The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) by William Dietrich Read Free Book Online

way.”
    On one side of the rectangular church, sheltered by an alcove, was a picture of Virgin and Child in the flat Byzantine style. In this portrait Jesus was more childlike than the midget man often depicted by Orthodox artists. The baby clutched its mother, cheeks pressed. Mary’s face was a serene oval, her pursed mouth much like Elizabeth’s, her elegantly long nose ruler-straight, and her eyes deep and farseeing. She looked from this world to the next.
    “One of my favorite icons,” Elizabeth said. “The word comes from the Greek
eikon,
meaning ‘likeness,’ and indeed the common Russian regards the tsar as the living icon of God and the Orthodox Church as the icon of heaven.” Her voice betrayed a German wife’s skepticism. “I show you this to help you understand where you are, priestess. The style of the Russian icon, inspired by Constantinople, is not realism but dematerialization, a window from the physical world into the divine. It’s very different from paintings I grew up with on the Rhine, and at first I didn’t understand its appeal. But Russia always has one boot in this world and one boot in the next, which makes its soldiers obstinately brave. Russian misery makes Russians pious; the saying is that the less successful God is for you, the more you have to pray to Him. The Orthodox candles are like the flames that came down on the apostles. An icon can have supernatural power.”
    “They’re building a cathedral to the Icon of Kazan near our apartment.”
    “Yes. A dream led a young girl to that holy painting and it won a war. Russia isn’t about the brain, like Germany, or the heart, like France. It’s about the soul. Symbols have power here. Faith and superstition are more potent than reason. I’m telling you this because of the other thing I brought you to see.”
    “I’m mystical too. My husband looks to the future, I to the past. We balance.”
    “I hope your husband’s interests can be applied to the peculiar problem that Minister Czartoryski and I have. Let me show you why we’ve come.” She led me behind the cathedral to a plain brick building with a peculiar roof. The top was a line of squat, sturdy domes, presumably built to resist cannonballs. All were covered with snow. The building’s windows had been bricked up so that the entire structure looked like a squat loaf of lumpy bread. Two bundled soldiers miserably filled sentry boxes that flanked the stout door. Two cannon also stood guard, snow frosting each bronze barrel.
    “The Royal Treasury,” Catherine told me. “A vault surrounded by a fortress with a thousand men.”
    “It certainly looks impregnable.”
    “My husband never visits, but I do. As a woman I pretend to be enchanted with the Treasury’s jewelry. What really draw me are the stories the objects tell. History is a record of unchecked passion and desire. So I’m no stranger here, but today you must help discourage obnoxious escort. Come.”
    Our approach from the side startled the nearest sentry.
    “Colonel Karlinsky,” Elizabeth demanded in the crisp royal voice of habitual command.
    “Tsarina!” Eyes like saucers, he bolted to announce us. The second sentry fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to the snow, an act of obeisance that of course made him useless. The first soldier pounded on the thick door, the second trembled as if we might cast him into stone, and the tsarina waited like an impatient Madonna.
    Most Russian soldiers, I knew, could neither read nor write.
    Karlinsky popped out in seconds to usher us inside, no doubt having been warned to wait in the anteroom until our stroll came his way. He apologized profusely for the moment of delay. “No footmen, your highness?”
    “A quiet visit. No fuss.”
    “We’re once again honored by your presence.” He looked puzzled by me. “I’m afraid you’ve taken us by surprise.”
    “I’m here to get advice from my new companion. This is Astiza of Alexandria, a priestess and savant