Fire licked the night through the shattered openings.
She’d left the basilica’s porch and assumed a position opposite the museum’s bell tower. At least one of the men was dead. Hard to tell which one, but it didn’t matter.
She came to her feet and shifted to the front of the building, watching the prison she’d fashioned burn.
One more flaming arrow ready to fire.
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
FORTY-TWO
VENICE
ZOVASTINA STOOD BESIDE THE PAPAL NUNCIO. SHE’D LANDED AN hour ago, Monsignor Michener waiting for her on the tarmac. She, Michener, and two of her guardsmen had traveled to central downtown from the airport via a private water taxi. They’d been unable to use the basilica’s north entrance, off the Piazzetta dei Leoncini, as first arranged. A sizable portion of San Marco had been cordoned off, some sort of shooting, the nuncio had told her. So they’d detoured down a side street, behind the basilica, and entered the church from the diocese offices.
The papal nuncio looked different from yesterday, his black robes and priest’s collar replaced with street clothes. The pope was apparently making good on his pledge that the visit be nondescript.
She now stood within the cavernous church, its ceiling and walls ablaze with golden mosaics. Clearly a Byzantine concoction, as if it had been erected in Constantinopleinstead of Italy. Five hemispherical cupolas vaulted overhead. The Domes of Pentecost, St. John, St. Leonard, the Prophets, and the one she was standing beneath, the Ascension. Thanks to a warm glow from strategically placed incandescent lights, she silently agreed that the church had earned its well-known label as the Golden Basilica.
“Quite a place,” Michener said. “Isn’t it?”
“It’s what religion and commercial might can do when joined together. Venetian merchants were the scavengers of the world. Here’s the best evidence of their pilfering.”
“Are you always so cynical?”
“The Soviets taught me that the world is a tough place.”
“And to your gods, do you ever offer any thanks?”
She grinned. This American had studied her. Never in their previous conversations had they talked of her beliefs. “My gods are as faithful to me as yours is to you.”
“We’re hoping you might reconsider your paganism.”
She bristled at the label. The word itself implied that somehow the belief in many gods was inferior to the belief in one. She didn’t view it that way. Throughout history, many of the world’s cultures had agreed with her, which she made clear. “My beliefs have served me well.”
“I didn’t mean to imply they were wrong. It’s only that we may be able to offer some new possibilities.”
After tonight, she would have little use for the Catholic Church. She’d allow a limited amount of contact within the Federation, enough to keep the radical Muslims off balance, but never would an organization capable of preserving all that now surrounded her be allowed a foothold in her domain.
She motioned toward the high altar, beyond an ornate multicolored rood screen that looked suspiciously like an iconostasis. She could hear activity from its brightly lit far side.
“They’re preparing to open the sarcophagus. We’ve decided to return a hand, arm, or some other significant relic that can be easily extracted.”
She couldn’t resist. “You don’t see the ridiculousness in that?”
Michener shrugged. “If it’ll please the Egyptians, what does it hurt?”
“What about sanctity of the dead? Your religion preaches that constantly. Yet there’s apparently nothing wrong with disturbing a man’s tomb, removing part of his remains, and giving them away.”
“It’s an unfortunate thing, but necessary.”
She despised his bland innocence. “That’s the thing I like about your church. Flexible when necessary.”
She stared around at the deserted nave, most of the chapels, altars, and niches cast in deep shadows. Her two guardsmen stood only a few meters away. She studied the marble floor, every bit as exquisite as the mosaic walls. Lots of colorful geometrical, animal, and flower motifs, along with unmistakable undulations—intentional, some said, to mimic the sea, but more likely the effect of a weak foundation.
She thought of Ptolemy’s words. And you, adventurer, for my immortal voice, though far off, fills your ears, hear my words. Sail onto the capital founded by Alexander’s father, where sages stand guard.
Though Ptolemy certainly believed himself clever, time had solved that part of the riddle. Nectanebo ruled Egypt, as pharaoh, during the era of Alexander the Great. While Alexander was a teenager, Nectanebo was driven into exile by invading Persians. Egyptians at the time firmly believed Nectanebo would one day return and expel the Persians. And nearly ten years after his defeat, this idea proved more or less true, when Alexander arrived and the Persians promptly surrendered and left. To elevate their liberator and make his presence more palatable, Egyptians told stories of how, early in his rule, Nectanebo had traveled to Macedonia, disguised as a magician, and coupled with Olympias, Alexander’s mother, which would make Nectanebo, not Philip, Alexander’s father. The story was utter nonsense but prevalent enough that five hundred years later it found its way into the Alexander Romance, a piece of fanciful historical fiction that many historians, she knew, erroneously cited as authority. During his reign as the last Egyptian pharaoh, history notes that Nectanebo established Memphis as his capital, which solved sail onto the capital founded by Alexander’s father.