On the Fifth Day (18 page)

He wasn't alone. As a little reading demonstrated, archae

ologists had disagreed for two hundred fifty years about what the various structures were, to which Greek gods the temples were dedicated, and, in the case of one building, whether it was a temple at all. It was generally called the Temple of Hera, queen of the Olympian gods (the Greek equivalent of the Roman Juno), but in the older guidebooks it was still re

ferred to as the Basilica.

Thomas sighed, considered his brother's scribblings, and oriented himself. He was close to the northernmost side of the site, beside the Temple of Ceres (the Roman Demeter), which may have also been dedicated to Athena; gazing south across the forum to the temples of Poseidon (Neptune) or Apollo and Hera (Juno) some seven or eight thousand yards away. It was all very confusing. Ed's notes referenced "the tombs of the 128

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divers," though they did not appear on his guidebook map at all. He frowned, mounted what had once been some kind of table or podium, climbed three massive but eroded steps, and gazed out across the flat expanse of the site. In the middle distance a hoopoe alighted in the grass and flexed its black-and-white plume. Thomas watched as it took flight again, swooping pink as it soared in undulating waves, tail and wings flashing against the violet of the mountains be

yond. It settled again close to the half-excavated amphitheater he had passed on his way in, where a man with binoculars was turned toward him. As soon as Thomas's gaze fell on him, the man lowered the binoculars and turned away, but not before Thomas had glimpsed something of his face under heavy sun

glasses. Before he had shuffled busily away, Thomas was al

ready convinced that he had seen the Japanese man before, crossing the street outside the Executive and then again on videotape . . .

As before, his first response was anger. He had fled Chicago, he had been stymied by Monsignor Pietro, he had dodged Parks in Herculaneum like a hunted animal, and he was done running. At least out here in the sunlight and open spaces, where tourists milled in clusters like grazing cattle, he would not be chased off. If nothing else, he thought, as he climbed down from the stone pedestal and began to walk briskly toward the amphitheater, he had the element of sur

prise on his side.

Thomas broke into his wildebeest run. As soon as he had gotten down from the stone platform he had lost sight of the Japanese man with the binoculars. Now all he could do was make for the spot he had last seen him as quickly as possible. He put his head down and blew like a charging bull, feeling the heat, wishing for the cold air of a Chicago spring. A hundred yards or so to his left, tourists bought postcards at the stores and restaurants that lined the access road on the other side of a tall fenced embankment. To his right were the low, sprawling remains of ancient walls, dotted occasionally by a column or a solitary pine tree. There weren't the crowds 129

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he had seen in Pompeii, and for all the brightness and open

ness of the place, it was easy to be alone here. A flicker of un

ease shot through him like a spasm of pain, but he shrugged it off and picked up the pace.

The entrance into the amphitheater was a great stone arch--almost a tunnel--in a wall some fifteen feet high. Thomas broke in at a flat-out sprint, mainly because he didn't like lingering in its shadow. The amphitheater lay before him, a shallow semicircle of grass and dusty earth surrounded by tiered stone ranks of seats, the whole cut short by the embank

ment on which sat the road above. There was no sign of any

body there.

Thomas turned back to the entry arch slowly. And then the man who had been crouching in the high alcove beside it leaped down at him like a pouncing jaguar.

CHAPTER 32

Thomas took the full force of the attack, crumpling to the arena floor under the weight of his assailant. For a moment he seemed incapable of thought or action, and then his old rage was back and he was punching and kneeing as the other man thrashed to get loose.

Until a week ago, Thomas hadn't thrown a punch in anger since high school, but it all came back--the adrenaline, the panic, the blood in his eyes--only worse, because they were men and he knew, instinctively and certainly, that his attacker might be able to kill him, might try to do so . . . The Japanese man was small and wiry but he was strong. He was also quick. His fists jabbed twice. Thomas felt his windpipe crunch, and for a moment he couldn't breathe and thought he would throw up. He rolled to his knees as his at

tacker broke away. But he could not let it end like this. 130

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With a surge of will, Thomas roared after him, sprawling and grabbing his ankle. He twisted and the man came down hard, unable to break his fall. As Thomas clambered on top of him, the other clawed at his face, reaching for his eyes. Thomas twisted his head back as far as he could, slammed his hand across the other's Adam's apple, and squeezed. The fin

gers still dug into his cheeks, and he felt the blood run. With his free hand he grabbed a handful of the sandy dirt and palmed it into the other's open mouth. As he tried to spit it out, Thomas closed his hand over the man's lips and pressed down as hard as he could.

Immediately the smaller man began to writhe and wriggle like a fish. For perhaps ten seconds he squirmed and flailed and then the wordless fury turned desperate, pleading, and his body went limp in surrender.

Thomas withdrew his hand and sat back, letting him twist his head and retch the grit out, heaving himself onto all fours as he spat into the earth.

Thomas, by comparison, was merely winded and bloody.

"Why are you following me?" he said, getting to his feet. The man gargled and sputtered in Japanese.

"What?"

"
Eigo ga hanashimassen,
" he said.

"Like hell you don't speak English," said Thomas, his anger flaring again. He took a step toward the man, who flinched away, still incapable of standing.

He spat once more, and then seemed to calm.

"I knew your brother," he said, his English flawless, almost unaccented. "My name is Satoh."

"Go on."

"We had a deal. He didn't keep his part."

"What kind of deal?"

"He acquired something for me and then refused to hand it over."

Thomas squinted at him doubtfully. The Japanese man turned and sat heavily in the dust.

"What did he acquire?" said Thomas.

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"Information."

"About what? You'd better start picking up the pace with these answers or I'm going to lose my temper."

Satoh grinned slightly. His lower lip was bleeding heavily.

"You ever heard of the Herculaneum cross, Mr. Knight?"

he said.

"Yes. I've seen it."

The other man's smile broadened as he shook his head.

"No," he said. "You've seen the imprint on the wall of a house where the cross once hung. I'm talking about the cross itself."

"There is no cross," said Thomas.

"Not till about three months ago, no," said the other. His breathing was stabilizing now. In fact, it seemed that he was starting to enjoy himself. "A lawyer in Ercolano who lived about half a mile from the excavations was digging a swim

ming pool in his garden. He found a Roman road and part of a human skeleton. Without notifying anybody, he dug around it till the whole body was cut free of the rock. Clutched to the rib cage was a silver crucifix perfectly matching the shadow on the wall in the House of the Bicentenary."

Thomas stared at him.

"Nonsense," he said. "It would be in a museum. Its picture would be in every guidebook, on every website . . ."

"Not if the man who found it died shortly after confiding in a young American priest who was researching examples of early Christian symbols."

Thomas stood there, staring in silence. The Asian man's smile broadened still further. Its amusement was bitter.

"That's right, Thomas," said Satoh. "Your brother took it into safekeeping for 'research purposes.' Wanted to document it, study it, write about the little fish emblem in the center of the cross. But after he'd had it for a few days, he had a better idea."

"Sell it?" said Thomas. He was trying to sound sarcastic, disbelieving, but the words sounded hollow, only a hair's breadth from despair.

"Do you have any idea what that would be worth?" said 132

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Satoh. "The world's first extant crucifix. Think of it. Think how much collectors would pay just to get a look at it. To own it? He could name his price. Tens of millions? More? Some

one would pay. And I was the one to make sure it all went ac

cording to plan."

"I don't believe a word of it," Thomas said.

"You don't sound so sure."

"My brother wouldn't have done anything like that," said Thomas, daring him to contradict a statement that was less about real conviction than it was about holding on to a version of the past.

"What would you know about it?" the Japanese guy fired back. "You barely knew him. I knew him as well as you did. Better."

Afterward Thomas would think back on this and know he had been baited. At the time, the confusion and frustration co

alesced into the anger that made him ball his fists and take two lunging strides toward where the smaller man sat. Satoh timed his move perfectly. As Thomas got close he rolled to his left, pivoting on one hand as he sprang to his feet, the energy of the leap revolving him sharply. By the time he had completed the spin, his right foot was high enough to meet Thomas squarely on the jaw.

The impact stopped Thomas's forward progress cold. His head snapped back so sharply that he thought his neck might break. He was unconscious before he hit the ground. CHAPTER 33

Thomas woke with the sun hot on his face, his jaw aching as if he'd had a root canal, and a gaggle of tourists staring at him as if they had stumbled on the last bit of combat to be staged at the Paestum amphitheater. There was no sign of Satoh. 133

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He brushed off the offers of assistance and made for the exit, humbled and confused, sure only that he understood even less of what his brother had been involved in now than he had an hour before.

He didn't believe it. How could he? Satoh was a liar who had spied on him, broken into his room, and--when caught out--had spun the first tale that had come to mind. Even the fight had been fraudulent, leading to that final sucker punch--

or whatever the kick equivalent was called. Thomas rubbed his jaw. No. He wouldn't believe it. It all felt wrong. But a part of him also knew that the parts that felt wrong weren't the right parts. The yarn about the Herculaneum cross had not been made up on the spur of the moment. It was too good. It fitted the facts too well. What felt most wrong, if he was going to be honest with himself, was the way he'd gotten the guy to talk at all. The end of the fight had shown that Satoh had some real skill as a martial artist. That Thomas's clumsy sparring had managed to beat him into a submission forcing Satoh to sing for his supper now seemed suspicious at best. Could this business about the Herculaneum cross be more disinformation, a smear campaign like the suggestions of ties to terrorism intended to make Thomas stop asking questions?

If so it wasn't going to work. That wasn't loyalty or love for his brother. It was his accustomed defiance and need to know the truth that had surfaced at numerous uncomfortable mo

ments in his career, particularly when he thought he was being snowed.

His ticket to the site also gave him admission to the atten

dant museum, and he drifted in, as much to get rid of the dirt and blood as to see whatever might be on display. He found a restroom and washed thoroughly, frowning at his torn cheek and the gash above his eye in the mirror. There was no way he was going to be able to make himself look like a regular tourist. He pushed at the wound with his fingers and winced, stopping only when two men speaking what sounded like Dutch came in and regarded him with unmistakable concern. He left hurriedly.

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The collection and the manner of its exhibition were sur

prisingly impressive. The place was air-conditioned and cool, the artifacts nicely spaced in display cabinets of blond wood and elegant wall mountings: stone metope reliefs of Hercules, a bronze head of Zeus found in a local river, ancient pots, terra-cotta statues, a pair of extraordinary bronze vases from the strange triangular
heroon
he had seen outside. The shrine apparently dated from the sixth century BC and archaeolo

gists had been forced to cut away part of its sealed roof to get in. They found six bronze jars of honey that was, some said, still edible.

Impressive though the collection was, it was only when he reached a room at the back that the urgency of his visit came back to him. There were five stone slabs, all painted with scenes of young men reclining on couches, playing pipes, and engaging in some kind of game that seemed to involve drink

ing and throwing cups of wine. The men wore wreaths of plaited leaves around their heads but were otherwise naked, at least to the waist, below which they were draped with sheets or rugs. The youths were mostly grouped in couples and one pair was touching each other in ways that seemed to Thomas undeniably amorous or sensual, but then the ancient Greeks attached none of the Christian world's stigma to such things. The panels made up the four sides of a long stone box: a tomb, painted on the inside. The lid of the sarcophagus showed a naked man--presumably the deceased--arcing down through empty space into blue water overhung by styl

ized trees.

The tombs of the divers.

Thomas stared, then riffled through his guidebook. The tomb dated from the fifth century BC and was unique. The diver image, said the guidebook, was a metaphor for the soul's transition from life into death and the world beyond. Thomas gazed at it, arrested by the energy and graceful