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  “How are we going to find the spot?” Remi asked.

  “The usual ways, I guess. We start with the things that were already here in 452.”

  “The town was founded in the first century, so it was already three hundred years old when Attila arrived.”

  “It was just a little village along the shore. Without much warning, out of the north comes Attila the Hun, of all people, at the head of a huge army of horsemen. He had just devastated much of northern Italy on his way here.”

  “The people were probably too busy running to look at him closely,” said Remi. “I know I would have been.”

  “Me too. That’s how Venice was founded. People running from Attila as he came down from the north hid on the islands. When he left, they didn’t.”

  “Okay, smart guy,” she said. “The towns around here have changed. But the place where the river leaves the lake must be the same.”

  “That’s logical.”

  Remi said, “So Attila and about fifty or a hundred thousand warriors and their horses and wagons came this far south, loaded with the plunder of northern Italy. They camped south of here where the Mincio ran into the Po. Then the Roman delegation, consisting of Pope Leo, the Consul Avienus, and the Prefect Trigetius, arrived. What the two sides said to each other was never revealed. All the accounts are guesswork. What we know is that because Italy was in the middle of a famine, there was not much food for the Huns to steal. There was also an epidemic, and many of the Huns already had fallen sick. Marcian, the new emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, was encroaching on the Danube, which would threaten the Hun strongholds. For whatever combination of reasons, Attila and his men packed up and returned north, giving up his chance to rescue Honoria from her brother and gain control of the Roman Empire.”

  “Let’s think a minute,” said Sam. “He’s heading home. But he hopes to come back in a year or two and conquer Rome. He’s loaded down with loot from northern Italy. So he leaves a treasure to resupply his troops on his next attempt. Where would he leave it?”

  “At the place where he stopped to camp,” Remi said. “It’s as far south as he got. That’s the place where he could safely and secretly bury whatever he wanted to. And if he was going to use it to resupply his army, the road to Rome is the place to do it.”

  “Right.”

  “So we agree. It’s where the Mincio meets the Po?”

  “I think so. The place where he turned back has got to be where the world was lost.”

  “Let’s start with the west side of the Mincio. If you’re coming down Lake Garda, that’s the less mountainous side, so it’s the most sensible way to travel.”

  “All right,” said Sam. “Let’s go check into our hotel. On the way, we can tell Selma to track down the equipment we’ll need.”

  As they walked toward their car, Remi called Selma in California and put her on speaker.

  “Hi, Remi.”

  “Hi, Selma. We’re here in Peschiera del Garda and we think we know where to search. But we’ll need a handheld magnetometer and a good metal detector.”

  “They’re waiting in your hotel. I ordered two of each.”

  “Why, thank you, Selma,” said Remi.

  “Once I saw the pictures of the big iron slabs, I knew you’d be needing detectors. Anything else you want, just let me know.”

  “You got it,” said Remi. “Has Albrecht arrived yet?”

  “Not yet. His plane arrives in about two hours. Pete and Wendy are going to pick him up. We’ve got his room ready and plenty of space and computer equipment set up.”

  “Thanks, Selma,” said Sam. “We’ll start work this afternoon.”

  Remi added, “We’ll call and let you know if anything turns up. Has Bako moved yet?”

  “You’re safe for the moment. Tibor says that Bako and his men are still in Szeged. If they understood the message, they’re in no hurry to get to Italy.”

  “That’s the best news of the day,” said Remi.

  “Glad to oblige. I’ll talk to you if anything changes,” Selma said and then hung up.

  Remi put the phone away and they drove to their hotel, a white building on the beach with a cordon of bright red beach umbrellas that made it look as though it belonged a few miles to the east on the Adriatic. After checking into the hotel and examining their equipment, Remi and Sam went to see the concierge, a fifty-year-old woman wearing a tailored gray suit with the hotel’s logo on the left lapel. “May I help you?” she said, her lightly tinted glasses glinting.

  “I understand that this area is full of bicycle paths,” said Sam. “Is there one that runs the length of the Mincio River?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the concierge. “It begins where the river flows out of the harbor and runs all the way through Mantua and beyond. I’ve done the ride myself many times. It’s about twenty-five miles.”

  “When you say ‘and beyond,’ what do you mean? How far beyond?”

  “There’s a natural stopping point at Mantua where the river becomes three lakes. But you could continue eight miles to the place where the Mincio continues to the Po.” She reached into the top drawer of her desk and handed Sam a map. “The bicycle route is marked and shows you just where to go.”

  “Thank you,” said Sam. He gave a little bow. “Mille grazie.”

  The concierge laughed. “You make a good Italian. Once you get to know this place, you might not want to go home.”

  “I’ll try to be a good guest,” he said. To Remi he said, “Let’s get some bicycles.”

  They walked along an old canal, following the map, to a bicycle shop. At first, everything in the shop seemed to be the sort of gear used by professional racers. But when the proprietor saw Remi walk past a three-thousand-euro bike and ask for something a bit more comfortable for touring, he showed them some sturdy, practical mountain bikes with thick, knobby tires and well-padded seats. They picked out a pair, with his advice, bought backpacks, and threw in some visors to keep the sun out of their eyes. Sam also bought a variety of accessories—lights, reflectors, and other items that attached to bicycles, and a portable set of bicycle tools.

  They rode their new bicycles back to their hotel, then walked them into the elevator and took them to their floor. When they had the bicycles in their room, he attached the magnetometers in such a way that no one looking at the bicycles would know that there was anything unusual about them. The telescoped magnetometer poles looked like reinforced bicycle crossbars, and the sensors extended just a few inches in front of the handlebars.

  He removed the two metal detectors from their boxes but kept them stored unassembled in the two backpacks.

  As they were preparing, Sam’s cell phone buzzed. He switched on the speaker. “Yes?”

  “Sam? It’s me, Albrecht.”

  “Are you in California yet?”

  “Yes. I’m in your house, with Selma. Since I left you, I’ve spent some time studying the available satellite photography and aerial mapping of the spot where you’re looking, and I’ve rechecked some of the written sources.”

  “What can you tell us?”

  “There are several versions of the story but a few things we know for certain. One is that Attila left a trail of destruction in the northern part of Italy and came down the west side. There were no roads on the east side until the 1930s, which is an indication of what the landscape is like.”

  “Remi figured that out,” said Sam. “And since the Huns didn’t leave a written history, we’re guessing the best sources are the people who kept track of Pope Leo I. They list the cities Attila sacked and destroyed. Mantua is the last one.”

  “Leo met him on the Mincio where it empties into the Po. The Pope had come from the southeast, and since he was the supplicant, he went to Attila’s camp.”

  “How will we know where the camp was?”

  “Your coordinates are 45° 4' 17.91" north, 10° 58' .01" east. Attila had between fifty and a hundred thousand fighters. That means at least a hundred thousand horses
and innumerable cattle, sheep, and goats. They would be lined up along the river, drinking and grazing. The encampment would be on a fairly flat piece of ground, but elevated to keep from flooding.”

  Selma said, “We put the camp’s tents about two hundred yards from the confluence, stretching west along the north side of the Po.”

  Remi said, “Why the north side?”

  “Attila had just come down from the north, and they knew that no force was left behind them. The only possible threat would have been a Roman army somewhere to the south, so they would have kept the river to the south of them as a barrier.”

  “Okay,” said Remi. “North side of the Po, west side of the Mincio. Flattish ground, look for the highest spot on it.”

  “That’s right,” said Albrecht. “We’re still trying to decide how Attila’s men could have buried the treasure secretly.”

  “We have a couple of ideas,” Sam said. “We’ll let you know if we’re right. What’s the latest on Arpad Bako?”

  “Still no movement. Tibor positively identified Bako going into his office as usual this morning and coming back from lunch in the afternoon. He had four of his security men with him.”

  “Great. Please let us know if anything changes. By now, Bako should have read the inscription in the false tomb and he ought to be moving.”

  “Maybe he’s not as good at this as we are,” Selma said.

  “I’m just hoping he’s not better.”

  “We’d better get going,” said Remi.

  “I heard that,” said Selma. “We’ll be waiting for news.”

  Early the next morning, Sam and Remi dressed in tourist clothes: shorts, T-shirts, and athletic shoes, with their sun visors and sunglasses. In another five minutes they were out on the road, heading for the Mincio River.

  An old, level towpath bordered the river and made it a favorite ride for bicyclists. Sam and Remi pedaled along the paved path with dozens of others, admiring the beauty of the city and the equally beautiful Lombardy landscape, the flat fields nearby and low rolling hills in the middle distance, with a row of trees growing along each bank of the river. There were houses that must have dated from the Middle Ages and old vineyards with vines strung on poles and overhead wires. They stopped at a pleasant spot beneath the trees along the river and ate their picnic lunch.

  They reached Lago Superiore, the first of the lakes, at one-thirty p.m. and rode along its southern shore into the center of Mantua. They found a sidewalk café where they could rest and have espressos and pastries in view of the second lake, Lago di Mezzo, then rode over the Via Lagnasco bridge to SS 482, the Via Ostiglia.

  “Eight more miles,” said Remi. “This is glorious. I don’t feel tired at all.”

  “It occurred to me that we’ve been following the river downstream,” said Sam. “Does that suggest anything to you?”

  “Yes. That we’ll be pedaling uphill all the way back to Peschiera del Garda,” Remi said. “Or we’ll have to find another way.”

  After an hour of easy pedaling, they could see the destination. The Po ran west to east and was wider than the Mincio. On both sides of the Mincio were cultivated vegetable and grain fields as far as they could see, except for the field at its confluence, which had been plowed but not yet planted. The trees were all along the riverbeds.

  Sam and Remi dismounted from their bicycles and studied the landscape. “This is a good place not to be noticed,” said Remi. “I can’t even see a building on this side. Albrecht said to stay on the west side of the Mincio, north of the Po. All we need to find now is a fifteen-hundred-year-old campsite.”

  “Give me a minute to check the GPS.” After a minute, Sam said, “We’re on it. They would have watered their horses along the riverbed. And if I were a nomadic horseman, I would be sure to take really good care of my horses.” He turned away from the river to face the field. “Fifty to a hundred thousand Hun warriors means something near two hundred thousand horses. It’s hard to imagine what that must have looked like. The line of horses must have stretched along both rivers for a couple of miles.”

  Remi wheeled her bike to a nearby tree, leaned the bike against the trunk, stepped on the bike’s lower bar, then the seat, and pulled herself up to the tree’s first large branch. She reached up to the second branch for a handhold and then stood.

  “What do you see?” asked Sam.

  “From up here, it looks as though the highest part of the field is right over there.” She pointed a hundred yards inland to a section of the field that was slightly elevated.

  Sam stepped close and helped her down, then extended the magnetometers’ poles so the sensors extended about three feet in front of the bicycles’ handlebars and the boxes holding the gauges were between the handlebars and easy to read. They walked their bicycles, side by side, into the field and up the slight incline.

  It was late afternoon, the sun’s rays falling at a low angle on the field. As they walked they read the magnetometers, watching for disturbances in the magnetic field. There was little fluctuation in the readings until they crossed the highest point in the field, which was almost a dome. Then the needles jumped.

  “Did you get that?” Remi asked.

  “Got it,” Sam said.

  They both stopped. Sam said, “Let’s see how big it is.”

  Remi laid her bike down to mark the place where the disturbance began and walked with Sam as he wheeled his bike a few yards. “There,” he said and laid his bike down. They paced the distance together, then replaced the bikes with their sun visors. They rolled the bikes along a perpendicular path. “It’s ten paces by fifteen,” Remi said.

  “That’s what I get,” Sam said. “About twenty by thirty feet. Let’s try one of the metal detectors.” Sam assembled the one from Remi’s backpack and began to pass it back and forth over the area they had marked off. It gave off an electronic tone, then a squeal—a loud and unchanging shriek—as he walked the width of the spot.

  Remi said, “It’s huge—much bigger than the first chamber. Plan A or Plan B?”

  “We’ll have to mark it so we can find it again quickly, then ride back to Peschiera del Garda and get ready to excavate tomorrow night after dark.”

  “Where will we find a way to hold a hoard of gold twenty by thirty paces across?”

  “We’ve got a navigable river right over there.”

  “Aha, Plan A,” she said. “A big boat.”

  Sam marked the spot by taking the sensor off his magnetometer and laying the long aluminum pole flat on the ground. Then they rode their bicycles back along the towpath to Peschiera del Garda under the waning sun and then into the darkness.

  As soon as they were in their hotel room and had a bath, they called Tibor’s secure cell phone. “Tibor?”

  “Yes, Sam.”

  “We need the three men we used as crewmen on the boat in the Tisza. They need to be at our hotel in Mantua by tomorrow evening at sundown.”

  “You have a boat?” asked Tibor.

  “No, but by tomorrow night I will.”

  “They’ll be there.”

  “Thanks, Tibor.”

  “I have to get off now, so I can talk to them. Good-bye, Sam.”

  Sam and Remi called the concierge again, and while she got them a reservation for a fine restaurant in Mantua, they drove the twenty-five miles to the city to shop in the best stores and find clothes suitable for an evening out. They began with a gray Armani summer suit for Sam, and, at Folli Follie, Remi bought a simple but striking Fendi jacquard sleeveless dress with a gold accent on the belt. They wore the clothes they had bought, left the clothes they’d worn in the trunk of the car they’d parked at the city walls, and made the ten-minute walk to Ochina Bianca, a restaurant just north of the city’s center.

  They ordered risotto alla milanese, redolent with saffron, as their pasta course, osso buco as their entrée, and their wine selection was Felsina Fontalloro 2004 from Tuscany. Remi said, “This is all so wonderful. Let’s flip a coin to see whic
h one of us goes to culinary school so we can have this at home.”

  “The cooking part is not my specialty,” he said. “Think of me as your nutritionist and trainer. I’m just helping you build up your strength for tomorrow when the work starts again. In fact, I’m already thinking you might need some dessert. There’s a local delicacy called sabbiosa, which is a plum cake soaked in Guinness. How can that be bad?”

  “I have no idea,” said Remi. “Maybe it can’t.”

  “In fact, I’ll even have some with you to be sure it’s up to your standards.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  After their dinner in Mantua, they walked to the city walls, got into their car, and drove along the country road toward Lake Garda. “I’m glad we did this,” Remi said.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow night at this time, if we’re digging a deep hole with shovels, I can remind myself that while the world sometimes brings you dirt and hard labor it also brings perfect risotto.”

  “And a perfect date to share it with.”

  “You’re getting awfully good at that,” Remi said. “I’m going to have to keep a close eye on you to be sure you’re not practicing compliments on other women.”

  “Feel free,” said Sam. “I relish close attention.”

  “I know you do,” she said, and leaned close to kiss his cheek as they drove in the starlight back to their hotel in Peschiera del Garda.

  CONFLUENCE OF THE PO AND MINCIO RIVERS, ITALY

  IT WAS TEN THE FOLLOWING NIGHT BEFORE SAM AND Remi walked into the field again. This time they arrived by car. Sam drove it off the road under the row of trees and bushes and covered it with a tarp to hide its shape. He and Remi wore dark clothes and carried shovels and crowbars, flashlights, climbing ropes, and infrared night goggles in their backpacks.

  They quickly found the pole they had left behind and began to dig. The work went more easily than Sam had anticipated because the ground had been plowed recently, so it was loose for the first foot or more. Beneath it was rich black dirt from thousands of years of overflows from the two rivers, land cultivated by the Etruscans and then the Romans, then the Lombards and modern Italians.