The Snake Stone

108

“I didn’t think we’d see each other again,” Grigor said.

“We still share this city.”

Grigor sighed. “In space, Yashim, and time. But here?” He jabbed his thumb to his chest. “Or here?” And he placed his index finger to his temple.

Yashim bowed his head. “We share-certain responsibilities, at least.”

“To whom?”

Yashim heard the sneer in Grigor’s voice.

“To the dead, Grigor.”

Grigor put up a hand and ran his fingers through his beard.

“Experience has taught me that we should keep to our own spheres. Our own circuits. There are boundaries in Constantinople: beyond them we trespass at our peril.”

“You told me before that the church is concerned with the things of the spirit,” Yashim answered carefully. “Caesar wants obedience. But God wants Truth, isn’t that so?”

Grigor made a dismissive motion with his hand. “I don’t think God is very interested in your sort of truth, Yashim. It’s very small. Who did what to whom-who talked, who was silent, the year 1839. God is the Eternal.”

“We have long memories, though. Ideas outlive us.”

“What are you saying?” Grigor growled.

“Byzantine treasure, Grigor. The relics. I know where they are.”

The archimandrite glanced out of the window. “You, too?”

“Would you pay me for them?”

Grigor was silent for a while. “What I would or would not pay is beyond discussion,” he said at last. “It would be for the Patriarch to decide.”

“What did the Patriarch decide-the last time?”

“The last time?”

“Lefevre.”

“Ah. Monsieur Lefevre,” Grigor echoed, placing his hands flat on the table. “Doesn’t that answer your question?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I think,” Grigor said, rising, “that I will forget we ever spoke. Do you really know where the relics are?”

“I’m not even sure that they exist.”

“Believe it or not, I’m glad you said that, Yashim. For old times’ sake.”