They stepped inside the house. Sunlight poured through windows clouded with salt film. The interior was decorated with a mishmash of old and new–a combination of styles that seemed pleasant by merely being itself. He noticed the condition. Lots of repairs were needed. Cassiopeia searched the house.
Thorvaldsen sat on a dusty tweed-covered couch. “Everything in that museum last night was a copy. I removed the originals after I bought the place. None of it was particularly valuable, but I couldn't allow it to be destroyed.”
“You went to a lot of trouble,” Malone said.
Cassiopeia returned from her reconnoiter. “There's a lot at stake.”
Like he needed to hear that. “While we wait for someone to come and try to kill us–the individual you talked to on the phone three hours ago–could you at least explain why we gave them that much prep time?”
“I'm well aware of what I've done,” Thorvaldsen said.
“Why are these medallions so important?”
“Do you know much about Hephaestion?” Thorvaldsen asked.
He did. “He was Alexander's closest companion. Probably his lover. Died a few months before Alexander.”
“The molecular manuscript,” Cassiopeia said, “that was discovered in Samarkand actually fills in the historical record with some new information. We now know that Alexander was so guilt-ridden over Hephaestion's death that he ordered the execution of his personal physician, a man named Glaucias. Had him torn apart between two trees tied to the ground.”
“And what did the doctor do to deserve that?”
“He failed to save Hephaestion,” Thorvaldsen said. “Seems Alexander possessed a cure. Something that had, at least once before, arrested the same fever that killed Hephaestion. It's described in the manuscript simply as the draught. But there are also some interesting details.”
Cassiopeia removed a folded page from her pocket.
“Read it for yourself.”
So shameful of the king to execute poor Glaucias. The physician was not to blame. Hephaestion was told not to eat or drink, yet he did both. Had he refrained, the time needed to heal him may have been earned. True, Glaucias had none of the draught on hand, its container had been shattered days before by accident, but he was waiting for more to arrive from the east. Years earlier, during his pursuit of the Scythians, Alexander suffered a bad stomach. In return for a truce, the Scythians provided the draught, which they had long used for cures. Only Alexander, Hephaestion, and Glaucias knew, but Glaucias once administered the wondrous liquid to his assistant. The man's neck had swollen with lumps so bad he could hardly swallow, as if pebbles filled his throat, and fluid spewed forth with each exhale. Lesions had covered his body. No strength remained within any of his muscles. Each breath was a labor. Glaucias gave him the draught and, by the next day, the man recovered. Glaucias told his assistant that he'd used the cure on the king several times, once when he was near death, and always the king recovered. The assistant owed Glaucias his life, but there was nothing he could do to save him from Alexander's wrath. He watched from the Babylonian walls as the trees ripped his savior apart. When Alexander returned from the killing field he ordered the assistant to his presence and asked if he knew of the draught. Having seen Glaucias die so horribly, fear forced him to tell the truth. The king told him to speak of the liquid to no one. Ten days later Alexander lay on his deathbed, fever ravaging his body, his strength nearly gone, the same as Hephaestion. On the final day of his life, while his Companions and generals prayed for guidance, Alexander whispered that he wanted the remedy. The assistant mustered his courage and, remembering Glaucias, told Alexander no. A smile came to the king's lips. The assistant took pleasure in watching Alexander die, knowing that he could have saved him.
“The court historian,” Cassiopeia said, “a man who also lost someone he loved when Alexander ordered Callisthenes executed four years previous, recorded that account. Callisthenes was Aristotle's nephew. He served as court historian until spring 327 BCE. That's when he got caught up in an assassination plot. By then, Alexander's paranoia had amplified to dangerous levels. So he ordered Callisthenes' death. Aristotle was said never to have forgiven Alexander.”
Malone nodded. “Some say Aristotle sent the poison that supposedly killed Alexander.”
Thorvaldsen scoffed at the comment. “The king wasn't poisoned. That manuscript proves it. Alexander died of an infection. Probably malaria. He'd been trudging through swamps a few weeks prior. But it's hard to say for sure. And this drink, the draught, had cured him before and it cured the assistant.”
“Did you catch those symptoms?” Cassiopeia asked. “Fever, neck swelling, mucus, fatigue, lesions. That sounds viral. Yet this liquid totally cured the assistant.”
He was not impressed. “You can't place much credence in a two-thousand-plus-year-old manuscript. You have no idea if it's authentic.”
“It is,” Cassiopeia said.
He waited for her to explain.
“My friend was an expert. The technique he used to find the writing is state of the art and doesn't lend itself to forgeries. We're talking about reading words at a molecular level.”
“Cotton,” Thorvaldsen said. “Alexander knew there'd be a battle for his body. He's known to have said, in the days before he died, that his prominent friends would engage in vast funerary games once he was gone. A curious comment, but one we're beginning to understand.”
He'd caught something else and wanted to know from Cassiopeia, “You said your friend at the museum was an expert? Past tense?”
“He's dead.”
And now he knew the source of her pain. “You were close?”
Cassiopeia did not answer.
“You could have told me,” he said to her.
“No, I couldn't.”
Her words stung.
“Suffice it to say,” Thorvaldsen said, “that all this intrigue involves locating Alexander's body.”
“Good luck. It's not been seen in fifteen hundred years.”
“That's the catch,” Cassiopeia coldly replied. “We might know where it is, and the man coming here to kill us doesn't.”
FIFTEEN
SAMARKAND
12:20 P.M.
ZOVASTINA WATCHED THE STUDENTS' EAGER FACES AND ASKED the class,
“How many of you have read Homer?”
Only a few hands raised.
“I was at university, just like you, when I first read his epic.”
She'd come to the People's Center for Higher Learning for one of her many weekly appearances. She tried to schedule at least five. Opportunities for the press, and the people, to see and hear her. Once a poorly funded Russian institute, now the center was a respectable place of academic learning. She'd seen to that because the Greeks were right. An illiterate state leads to no state at all.
She read from the copy of the Iliad open before her.
“'The skin of the coward changes color all the time, he can't get a grip on himself, he can't sit still, he squats and rocks, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his heart racing, pounding inside the fellow's ribs, his teeth chattering. He dreads some grisly death. But the skin of a brave soldier never blanches. He's all control. Tense but no great fear.'”
The students seemed to enjoy her recitation.
“Homer's words from over twenty-eight hundred years ago. They still make perfect sense.”
Cameras and microphones pointed her way from the back of the classroom. Being here reminded her of twenty-eight years ago. Northern Kazakhstan. Another classroom. And her teacher.
“It's okay to cry,” Sergej said to her.
The words had moved her. More so than she'd thought possible. She stared at the Ukrainian, who possessed a unique appreciation for the world.
“You're but nineteen,” he said. “I remember when I first read Homer. It affected me, too.”
“Achilles is such a tortured soul.”
“We're all tortured souls, Irina.”
She like
d when he said her name. This man knew things she didn't. He understood things she'd yet to experience. She wanted to know those things. “I never knew my mother and father. I never knew any of my family.”
“They're not important.”
She was surprised. “How can you say that?”
He pointed to the book. “The lot of man is to suffer and die. What's gone is of no consequence.”
For years she'd wondered why she seemed doomed to a life of loneliness. Friends were few, relationships nonexistent, life for her an endless challenge of wanting and lacking. Like Achilles.
“Irina, you'll come to know the joy of the challenge. Life is one challenge after another. One battle after another. Always, like Achilles, in pursuit of excellence.”
“And what of failure?”
He shrugged. “The consequence of not succeeding. Remember what Homer said. Circumstances rule men, not men circumstances.”
She thought of another line from the poem. “What chilling blows we suffer–thanks to our own conflicting wills–whenever we show these mortal men some kindness.”
Her teacher nodded. “Never forget that.”
“Such a story,” she said to the class. “The Iliad. A war that raged for nine long years. Then, in its tenth, a quarrel led Achilles to stop fighting. A Greek hero, full of pride, a fighter whose humanity stemmed from great passion, invulnerable except for his heels.”
She saw smiles on some faces.
“Everyone has a weakness,” she said.
“What's yours, Minister?” one of the students asked.
She'd told them not to be bashful.
Questions were good.
“Why do you teach me these things?” she asked Sergej.
“To know your heritage is to understand it. Do you realize that you may well be a descendant of the Greeks?”
She gave him a perplexed look. “How is that possible?”
“Long ago, before Islam, when Alexander and the Greeks claimed this land, many of his men stayed after he returned home. They settled our valleys and took local women as wives. Some of our words, our music, our dance, were theirs.”
She'd never realized.
“My affection for the people of this Federation,” she said in answer to the question. “You're my weakness.”
The students clapped their approval.
She thought again of the Iliad. And its lessons. The glory of war. The triumph of military values over family life. Personal honor. Revenge. Bravery. The impermanence of human life. The skin of a brave soldier never blanches.
And had she blanched earlier, when she'd faced down the would-be assassin?
“You say politics interests you,” Sergej said. “Then never forget Homer. Our Russian masters know nothing of honor. Our Greek forebears, they knew everything about it. Don't ever be like the Russians, Irina. Homer was right. Failing your community is the greatest failure of all.”
“How many of you know of Alexander the Great?” she asked the students. A few hands were raised.
“Do you realize that some of you may be Greek?” She told them what Sergej told her so long ago about Greeks staying in Asia. “Alexander's legacy is a part of our history. Bravery, chivalry, endurance. He joined West and East for the first time. His legend spread to every corner of the world. He's in the Bible, the Koran. The Greek Orthodox made him a saint. The Jews consider him a folk hero. There's a version of him in Germanic, Icelandic, and Ethiopian sagas. Epics and poems have been written about him for centuries. His tale is a tale of us.”
She could easily understand why Alexander had been so taken with Homer. Why he lived the Iliad. Immortality was gained only through heroic actions. Men like Enrico Vincenti could not understand honor. Achilles was right. Wolves and lambs can enjoy no meeting of the minds. Vincenti was a lamb. She was a wolf.
And there'd be no meeting.
These encounters with students were beneficial on a multitude of levels, not the least of which was a reminder to her of what came before her. Twenty-three hundred years ago Alexander the Great marched thirty-two thousand kilometers and conquered the known world. He created a common language, encouraged religious tolerance, spurred racial diversity, founded seventy cities, established new trade routes, and ushered in a renaissance that lasted two hundred and fifty years. He aspired to arête. The Greek ideal of excellence. Her turn now to display the same thing.
She finished with the class and excused herself.
As she left the building, one of her guards handed her a piece of paper. She unfolded and read the message, an e-mail that had arrived thirty minutes ago, noting the cryptic return address and curt message – NEED YOU HERE BY SUNSET.
Irritating, but she had no choice.
“Have a helicopter readied,” she ordered.
SIXTEEN
V E N I C E
8:35 A.M.
TO VINCENTI, VENICE SEEMED A WORK OF ART. GOBS OF BYZANTINE splendor, Islamic reflections, and allusions to India and China. Half Eastern, half Western–one foot in Europe, the other in Asia. A uniquely human creation born from a series of islands that once managed to weld themselves into the greatest of trading states, a supreme naval power, a twelve-hundred-year-old republic whose lofty ideals even attracted the attention of America's Founding Fathers. Envied, suspected, even feared–trading indiscriminately with all sides, friend or foe. An unscrupulous moneymaker, dedicated to profit, treating even wars as promising investments. That had been Venice through the centuries.
And himself for the past two decades.
He bought his Grand Canal villa with the first profits from his fledgling pharmaceutical company. Only fitting that both he and his corporation, now valued in the billions of euros, be headquartered here.
He especially loved Venice in the early morning, when nothing could be heard but the human voice. A morning walk from his palazzo on the canal, to his favorite ristorante on the square at Campo del Leon, constituted his only attempt at exercise. But it was one he couldn't avoid. Feet or boat were the only means of transportation since vehicles were banned in Venice. Today he walked with a renewed vigor. The problem with the Florentine had worried him. With that now resolved he could turn his attention to the final few hurdles. Nothing satisfied him more than a well-executed plan. Unfortunately, few were ever so. Especially when deceit proved necessary.
The morning air no longer carried winter's unpleasant chill. Spring had clearly returned to northern Italy. The wind seemed gentler, too, the sky a lovely salmon, brightened by a sun emerging from the eastern ocean.
He wove a path through the twisting streets, narrow enough that carrying an open umbrella would have presented a challenge, and crossed several of the bridges that tacked the city together. He passed clothing and stationery stores, a wine shop, a shoe dealer, and a couple of well-stocked groceries, all closed at this early hour.
He came to the end of the street and entered the square.
On one end rose an antique tower, once a church, now a theater. At the other end stood the campanile of a Carmine chapel. Between stretched houses and shops that shimmered with age and self-satisfaction. He didn't particularly like the campos. They tended to feel dry, old, and urban. Different from the canal fronts where palazzos pressed forward, like people in a crowd jostling for air.
He studied the empty square. Everything neat and orderly.
Just as he liked it.
He was a man possessed of wealth, power, and a future. He lived in one of the world's great cities, his lifestyle befitting a person of prestige and tradition. His father, a nondescript soul who instilled in him a love of science, told him as a child to take life as it came. Good advice. Life was about reaction and recovery. One was either in, just coming out of, or about to find trouble. The trick was knowing which state you were in and acting accordingly. He'd just come out of trouble.
And was about to find more.
For the past two years he'd headed the Council of Ten, which governed the Venetian League. Four hund
red and thirty-two men and women whose ambitions were stymied by excessive government regulation, restrictive trade laws, and politicians who chipped away at corporate bottom lines. America and the European Union were by far the worst. Every day some new impediment sapped profits. League members spent billions trying to avert more regulation. And while one set of politicos were quietly influenced to help, another set were intent on making a name for themselves by prosecuting the helpers.
A frustrating and never-ending cycle.
Which was why the League had decided to create a place where business could not only flourish, but rule. A place similar to the original Venetian republic, which, for centuries, was governed by men possessed of the mercantile ability of Greeks and the audacity of Romans–entrepreneurs who were at once businessmen, soldiers, governors, and statesmen. A city-state that ultimately became an empire. Periodically, the Venetian republic had formed leagues with other city-states–alliances that ensured survival in numbers–and the idea worked well. Their modern incarnation expounded a similar philosophy. He'd worked hard for his fortune and agreed with something Irina Zovastina had once told him. Everybody loves a thing more if it has cost him trouble.
He traversed the square and approached the café, which opened each day at six A.M. simply for him. Morning was his time of day. His mind seemed most alert before noon. He entered the ristorante and acknowledged the owner. “Emilio, might I ask a favor? Tell my guests that I'll return shortly. There's something I must do. It won't take long.”
The man smiled and nodded, assuring there'd be no problem.
He bypassed his corporate officers waiting for him in the adjacent dining room and stepped through the kitchen. An aroma of broiling fish and fried eggs teased his nostrils. He stopped a moment and admired what was simmering on the stove, then left the building through a rear exit and found himself in another of Venice's innumerable alleys, this one darkened by tall brick buildings thick with droppings.
Three Inquisitors waited a few meters away. He nodded and they walked single file. At an intersection they turned right and followed another alley. He noticed a familiar stink–half drainage, half decaying stone–the pall of Venice. They stopped at the rear entrance to a building that housed a dress shop on its ground floor and apartments on its upper three stories. He knew they were now diagonally across the square from the café.