“What in the world are you doing here?” Ely asked, amazement in his voice.
Thorvaldsen seemed to recover his composure and introduced Stephanie.
“Ely,” she said, “we’re kind of like an Egyptian mummy. Pressed for time. Lots happening. Can we talk?”
He led them both inside. The cabin was a dull place, sparsely furnished with lots of books, magazines, and papers. She noticed nothing electrical.
“No power here,” he said. “I cook with gas and heat with wood. But there’s clean water and lots of privacy.”
“How did you get here?” Thorvaldsen asked. “Is Zovastina holding you?”
A puzzled look came to the man’s face. “Not at all. She saved my life. She’s been protecting me.”
They listened as Ely explained how a man had barged into his Samarkand house and held him at gunpoint. But before anything had happened, another man saved him, killing the first. Then, his house was burned with the attacker inside. Ely had been taken to Zovastina, where she explained that her political enemies had targeted him. He was secretly brought to the cabin, where he’d remained the past few months. Only a solitary guard, who lived in the village, came to check on him twice a day and brought supplies.
“The guard has a mobile phone,” Ely said. “That’s how Zovastina and I communicate.”
Stephanie needed to know, “You told her about Ptolemy’s riddle? About elephant medallions and Alexander’s lost tomb?”
Ely grinned. “She loves to talk about it. The Iliad is a passion of hers. Anything Greek, for that matter. She’s asked me lots of questions. Still does, almost every day. And, yes, I told her all about the medallions and the lost tomb.”
She could see that Ely had no conception of what was happening, of the danger all of them, including him, were in. “Cassiopeia is Zovastina’s prisoner. Her life could be at stake.”
She saw all of the confidence leave him. “Cassiopeia’s here? In the Federation? Why would the Supreme Minister want to harm her?”
“Ely,” Thorvaldsen said, “let’s just say that Zovastina is not your savior. She’s your jailer, though she’s constructed a clever jail—one that kept you contained without much effort.”
“You don’t know how many times I wanted to call Cassiopeia. But the Supreme Minister said we needed secrecy right now. I might place others in jeopardy, including Cassiopeia, if I involved them. She assured me all this would be over soon, and I could call who I wanted and go back to work.”
Stephanie decided to get to the point. “We solved Ptolemy’s riddle. We found a scytale that contained a word.” She handed him a square of paper upon which was written . “Can you translate it?”
“Klimax. Old Greek for ladder.”
“What possible significance could that have?” she asked.
He seemed to shake himself free of any speculation. “Is this in the context of the riddle?”
“It’s supposedly the place where the grave is located. Touch the innermost being of the golden illusion. Divide the phoenix. Life provides the measure of the true grave. We did all that and”—she pointed to the paper—“that’s what we found.”
Ely seemed to grasp the enormity with no prompting. He stepped across to one of the tables and plucked a book from one of the stacks. He thumbed through, found what he was after, then flattened the volume on the table. She and Thorvaldsen stepped close and saw a map labeled “Alexander’s Bactrian Conquests.”
“Alexander swept eastward and took what is today Afghanistan and the Federation—what was once Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan. He never crossed the Pamirs into China. Instead, he veered south to India, where his conquests ended when his army revolted.” Ely pointed to the map. “The area here, between the Jaxartes and Oxus Rivers, Alexander conquered in 330 BCE. To the south was the land of Bactria. To the north Scythia.”
She instantly connected the dots. “That’s where Alexander learned about the draught from the Scythians.”
Ely seemed impressed. “That’s right. Samarkand existed then, in a region called Sogdiana, though the city itself was named Maracanda. Alexander established one of his many Alexandrias, here, calling it Alexandria Eschate, the Furthest. It was the city most east in his empire, and one of the last he founded.”
Ely traced his finger on the map and noted, with a pen, an X. “Klimax was a mountain, here, in what was once Tajikistan, now in the Federation. A place revered by the Scythians and, later, by Alexander, after he negotiated a peace with them. It was said that their kings were buried in these mountains, though no evidence of that has ever been found. The museum in Samarkand sent a couple of expeditions to look around, but found nothing. Pretty barren place, in fact.”
“It’s exactly where the scytale points,” Thorvaldsen said. “Have you been to the area?”
Ely nodded. “Two years ago. Part of an expedition. I’m told that a good bit of this is now privately owned. One of my colleagues at the museum said there’s a huge estate at the base of the mountain. A monstrous thing. Under construction.”
Stephanie recalled what Edwin Davis had told her about the Venetian League. Members were buying property, so she played a hunch. “Do you know who owns it?”
He shook his head. “No idea.”
“We need to go,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ely, can you lead us there?”
The younger man nodded. “It’s about three hours south.”
“How are you feeling?”
Stephanie realized what the Dane meant.
“She knows,” Thorvaldsen said. “Ordinarily, I would have never said a thing, but these are far from ordinary times.”
“Zovastina has been supplying my daily medications. I told you she’s been good to me. How’s Cassiopeia?”
Thorvaldsen shook head. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid her health may well be the least of her worries.”
A car engine grew louder outside.