trailed off.

Yashim said: “Someone? Ortodox?” He meant someone of the Orthodox faith, the usual description for a Greek: the empire recognized people by their confession, not their race.

The hesitation was momentary. “A type of Ortodox, yes.”

Yashim widened his eyes. “A type of Orthodox,” he echoed. It could mean Armenian, or Serbian. A glance at the monk’s face told him it was none of those. “Russian,” he said.

Brother Palamedes clasped his hands together. “Please, Yashim efendi. At Hristos we are men of the church. We do not seek the friendship of the Russians. Believe me. We welcome the friendship of all men but-we must be careful.”

Yashim glanced at the pale slip of skin lying on the table, and shuddered. For years, Russia had been stirring up the Greeks, encouraging them to rebellion, disturbing their age-old compact with the Ottoman state.

“Who did you intend to tell?”

The monk twisted his fingers in his lap. “No one. That is-we want no trouble, Yashim efendi. These days anything may be taken amiss. You understand.”

Yashim grunted. He picked up the monk’s pen and pushed the skin flat against the tabletop.

“It’s not a tattoo.”

“No, efendi. I do not know what it is. But a mark, of some kind.”