The Tombs Page 15

  “It’s a reference to the other possibility I referred to for the fifth treasure, the Battle of the Catalaunian Plains in 451,” Albrecht said. “The friends were Flavius Aëtius, the Roman general, and Theodoric, the King of the Visigoths. Both had been friends of Attila but hated each other. When Attila invaded and looted much of France, they joined forces at Châlons-en-Champagne and became his enemies.”

  “What’s that about funeral goods?”

  “Theodoric was killed in the battle, but, as sometimes happens in big battles, the principal leaders lost touch with one another and Theodoric’s body wasn’t found until the next day. His son, Thorismund, buried Theodoric, presumably with his armor, weapons, and personal belongings, and the crown passed to him.”

  Remi said, “And this was your second choice for ‘where the world was lost.’”

  “That’s right,” Albrecht said. “This was the farthest west Attila got—roughly to the city of Troyes, France. The men who formed an alliance to stop him had once been friends of Attila’s. The battle was huge and violent, but it ended in a draw. When it was too dark to fight, Attila withdrew to his camp. Flavius Aëtius didn’t pursue the Huns when they left. Some historians believe he was afraid to destroy them because it would have left the Visigoths unopposed. I suspect the truth was that the Huns were still strong as ever and he didn’t want to push his luck. This was the last major battle that the Romans could be said to have won and that was only because Aëtius was still on the field when the other armies departed. Theodoric was dead, and his son Thorismund set off for home as fast as he could to secure his place as the new king of the Visigoths.”

  “Good enough,” said Remi. “So we know roughly where we go next. But we’re still in Italy. Have you gotten in touch with the Italian authorities?”

  “Yes. They understand the need for secrecy and the need for speed. They’ll be in touch with you in a few hours to take possession of the artifacts and move them to Rome.”

  “Good,” said Sam. “I’ll be glad when they’re somebody else’s responsibility.”

  Selma said, “When you’ve finished with the Italian authorities, go to the airport in Verona. Your tickets to France will be waiting. Just insert a credit card in the machine for identification and it will print your boarding passes. While you’re in the air, we’ll be preparing more information for you.”

  “Thanks, Selma.”

  An hour later, they saw the boat pass under the last bridge and move out into the lake outside the marina. They called Tibor and told him the plan and then went to their hotel.

  They had barely showered and eaten a room service breakfast before there was a knock on the door. Standing in the hall were five men in dark suits. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo,” said the leader. He held up a badge and identification card. “I am Sergio Boiardi. We’re assigned to the Tutela Patrimonio Culturale of the Carabinieri in Naples. I understand you have requested our help.”

  “Come in, please,” said Sam. When they were inside and the door was closed, Sam said, “We have made a major discovery, a treasure hoard from the year 452.”

  “We were told you want us to take custody and register it.”

  “Yes,” said Sam.

  “You are aware that the bilateral agreement between the U.S. and Italy covers the ninth century B.C. to the fourth century A.D.?”

  “Yes. Technically, a fifth-century find is probably exempt from registration, but we’re voluntarily asking for a license to transport the artifacts after they’ve been catalogued and photographed by the Italian authorities. To be open with you, there are other parties who have been actively trying to prevent us from making any discoveries and they’re violent. Part of our intention is to ensure that they don’t attempt to steal the find from us.”

  Boiardi nodded. “And where are the artifacts now?”

  “On a boat we rented. It’s anchored outside the marina in the lake,” Sam said. “Our idea was to rent a trailer, load the boat onto it, and tow it to a secure spot where we could unload the artifacts into boxes and put them on your truck.”

  Boiardi said, “It’s a good plan. We can borrow a barn in the countryside that will hold a truck and a boat on a trailer for a few hours, then all of us can be on our way without attracting unnecessary attention.”

  “Let’s do it,” said Sam.

  They drove down to the marina in an unmarked white truck the Carabinieri had brought with them, then went to a nearby boatyard and rented a large trailer and a hitch for it. After they had backed the trailer down the boat launch and into the lake, Tibor’s cousins piloted the boat onto the trailer, and the truck pulled it up into the parking lot. Within a few minutes, the boat was secured, the men were all in the truck, and one of Boiardi’s men drove them to a large barn on a farm on the west side of Lago del Garda. The driver pulled the truck and trailer inside, jumped down to close the doors, and then everyone went to work.

  Boiardi supervised his men as they placed the boxes of precious coins, ornaments, and gems from the boat into identical cardboard boxes that looked as though they came from a moving van. As the objects came to light and were put on the floor for repacking, both Remi and the Carabinieri took photographs. The rows of boxes grew higher in the back of the truck.

  “It’s astounding,” said Boiardi. “Every object is an archaeological marvel, a bit of Attila’s plunder. But plenty of the objects are much, much older than Attila. What he was taking were often masterworks, the museum pieces of their time, some of them from the beginning of the Roman era, some Greek, some from early Christian churches. We’re all very fortunate that the diggers—the grave robbers who are always scouring Italy for antiquities—didn’t find this before you did.”

  “We never expected it to be as good as this,” Remi said. “But I guess we should have. The Huns had moved south through Italy, stopping at each city to plunder its wealth. We think he left so much here because this treasure was going to fund his next attempt to invade Rome.”

  Sam, Remi, and Tibor and his three cousins helped the Carabinieri repack and load the precious objects. The work went efficiently. When they were finished, Boiardi said, “We’ll tow the boat back to the marina and then we’ll be on our way. We’re driving to Rome so the treasure can be stored in the safety of the Capitoline Museum.”

  Everyone climbed into the truck again and the Carabinieri driver started the engine. Two Carabinieri walked ahead of the truck and pushed open the large sliding barn doors. As soon as they did, they found themselves with guns held to their heads.

  Sam, Remi, and Boiardi felt the truck stop abruptly. Boiardi opened the back door and they jumped out to see six men rush into the barn. They wore ordinary street clothes—sport coats or windbreakers, jeans or khaki pants—but they were carrying SC70/90 assault weapons, short-barreled submachine guns with folding stocks.

  Boiardi stepped in front of Sam and whispered, “Take my gun.”

  Sam reached for the small clip-on belt holster at Boiardi’s back and took the Beretta pistol and holster and pocketed them. As soon as Boiardi felt his gun slip away, he shouted in Italian—Sam couldn’t understand all the words but he got the gist—“What are you doing here? We are national police on a mission. Put those guns down instantly.”

  The response from one of the men at the door was to fire a short burst from his weapon into the roof. When the two Carabinieri who’d had guns to their heads involuntarily jumped at the sudden noise, the interlopers laughed. They roughly pushed the two men back into the barn and then spread farther apart so that each of them had a better angle of fire at either the group of Carabinieri and Remi or at Sam, Boiardi, Tibor, and his cousins.

  The man who had fired into the roof was a big, barrel-chested middle-aged man with a thick black beard. He charged forward, flung open the door of the truck’s cargo bay, climbed in, and tore open a couple of boxes. He dragged one to the bac
k of the truck and tilted it so the others could see the contents. He called out, “È d’oro. È tutto oro antico!”

  Sam had no trouble understanding those words. The others exchanged quick glances and seemed to catch the man’s joy like a virus. The leader jumped from the truck and stepped close to Boiardi, who said something quick and angry to him.

  The man grinned. “Ci avete seguito.” He moved off toward the place where the two Carabinieri stood and, while his friends aimed their weapons at the police officers, he patted them down. He found one officer had an extra pistol, took it, and brought his rifle across the man’s face.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “Remi and I must have been too visible.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Boiardi whispered back. “He says they didn’t follow you. They followed us. They knew that the only cases our office handles involve finds of antiquities, so they waited until we left Naples and followed us.”

  The robbers were busy using the policemen’s handcuffs on them and tying them to the vertical beams of the barn. Then two of them and their leader approached Boiardi and the leader frisked him.

  The leader took his eyes off Sam while he was searching Boiardi and Sam noticed. He drove his left fist into the leader’s face like a piston as his right drew Boiardi’s weapon. He grasped the leader’s coat and jerked him upward to act as a shield and held the pistol to his head. Boiardi snatched away the leader’s SC70/90 automatic rifle and held it on the two men who had come over with the leader.

  The two men set their rifles on the floor, stepped back, and raised their hands in the air. The two Carabinieri who had not been handcuffed yet knelt to pick up their own sidearms from the barn floor and then picked up the two automatic weapons.

  One of the armed thieves saw the meaning of what was happening and decided to stop it. He yelled, “No!” and opened fire. His rifle spat bullets, and his leader collapsed to the floor in front of Sam.

  Sacrificing his leader served its purpose. The other thieves, seeing their leader dead, no longer had a reason to give up. They turned and tried to take cover, carrying their weapons. Boiardi’s two police officers fired on them, and one was hit in the leg and sprawled on the floor. No others offered resistance.

  The man who had shot the leader was not about to capitulate. He fired a burst in the general direction of Sam and Boiardi, who had taken cover behind the boat trailer. Sam climbed over the railing into the boat and crawled to the bow.

  As the man was stalking along the wall looking for an advantage, Sam swung his arm over the gunwale and fired. His bullet hit the man’s upper torso at the collarbone. The man spun around to return fire, but his right arm went limp and he dropped his rifle. Two Carabinieri were on him, handcuffing him and forcing him to sit at the side of the barn with his wounded colleague and the man he had shot. The others quickly lost their weapons and joined him.

  Boiardi telephoned the local police to obtain help, an ambulance and police cars to transport the prisoners. While they waited, he asked the prisoners questions. The answers were defiant and resentful. He was about to give up when Remi said, “Can you find out if they were sent by a man named Bako?”

  He did, then translated. “Who is Bacco? Is he from Sicily? There are lots of Sicilians in the archaeology business lately.”

  “I guess that means no,” Remi said. “Gold just attracts its own trouble.”

  In a few minutes they heard sirens, and the police cars began lining up in the barnyard. The ambulance arrived and the team of paramedics took the two wounded men, and a couple of police officers to guard them, and left. The three healthy thieves were transported. And finally a coroner’s van came for the lifeless leader.

  When they were back at the harbor and Boiardi was about to drive off to Rome, he stepped to Sam and Remi. “This is a disturbing development. The thieves have finally realized that the easiest way to find ancient treasures is to follow the national police officers who are supposed to verify and register the finds. We could be entering a period when no national antiquities officer will be safe. Anybody who doesn’t retire is a fool.”

  “So you’re retiring?” asked Remi.

  “Me? No. Not right away. Not after your husband kept me alive. Maybe we’ll talk about all this another day, but right now there’s so much to do. Arrivederci, Fargos. Travel safe.”

  VERONA AIRPORT, ITALY

  SELMA WONDRASH’S VOICE CAME OVER THE SPEAKER ON Remi’s telephone. “The village of Châlons-en-Champagne has just two hundred twenty-seven people, and the spot Albrecht and I believe is the battlefield is five miles north near the hamlet of Cuperly on D994, La route de Reims.”

  “What are we looking for?” asked Sam.

  Albrecht took over the phone. “Near the center of the battlefield was a rock shelf, a high outcropping, that rose from the ground at an angle. The Roman army, which also included the Visigoths, the Alans, and the Celts, rushed in, in a forced march, to control the high ground before the Huns arrived. When the Huns swept in on horseback from the east, they were greeted by arrows raining down on them from the rocks. The Huns made a tentative attempt to dislodge the defenders, then fell back to the east on lower, level ground. They fortified their position by circling their wagons around the encampment.”

  “How far east from the shelf?” asked Remi.

  “They would have retreated beyond arrow range,” said Albrecht.

  “How far was arrow range?”

  “Well, I suppose you could stand on the top of the rocks and shoot an arrow off at a forty-five-degree angle and see.”

  “I just might do that.”

  “Or you could estimate. I’d say two hundred fifty yards would probably do it.”

  “We’ll take the guess,” Sam said. “Selma, could you send us another magnetometer and a metal detector at the hotel in France?”

  “It’s done. They should be there tonight. You’re staying at L’Assiette Champenoise, an old estate with four acres of grounds and modern conveniences in the center of town.”

  “Thanks, Selma,” said Remi. “If it’s got a nice bathtub I’ll be happy. And I think we could use some sleep. This has turned into a lot of night work.”

  “You’re welcome. Pick up your car at Charles de Gaulle Terminal 1. Head east out of Paris on the N44 to Reims, about a hundred ninety kilometers. Then take D994, La route de Reims, to Cuperly.”

  “Got it,” said Sam.

  “Albrecht, what else can you tell us about the battle?” asked Remi.

  “Well, after the initial skirmish, Attila could see he wasn’t going to take the high ground on the rocky shelf. He fell back to await developments. In those days, that meant watching enemy troop movements and opening up a few birds to read their entrails. Attila let his enemies stew for most of the day. When the afternoon was nearly over, he attacked. The battle lasted until dark and left thousands dead on the field in about equal number for both sides. Attila’s horsemen couldn’t overcome the other side’s advantage of holding the high ground. He fell back to his fortified camp. The Roman commander Aëtius got lost in the dark, separated from his Romans, and found shelter with some Visigoths, who had lost track of their own leader, Theodoric. His son Thorismund found his body the next day. Attila, apparently not knowing the poor shape his enemies were in, prepared to make a stand. He gathered a huge pile of the wooden frames of his men’s saddles. If he were to die, he wanted his body thrown on them and burned. But then his men noticed that the Visigoths were leaving the field. They were going home so Thorismund could claim his father’s throne. So Attila left, going east across the Rhine.”

  “Perfect,” said Remi.

  “Perfect?” said Albrecht.

  “That’s where the treasure will be.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Sam and I have been thinking about this since we began. The treasures are always buri
ed at some bad moment—a defeat, someone’s death. How did they accomplish that? If we look at the accounts of Attila’s death, there was a huge tent set up for Attila and his retainers, so big that you could ride horses in it.”

  “I don’t think I see where you’re going,” said Selma.

  “The saddle frames never got burned. They were a distraction, a show. Inside Attila’s huge tent, where nobody could see, there were men digging another crypt, a treasure chamber like the two we’ve found. As soon as the hole was dug, the masons would disappear into the big tent to set the stones. Attila’s trusted palace guards loaded the treasure into the chamber without leaving the tent. They sealed the chamber, covered it, and then struck the tent. Nobody had seen any hole or any digging. As they left, they probably herded their horses across the camp. Nobody but a trusted few knew where the treasure was or even that it existed.”

  “I think you’ve figured him out,” said Albrecht. “From Châlons, he went to northern Italy and found new plunder on his way to invading Rome. He was probably already preparing to turn south into Italy the day of the battle. Rome was the biggest prize and probably always was his goal. Everyone knows Attila’s enemies fought him to a standstill at Châlons. What they all forget is that he fought them to a standstill too.”

  Sam said, “The sources say Attila delayed his attack until it was nearly night. Maybe he was delaying until his chamber was dug and the stones brought from somewhere—probably the Marne River, which was right near the battlefield.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Albrecht. “If you can ascertain where Attila’s tent was erected, you’ll find the treasure chamber under it.”

  Their flight from Verona reached Paris in two hours and they picked up their rental car and drove out of the traffic and congestion of the city. Even with Sam’s excessive speed, the one hundred ninety kilometers on the N44 took three hours.

  Sam and Remi found their way to Châlons-en-Champagne, then the road to Cuperly, and drove the five additional miles to the tiny hamlet. Late in the afternoon they were among farmers’ fields, various trapezoid shapes so closely interlaced that the land looked as though every inch belonged to someone and was under full cultivation.