ADYTON

By ANTONIS CONSTANTINOU

1930: A few kilometers from the medieval headquarters of the knights Templar in Cyprus, an enigmatic Englishman uncovers a dazzling round object from the remains of an ancient Latin church and vanishes alongside it. A quarter of a century later, a farmer excavates nearby a huge earthen jar with bizarre engravings on its surface. A schola

• Language: English
• Publisher: ANTONIS CONSTANTINOU Selfpublishing
• Release date: Apr 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9789464593853

ANTONIS CONSTANTINOU

Antonis Constantinou is a former EU Commission director and long-standing rural development expert. After retirement in 2012, he devoted himself to writing, historical study and research, authoring historical novels, essays and scientific studies. His tenacious interest in the medieval history of his place of origin and its wines yielded several scholarly articles, incl. an original study on the 'pithar of Syrka', a 14th century wine jar bearing the insignia of the medieval Royal Order of the Sword and the three crowns of the Lusignan dynasty of Cyprus.

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PART ONE

Silikou, Cyprus, June 17, 1956

It was four o’clock in the morning. The picturesque village of Silikou was still in the firm hold of the nocturnal darkness. The small rural community continued sleeping peacefully at the foot of the mountain ridge that marks the western edge of the spacious green valley of the Kouris River to the south of the Troodos Mountain range on the island of Cyprus. Soon after, the sun’s rays timidly shimmered over the eastern horizon and illuminated the red-tiled roofs of the stone houses and the tops of the lush almond trees surrounding them. Next, they reached the flower-filled pomegranate trees in the shady courtyards and the broadleaved mulberry trees planted ages ago to serve the traditional silks craft. In a short while, the full morning light engulfed the two neighbourhoods of the village. First, the one to the west lying amphitheatrically on the slope of the mountain and, immediately thereafter, the eastern one, dominated by the Church of St. George on a low hill.

The topography and higher altitude of the settlement made it almost invisible from the lower parts of the valley, as if to hide from vicious enemy eyes. Gardens and flat fields surrounded the houses but, a few hundred meters beyond the eastern edge of the built-up area, the ground began sloping again, reaching gently down to the river after several kilometres. This extensive fertile area was used since ancient times for producing a famous liqueur wine the ancients called Nama, the drink of the gods.

Indeed, certain local designations recalled to the memory of the educated visitor that in ancient times Satyrs and Maenads worshipped here Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and pleasure, dancing for hours in a religious trance after having consumed copious quantities of Nama.

All this, however, was now past and sealed. Present-day Silikou was a small rural community, the residents of which were hard-working farmers struggling to secure their daily bread. June was the season of cereal harvesting, the toughest agricultural activity of the year. Wearing long working dresses or trousers, long-sleeved shirts and broad hats or scarves to protect themselves from the hot summer sun, the people worked in the fields non-stop from the morning until the evening, and their abundant sweat fell on the ground like drops of rain. Bowed down to the roots of the golden-yellow wheat stems, they grabbed a handful of them each time and skilfully cut them with their primitive sickles, testing the limits of their endurance in the unbearable heat of the season. Worn out, they returned home and went to bed very early in the evening, seeking relief in the arms of sleep. But most of the time they could not rest, as it was hot until midnight. Therefore, they used to carry their simple beds out to the courtyards, under the broad-leaved mulberry trees, where they lay down waiting fervently for the benevolent evening breeze to caress their sunburned faces and grant them relief.

The nine-year-old Costas Antonopoulos felt privileged he could sleep at night on the veranda of the upper floor of his family’s house. Built on the highest point of the western neighbourhood. The beautiful traditional house and the large upper floor terrace that made up the roof of the basement ensured a panoramic view of the rest of the village and the surrounding hills. The spacious veranda stood in fact above the roofs of the neighbouring houses and enjoyed a free view of the village roads all around and far beyond. This was the kingdom of little Costas, who slept at night at the back of this terrace under an open-air roof.

As often happens with the children of farmers, Costas matured early. Life in the village offered him rich experiences and his daring character made him behave as if he had long since entered adolescence. He didn’t like to be called Costas. His name was Constantine, please, Constantine Antonopoulos, well sounding and Greco-Roman in every respect.

On June 16, like on every other morning since the weather had become so hot, Costas slept deeply in his bed on the terrace of his father’s balcony, when the microcosmos of his village caught fire. Suddenly, a hellish noise coming from the sky brutally interrupted the early morning calm, throwing the poor villagers out of their beds in agony. The noise resembled sky thundering mixed with deafening explosions, but without lightning. Some superstitious residents perceived it as a terrible earthquake, that the end of the world was closing by.

Although young, Costas did not take long to realise what was really happening. From his balcony, he had a wide field of view. He didn’t believe his eyes. Five British military helicopters were flying over the rooftops of the village. Yes, five. He counted them one by one. Their huge propellers swirled demonically, and they were flying so low, it was a miracle that they didn’t hit a tree or a house chimney.

Costas knew very well these terrible yellow machine-birds. Now and then one of them would cross the sky, flying from Limassol to Troodos and back along the course of the Kouris River. They were helicopters of the British army carrying special commando forces to the inaccessible central mountains, trying to locate the hideouts of the Greek guerrillas fighting for independence and kill them all. Today, there were five of them and they flew so low that Costas could even discern the faces of the pilots and red-beret commandos sitting in the back seats.

In the space of a few minutes, the helicopters landed on the surrounding hills, let out their passengers and quickly left southwards, only to return half an hour later carrying fresh groups of soldiers. This was a carefully planned large-scale military operation. In less than an hour, the commandos had surrounded the entire village. Nobody could escape.

What is happening? Costas wondered. What is the purpose of such a large-scale mobilisation of security forces? What are all these soldiers looking for in a peaceful rural community like ours?

No doubt, the British forces were hunting a leading figure of the guerrilla movement; perhaps even the military commander, General Grivas, in person. In their eyes, he was a most dangerous terrorist. The official colonial radio had announced his impending arrest. The security forces had allegedly surrounded him and his rebel group in the forest of Troodos the day before. He slipped away, but he couldn’t have gone far.

What if the General had fled toward coastal Limassol and had to spend the night somewhere mid-way?

Meanwhile, more soldiers arrived by road and started patrolling through the narrow streets of the village. Vehicles equipped with loudspeakers announced in Greek that the village was in a state of curfew, and everybody ought to stay at home.

Curfew! Limit yourselves to your homes. It is forbidden to walk outside. The security forces will shoot on-the-spot anyone who disobeys. We will search the houses one by one.

From his position, Costas could follow all that was happening. He moved to the back of the terrace so as not to be seen and continued his observations.

Armed to the teeth, the British commandos entered the modest village dwellings and arrested all men. They took them to the courtyard of the church of St. George, where they set up their headquarters, and ordered them to undress; to stay only in the lower underwear, and to keep their hands tied behind their heads. They beat and pushed them around with the lower part of their rifles and subjected them to a thorough examination and interrogation. The so-called auxiliary police officers, poor and unemployed Turkish Cypriots whom the British had recruited to do their dirty work, carried out the physical blows employed during the interrogation. Most of them spoke a little Greek. Other than taking over the torturing, they were also useful as translators. They knew how to compromise the poor peasants.

The British officers had a clear idea of what they were looking for. In their hands, they held photographs and other reconnaissance material. The problem was that all these peasants looked like Grivas. He was a Cypriot too, and his complexion was similar.

Soon, the soldiers started searching the houses. With feigned politeness, they asked,

Madame, do we have your permission to search your house?

Of course, sir, replied the terrified women, knowing they had no other choice.

The soldiers searched every single house, cellar, barn, and warehouse, inch by inch. They were not only looking for hidden rebels but also for weapons and ammunition; maybe for other things too, only they knew!

To Costas’s surprise, no one bothered to search his father’s upper floor, where he was hiding.

If Grivas were here, he thought, he would probably have escaped.

Nearby, in the abandoned house of the late Nikolis on the other side of the road, there was plenty of action.

This house belonged to our family in the past, the mother of Costas had once told him. Nikolis was married to my late aunt. That’s why it borders on ours.

The front door of this old house was just below the balcony terrace where Costas was hiding. Curiosity moved him to crawl to the edge to see better what was going on. The head of the team conducting the search was a senior officer; that is what Costas concluded, seeing the stars in his uniform. He spoke English and seemed to give instructions to his assistants. One of them left and soon returned with a Turkish auxiliary, who stood out by his dark complexion and humble clothing. The officer told him something, and he replied with a heavy Cypriot accent.

Yes, captain Ashton, he said and departed in haste, followed by the two soldiers assisting Ashton if that was indeed his name.

Now alone, Ashton moved inside the house and disappeared from Costas’ field of view.

Twenty minutes later, the auxiliary returned, accompanied by Arestis, a man who was married to the granddaughter of the late Nikolis. He was naked from the waist up and wore no shoes. They pushed him to enter the house and Costas listened carefully, trying to understand what they were saying.

Ashton put his questions in English, the auxiliary police officer made a rough translation into Greek and Arestis answered.

Is this warehouse yours?

No, it belongs to my wife’s family.

Who does this pithos, this jar, belong to?

To me. I had nowhere else to put it.

Why? Do you have only a single jar? Others have many more.

I’m a mason, Sir. I’m not concerned with winemaking.

And where did you find it?

I excavated it from a field a few months ago.

Where is this field?

Near the Chapel of the Virgin Mary, next to the natural spring of Syrka.

And what did you find inside?

Nothing. It had quite a few wine dregs and two or three destroyed old sheepskin containers. We call them askia.

Askia? What are they?

They are leather containers used by our grandparents to carry wine. On the interior, they treated them with tar to make them waterproof.

What did you do with the things you found in the jar?

I threw them away. They were useless.

And why did you keep the jar?

As you can see, Sir, it is in good shape. It is not ancient.

And these sketches here on the jar’s surface. Do you know what they mean?

What sketches? I didn’t see any sketches.

These here; aren’t these sketches?

No, Sir, these are abrasions on the clay.

Abrasions?

Yes. While they were taking the clay jar to the oven to bake it, they probably touched by accident some pointed tree branches that scratched its surface. They didn’t have time to fix the problem.

And these three circles up here?

All jars have such circles. They serve as decoration. Some have many, others have few, depending on the taste of the owner.

Well, okay. You can go now.

Soon, the three men came out of the warehouse again, accompanying Arestis back to the place where the other prisoners were held. Once more, Ashton was alone. Costas continued to watch. After fifteen minutes, he saw him coming out carrying a bag, in which he had placed some objects that looked like lengthy cylinders; he proceeded to the small square, fifty meters away, and placed the bag in his military car.

Who would believe it? Costas pondered. Arestis was hiding dynamite in his warehouse. It probably belongs to the guerrillas. The poor man will be in trouble now.

The curfew of Silikou lasted three days. The British commandos searched every single corner of the houses. They turned around every single stone. For some strange reason, they paid particular attention to the traditional clay jars and investigated them even more thoroughly. Perhaps they had heard of Diogenes sleeping in a jar and thought that the leader of the rebels would do the same. Grivas, however, dissolved in smoke. The English did not get a clue where he was hiding on that night.

At the end of the curfew, the security forces carried half the men of the village to detention centres for further interrogation. They released them a few weeks later except for Arestis, whom they kept in prison for almost a year. No one understood why. He was a peaceful man. His physiognomy may have resembled that of the leader of the rebels, but the general was many years older than him. They couldn’t have confused them.

Strange are the wills of the English, concluded Costas.

Little by little, the small village resumed its normal daily routine. Costas, however, never forgot that day when he woke up by the strange noise of the British military helicopters.

Cypriot countryside, the early sixties

Lena, wake up. What is wrong with you, groaning like a woman in labour? Wake up, it’s time to leave for the orchard. The morning sun is already a pole above the mountains of Lania.

Her mother’s stern voice forced Lena to open her eyes reluctantly. She felt lost. Morpheus, the Greek god of sleep, was still holding her tightly in his arms.

Morpheus? No, someone else was holding her in his arms. Her sleep was sweet, but the sweetness she felt that morning was very different, much more intense.

Ah, mother, you cut me off at...

Are you going to wake up or not? What nonsense are you talking about cutting you off?

Lena finally opened her eyes and realised what was happening. For god’s sake, what am I saying? My mother will kill me, she pondered.

She put her hand under the covers and touched her outfit. It was soaked. Her night lover, however, had gone up in smoke.

Lena was close to thirty and was still single. She could no longer stand the loneliness and isolation of the village. In the small semi-mountainous community where she lived, girls married young. After the age of twenty-three, they were in danger of being left unclaimed. When they had reached thirty, people viewed them as old maids.

Her younger sister had long since been married and left for the city. She has already given birth to several children. God endowed her with beautiful looks, and she had been in great demand.

Compared to her, Lena certainly fell short of appearance, but her temperament was much more erotic. Her behaviour was anything but an old maid’s. She refused to accept that she had passed beyond the peak of her youth. She felt that her body was blossoming, burning from lust and anticipation. Her nights were restless and in her dreams, she enjoyed erotic feasts. The problem was that in her small village, there were no single men of her age; all of them had already married and some left for the city never to come back. It was a period of profound rural exodus.

She too had gone down to the city to attend high school, but she had to return to the village by bus every evening. The distance was not big, and her parents could not afford to rent an apartment or room in the city for her.

After the first three years, she had to abandon schooling. No way she could continue. Her parents needed help; they owned a big vineyard; they were also responsible for the grocery coop of the village. Lena received enough education, they argued, to run the shop and take over the sales. That was more acceptable to her. At least she would be relieved of manual farm work. And she could meet people instead of being constantly confined to the house.

However, having attended high school for a few years, it was difficult for her to adjust to the backward society of the small village. At school, she had heard talking about human rights and the equality of men and women. And she learned about the right of all people to happiness and love. Even the church recognised this right and, at the end of the wedding ceremony, wished to the couple to have a fair share in the pleasures of the flesh.

At sixteen, during her last year at school, Lena had experienced a fleeting love affair with a young man, many years older than her, who had realised that the teenager was a boiling volcano. It wasn’t rape, far from it. For Lena, it was a ritual of initiation into the secrets of the flesh. The sensual explosion she experienced left her amazed. The agitation she felt when touching the male body was overwhelming! And that supreme moment in the end, that incredible apotheosis, she would never forget it. She has been missing it ever since. Her desire to experience it again was indescribable!

The village society was, however, very conservative. Love before marriage was impossible, even for couples engaged to marry. A girl that made love with an unknown man at sixteen risked ending up in a brothel. Her mother would kill her if she knew!

Lena lived for years in an unhappy state of erotic deprivation with no real prospect for a change. The men had eyes only for her sister. She felt like a bystander, even though her desires blossomed. At night, in her sleep, her body woke up. She dreamed of exquisite adventures without inhibitions. It didn’t take long for her to discover that she could also daydream. With the power of her mind and the fervour of her body, she could reach the limits of her senses. Everything was a matter of the brain, wasn’t it? Whenever her sister and her husband came to the village and, at night, they slept in a room next to her own, Lena’s unbridled imagination was raging. She perceived the slightest noise as erotic groaning. And she interpreted their coughing as an effort to conceal their orgasm. Several times during the night. That is what she had been missing; she, the unlucky one.

In her early thirties, the situation became dramatic. Lena urgently needed a man. She would not stand idly by until her youth withered. Year after year, she lowered the bar. She wanted a partner and would accept what was available. Even an older man, even a married one. She also had a right to enjoy life.

Lena’s body was exquisite and sexy, but her sunburned face was not attractive enough to get the attention of the few men who sometimes arrived in the village for business reasons. Only an itinerant merchant from the nearby village seemed to pay attention to her. Stephen was around fifty, but looked younger. Every time he came to the village to sell his goods, clothing, dresses, shoes, etc., parked his car outside Lena’s home. He sold various kinds of fabrics, ready-made dresses, underwear, and he also accepted orders. He was opening the back doors of his van and the women of the village run to inspect the merchandise.

Stephen knew how to flatter them. Other than making a living, he also had a small adventure now and then. As an experienced man, he could identify at first glance any woman who was out for more than buying a dress. He realised quickly that Lena was an overripe fruit. If he were ten years younger, he would simply stretch out his hand and pick this forbidden apple. But he was her father’s age and married with children. It was dangerous. This, however, did not stop him from testing her with his eyes every time she came to buy something. It didn’t take long for Lena to get the message. Her erotic antennas caught these signals from afar. She knew he wanted her very much. Every time he came, she run to his van, supposedly to inspect his merchandise, in particular underwear. She enjoyed torturing him.

After a while, she started feeling a desire for more. Here was a real chance to move from theory to practice. Enough with dreaming at day and at night. Her conscience soon capitulated. She put aside her modesty and initial inhibitions about his age. The road was now clear.

Stephen realised it and responded accordingly. He defied danger and started bringing gifts for her. Small things at first and then more suggestive ones. One day, he brought her a black lacy set of underwear. He showed her the bra first.

This one only suits you. Only you have the full breasts to fill the bra.

Lena grabbed the bra and quickly hid it.

I’m leaving to put it on.

Wait. It also has a bottom.

He showed her the lace underwear.

Ah, you’ve crossed the line, man, Lena whispered. Step by step you push me to…

Will you think of me when you wear it?

Mm!

I would have loved to be present; to put it around you myself, Stephen dared to say.

Lena looked at him, feeling inflamed.

This is not possible. Nor does it make sense.

Why?

They will see us.

I know a good hiding place.

To put it around me?

No, to get it off you.

Are you crazy? It’s dangerous!

Stephen had the answer ready. He had prepared everything in advance; he only waited for the green light.

Listen, down in the orchards, near the spring of Syrka, I know a place close to the Chapel of the Virgin Mary that no one suspects. No one can see you, even when standing next to you. Your family has an orchard nearby. The day after tomorrow, at noon, find an excuse and come to the spring to cool off.

I’ll think about it.

I’ll be waiting anxiously for you.

Not as anxiously as me.

The Chapel of the Virgin Mary was located halfway down the dirt road, joining Lena’s village to that of Stephen, two kilometres further to the south. A man called Hadjis built it at his own expense, some eighty years ago on the ruins of an old building. Hadjis’ son-in-law owned most of the land in this location and he wanted to make him a favour. People believed those ruins belonged to a medieval or even older church, but no one could speak with certainty. According to tradition, in the old days, the area was a Frankish kingdom, and there stood the houses of the Regina. The peasants were quick to conclude that it was not only piety that motivated Hadjis to build the new chapel.

Some things looked strange. Close to the southern wall of the chapel, there stood a huge ancient structure, a sloping wall three meters long, two and a half meters high, and one and a half meters thick at its base. It gave the impression that it was continuing underground. Strangely, Hadjis did not use this solid construction when building the new chapel, whereas, on the north side, he supported the new masonry on the precarious ruins of the previous building. The remains of collapsed old arches and plaster were still visible at that point.

When the new church was completed and the religious festivals in honour of the Virgin Mary started, people quickly forgot these issues. The Virgin was celebrated every year on Easter Tuesday and on the eighth of September. On those days, the residents of the neighbouring villages attended the church service held in the chapel and then joined their friends and relatives to roast a lamb in the special yards constructed specifically for this purpose near the area’s natural spring, while enjoying each other’s company and a glass or two of the fine wine of their region. They had little or no interest in the location’s history. For them, the ruins of the old buildings were just a cheap source of stones suitable for the construction of new houses.

Except for the enormous wall to the south of the chapel, the other witnesses of the past vanished with time. Nevertheless, the trained eye could still identify the signs of the extensive building infrastructure that once covered the surrounding plots of land: trimmed stones protruding from the ground; a couple of squared boulders under the adjacent pine trees that the villagers apparently could not remove; a piece of an old column in a corner; traces of mosaic floors on the adjacent hill; and piles of smaller stones of any shape on the tiny slope between the churchyard and the neighbouring green garden to the west, three meters below.

This difference in altitude, although small, seemed unnatural. It did not fit with the topography. It gave the impression that someone had created an embankment, artificially changing the course of the tiny vale that started a few hundred meters further down and came up smoothly until it was broken by the higher ground on which the new chapel stood.

Indeed, if one took the trouble to look at the foot of the small incline separating the churchyard from the private orchard below, one would find at the north-eastern corner a piece of old masonry hiding under the dense blackberry bush hanging down from above. It was not very large, and it was only a matter of time before it would disappear as well.

Access to the chapel from the orchard was no longer possible because the tiny slope at the border was overgrown with dense, wild blackberry bushes. The owner of the orchard deliberately let the bushes grow to protect his orchard from passers-by, tempted to pick his juicy fruit. The entangled tree branches in the garden formed a green veil that looked like an extension of the chapel’s court. Succulent fruit of the season, apricots and plums of all types, which ripened massively in early summer, were shining in the sunlight amid the dense foliage.

This small paradise was only accessible from the west, one hundred and fifty meters from the church. At that point, a small natural spring came out of vertical rock. It was thanks to this gift of nature that lush vegetation covered the fertile lands all around.

At the north-eastern corner of the garden, exactly where the last remnant of medieval masonry could be seen, there grew an old fig tree with dense broad leaves. Its branches were intertwined with those of the adjacent apricot trees and with the blackberry bushes, creating a dense green roof. Neither the rays of the sun nor the eyes of a person could penetrate this thick foliage. Anyone hiding below enjoyed complete privacy.

This was the love nest that Stephen used for his occasional erotic encounters. When he was a teenager, someone told him, half-joking, that it was a great sin to leave a woman in need bereft. And he took it for granted. He became the Don Juan of the region.

He knew this place very well. The owner of the orchard was a good friend of his and he felt free to stop here when passing by and pick as much fruit as he wished. He particularly liked those succulent, sweet apricots of the traditional local variety that were now scarce. It was during one of his visits that he noticed that old vertical wall in the north-eastern corner under the broad-leaved fig tree. It did not look like the usual dry-stone walls built by farmers on their estates to support the soil and avoid erosion. Some sort of white mortar joined the squared stones to each other elaborately. The wall was about one and a half meters high and two meters wide and somehow prevented the wild bush from reaching down. This allowed the space free and created a pleasant environment suitable for the activity he had in mind.

Stephen thought it was time to use this hide-out again. In this pleasant corner, he would make love to the beautiful Lena. He would clean the ground around and use a homemade rag as bedding. Lena shouldn’t have much difficulty convincing her mother that she needed to take a stroll to the small spring to freshen up and cool off. And if she complained that she had stayed away for too long, Lena could always counter that she had gone to the Chapel of the Virgin Mary to light a candle. She could stay away for an hour without raising the slightest suspicion. Her mother knew she didn’t like farm work. She would think that the candle was just an excuse to get a little lazy.

The small van’s engine roared momentarily, and the noise resonated in the surrounding orchards. Stephen parked his car in the small clearing behind the spring, forced himself under the foliage of his friend’s orchard, and waited. Lena didn’t take long to show up. He signalled for her to follow him. The young woman took a quick look around and rammed herself like an antelope under the dense branches of the deep-shaded garden.

She caught up with him as soon as he reached the wall under the fig tree. The hiding place was impeccable, she could relax. At last, after fifteen years, she would taste again the fruits of carnal satisfaction.

Come on, my love, come in my arms, whispered Stephen, who thought he should take it easy with her.

But Lena didn’t need his encouragement. She was already on fire and her insatiable desire sought immediate satisfaction. For years, she deprived herself of all that. Her body was in flames at night, but she didn’t have a man to share her bed with. In her erotic fantasies, she tasted all forbidden fruit, escaping from the reality of her mediocre everyday life. She was an inexperienced woman with extensive experience in foreplay. The time had come for her to live her dreams, and she had no inhibitions.

Stephen didn’t expect the explosion that followed. He liked to feel master of the game, but with Lena, he had no chance. For her, it was as if he didn’t exist at all. She didn’t want his person, only his body and what she could do with it.

She bent down and kissed him greedily on the mouth. She forced him to open it wide and tasted everything it offered. The inside of his lips, his tongue, his saliva. With her hand, she reached down, looking for the source of pleasure. She gave the impression that she knew every sensitive point. At some point, she lifted her head and, with a quick movement, took off her dress. Below, she was wearing only the black lace underwear Stephen had given her.

Come on, take my slip of, my love, I can’t hold out anymore.

Stephen worked quickly and skilfully. He undressed her and, for a moment, he stood there dumbfounded. What a beauty she was! What a masterly shaped body, what breasts fully grown and erect, what alabaster skin! And between her legs, a dense black forest, which invited him to explore it with all his senses. Under her humble rustic clothes, Lena hid unspeakable beauty, which neither the sun nor the eye of another man had ever seen. Her body looked virginal, firm and brilliant white, unlike her face, which, sunburned as it was, made her look older.

Lena took the lead again. She pulled his pants down but didn’t bother to deal with the rest of his clothes. She had him sit with his back to the wall and with a quick movement rushed over him, offering him her breasts to kiss.

Their erotic mingling was wild. He was panting and sweating. She groaned and sighed louder and louder. The hiding place was ultimately not suitable for such flare-ups. If someone was standing on the edge of the churchyard above, he could hear their groans. Stephen put his tongue in her mouth and tried to prevent her from shouting. But Lena’s desires were raging. Nothing could stop her. Her movements were getting faster and faster, more and more violent. She was pushing him hard against the wall, kissing him wildly.

At the climax, Lena threw her head backwards and bit her lips to prevent shouting. Fifteen years of erotic repression united with the pleasure of that moment, and the explosive encounter raised her to heaven.

Lena stretched her arms and pushed Stephen against the wall with the force of a rampant horse. She felt him leaning backwards as if he wanted to escape her. In a split second, she opened her eyes, and she saw the wall behind her lover receding into an opening under the dense blackberry bush in the church’s direction. She barely had time to pull herself back when a large stone loosened under the bush, rolled and crushed down on the head of her hapless lover.

His blood spilled over onto the breasts and belly of the unfortunate Lena, who gave out a cry of horror and fainted instantly.

When she regained consciousness, she gazed in shock around. Oh God, what a horrendous turn of events! What an unspeakable tragedy! Doom struck at the most exquisite moment when she and her lover were experiencing ultimate pleasure. Was that the result of a curse? Of a witch’s spell?

She was still sitting on her partner’s lifeless body. She jumped to the side and felt her stomach stirring. A sour taste dominated her mouth. With a tremendous effort, she kept hold of herself and bit her lips to avoid crying. Stephen was dead and his body, from the waist up, was covered with stones and soil that plummeted down from the tiny slope above.

Lena realised she couldn’t ask anyone for help, not even her mother. No one should know how she got there and how Stephen died. None, least of all the police, of course.

She collected her underwear and wiped the blood from her breasts. Then she threw it into the opening behind her lover’s dead body. An idea came to her. The opening was quite large. With a little effort, she could push the lifeless body inside and bury it there for nobody to see. Under the church, there was another space. The rumours were true then. This place was hiding many secrets.

Lena worked methodically for some time and hid all the evidence in the big hole. When she had cleared everything, she stretched her ear and listened carefully to make sure that nobody was present in the courtyard above. With a quick movement, she pulled on some stones hanging above the opening and caused the collapse of a part of the stony slope. She needed little effort. Without the support of the old wall, the small slope would collapse on its own, eventually.

The opening closed for good. No one could imagine that the corpse of a man lay buried there.

Stephen disappeared, and so did the erotic fantasies of Lena, who was not the same woman when she left the place. She put on her clothes and slipped under the trees to the small spring. She washed quickly and returned to the place where her mother was waiting for her. Less than an hour passed since she had left.

The inquiry of the police concerning Stephen’s mysterious disappearance yielded no clues about what might have happened to him. As if the earth had opened and swallowed him. Most people assumed he had left Cyprus in secret to avoid the consequences of his erotic escapades. His frequent love affairs did not escape their attention. For a married man, this behaviour was unorthodox and dangerous. They easily concluded his life was threatened by someone whose honour was at stake and he disappeared to save himself.

After a year, the file was closed, and the case was forgotten. Lena fell into a deep and persistent depression that made her life miserable. Her erotic dreams disappeared and her desire to enjoy life was gone once and for all. Eventually, her sister found a good man from the city and arranged a marriage for her with the help of her husband. Her father sold some of his estates and gave her cash as a dowry. She left the village and never went back again. The secret of the underground space below the chapel of the Virgin Mary of Syrka was thus buried for many decades to come.

PART TWO

Cyprus, June 1306 AD, in an unknown and secret place

When he heard his mysterious guide dragging a heavy stone plaque behind him, closing the hatch through which he had lowered him underground a few minutes ago, the Knight Templar Philippe de Manon suddenly felt cut off from the outside world. Now he could only move forward, into the darkness and the unknown.

He knew nothing of substance about what awaited him at the end of this road. In the beginning, he believed it would be a simple process. He would take part in a secret ritual to be promoted to the highest rank of the Order of the Temple. This would enable him to expand his knowledge, to delve deeper into the teachings of the Man-God Jesus, and to gaze even closer at the mystery of his crucifixion and resurrection.

But why so much secrecy and so many precautions? Why did they tie his eyes as soon as they came out of the Limassol fortress so that he would not see where they were taking him? Why did they throw him into this secret and claustrophobic dungeon as