Chapter XX: Bribery and Corruption

“Now that you have your information,” said Armitage, when he had recounted to Wylie what had passed during his audience of Eirene, “what do you think of doing?”

“There can’t be much doubt about that. We must go to Czarigrad and get hold of the Patriarch. Panagiotis must go, I suppose, as he is the only one likely to have influence in that quarter, and I must go to keep him up to the mark when he gets discouraged.”

“You won’t exactly publish abroad the object of your journey, I suppose?”

“What do you take me for? We go to Czarigrad to stir up the Embassy, of course.”

“And what is my part in the programme?”

“To stay here and keep an eye on Princess Eirene, I presume. She may manage to send us some further particulars. You are sure she is staunch?”

“Not a doubt of it, and wild to give what help she can, I should say. All right, I’ll look out. But how if at the same time I make unostentatious preparations for a visit to Hadgi-Antoniou, for the purpose of painting a picture of it for the devout and orthodox Imperial Princess Eirene Theophanis? She gave me a commission for the outside, and said she would like one of the church as well. They will probably grant me a passport all right, if you are known to be safe at Czarigrad, for it won’t do to keep all Europeans away from Hadgi-Antoniou, or people will begin to think there’s something wrong there. Sir Frank will back me up, too, when he has got you off his mind. Then you must cover up your tracks at Czarigrad, and come across, preferably by sea, and join me without passing through Therma. There’s a little port called Myriaki where we could rendezvous comfortably, and at the worst I can leave one of my servants behind and take you in his place.”

“You must have done a good deal of thinking between the Scythian Consulate and here,” said Wylie drily.

“Ah, you don’t know how my brain works when it’s put to it. I’m bound to see this thing through now. How are you off for the wherewithal?”

“Oh, the Professor has just come into another quarter’s income, and he’s quite chirpy.”

“That’s all right for Czarigrad, but at Hadgi-Antoniou we may have to outbid the Scythian agent. I can raise anything up to a thousand--shall I do it?”

“I suppose it would be as well,” said Wylie unwillingly. “It sounds awfully odd to hear you talking about ‘we,’” he explained, rather ashamed of his coldness. “I seem to have let you in for a good deal, when you remember that the Smiths have nothing to do with you.”

“Well, for the matter of that, they have nothing to do with you either, have they? It was a mere accident of association that brought you together. Of course, you went through a lot in their company, but I hope I may do what little I can to help an English lady in distress, though I haven’t had the honour of being introduced to her.”

“Right you are! You must think me a surly brute. I’m glad you have pulled me up--honestly I am. I suppose I might have gone on to wish the Smiths not to be rescued unless I had the chief hand in it.”

“You shall have the chief hand in it, so far as it depends on me,” said Armitage heartily. “After all you have done, it would be a black shame to rob you of the honour. I’m under your orders, remember, and you may be sure I shall say so. I’ll get things ready here, while you do the Czarigrad part of the business, and then we’ll meet and achieve our final _coup_ in company.”

There was no hesitation in Wylie’s agreement, but during the next week or two he was inclined to consider that Armitage had chosen conspicuously the easier task. Nothing but iron resolution on his part would have dragged the Professor to Czarigrad, and kept him there when he had arrived. His dislike of approaching the Patriarch was so marked that Wylie began to suspect that the tales he had heard of the secret organisation of Greek bands in Emathia were true, and that the Professor intended to employ them to rescue Maurice by force, thus committing him to their cause, and them to his. But since the Professor vouchsafed no account of his plans, Wylie could only proceed with his own, which were not rendered easier of execution by the reluctance of the Patriarch and his _entourage_ to do their part. There could be little doubt that Scythian agents had been beforehand with him, for it required weary days of waiting, and persistent refusals to depart, before he could gain a sight of any one in authority. By this time Professor Panagiotis seemed to have made up his mind to work heartily with him, and they went together to the Patriarchal palace, where they were received by a kind of domestic chaplain, or clerical private secretary, a dark-robed, high-capped monk with a keen, astute face. Having heard their request, the secretary addressed himself to the Professor, apparently regarding him as the more reasonable being of the two.

“If you realised the state of the community at Hadgi-Antoniou, you would know that what you ask is impossible,” he said. “Since the first Thracian monks were unfortunately admitted, under an agreement that their number was never to exceed one-fourth of the whole, they have steadily aimed at dominating the monastery. The agreement is still nominally in force, but certainly half the brethren must be Thracian, and in a year or two they will swamp the Greek element altogether. At present the community remains faithful to the Patriarchate because the Hegoumenos and other officials are Greeks, but should anything precipitate a collision between the two bodies, it is almost certain that they would be out-voted. To avoid such a collision is our perpetual aim. How, then, can you expect us, for the sake of a couple of unknown English tourists, to bring about the loss of an important outpost?”

“You would wink at murder, if you might keep your monastery?” asked Wylie. The monk shrugged his shoulders.

“Why don’t you apply to your Embassy?” he asked.

“Because we know that before any demand for the release of the prisoners could be made effective, they would be carried away somewhere else, or handed over to one of the brigand bands to be murdered.”

“We are alike, then,” smiled the secretary. “You will not do what you might, for fear of the consequences. Neither will we. There is no question of any immediate danger to your friends, I believe? Why trouble about them, then?”

Wylie rose angrily, but Professor Panagiotis laid a hand upon his sleeve. “We have not taken into consideration the fact that the prisoners are not unknown English tourists, but the heirs of the blessed John Theophanis,” he said.

“The fact is curious, but no more,” said the secretary, with a wooden face. “Living, as we do, under the tolerant and enlightened rule of the Grand Seignior, survivals of the kind you mention have no interest for us.”

“In certain eventualities, it might be inconvenient for the Patriarchate if the heir of John Theophanis had a just cause of resentment against it,” pursued the Professor.

“It is not for us to consider possible eventualities, but to maintain truth and loyalty in the present,” was the answer, which filled Wylie with helpless fury. The Professor remained calm.

“Very well: we will consider the present alone. The only other heir is in the hands of the Scythians, pledged supporters of the schismatical Exarchate. Is it or is it not a matter of importance that a nearer heir should exist, attached by bonds of gratitude and affection to the Patriarchate, and capable of being brought forward whenever Scythia shows signs of asserting the claims of her candidate?”

“This sounds more businesslike,” said the secretary approvingly. “You can answer for the young man’s strict Orthodoxy?”

“I have myself instructed him, and the experiences he has since undergone at the hands of the schismatics can hardly have attracted him to their cause. If the Patriarch intervened to rescue him, it would bind the youth to him indissolubly.”

“The idea is good, but there are difficulties in the way of carrying it out. To give you an order directing the release of the prisoners would probably lead to their disappearance--we are surrounded by spies--and would certainly lose us the monastery. It must be in general terms. But even then you are too well known,” to the Professor, “and I have been warned against this English gentleman, your companion, so that he also will be watched for. You must find some trustworthy agent, who may receive the Patriarchal letter, and do your business by its aid.”

“Make it out in the name of Harold Armitage, an English painter, who is commissioned to obtain views of the monastery for the Princess Eirene Theophanis,” said Wylie.

“The Scythian candidate? You are ingenious, monsieur, to make the devout purpose of the Princess contribute to her undoing. Well, the letter shall be prepared, and all possible assistance desired for Mr Armitage in his pious task. The rest of the business you must manage for yourselves.”

He bowed them out, and as soon as they had crossed the threshold Wylie expressed his candid opinion of the Patriarchal surroundings. The Professor smiled grimly.

“When the Morean insurrection broke out, the Patriarch of the day was hanged at his own church door,” he said. “We are not all ready to be martyrs nowadays.”

Wylie said nothing, for the explanation was evidently all-sufficient in the Professor’s eyes, but he wondered how much affection and gratitude Maurice was expected to feel towards the Patriarchate, and whether too much had not been promised in his name.

The Patriarchal letter arrived next day, its preparation having been quickened by a discreet distribution of gifts among the persons concerned, and Wylie was able to carry out his plans. The Professor was to remain some days in Czarigrad, visiting the British Embassy daily, and apparently devoting all his energies to obtaining the release of the prisoners by its means, while Wylie took his departure in a small fast sailing-vessel for Myriaki. The boat was chartered by the Professor exclusively for this service, and Wylie suspected that it was not the first time he had employed it on secret errands, so knowing did the captain show himself with respect to ships and customs-stations which it was advisable to avoid. Arriving off Myriaki late one evening, Wylie, standing in the bows, raised and dipped a light three times. The signal was answered from the shore, and presently Armitage came off, brimming over with excitement.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You are my _cavass_, Spiridion Istriotis, and I have brought you a suit of his clothes. The real Spiro is remaining in the seclusion of the paternal mansion, on full wages, until I send him word. You had better get the things on before coming on shore, hadn’t you? Your cabin is large enough to allow of that, though it certainly wouldn’t hold us both at once.”

“What about the passport?” demanded Wylie, as he made the change rapidly in his little shelter under the half-deck, while Armitage leaned against the bulkhead outside.

“Oh, that’s the greatest joke! The _teskereh_ they’ve given me would apply to you, or your friend Smith, or any mortal man, just as well as to me. I believe they keep a form in stock with the description of an ideal Englishman--tall, fair hair, blue eyes, and so on--and simply copy it. It will really fit you best, for the eyes will be right, at any rate. What coloured eyes has Smith?”

“I don’t know--ordinary, I suppose,” growled Wylie, with whom the point was a sore one.

“Well, it can’t be more unlike him than it is to me, so we ought all to be able to use the same passport, if we can bribe the police to look away while we pass it from one to the other. But you’ll go as Spiro, of course, so you won’t want it. Ready? I sculled myself off, to the great disapproval of the seafaring population on the quay, because I had something I wanted to say without eavesdroppers.”

Wylie’s possessions were transferred to the boat, and he bade farewell to the captain of the vessel, arranging with him to lie off Myriaki for the next fortnight. In the boat he took the oars, and Armitage pushed off. When they were about half-way to the shore, the artist produced a small but weighty parcel contained in a chamois-leather bag.

“Put that in the safest and best-hidden pocket you can find in Spiro’s garments,” he said. “It has two hundred and fifty pounds in English gold in it, and I have another just the same. I have scarcely dared to sleep since I left Therma. The rest of my money is in notes and cash of various fancy currencies peculiar to this delectable peninsula, and is contained in an imposing cash-box, which all my servants have been taught to regard with profound respect. But I thought it might be desirable to have a secret store in an attractive form, and I’m thankful to shift half the responsibility--and weight--off on you.”

“Good man!” said Wylie, concealing the bag inside his shirt, and securing it with his girdle, and they rowed to the quay, where Armitage was quartered in a villainous little Greek inn, having chosen it that he might be able to keep watch for the vessel. He had allowed it to become known that he was expecting the arrival of a special messenger with a letter from the Patriarch to assist him in his work at Hadgi-Antoniou, and Wylie was an object of intense veneration to the Greeks of the port as he swaggered in front of Armitage, clearing the way as the absent Spiro would have done. A number of the notables of the place visited them after supper, anxious to enjoy the honour of beholding the outside of the Patriarchal letter, and one or two of the chief of them were allowed the supreme distinction of kissing it. In the morning they escorted the letter and its bearers some distance on their way, and parted from them the best of friends, amid much festive firing of guns.

Armitage had neglected no precaution for ensuring the success of his journey that the wisdom of many advisers in Therma could suggest to him. The four men whom he called servants were really guards, Mohammedan Illyrians, armed to the teeth, and faithful unto death until the job for which they were engaged was over, after which they would be quite ready to murder their late employer at the bidding of a new one. Their presence ensured a friendly reception whenever Roumis were met with, and the unofficial rulers of the country were recognised by a letter to the principal brigand chief in the district, who rejoiced in the name of Fido--a letter of safe-conduct obtained, for a consideration, from Fido’s accredited agent in Therma. Armitage had not ventured to make any preparations that might suggest his intention of rescuing the prisoners, but he calculated that by the time they reached Hadgi-Antoniou the stores would have diminished so much that there would be a mule for Zoe to ride coming back, and he had laid in a lavish provision of scented soap, handkerchiefs, and other minor luxuries, ostensibly for his own benefit.

The journey proved to be uneventful, for such trifling incidents as the frequent stopping of the cavalcade by bands of armed men could not be considered events when the exhibition--with due discrimination--of the Patriarchal letter, the brigand’s safe-conduct, or the Roumi passport, according to circumstances, sufficed to close them. One of Armitage’s precautions had been to provide a large store of sugar-candy and other sweets, and the unfriendliness of the most ferocious brigand or densest commissary of police was never proof against a gift from it. The arrival at Hadgi-Antoniou was the close of a triumphal progress, and Armitage and Wylie looked up at the monastery on its pillar of rock, and wondered whether the rest of their work was to be as easy.

The firing of the rifles of the escort brought the monks, as usual, to their watch-tower, and questions and answers were bellowed up and down the cliff. The news that the English lord was the bearer of a letter from the Œcumenical Patriarch caused great excitement, and the net was let down at once. Wylie went up in it, lest the monks should refuse to admit him if Armitage went first. He was grabbed and hauled in as the prisoners had been, and while he waited for his friend to make the ascent he examined the tower and capstan with a keen eye. Armitage having been landed, rather pale and uncomfortable-looking, they were led first into the church, where the monks bowed to the ikons and chanted with extreme rapidity a very brief service, which might have been intended either as a welcome to the visitors or a thanksgiving for their safe arrival. Wylie accepted it gratefully as the latter. He was once more within a few yards of his friends, after their long separation.

The old Hegoumenos, who had sent an apology for not welcoming the strangers immediately, was awaiting them in the guest-room, with his monks assembled round him. Armitage presented the Patriarch’s letter, which the Hegoumenos kissed and laid to his forehead, and handed to Papa Athanasios to read. The artist’s devout intention of painting pictures of the monastery for the illustrious Princess who had so lately been their guest was announced to the brethren with high commendation, and after the letter had been handed round for them to kiss, they retired. The last, and apparently the most reluctant to quit the room, was a grey-bearded man with a look of authority, who had been watching Wylie narrowly. When he had gone, a young and rather foolish-looking monk came back furtively and peered at the visitors, and they heard him saying something to his fellows outside. Papa Athanasios looked annoyed, but he also cast an inquisitive glance at Wylie.

“What are they saying?” asked Armitage.

“Oh, our younger brethren are foolish--they are like children, unaccustomed to strangers--there is a silly saying among them----” said the monk incoherently. “They do not often see any one like the English lord’s _cavass_.”

“But what is the saying? Is it an old one?”

“No, not very--in fact, it is only a few weeks old. The Scythian lord who came to escort the Princess to Therma bade one of our brethren beware of the man with blue eyes, and they think they have found him. But this is foolishness. The Lord Hegoumenos desires to know what else he can do for you, since the sacred letter of the Universal Patriarch orders him to pleasure you not only in your devout purpose, but in other matters which you will confide to his ear.”

But when Armitage had asked for the release of the two English prisoners, Papa Athanasios and the Hegoumenos looked at one another, puzzled, timid, and anxious. Then they began to explain in low tones that if it had depended on them, the prisoners would never have been detained, but that M. Kirileff had arranged matters with Papa Demetri, the treasurer of the monastery, and the only Thracian who had as yet attained office. Papa Demetri was a most wonderful treasurer, his two superiors confessed reluctantly; everything he touched seemed to turn to gold, and the monastic revenues had never been so elastic. The church was being entirely redecorated--this merely meant that the frescoes and ikons were being painted over in exactly the same forms and colours as before--and even the Greek brethren would support him through thick and thin for making such a thing possible. The reason for the wonderful advance of the Thracian element in the monastery was now clear to the listeners, but they could not bring themselves to point out to the two old monks that they were--however delicately the transaction might be disguised--selling their nationality for Scythian gold.

“Papa Demetri must be getting something out of Kirileff for this business,” said Armitage to Wylie. “We must outbid him. Did the Scythian traveller make any gift to the monastery?” he asked of Papa Athanasios.

“He promised a very great gift, through Brother Demetri”--the monk named a sum which worked out at about four hundred pounds. “The brethren have all been rejoicing because it will restore the _ikonostasis_, and complete the renewing of the church.”

“If he only promised it, whether it was through prudence or because he hadn’t it with him, it’s a most lucky thing for us,” said Wylie. “Offer them the five hundred down if they’ll give the prisoners up at once.”

But this was much too summary a suggestion. The matter must be laid before the monks in full conclave, it appeared, and they must choose between five hundred pounds certain and a possible four hundred. Wylie suggested that it might make the choice easier if they were not asked actually to release the prisoners, but only to leave their cells unlocked and unguarded, and the ladders on the face of the rock available for use. The capstan he did not venture to advise, since no one in the monastery could remain ignorant when it was being used. The idea seemed to remove much of the two old men’s alarm, and the Hegoumenos announced quite cheerfully that he would call a conclave for the next day to consider the generous offer of the English lord.

“Can’t you show us where the prisoners are?” asked Wylie of Papa Athanasios, as they paused in the courtyard, after leaving the guest-room, to allow Armitage to make a hasty sketch of a corner of the church. The old monk had already shepherded back the supposed _cavass_, gently but firmly, from so many unauthorised excursions into other buildings and courtyards, that he began to think M. Kirileff’s warning not uncalled for, and he answered with some asperity--

“The lodging of the monastery’s guests is no concern of yours.”

“At least tell us how they are,” entreated Wylie, and Papa Athanasios answered more gently--

“They are both in good health. I myself have allowed the youth to walk in the courtyard at hours when Brother Demetri thought him safely locked unto his cell, so eagerly did he entreat leave to smell the air, and I have talked much with him at other times. The girl is left to the charge of a devout woman, who has been much edified to behold her continually rapt in contemplation, so that, had she been Orthodox, she would have imagined her to be a seer of holy visions. One thing perturbed our sister greatly--that her prisoner made many strange signs on her wall with a nail, which she feared might be unholy spells. So much was she troubled, that on a certain feast-day--was it Holy Trinity or Holy John? I forget-- I allowed the girl also to walk in the garden, and examined the marks for myself. But there was nothing evil in them; they were such foolish and meaningless scrawls as might be made by one distraught, and I quieted our sister’s mind with this assurance.”

Armitage was laughing involuntarily, but to Wylie the thought of Zoe enjoying a glimpse of liberty on Trinity Sunday, unconscious that her scribbles were being scrutinised for evidences of witchcraft, was pure pathos, and he turned away abruptly.