City of Ghosts by Ben Creed (most important books of all time txt) 📕

converted some of those wise minds to the one true path and Maxentius had them all put to death on the spot. Then, finally, unable to convert her to his own way of thinking, he had Catherine broken on the wheel.’

The archimandrite’s grey pupils appeared unnaturally large in the candlelight.

‘When earthly power is denied, when it is not allowed complete conquest, it shows no mercy.’

‘Is that the moral of your tale?’ said Rossel. ‘I expected something a little more uplifting.’

‘I simply make an observation, Lieutenant.’

‘About our great and noble Soviet Union?’

‘About human nature.’

The monk picked up his knife again and began to whittle at the stick once again.

‘You were asking about Father Tikhon,’ he said. ‘Yes, I remember him. We all do. As you say, he had many tattoos about his person – from time spent in the camps, we all assumed, where all manner of vice and depravity is practised – but I cannot be certain if they were exactly the same as the ones on the picture you showed me. What I can say, with some accuracy, is that he was a troubled man.’

‘With drink, with women?’

The archimandrite shrugged.

‘With everything, I think. Eventually, I expect, he gave way to all the vices. I sensed a darkness within him – a secret of some sort – but even within the binding sacrament of confession, he refused to share it with me.’

‘Apart from the missing person’s report that brought me here, I could find no other file for a priest named Tikhon,’ said Rossel. ‘My assumption is that it is not his real name.’

‘It is the one he gave when he arrived here at the monastery.’

‘And you did not think to check it?’

‘God is not interested in names, only souls.’

‘How long did he stay here with you?’

‘About three years in all. Initially, he was very much a perfect novice. Always first to appear for prayer. Always obviously fervent in his devotions. But then, after a while, the incidents began.’

‘Incidents?’

The archimandrite closed his eyes for a moment. In the flickering light and relentless cold Rossel could see the old man’s breath forming streams of vapour from his nose. Pimen opened his eyes again and looked straight at Rossel.

‘It became obvious that he no longer took communion.’

‘Obvious, how?’

Pimen picked up his carving knife. Two sharp stabs of the little knife cut ridges deep into the table.

‘Our day is well described by a line from Psalm 119: “Seven times a day do I praise Thee because of Thy righteous judgments.” Tikhon began to pray incessantly, even when alone. He was constantly muttering the Troparia and prayers for intercession by Angelic Hosts. And one night one of our novices heard him muttering something else. An unholy prayer.’

‘And what did this prayer say?’

The priest rose and bent towards a tiny desk next to the wall. He reached into the drawer in his desk and took out a file.

‘We kept his records,’ said Pimon.

‘You keep records of your monks? I thought they were supposed to leave their old lives behind and start anew,’ said Rossel. ‘I thought God was not interested in names.’

‘God is not interested in names but the Kremlin is very interested in paperwork, and everyone who starts a new life here starts a new file. Especially if they encounter disciplinary issues. When they told me a militsioner was coming, I had them dig this out. There is little information in it – we do, indeed, start the file from scratch, but we see no need to be too assiduous. But there is one piece of paper you should see.’

He pushed the file across the bench towards Rossel, who picked it up. Opening it, he saw there were only two pieces of paper, both small. A barebones personal history listed the exact date of Father Tikhon’s arrival and the exact date of his departure from the monastery.

The other piece of paper was yellowing and slightly crumpled, with scrawling and erratic writing on it – small dots of black ink dripped between the words.

My appetite was sin, and of that sin I made a feast.

And through that feast I came to know you.

You are the Master of the Shadows

And now, for all eternity, I must sit at the foot of your bountiful table.

Rossel picked it up and placed it on the bench top. The old monk stared at it.

‘We searched his cell and found a large number of pieces of the communion bread. They were black with mould. He had been taking the host into his mouth but then refusing to swallow it. Secreting them into a handkerchief and hiding them in his room. A terrible sin. That prayer was exactly what the novice had heard him chanting in the Greek. I had this piece of paper he had written it down on confiscated but it made no difference. He became relentless in his incantations. Other strange rhymes, too. In the end I had to consult Patriarch Nikon in Moscow and he recommended expulsion from the monastery.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘Why, blasphemy, of course. The Master of the Shadows is not a name that would sit lightly on the shoulders of any member of the church. Amongst the novices, gossip is commonplace and it had already become a testament of faith with them that Father Tikhon was making obsessive pleas to some kind of devil of his own invention.’

The monk stopped whittling and turned the little wooden piece face up on the table. It wasn’t a bird at all. It was a winged angel holding a tiny harp. The archimandrite tapped a curling, yellow fingernail on the harp.

‘My sense is that it was his love of our chanting that brought Father Tikhon to us and held him here. Music was the only thing I saw that made him smile. And yet weep, too – sometimes when I observed him during vespers, I saw tears rolling down his face as he mouthed the words of the plainchant. He had an all-consuming passion for religious music.’

‘You have