His gaze followed the green jasper columns down the central aisle towards the white marble steps and gilded iconostasis at the eastern end of the church. Above him, the sun was beginning to break through the highest windows, glinting off the silver mortar in the mosaics adorning the walls. He saw images of the Mother of God, of miracles from the life of Christ. The feeding of the five thousand. Lazarus raised from the dead. Aye, he needed a miracle himself, though he doubted his will was in alignment with that of the Christians’ god.

Two huge candles flickered either side of the double doors in the iconostasis. The doors to heaven. Well, heaven can wait, he thought with scorn. I’m seeking a different door.

His eyes shifted to the metal gate in the corner of the nave. He guessed it led to the crypt. If anything was to be found, surely it would be down there.

‘Can I help you?’ said a voice beside him. He turned and saw it belonged to a young monk smiling at him. Some pious fool. The youth’s tonsure was as fresh as his complexion. Just as well.

‘I am here for my mother.’ Katāros launched into a hastily conceived tale that his mother was buried in the crypt and he was here to fulfil a vow to pray for her soul at the beginning of each new year. The little cleric ate it up, nodding away earnestly, and before long he was holding the gate open and handing Katāros an oil lamp to light his way.

‘I’ll see that no one disturbs your prayers,’ he said softly.

‘God bless you, Brother.’ As Katāros descended into darkness, he couldn’t contain a snigger. At length he reached the crypt. In the puddle of wan light he noticed an unlit torch on the wall.

He lit it and walked on, grit crunching underfoot, the torch flame illumining the vaulted archways looping away into shadow. In each alcove he saw rows of shelving and each shelf was stacked with skulls. Hundreds of them, so that with the shadows dancing amongst them, he was struck with the notion that he was in the grisly hoard of some foul beast, not the resting place for saints in a holy church.

The gloom weighed heavy beyond his torchlight. Yet he was no stranger to darkness; his childhood had been full of it. Even so, with the close air, he felt the shadows pressing in. He scolded himself for a coward as he used to do as a child. He would finish this. There was some secret here.