The next part, where sages stand guard, reinforced that conclusion.
At the temple of Nectanebo, in Memphis, stood a semicircle of eleven limestone statues depicting Greek sages and poets. Homer, whom Alexander worshipped, was a central figure. Plato, who taught Aristotle, and Aristotle himself, who taught Alexander, were there, too, along with other renowned Greeks to whom Alexander possessed a close connection. Only fragments of those sculptures remained, but enough to know they once existed.
Ptolemy had entombed the body he believed to be Alexander at the temple of Nectanebo. There it stayed until after Ptolemy’s death, when his son moved the body north to Alexandria.
Sail onto the capital founded by Alexander’s father, where sages stand guard.
Go south to Memphis and the temple of Nectanebo.
She thought of the next line of the riddle.
Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion.
And smiled.
Malone 3 - The Venetian Betrayal
FORTY-THREE
TORCELLO
VIKTOR FLATTENED HIMSELF ONTO THE STAIRWAY, RAISING AN arm and shielding his face from the overwhelming heat that surged upward through the ground-floor doorway. The turtle had reacted to the rising temperatures, automatically disintegrating, doing what it was created to do. No way Rafael had survived. Greek fire’s initial temperatures were enormous, enough to soften metal and burn stone, but its secondary heat was even more powerful. Human flesh was no match. As with what should have happened to the man in Copenhagen, Rafael would soon be ash.
He turned back.
Fire raged ten feet away.
The heat was becoming unbearable.
He hustled to the top.
The old building was erected at a time when the first-floor ceiling doubled as the second story’s flooring. The ceiling below was, by now, totally ablaze. One of the purposes of having the turtle explode was to force the destruction outward. Creaks and moans from the second-story floorboards confirmed their rapid devastation. The weight of the three display cases and the other bulky exhibits wasn’t helping. Though the second story had not yet ignited, he realized that crossing the floor could be foolish. Thankfully, the stairwell where he stood was fashioned from stone.
A set of double windows broke the wall a few feet away, facing the piazzetta. He decided to risk it and stepped lightly, hugging the outer perimeter, glancing through the panes, down below.
CASSIOPEIA SAW THE FACE IN THE WINDOW. SHE INSTANTLY dropped the bow, gripped her gun, and fired two shots.
VIKTOR LEAPED BACK INTO THE STAIRWELL AS THE WINDOW SHATTERED. He gripped his gun and prepared to return fire. He’d seen enough to know that his attacker was a woman, clear from her silhouetted shape. She’d been holding a bow, but had quickly replaced that weapon with a gun.
Before he could take advantage of his higher ground, a flaming arrow bypassed the wrought-iron bars and pierced the open window, embedding into the plaster on the opposite side of the room. Thankfully, no turtle had saturated things here. Only the two packs he’d left earlier, one on the floor, the other inside the pilfered display case, were potential problems.
He needed to do something.
So he took a cue from his attacker and shot out the double windows that opened to the rear of the building.
CASSIOPEIA HEARD VOICES TO HER LEFT, TOWARD WHERE THE restaurant and inn stood. The shots had surely attracted attention from the inn guests. She spotted darkened figures heading down the path from the village and quickly abandoned her position in the piazzetta, retreating to the basilica’s porch. She’d fired the last flaming arrow hoping the second floor would ignite, too. In the fire’s glow she’d clearly recognized Viktor’s face in the window.
People appeared. One man held a cell phone to his ear. No police occupied the island, which should give her time, and she doubted Viktor would enlist the help of any onlookers. Too many questions about the corpse on the ground floor.
So she decided to leave.
VIKTOR STARED ACROSS THE HARDWOOD PLANKS AT THE PACK OF Greek fire lying on the floor. He decided a quick assault was best, so he stepped lightly, grabbed the bag, and hopped straight toward the window he’d just shot out.
The floorboards held.
He laid the pack outside across the C-shaped wrought-iron bars.
The flooring in the center of the room moaned.
He recalled crossbeams below, but they were surely weakening by the second. A few more steps toward the arrow stuck into the wall and he yanked it free. Rags wrapped around its tip still burned. He rushed across to the stairway, then, with an underhanded toss, lobbed the arrow into the open window frame. It landed on top of the pack, the flames flickering a few inches away from the plastic wrap. He knew it would only take a few moments for the bag to melt.
He sought refuge inside the stairwell.
A woosh and another firestorm raged.
He glanced around the doorway and saw that the wrought iron was burning. Luckily, most of the firepower had stayed outside. The window frame had not joined the conflagration.
The second floor collapsed, swallowing the case with the other fuel pack downward. The remaining bag ignited, a cloud of heat floating upward. The Museo di Torcello would not stand much longer.
He hopped to the open windows.
He gripped the cornice that ran across the top of the frame and searched for a fingerhold, his body straining, feet powered outward, slamming into the burning bars.
Nothing moved.
Another chin-up and he kicked again, adrenaline powering each thrust as the heat began to affect his breathing.
The bars started to give.
More kicks and one corner broke free of its bolt to the exterior wall.
Two more slams and the entire assembly flew outward.
More flooring collapsed.
Another display case and pieces of a column crashed to the ground floor, churning in the fire like bits in a stew.
He stared out the window.
The drop down was three or four meters. Flames spat out the ground-floor windows.
He leaped.