Inside, a vaulted vestibule led into a sanctuary. To the left, wall niches held icons and reliquaries. To the right was the treasury, where more fragile and precious symbols of a vanished republic rested against the walls or lay gathered in showcases.
“Most of this came from Constantinople ,” Thorvaldsen said, “when Venice sacked the city in 1204. But restorations, fires, and robberies have taken their toll. When the Venetian republic fell, much of the collection was melted down for its gold, silver, and precious stones. Only two hundred and eighty-three items managed to survive.”
Malone admired the shiny chalices, reliquaries, caskets, crosses, bowls, and icons, fashioned of rock, wood, crystal, glass, silver, or gold. He also noticed amphorae, ampullae, manuscript covers, and elaborate incense burners, each an ancient trophy from Egypt, Rome, or Byzantium.
“Quite a collection,” he said.
“One of the finest on the planet,” Thorvaldsen declared.
“What are we looking for?”
Stephanie pointed. “Michener said it was over here.”
They approached a glass case that exhibited a sword, a bishop’s crozier, a few hexagonal bowls, and several gilt relic boxes. Thorvaldsen used another of the keys and unlocked the case. He then hinged open one of the relic boxes. “They keep it in here. Out of sight.”
Malone recognized the object lying inside. “A scarab.”
During the mummification process, Egyptian embalmers routinely adorned the purified body with hundreds of amulets. Many were simply for decoration, others were positioned to strengthen dead limbs. The one he was staring at was named for the insect that adorned the top—Scarab?id?—a dung beetle. He’d always thought the association odd, but ancient Egyptians had noticed how the bugs seemed to spring from the dung, so they identified the insect with Chepera, the creator of all things, father of the gods, who made himself out of the matter he produced.
“This one’s a heart amulet,” he said.
Stephanie nodded. “That’s what Michener said.”
He knew that all bodily organs were removed during mummification, save for the heart. A scarab was always laid atop the heart to symbolize everlasting life. This one was typical. Made of stone. Green. Probably carnelian. But one thing he noticed. “No gold. Usually they were either made of or decorated with it.”
“Which is probably how it survived,” Thorvaldsen said. “History notes that the Soma, in Alexandria, was raided by the later Ptolemies. All of the gold was stripped away, the golden sarcophagus melted down, everything of value taken. That chunk of rock would have meant nothing to them.”
Malone reached down and lifted the amulet. Maybe four inches long by two inches wide. “It’s larger than normal. These things are usually about half this size.”
“You know a lot about them,” Davis said.
Stephanie grinned. “The man reads. After all, he is a bookseller.”
Malone smiled but continued to admire the amulet and noticed, in the beetle’s wings, three carved hieroglyphs.
“What are they?” he asked.
“Michener said they mean life, stability, and protection,” Thorvaldsen answered.
He turned the amulet over. The bottom was dominated by the image of a bird.
Thorvaldsen said, “This was found with the bones of St. Mark when they were removed from the crypt, in 1835, and brought up to the altar. St. Mark was martyred in Alexandria and mummified, so it was thought this amulet was simply part of that process. But since it has pagan overtones, the Church fathers decided not to include it with the remains. They recognized its historical value, though, and placed it here, in the treasury. When the Church learned of Zovastina’s interest in St. Mark, the amulet took on a greater importance. But when Daniels told me about it, I recalled what Ptolemy said.”
So did he.
Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion.
Pieces clicked into place. “The golden illusion was the body itself in Memphis, since it was wrapped in gold. The innermost being? The heart.” He held up the amulet. “This.”
“Which means,” Davis said, “that the remains out there in the basilica are not St. Mark.”
Malone nodded. “They’re something else entirely. Something that has nothing to do with Christianity.”
Thorvaldsen pointed to the bottom side. “That’s the Egyptian hieroglyph for the phoenix, the symbol of rebirth.”
More of the riddle flashed through his brain.
Divide the phoenix.
And he knew exactly what to do.
CASSIOPEIA REALIZED SHE WAS BEING PLAYED BY ZOVASTINA’S question. What if Ely isn’t dead? So she controlled her emotions and calmly said, “But he is dead, and has been for months.”
“You’re sure?”
Cassiopeia had many times wondered—how could she not?—but she fought the pain of wishing and declared, “Ely’s dead.”
Zovastina reached for a phone and pushed one of the keys. A few seconds passed, then she said into the unit, “Viktor, I need you to tell someone about what happened the night Ely Lund died.”
Zovastina offered her the phone.
Cassiopeia did not move. She recalled what he’d said on the boat. Which was nothing.
“Can you afford not to listen to what he has to say?” Zovastina asked, a nauseating look of satisfaction in her dark eyes.
This woman knew her weakness, and somehow that realization frightened Cassiopeia more than what Viktor might say. She wanted to know. The past few months had been torment. Yet…
“Shove that phone up your ass.”
Zovastina hesitated, then smiled. Finally, she said into the unit, “Maybe later, Viktor. You can let the priest go now.”
She clicked off.
The plane continued to climb into the clouds, heading east for Asia .
“Viktor was watching Ely’s house. On my orders.”
Cassiopeia didn’t want to listen.
“He entered from the rear. Ely was bound to a chair and the assassin was preparing to shoot him. Viktor shot the assassin first, then brought Ely to me and burned the house with the killer inside.”