An ascending mule path went past an outdoor restaurant, souvenir shop, and several freelance vendors peddling their wares. After a hike of a few minutes, Austin and Carina had an unimpeded view of the village.

Hundreds of roofless houses baked under the hot sun. Plaster had peeled off the outside of the silent structures to expose their rough stucco walls. A few houses had been taken over by squatters who had spread their laundry out to dry. The only other sign of life was a satanic-faced goat that munched contentedly on a weed-choked garden.

“It’s hard to believe that this place was once full of life,” Carina said. “People making love. Women crying out in labor. Fathers bragging about their newborns. Children celebrating birthdays and baptisms. Mourning the passing of old ones.”

Austin was only half listening to Carina rhapsodize. Two men had stopped on the trail about a hundred feet behind them. One was taking photos of the goat. They were in their twenties, Austin estimated, both dressed in black pants and short-sleeved white shirts. Their arms were thick and muscular. Their faces were shaded by the brims of their caps and sunglasses.

Carina had continued along the mule path. When Austin caught up with her, she was strolling across the courtyard of an abandoned church toward an old man perched on a wall under a shade tree. Decorated bowls and plates were lined up on the wall, which he was using to showcase his wares.

Austin greeted the man and asked if he were Mehmet’s friend, Salim.

The man smiled. “Mehmet buys my work for the covered bazaar.”

“Yes, we know. He told us where to find you,” Carina said.

Salim had the Pablo Picasso look that comes to Mediterranean men of a certain age. The skin on his cheeks and bald head was tanned the color of tanbark and his face was as unlined as a baby’s. Good humor and wisdom lurked in big eyes that were as dark as raisins. He gestured toward his wares.

“Mehmet tells you of my souvenirs?” he said.

Austin pulled the Navigator figurine from his pocket. “We were looking for something like this.”

“Ah,” Salim said, his face lighting up. “The eunuch.” He made a horizontal cutting motion with an invisible knife. “I stop making them. No one buys.”

Austin carefully considered the next question. “Does the eunuch have a grandfather?”

Salim gave him a puzzled look and then flashed a big-toothed grin. He drew his arms in wide arcs as if they were describing a large circle. “Büyük. Big eunuch.”

“That’s right. Büyük. Where?”

“In Lycée tomb. You understand?”

Austin had noticed the strange Lycian tombs carved high up on the faces of plunging cliffs. The entrances were framed by ornate columns and triangular lintels like classic Greek or Roman temples.