The tomb was still covered by a skim of water. Dov and his men gathered at the sinkhole to scoop it out with their hands, lowering the level enough to reveal the lid and then a hairline crack that ran around its perimeter, so fine that it was only visible in places, yet of such perfect straightness that it could only be the join between body and lid. They gathered around it and gripped it as best they could, despite the slick surface. Then they tried to lift it. It didn’t budge. They tried again and then a third time, giving it everything.
Nothing.
Zara crouched to study the join more closely. There was no obvious trace of mortar or cement. It appeared to be sealed only by the tightness of its fit. She ran her thumbnail along it and found the answer, for the line of it changed course at its downstream end, like the lid of a domino box, to be slid rather than lifted. They gripped it once more but this time they heaved sideways. It gave a fraction, enough to encourage them. They heaved again and again, and then a fourth time, and finally its resistance broke and it came sliding sweetly, so that in their jubilation they might have taken it all the way had Zara not yelled at them to stop, lest they not be able to fit it back in.
She shone her torch into the exposed cavity, bracing herself to find it flooded. But the seal had done its work supremely well, the space beneath so dry that there was even dust on the steps beneath. They led down to a landing then turned sharp right out of view. Before anyone else could move, she hoisted herself up over the lip onto the top step, water spilling from her in dark pools. Her heart racing, she set off down the stairs, ducking her head beneath the rim of the marble lid, filming as she went, the walls inscribed with spirals, swirls, vortices and other patterns picked out in silver leaf.
Then she reached the landing below and turned to look.
Since first seeing Dov’s short clip, Zara had entertained all kind of wild ideas of what they might find down here. None came even close. The staircase fanned out into a large chamber with rough-hewn walls and a massive pillar at its heart, carved from the limestone bedrock in the shape of an enormous tree, whose many spreading branches had been so cunningly shaped that they seemed actually to bow beneath the weight of the roof they were holding up, before being subsumed into it, and around whose trunk a giant snake was coiled.
A snake in a sacred tree was a key component of the Judaeo-Christian creation myth. Yet Gothic lore had had something very similar too. And it was clear to Zara at a glance that this was no Garden of Eden but rather Yggdrasil, the ‘world tree’ of Germanic myth – not least because its very name had been a corruption of Odin’s horse, in turn a euphemism for the gallows from which the Goths had hanged their sacrificial victims. And so it was here. For dozens of nooses dangled from its branches, of rope so desiccated that the touch of a single finger would surely burst them into dust. And its crop of grisly fruit lay scattered beneath, the skeletal and part-mummified remains of at least fifty victims.
Until this moment, the slaves that Athaulf had put to death to keep the secret of this place had been mere abstracts to Zara, not men of flesh and bone. The horror of this sight changed all that. Yet she was a professional too, and this was an historic moment, so she filmed the chamber floor even as she made her way down to it. Then she picked her path towards that huge trunk, careful of the sculpted roots that slithered serpent-like across the floor to the walls, whose fractured limestone had been carved into hellish arrays of tormented faces and figures reaching up for succour or salvation.
Her pace was too slow for Dov and Avram. They pushed rudely past her on either side. Unwilling to cede priority, she went with them, rounding the vast trunk to see what lay beyond. A wide arched doorway led into a second, smaller chamber, much more as Zara would have expected. Hexagonal and with a vaulted, domed ceiling, its walls were gorgeously sculpted and painted with what appeared to be scenes from Alaric’s life, its floor laid with black-and-white tiles in concentric circles around a granite plinth on which stood a sarcophagus of pink-veined marble, whose matching lid was lying on the floor beside it, and which contained a skeleton in ragged robes of white and purple. But that wasn’t what struck them all most forcibly. What struck them all most forcibly was that the chamber was otherwise entirely empty.
‘Robbed,’ muttered Avram. Then louder and more angrily, as if it were he himself who’d been cheated. ‘Robbed!’
Zara ignored him. It was still an astonishing find; she was still an archaeologist. She examined the skeleton first, noting the broken fingers, wrists and jawbone, no doubt snapped by robbers impatient for the precious jewellery in which Alaric had been laid out. Then she turned her attention to the five walls, starting to the right of the doorway, the bedrock sculpted in deep relief to create a rich and detailed scene that had then been finished with metallic leaf and paint of remarkable freshness, so that, despite its dusty coat, it glowed and shone in her torchlight – as did all the walls, indeed.
A boy – surely Alaric himself – holding a spear some twice his height, its butt pinned against a rock as a demon-faced warrior impaled itself upon its tip as it strained to reach him with its sword. A Hun, no doubt, thought by the Goths to be the progeny of witches and the wild spirits of the steppes – and so feared by them that it had sent them fleeing across the Danube into Roman territory.
Zara filmed every detail of it before moving to the second panel. A young general now, Alaric led a ragged horde through a wintry mountain pass, holding his horse by its bridle while two children rode on it, wrapped in what appeared to be his own fur coat. Directly opposite the doorway now, Alaric stood outside a city under siege – presumably Rome itself – magnified by a trick of perspective into looking taller than its walls, while a harvest moon hung low and red beside his head and the night sky glittered with gemstones in familiar constellations. She paused longest in front of this panel, for it offered the largest and clearest portrait of the man himself: handsome and battle-scarred, with a trim beard and long golden hair combed into ropes then arranged into a side knot. He wore the battered armour of a combat veteran rather than a general, his round shield pitted and its pointed boss stained with blood, as too was the long-bladed sword leaning against his hip. Only his imperious posture and the crested helmet he held casually down by his side spoke of his true rank.
The fourth panel shrunk him back to mortal size, gathered with his generals on what must have been the Calabrian shore, staring in frustration across at Sicily, their Carthage ambitions frustrated by those narrow yet impassable straits. And now the final scene, lying on his deathbed in a glade outside this very grotto, while grief-stricken family and troops filed past, much as they themselves were now filing from panel to panel in this ever more congested chamber. So congested did it grow, indeed, that Dov looked around at everybody gathered in that small space, and then remarked in a voice of quiet but unmistakeable fury: ‘Which one of you idiots is supposed to be keeping watch?’
Hunkered down behind a rocky outcrop a short distance upstream of the tomb, Cesco watched the last of the Israelis vanish down into it. Immediately he turned on his torch and glanced at Carmen. She nodded unhesitatingly. They needed to get out of here now. They needed to reach Morigerati and call in help.
Their clothes were wet but they could still get wetter. They stripped them off and waded out into the water holding them bundled above their heads. ‘If they spot us,’ whispered Cesco, ‘you make a run for it. I’ll hold them back.’
‘But I can’t just leave you—’
‘You must. Getting help is the best chance for us both. You know it is.’
The iciness of the water soon had them shuddering with cold, but the footing was so treacherous that they dared not rush. Any stumble would send a wave splashing over the tomb’s lip. The marble glowed palely in his torchlight, enough to use it as a guidepost. They’d just passed it when, to Cesco’s horror, he heard footsteps coming from inside the tomb. He glanced around as its mouth glowed bright. Then one of the Israelis climbed into view, muttering to himself. The beam of his helmet lamp picked them out instantly. There was a moment of frozen disbelief on both sides. Then everything seemed to happen at once.
The Israeli bellowed for help even as Cesco shouted at Carmen to run for it. Instantly, she started splashing through the water for the sinkhole. The Israeli dived in to stop her. Cesco threw himself on him to hold him back. They flailed and splashed in the water. More Israelis arrived. Carmen reached the sinkhole ladder. But that was the last Cesco saw, for a second Israeli put his arm around his throat at that moment and dragged him backwards underwater.
He thrashed and struggled as best he could, but only succeeded in lacerating his skin on the limestone and burning through the small reservoir of air already in his system. The need to breathe quickly grew urgent, but his face was still underwater and now there were knees pressed into his shoulders, into his legs and stomach, and his brain was throbbing madly with the need for air, throbbing with the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer; and then it happened, he couldn’t fight it any more, he opened his mouth and drew the waters of the Bussento river deep into his lungs.
‘Shut it,’ said Tomas Gentile.
‘I never said a word,’ grumbled Guido.
‘You were thinking it.’
‘Come on. How many times are we gonna drive around this fucking town? They’re not here.’
‘They are here. I can sniff the bastards.’
They passed once more the cottage Rossi and Nero had left hours earlier on their motorbike. Its lights were still off, its driveway empty, but their headlights picked out his two men lurking in the bushes. Some ambush that would be! He wanted to give them shit, except that there was no signal for his phone. And stopping to shout at them would only make it worse. Then they were past them anyway, taking hairpins down to the valley floor.
‘A nice, soft mattress,’ murmured Guido. ‘A good breakfast. Some daylight to search in.’
‘I said shut it,’ said Tomas. He had a sudden hankering to listen to the night. The slope was steep enough here to freewheel so he gestured to Guido to cut the engine while he buzzed down his window. Silence fell, save for the whisper of their tyres on the tarmac and the distant yapping of a dog. The road flattened out as they reached the valley floor. They began to lose speed. Guido made to turn the engine back on but Tomas held up his finger. They reached the bridge, came almost to a complete halt on its hump, but still had just enough momentum to crest it and roll down the far side where they came finally to a halt. The dog fell quiet. So too their tyres. And now the silence was complete.
Too complete.
‘Wait here,’ said Tomas. He took his torch, got out, scrambled down the bank to the river itself. It was as he’d thought. The river that had been flowing so briskly on their arrival had now run almost dry. He dipped a fingertip into a puddle, held it up to the faint breeze. How could a river simply stop like this? What, if anything, did it mean? He was still brooding on these questions while he trudged back up to the car. That was when he saw the sign. He hadn’t seen it earlier, because it was on this side of the river only, and they’d always approached it from the other direction.
Fiume Bussento, it read. The Bussento river.
Tomas had been just thirteen years old when he had moved with his family to Amsterdam. But he’d spent his childhood in Cosenza, enchanted like every other kid there by stories of Alaric and his fabulous tomb. The very same people who’d been searching Cosenza’s Busento for it had now relocated here to this second Bussento. There was no way that could be coincidence. Nor surely could it be coincidence that it had stopped running tonight, so soon after Rossi and Nero had vanished into the woods just a short hike from it.
He couldn’t yet see the detail of it, but the overview suddenly became crystal clear. Nero and her friends had found Alaric’s tomb. They’d somehow stopped the river in order to loot it. Which put a completely different complexion on those two white vans he’d seen in that small parking area above that tourist grotto. He’d ignored them before, too focused on the scarlet Renault and the motorbike. But how much loot could one cart away in a Renault, after all? How much on a bike? A pair of rental vans was another matter altogether.
He felt euphoric as he climbed back in the car. ‘We’ve got the bastards,’ he told his brother.
‘Are you sure?’
Tomas grinned. ‘And maybe a billion in Roman gold too.’
Gunfire cracked out even as Avram hurried up the steps to the tomb mouth. Two shots, the noise of them echoing in the chamber. He could only think that one of Dov’s men had somehow gone crazy. Then he arrived at the top to see, in the crazily dancing torchlight, Dov at the sinkhole aiming down a gun, and some poor wretch struggling as he was held underwater by Yonatan and Ezra.
He jumped down into the water and waded over to them. ‘Let him up!’ he yelled, hauling them off. ‘Let him up.’
Almost reluctantly, they lifted the man’s head above the surface then turned him onto his side. Water gushed out of his mouth. He coughed and choked then gasped for air. They dragged him to the bank and threw him down even as Dov shepherded a second intruder – a woman – back up the ladder to the top. She raised her hands above her head and threw anguished looks at her companion.
Avram turned in bewilderment to Dov. ‘What the hell?’ he demanded. ‘Do you know these people?’
‘She’s Carmen Nero,’ said Dov. ‘The American woman we hooked up with. But the man, no idea.’
‘He’s Cesco Rossi,’ said Zara, from the tomb steps. ‘Her friend from Cosenza.’
Avram frowned. ‘I thought you said he was a conman.’
‘Yes. But it’s still him. She posted his photograph on my discussion board.’
Avram grunted. ‘What the hell are they doing here?’
Dov glared at Zara. ‘Ask her.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ retorted Zara.
‘We were supposed to be lovers. She treated me like I was a disease. Of course Nero got suspicious. Of course she realised our Amalfi trip was bullshit. Her professor wasn’t going to be here in time, so she asked this guy for help. They spotted the river had stopped and came to explore.’
Avram nodded. It explained their presence but didn’t help him decide what to do. Release them, they’d go straight to the police. The whole story would spill out. Bringing the temple treasures back to Israel would be a triumph. But raiding an empty tomb would only make him look ridiculous. His so-called allies in the Knesset would line up behind him, the better to stab him in the back. There’d be inquiries into his life. The bribes would be discovered. The oil companies, the arms sales, the prison contracts. The investigation into that journalist’s death would be reopened, his cover-up exposed. His career would end in disgrace, imprisonment. That couldn’t be allowed. Yet the alternative dismayed him. It was one thing to order people killed from a distance; another when you were staring at their faces.
Dov gave his gun to Yani, along with instructions to watch Carmen and Cesco, then beckoned Avram out of earshot. ‘We always knew it might end this way,’ he said. ‘That’s why you sent me here, remember?’
‘For Zara,’ said Avram. ‘Not these other two.’
‘One. Three. What’s the difference?’
Avram hesitated. To men like Dov, scruples were weakness. ‘We had a narrative before,’ he said. ‘A lonely woman throwing herself from a hotel balcony. It made sense. As did an ’Ndrangheta hit on the prosecution’s key witness and her companion. But how would that explain this Rossi guy? Especially half drowned and torn up by the limestone. And what if they told people where they were going? What if their phones could be traced? What if they were seen?’
Dov nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted. ‘An ’Ndrangheta hit won’t cut it any more. But look at what we have here. Three archaeologists hot on the trail of Alaric. They shut off the river then come exploring. They find his tomb. They open it and go inside. Unfortunately, the dam engineers reopen the sluice gates sooner than expected. The river starts flowing again. It catches all three of them still down there. They try to get out, but too late.’
‘Will they repair the dam in time?’
Dov nodded. ‘Noah thinks so.’
‘I didn’t hear him say that.’
‘He didn’t say it. I just know how to read the little shit. Think about it. Why have their team work through the night unless they believe they can get it done quickly? So I say we do this then get out of here. I’ll have Noah drive Zara’s Renault over. We’ll leave it in the parking area for the investigators to find. They’ll put two and two together. They’ll shut the dam back down then come exploring. They’ll find the tomb with the bodies still inside. Everything will speak for itself. Then you give it a month to settle down before announcing the discovery of your replica Menorah beneath your prison, and you ride it to your triumph.’
Avram digested this in silence. He looked around at Zara and the other two. ‘We drown them, then? We drown all three of them then leave their bodies below?’
‘If you want to be prime minister.’
He could taste the disgust in his mouth, like biting into an apple only to find it rotten. ‘Very well,’ he said, as though it were his own idea. ‘Call your man at the dam. Make sure they’re still working on the repairs. Have him come meet us here. Then do it.’