‘And then Humphrey brought them here?’
‘Yes, he did. But you’re jumping ahead,’ said the abbot. ‘There is one more thing that you need to know. Emperor Constantine died without an heir and the succession passed to his brother, Thomas. He had a son called Andreas, who in turn became the lawful heir to the Byzantine throne. The family no longer lived in Constantinople, of course. The entire clan had fled when the city fell to the Turks. Some took refuge in the Morea, where they were welcomed by the local nobility. Others went much further afield – to Florence, Sweden, Bavaria and Russia.
‘The eldest sons were courted by all the greatest crowned heads of Europe, since they were the legitimate and lawful heirs to the Byzantine throne. Even daughters, cousins and nephews found a welcoming hand throughout Europe, such was the fame of the Palaiologue name. For the three generations that followed Andreas, children and grandchildren produced sons to perpetuate the lineage. But when it came to Ioannes, Andrew’s great, great-grandson, well, there was a problem. For Ioannes only had daughters, of whom the firstborn was given the name of Zoe.’
‘Zoe,’ repeated Edward, whose brain was now racing to keep up. ‘I think I know where this is leading.’
‘You should do,’ continued the abbot, ‘for this is where you enter the story. By the time Zoe was born, the Palaiologue family was scattered across Europe. The principal line had settled in France, but Zoe’s father had crossed over to England, where he hoped to find sanctuary at the court of King Charles I. But the English king was far too preoccupied with his own troubles to help Ioannes Palaiologos. The poor Ioannes, in ill health and beset with financial difficulties, went first to Bognor and then to the west country. And it was here that Zoe, hereditary heir to the Byzantine throne, met and married—’
‘Alexander Trencom,’ interjected Edward, with a note of triumph.
‘Precisely,’ replied the abbot. ‘And when they produced a son, whom they called Humphrey, he became the legitimate heir and sole claimant to the Byzantine throne. You see, Emperor Constantine XI Palaiologos had signed an imperial decree to this effect. “Blessed by God and sanctified by the Church, they shall remain rulers of the empire until the end of time.” The document was brought to our monastery by your father. We have it to this day – I’ll show it to you later. This, indeed, was the document that Mr Makarezos was hoping to find in the cellars of your shop.’
Edward asked the abbot to pause for a second as he took stock of everything he’d been told. ‘Then that means,’ he said slowly, ‘that I, too, am …’
‘Yes,’ said the abbot. ‘As was your father. And your grandfather. All of them were linear descendants of the last Byzantine emperor.’
Edward pursed his lips and let out a low murmur. ‘Is that why Humphrey went to Constantinople?’
‘It was indeed. Humphrey was convinced that he had been given a sign. His mother, Zoe, had told him as much. It was a family tradition – nothing more. But Humphrey thought that the destruction of his shop really was a sign from God – a sign that he should travel to Constantinople to reclaim his throne.
‘When he arrived in the city, he found that the monks were anxious to support him. Oh yes, the Church was desperate to restore him to the throne. But the time was not right, for the sultan was far too powerful. Although there were thousands of Greeks still living in the city – it was their home – there was no support for a general uprising.’
‘But why did he bring the bones to Mount Athos?’ asked Edward. ‘Surely they could have stayed in Constantinople?’
‘No,’ said Father Seraphim. ‘You see, the sultan fully understood the power of relics. And he also understood the power of folklore. He suspected that Constantine’s bones were hidden in the city and he ordered that they be found. I think he knew that if he could prove that the emperor had died, then he could demolish the myth that Constantinople would one day be returned to the Greeks. In the summer of 1667, shortly after Humphrey arrived in the city, the sultan’s officers came within a whisker of finding the bones. And this was why the patriarch entrusted Humphrey with bringing them to the safety of Mount Athos. He could be sure that no one would ever find them here.’
Edward let out another low murmur. He was staggered by what the abbot had just told him and could not quite take in the fact that his own family were descendants of the Emperor Constantine. Never for one moment had he imagined that his story would have such a fabulous ending.
‘So whatever happened to Humphrey?’ he asked. ‘What happened to his body?’
‘Come,’ said the abbot. ‘Follow me.’
He led Edward into what appeared to be a much larger room that adjoined the little crypt. It was completely dark inside and the abbot reached into his cassock for a box of matches. He struck a match and held it to the wick of a candle, waiting for the flame to latch hold. No sooner had a low light spread across the room that Edward found himself gasping at the sight that greeted his eyes.
‘Oh, God!’ he said, leaning against the wall for support. His legs felt weak and his head was spinning. ‘My God. Tell me it’s true – tell me I’m awake.’
‘You are awake – and it is true,’ said the abbot. ‘I’ve waited much of my life to show you this.’
Laid out in front of the two men were nine open tombs, and each one contained a perfect human skeleton.
‘It’s my family,’ gasped Edward. ‘My ancestors.’
He peered into each of the tombs before switching his gaze back to Father Seraphim.
‘Humphrey, Alexander and Samuel,’ said the abbot, pointing at the first three skeletons. ‘Joshua, Charles and Henry. Emmanuel, George and – yes – these are the bones of your own father, Peregrine, who died on this very mountain.’
‘And they all lost their lives …’ began Edward.
‘… in the cause of Greece. Yes, all of them hoped – desired – to re-establish themselves as leader of the Greek people, of our heroic nation.’
Father Seraphim walked over to the tomb that contained the bones of Charles Trencom. ‘It was Charles who came closest to realizing this dream,’ he said. ‘If Lord Byron had been successful, and if Charles had not been murdered, then he might have been established on the throne of Greece.’
‘And Henry?’
‘A brave man – brave indeed. He tried to assassinate the sultan. But, alas, he was killed in the process.’
‘And George?’
‘Ah, yes, your grandfather. He also came close to receiving his crown. If it had not been for Ataturk, that scoundrel, George might even have been crowned in Constantinople. But it was not to be.’
Edward wandered between the sarcophagi, trying to comprehend everything that he had just been told. All his life he had wondered what had happened to his father. Now, he found himself standing in front of his skeleton.
‘But how on earth did they come to be here?’ he asked. ‘How did you get them all?’
‘It was not easy,’ admitted the abbot. ‘And it required a great deal of effort. But we had to get them. These bones are holy relics. The Trencom family is one and the same as the Palaiologos family and sacred to all who call themselves Greeks.’
Edward sat down on the edge of one of the stone sarcophogi. Of all the extraordinary things that had happened to him over the previous weeks, nothing, but nothing, could compare with this. Papadrianos had assured him that he would be given answers and now – little by little – everything was indeed falling into place. He now knew why Humphrey’s body was disinterred from Piddletrenthide cemetery. It was so that his mortal remains could be brought here, to Greece, to their final resting place.
After reflecting on what he had been told, Edward turned to Father Seraphim with a question that remained unanswered in his head.
‘But in what way,’ he asked, ‘is our nose connected to all this? Has its shape really been passed down through the ages?’
Father Seraphim had been awaiting this very question and reached deep into the pocket of his cassock.
After fumbling for a few seconds, he pulled out a small copper coin depicting the profile portrait of an emperor.
‘It can’t be,’ gasped Edward as he studied the emperor’s strange-shaped nose. ‘It’s really him? I’ve spent years looking for a coin bearing his portrait.’
‘Well, here he is,’ said the abbot. ‘The Emperor Constantine XI Palaiologos. Your ancestor. Take it – it’s for you.’
‘For me? But – it’s so rare. Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ replied the abbot. ‘One could even argue that you are its rightful owner.’
Edward shook his head in bewilderment as he once again admired the profile of the emperor. His nose was remarkably similar to Edward’s own – long, thin and aquiline and marked by a prominent bump over the bridge.
‘And the nose has been passed down from generation to generation?’ he said. ‘For more than seven hundred years? Down through the family?’
‘Yes,’ said the abbot. ‘It must have been. Indeed, the Emperor Constantine was by no means the first to have your nose. You only have to look at the portraits of the first Palaiologos emperor, Michael, to see that he also had an extraordinary nose.’
‘But it’s not just the shape,’ interjected Edward, who had switched his gaze back to the skeletons of his ancestors. ‘That’s only a part of it. It’s the strange ability of our nose to detect the merest hint of a smell – its astonishing power. That is something that I don’t understand at all.’
‘Well, that power has also been in the family since the beginning of time,’ said the abbot. ‘The Emperor Michael VIII Palaiologos records how he could smell victory in the air on the morning that he recovered Constantinople from the crusaders. He describes the “incense of thanksgiving” floating on the breeze.
‘And the nose has given many signals of impending doom. Consider the Emperor Manuel II Palaiologos. He lost all sense of smell shortly before being imprisoned in the Tower of Anemas. And Constantine’s nose failed him just hours before the siege of Constantinople. It was as if it were presaging his coming defeat.’
Edward instinctively lifted his hand to his nose and rubbed his forefinger up and down the ridge.
‘And you, Edward, have also inherited this extraordinary sixth sense. Many say that you have the most powerful nose in generations.’
Father Seraphim fell silent for a moment and once again made the sign of the cross. ‘You asked me why you have this ability. And you asked me how. My personal view is that memory, the treasure-house of the human mind, can store the experience of smell. I believe that different odours, sensations, are passed from father to son. Just think – you can smell a crocus in spring and recall it months later, in the depths of winter. You can smell a goat’s cheese in Greece and remember it when you’re back in England. In that same way, but on a far grander scale, the power of smell can be transmitted across the generations.
‘But I fear that you ask too many questions. It is the vice of the West. There are many things – wonderful things – that cannot be explained. They will never be explained, for they are in the hands of God. There are depths that cannot be fathomed – that will never be fathomed. You see, Edward, science can make no sense of mystery.’
It was as the abbot said these concluding words that Edward felt a tingling chill surge upwards through his body, from his feet to his scalp and thence to the tip of his nose. He felt giddy, light-headed, and felt himself reeling with fear. It was all proving too much to take in.
‘And why am I here?’ he said at length. ‘What do you want of me?’
There was a long silence before the abbot turned to look him in the eye. But just as he did so, he found himself receiving the greatest shock of his life. He caught sight of a woman descending the last few steps of the staircase that led into the crypt. And although he had never set eyes on her before, he had no doubts as to her identity.
‘What in the name of God! How did you—?’
‘Elizabeth Trencom,’ said the dimly lit figure as she held out her hand. ‘And I’ve come to reclaim my husband.’
‘But how in the devil’s name did you get here?’ roared the abbot, who seemed suddenly infused with energy. ‘Don’t you know that women are banned from Mount Athos? It is sacred ground. It is blessed.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Trencom in her most businesslike voice. ‘I know all that. And I will make my apologies later. But let’s move swiftly to the matter in hand, before it’s too late. I believe that you were about to say something to my husband. He wanted to know why he’s been brought here. Why you need him so much. But before you explain, allow me to say one thing.’
Elizabeth smiled nervously as she collected her thoughts. She could scarcely believe that she was standing here in the monastery of Vatopedi, in front of her bemused and confused husband.
‘As you know,’ she said, ‘Edward has the finest nose in generations of Trencoms. He also has the finest cheese shop in the whole of Britain. For months he has been pursuing some unknown goal – some ridiculous goal. He has been watched and followed. We have both been spied on. Our shop has suffered a terrible catastrophe. Our lives have been in danger. Now, it all has to end. Enough is enough. I will not allow you to ruin our marriage. I will not allow you to destroy Trencoms. Edward’s nose is needed in London.’
Elizabeth was so animated and angry that two red blotches had appeared on her cheeks. She was about to continue when she found herself interrupted by the abbot.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I command you to stop. His nose is needed here.’
‘Well, in that case,’ said Elizabeth angrily, ‘let his nose be the judge. Let us put it to the test. And let us trust its judgement. But first, please, put him out of his misery. Tell him what you want of him.’
Father Seraphim weighed up what Mrs Trencom had said and realized that he had little option but to continue. She clearly had no intention of leaving the crypt; besides, the abbot now knew that he could no longer pressurize Edward into staying. His nose – and his nose alone – would indeed have to make the choice.
‘Edward Palaiologos,’ he began, pointedly turning his back on Elizabeth. ‘Our country is in crisis. We have come to a turning point. The king, our Danish king, has fled. He has abdicated. He will never return. Forces of evil are ruling this land – the junta are destroying our country. But good is at long last fighting back. There are riots in Athens. There is a general strike. The students are rebelling in the streets. And the Church, too, has spoken out against the junta. Now, with all our force, power and prayers, we shall resist this band of common criminals.’
‘And me?’ whimpered Edward. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘You, Edward, shall be our figurehead – our rallying cry. You are the only rightful and legitimate heir to the Greek throne. You have the blood of Greece coursing through your bones. You are the chosen one – the one who shall lead us to victory. We anticipate a long struggle. We shall have to fight the colonels who are ruining our sacred land and then we shall take our fight to the very gates of the holy city. There will be much slaughter and death, but victory, Edward, will ultimately be yours. Yes, yes – victory will be yours.’
Edward looked at the abbot with an empty feeling of terror. His nose began to twitch violently, as if it was reacting to every word that the abbot spoke. His nostrils seemed to be expanding, reaching outwards as they grasped the full meaning of Father Seraphim’s words. Edward could no longer smell the incense of the church, nor the candles, nor the oil lamps. Now, his nose was picking up the stench of the battles to come: gangrene and cordite and foetid corpses. He could smell guts and vomit, caustic smoke and putrid flesh. For hundreds of years, the Trencoms had been blessed with the most extraordinary sense of smell. For generation upon generation, they had sniffed at life and death and stored the odours of mortality in the inner recesses of their minds. Now, in their time of direst need, the inherited memory of these smells returned to fill the sensitive nostrils of Edward Trencom. He felt sick in his stomach an
d the room spun before his eyes. His nose had transported him to the battlefield, where the forces of royalty were butchering the forces of the junta. And he found the smell of conflict as repugnant as a glass of milk that has curdled and soured.
Was this really his mission in life? Was this why he had been blessed with such an extraordinary nose? The stench grew stronger and more pungent – a relentless wave of terrible, freakish odours. But just as Edward felt that he was about to swoon, a very different scent began to permeate his nostrils; one that was sweeter and more fragrant than any he had smelled for a long time. A procession of cheeses seemed to be marching through his nose – a stately procession that grew in strength with every second that passed. At first they were as mild as the creamy chevrotin. Edward could detect the lemony tang of a Prussian tilsiterkase and the ambrosial fragrance of a rollot. These were followed by the muscadine septmoncel and the pigsty pong of a cabreiro. And then came the venerable generals of the cheese-board – the noble roquefort and the piquant epoisses! As Edward revelled in this inherited nosegay, he realized that all the scents were starting to mingle into one heady cocktail that infused its way into every pore of his receptive nostrils. It was as if he was standing under the slowly spinning fans of Trencoms.
‘What should I do?’ he murmured to himself in a low voice. ‘Of all my ancestors, I am surely the one who can be the saviour of Greece. My father, my grandfather, Emmanuel, Henry, Charles, Samuel and Alexander. All gave up their lives for this moment. What should I do, Elizabeth? What choice should I make?’
Elizabeth said nothing. She looked intently at her husband’s nose and could see that it was still twitching violently. His face had turned a deathly pale and a cold sweat was trickling down his forehead. Seeing that he was close to collapse, she realized that now was the moment to act. Without further ado, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a small Tupperware box.
‘What is it?’ whispered Edward. ‘What have you brought?’