Chapter 3: Tracking the Wilderness
Morning light had barely touched the clock tower of Ioannina when Kostas slipped into the stream of pilgrims. The church bells shook the flagstones beneath his feet. Through his clothes, he felt the cold edge of the lead plate pressing against his ribs. He avoided the main entrance of the station, cutting instead into a damp, narrow alley and winding through three streets before climbing aboard an old bus heading for the Pindus mountains on the outskirts of town. The cabin was packed with market-bound farmwives and a few headscarved pilgrims. Kostas shrank into the last row, his bundle pressed against his knees.
The bus lurched out of the city, climbing a winding mountain road with a deep gorge on one side and bare rock walls on the other. The engine coughed dryly, the vehicle tilted, and it stalled on the slope. The driver cursed, climbed out, and flung open the hood—a plume of white smoke billowed up. Passengers grumbled and filed off, squatting by the roadside to smoke. Dimitri Dimas circled around from the rear of the bus, spotted Kostas, and crooked a smile. “Scribe—you’re sneaking off to Jerusalem to steal lessons behind the Church’s back?”
Kostas ignored him, his gaze fixed on the mountain pass at the end of the road. Dimitri stepped closer. “Ioannina’s bells are still tolling for you, and here you are, running. I hear your uncle has staked the whole family’s honor on you.” Kostas looked up. “You trailed me for three days just to say that?” Dimitri scoffed. “I’m after the lead plate, not you. You’re a scribe—what do you know about the truth?” Before he could finish, a black SUV rounded the bend and pulled up beside the crowd. The door opened, and Cassandra Iliadis stepped out, holding up her skirt. Her gaze swept over Kostas, and she gave a slight nod. “Kostas. Your uncle sent word.”
“He sent you to watch me.” Kostas’s voice was flat. Cassandra paused, then brushed a windblown strand of hair from her face. “Your uncle says centuries of family standing shouldn’t be ruined by a scrap of paper.” Kostas turned and started up the slope. “It’s not a scrap. It’s a buried era.” Cassandra called after him. “You don’t even know how many men Nikos has sent, and you’re charging into the mountains?” Kostas didn’t look back. “I know which side you stand on.” That’s enough.
The crowd dispersed, each person seeking shade. A thin, tall pilgrim carrying a waterskin had drifted over to Kostas’s bundle and was bending over it, rifling through. Kostas walked over. The man straightened, offering a dry smile. “Brother, lend a hand—the bus won’t be fixed anytime soon.”
Kostas stepped back half a pace. “Your hand touched my things.” The pilgrim narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. “I hear you’re carrying something remarkable. Hand it over, and I’ll see you live across this mountain.” Kostas tightened his grip on the bundle strap, his gaze shifting past the man’s shoulder to a patch of reddish-brown sand on the far slope. “It’s not on me.” The pilgrim sneered. “Nikos wants your life, not the thing. Hand it over, and I’ll leave you breathing.” As he spoke, the hilt of a dagger peeked from his waist. The other passengers were busy watching the driver tend to the bus; no one noticed. Kostas spun and ran, kicking up the loose stone slope, plunging into the brush along a narrow goat path. The pilgrim cursed and gave chase.
The trail was steep, the scree treacherous. Kostas ran breathless but knew the way, skirting two cliffs before stopping at the mouth of a narrow gorge. From his bundle he pulled a spare length of coarse rope and strung a slack tripwire between two rock pillars at knee height, covering it with dry grass. He didn’t pause, running another dozen paces to crouch at the edge of the reddish-brown sand. Its surface was smooth, darker than the surrounding soil, with faint swirls at the margins. The pilgrim reached the gorge mouth, caught his foot on the tripwire, and pitched headlong into the sand. The surface gave way instantly, the quicksand gaping like a mouth and swallowing his shins. He struggled to pull free—the more he fought, the deeper he sank—until only half his torso remained above, his dagger lying at the edge. Kostas walked over, picked up the dagger, and flung it far away. “Nikos sent you here without telling you this mountain has quicksand.” The pilgrim’s face flushed crimson as he howled abuse. Kostas didn’t look back, heading north along the ridge as the sun sank and stretched his shadow long.
At nightfall, Kostas stopped in a sheltered rock cleft, gnawing half a dry flatbread. He drew the lead plate from his bundle and held it up to the waning moon. The inscription was badly worn, but one line he knew by heart: “They altered the records so that later generations would never see the truth.” He gripped the plate tight, thinking of his uncle’s words, Nikos’s warning, and the evasive flicker in Cassandra’s eyes. There was no turning back—turning back meant surrendering everything, keeping the family’s honor intact, and letting the truth sink forever. He rewrapped the plate, leaned against the rock wall, and closed his eyes. The mountain wind before dawn cut to the bone. Half asleep, he heard footsteps.
Dimitri climbed up the slope, gasping, an old canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He stood at the mouth of the cleft, looking in. “You’re luckier than I thought—quicksand does your dirty work.” Kostas didn’t move. “Why are you following me?” Dimitri set the canvas bag on the ground. “I can’t cross this mountain alone. You have the plate and the direction. I have a grounding in ancient scripts—I can help you read the worn parts on the way.” Kostas was silent for a while. “You’re not afraid of Nikos?” Dimitri grunted. “I’m afraid of him. But I’m more afraid of spending my life as nothing but a copyist.”
At daybreak, the two packed up and headed north along the valley. They had just crossed a ridge when Cassandra caught up, breathless, hair loose, skirt hem caked with mud. She blocked the path. "Don't go any further. Nikos has sealed the road to Larissa and posted men along the way. He's waiting for you to walk right into his trap." Kostas looked at her. "You chased me all night, just to tell me that?" Cassandra bit her lip. "I don't want to watch you die in these mountains." Kostas stepped around her and kept walking. "Then come along. See whether I die or not." Cassandra stood there a moment, then hurried after him.
The three picked their way along an abandoned shepherds' track. Around noon, two figures suddenly appeared in a hollow ahead, wearing the same gray robes as the pilgrim. Dimitri shouted a low "get down," shoved Kostas into a ditch, grabbed a rock, and hurled it at the hillside. The stone clattered down, kicking up dust, and the two gray-robed men turned to look. Kostas crawled along the bottom of the ditch, bypassed the hollow, and slipped into a thicket of low trees. Behind him came Dimitri's shouts and footsteps. When Kostas emerged from the far side of the thicket, Dimitri stood under a pine, face streaked with blood, grinning at him. "Run. What are you standing there for?"
That evening, the three reached a small town called Karditsa. At the entrance, in front of the old post office, Kostas found a slip of paper nailed to a board, its corners flapping in the wind. He pulled it off. On it, in Nikos's neat hand, was written: "Hand over the lead plate and all will be forgiven. Take one more step, and the next crossroads will be your end. Think of your uncle. Think of the name Karayannis." Cassandra and Dimitri gathered around, staring at the paper. Kostas squeezed it in his fist, knuckles white. He tore it into shreds, piece by piece, and the wind swept the scraps away toward the vast dim shapes of the mountains beyond the town. He turned and set off along the road north to Larissa. Cassandra watched his back and murmured to Dimitri, "He's not going to turn back." Dimitri said nothing, only tightened the canvas pack on his shoulder and followed. Kostas led the way, the lead plate against his chest, gripping it as he walked slowly north, toward where he had to go.
Dusk deepened. The three walked along the dirt road north of town for about half an hour. Dry olive groves lined both sides; the wind sighed low and hoarse through the branches. Kost