The Venetian Betrayal

“This one is Alexander’s,” Ely said. “The longer inscription is from the Iliad. Always to be the best and to be superior to the rest. Homer’s expression of the heroic ideal. Alexander would have lived by that. Zovastina loved that quote, too. She used it many times. The people who put him here chose his epitaph well.”

Ely motioned to the other coffin, its inscription simpler.

“‘Hephaestion. Friend of Alexander.’ Lover did not do justice to their relationship. To be called ‘friend’ was the supreme compliment of a Greek, reserved for only the most dear.”

Malone noticed how dust and debris had been cleared from the image of a horse on Alexander’s coffin.

“Zovastina did that when she and I were here,” Viktor said. “She was mesmerized by the image.”

“It’s Bucephalas,” Ely said. “Has to be. Alexander’s horse. He worshipped the animal. The horse died during the Asian campaign and was buried somewhere in the mountains, not far from here.”

“Zovastina named her favorite horse that, too,” Viktor noted.

Malone sca

He agreed.

Cassiopeia stood near one of the coffins, its lid slid open.

“Zovastina snuck a look,” Viktor said.

Their lights shone inside at a mummy.

“Unusual that it’s not in a carto

Gold sheets covered the body from neck to feet, each the size of a sheet of paper, more lay scattered inside the coffin. The right arm was bent at the elbow and lay across the abdomen. The left arm stretched straight, the forearm detached from the upper. Bandages wrapped most of the corpse in a tight embrace and on the partially exposed chest lay three gold disks.

“The Macedonian star,” Ely said. “Alexander’s coat of arms. Impressive ones, too. Beautiful specimens.”

“How did they get all of this in here?” Stephanie asked. “These coffins are huge.”

Ely motioned at the room. “Twenty-three hundred years ago, the topography was surely different. I’d wager there was another way in. Maybe the pools were not as high, the tu

“But the letters in the pool,” Malone said. “How did they get there? Surely the people who fashioned this tomb didn’t do it. That’s like a neon sign to alert people.”

“My guess is Ptolemy did that. Part of his riddle. Two Greek letters at the bottom of two dark pools. His way, I assume, of marking the spot.”

A golden mask covered Alexander’s face. No one had yet touched it. Finally, Malone said, “Why don’t you, Ely? Let’s see what a king of the world looks like.”

He saw the look of anticipation in the younger man’s eyes. He’d studied Alexander the Great from afar, learned what he could from the scant information that had survived. Now he could be the first in two thousand years to actually touch him.

Ely slowly removed the mask.

What skin remained cast a blackish tint and was bone dry and brittle. Death seemed to have agreed with Alexander’s countenance, the half-closed eyes conveying a strange expression of curiosity. The mouth ran from one side of the cheek to the other, open, as if to shout. Time had frozen everything. The head was devoid of hair, the brain, which more than anything else accounted for Alexander’s success, gone.

They all stared in silence.

Finally, Cassiopeia shined her light across the room, past an equestrian figure on horseback clad only in a long cloak slung over one shoulder, at a striking bronze bust. The powerful oblong face showed confidence and featured steady narrowed eyes, gazing off into the distance. The hair sprang back from the forehead in a classic style and dropped midlength in irregular curls. The neck rose straight and high, the bearing and look of a man who utterly controlled his world.

Alexander the Great.

Such a contrast to the face of death in the coffin.

“All of the busts I’ve ever seen of Alexander,” Ely said, “his nose, lips, brow, and hair were usually restored with plaster. Few survived the ages. But there’s an image, from his time, in perfect condition.”

“And here he is,” Malone said, “in the flesh.”

Cassiopeia moved to the adjacent coffin and wrestled open its lid enough for them to peek inside. Another mummy, not fully adorned in gold, but masked, lay in similar condition.

“Alexander and Hephaestion,” Thorvaldsen said. “Here they’ve rested for so long.”

“Will they stay?” Malone asked.

Ely shrugged. “This is an important archaeological find. It would be a tragedy not to learn from it.”

Malone noticed that Viktor’s attention had shifted to a gold chest that lay close to the wall. The rock above was incised with a tangle of engravings showing battles, chariots, horses, and men with swords. Atop the chest a golden Macedonian star had been molded. Rosettes with petals of blue glass dotted its center. Similar rosettes wrapped a central band around the chest. Viktor grasped both sides and, before Ely could stop him, lifted the lid.

Edwin Davis shined a light inside.

A gold wreath of oak leaves and acorns, rich in stu

“A royal crown,” Ely said.

Viktor smirked. “That’s what Zovastina wanted. This would have been her crown. She would have used all of this to fuel herself.”

Malone shrugged. “Too bad her helicopter crashed.”

They all stood in the chamber, soaking wet from the swim but relieved that the ordeal was over. The rest involved politics, and that didn’t concern Malone.

“Viktor,” Stephanie said. “If you ever get tired of freelancing and want a job, let me know.”

“I’ll keep the offer in mind.”

“You let me best you when we were here before,” Malone said. “Didn’t you?”

Viktor nodded. “I thought it better you leave, so I gave you the chance. I’m not that easy, Malone.”

He gri

“They’ve been waiting here a long time,” Ely said. “They can rest a little longer. Right now, there’s something else we have to do.”

CASSIOPEIA WAS THE LAST TO CLIMB FROM THE TAWNY POOL, BACK into the first chamber.

“Lyndsey said the bacteria in the green pool could be swallowed,” Ely said. “They’re harmless to us, but destroy HIV.”

“We don’t know if any of that is true,” Stephanie said.

Ely seemed convinced. “It is. That man’s ass was on the line. He was using what he had to save his skin.”

“We have the disk,” Thorvaldsen said. “I can have the best scientists in the world get us an answer immediately.”

Ely shook his head. “Alexander the Great had no scientists. He trusted his world.”

Cassiopeia admired his courage. She’d been infected for over a decade, always wondering when the disease would finally manifest itself. To have a time bomb ticking away inside, waiting for the day when your immune system finally failed, that changed your life. She knew Ely suffered from the same anxiety, clutched at every hope. And they were the lucky ones. They could afford the drugs that kept the virus at bay. Millions of others could not.

She stared into the tawny pool, at the Greek letter Z that lay at its bottom. She recalled what she’d read in one of the manuscripts. Eumenes revealed the resting place, far away, in the mountains, where the Scythians taught Alexander about life. She walked to the green pool and again admired the H at its bottom.