The Seven Stars Read online

  ‘I’d feel happier if I saw you to your hotel. Look, I’ll tell you what, there’s a bar on the way back, let’s have a last drink. It’s still early –’

  Flora hesitated. It was warm and she was enjoying his company too much for the evening to end. And he was right: after all, a last one wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  He ordered the drinks and for the first time that evening she noticed he seemed more like his old self. Without any conscious decision from either of them, one drink turned to two and after the fourth, Flora lost count so by the time they got back to the hotel her head was spinning. ‘Thank you for a brilliant evening, Francesco,’ she said. ‘It’s so lovely to see you again.’ She put her arms up to kiss him goodnight and he pulled her towards him, kissing her full on the mouth. ‘No, Francesco, you mustn’t,’ she protested but made no resistance when he kissed her again. She felt his hand slide up the back of her thigh as he pressed hard against her. She pulled away again. ‘No, not here, you’d better come inside.’

  Chapter Seven

  The Caspian Sea coast of Armenia, AD 63

  An icy wind blew from the Hyrcanian Ocean across the rooftops of the Armenian town of Albanopolis. The garrison troops of the Legio XV Apollinaris were confined to barracks, more preoccupied with keeping warm than scouring the frozen hillsides for the scattered remnants of the Parthian army still loyal to King Tiridates. The sleety overcast of the afternoon turned almost imperceptibly to dusk and the few inhabitants who had been brave enough to venture out in such weather wrapped their cloaks around themselves and headed indoors to their firesides.

  The sleet turned to hard pellets of snow and began to collect in the gutters of the cobbled streets leading from the citadel towards the port. Josephus, the young Judean who just over two years earlier had witnessed Roman summary justice meted out to Andreas in Patras, pulled up the rough woollen cowl of his cloak in an attempt to protect himself from the stinging white bullets swirling around the narrow defile between the buildings. In the darkness he missed his turning and, cursing, turned to retrace his steps, feet slithering over the icy cobbles. He stopped, looked back into the gloom, and seeing no one behind him, turned into the narrow passageway. They’d chosen well, he thought: the alley was barely wide enough for two men – no need for three hundred Spartans to hold this pass. After about twenty paces the passage opened into a small courtyard and in the corner stood the door he was looking for: had it not been for the light showing through the gap beneath, he would have missed it altogether. Without hesitation, he slammed his hand three times against the solid timbers. The vague murmur of voices from inside ceased at once and he heard the bolts being drawn back. The door swung open. Silhouetted by the firelight from within stood a heavy-set man, at least twenty years older than Josephus and half a head taller. ‘I come from the brother of James,’ said the younger man.

  ‘Whom do you seek?’ came the reply.

  ‘The follower of Christ: Nathanael, son of Talmai.’

  ‘I am Nathanael Bar Talmai. Welcome friend. Please enter.’

  He noted with satisfaction that Bar Talmai’s Aramaic was spoken with an unmistakable Galilean accent. ‘Not now,’ he said, staring hard into his eyes. ‘There are others; friends who also follow the redeemer’s word. I came alone to make sure it was safe. I will fetch them.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Bar Talmai. ‘But be quick, it will soon be curfew.’

  ‘Don’t worry. They are nearby.’

  The door closed behind him and Josephus turned once more into the snowy darkness. At the end of the narrow passage, he turned uphill, moving as quickly as he could. In less than twenty minutes he banged on the door once more. As before, Bar Talmai answered the door but this time held it open and stood aside to let him enter. Instead of following his host to join the twenty of so other men crowded round the fire, the young Judean paused on the threshold. Bar Talmai stopped and turned round. He’d heard the sound too – a quiet but distinct ringing sound of metal on metal. ‘Tell your friends to come in. There’s no need for them to skulk out there in the cold.’

  Josephus smiled. ‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ he replied, and returning to the door, beckoned into the darkness, standing aside to let the newcomers enter.

  The squad of soldiers from the Albanopolis garrison’s Frumentario detachment, the Empire’s feared and loathed secret service, burst into the room, securing the exits and forcibly restraining the three men who’d been quick enough to try and make an escape. Surprise was total and after a short scuffle during which one of Bar Talmai’s companions received a head wound from the butt-end of a gladius, a tense calm fell upon the room, the firelight glinting from the blades of the soldiers’ short stabbing swords. The commander, a short, scar-faced man who spoke Latin with a strong Mauretanian accent turned to Josephus. ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  He pointed at Bar Talmai. ‘Him. The tall one.’ Two soldiers moved forward and pulled the Galilean out of the group, kicking his feet out from under him and pinning his arms to the floor. Two others sat on his legs.

  ‘Good lad. You can go now if you like, this isn’t for the squeamish.’ He turned to face the group of men his troops were holding at sword-point. ‘You bastards, on the other hand, are going to have a ring-side seat. One squeak out of any of you and you’re next.’

  Josephus shuddered at the thought of what was about to happen, and, drawing his cloak about him, disappeared into the dark. By the time he reached the end of the passageway he could hear terrible screaming, worse than anything he’d heard in the arena. A shiver ran through him but not because of the cold: he understood the mechanics of flaying a man alive, but the reality of watching it happen was simply too much.

  In time, Bar Talmai would become better known as Saint Bartholomew, but the fact that he died because of his involvement with murder and fraud was wiped from history’s slate. Josephus had his revenge but somewhere out there, seven more guilty men still lived and breathed. He would find them all.

  Chapter Eight

  Pompeii

  The next morning Flora’s hangover wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The battle with her conscience had been brief and had ended with unconditional and deliciously enjoyable surrender. And now, although part of her felt guilty for sleeping with a married man, another side of her was luxuriating in the sheer naughtiness of what they’d done last night. After all, she thought, in a burst of self-justification, if Anna’s left him that’s her lookout.

  On arrival at the lab she heard Moretti’s voice and popped her head round his office door to say hello. He and Lombardi looked up in response and she could tell at once from their faces that the news wasn’t good.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you were busy, I’ll come back.’

  ‘No, please come in, Miss Kemble,’ said Lombardi. ‘I think we may need your help. You know we were talking about Greco?’

  ‘Francesco’s clerk? Have you found him? Is he all right?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Flora put her hand to her mouth.

  Lombardi continued. ‘I’m afraid so. Somebody’s trying to make a point. We got a call just after midnight and sure enough we found the body. Guess where?’

  ‘Not at the dig? Surely not –’

  Lombardi nodded. ‘In the bottom of the trench. His throat was slit from ear-to-ear.’

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ asked Flora. ‘That poor, poor man. Do you have any idea who did it?’

  ‘We thought we did but it turns out we may’ve been wrong. That’s why we’re going to need your help.’

  Flora looked at the lieutenant, perplexed. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m a palaeographer, not a detective.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Lombardi. ‘You won’t be in any danger. I’ve asked Doctor Moretti to help too. You see, to help us find the “who?”, we need start with the “why?” and that’s where you come in.’

  Flora shook her head. ‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me.’
r />   ‘It’s simple. The TPC deals with thousands of tombaroli cases a year and usually, in the case of Roman finds, they’re after coin, precious metals, statuary – anything with an established value on the archaeological black market. But this looks different. We’re dealing with fragments of work from a known writer and we already have later copies. What made them worth stealing, let alone killing for? And why smash up the dig?’

  ‘Professor Sumter seemed to think it was just people after easily-saleable old documents, but what I can’t understand is why they’d want to destroy the provenance too.’

  ‘That’s another reason why we think it’s more than a simple theft.’

  Flora turned to Moretti. ‘But Francesco, I thought you said it was the Camorra who did this.’

  ‘That’s what the TPC thought,’ he replied. ‘Lieutenant Lombardi’s had some news though.’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Lombardi. ‘You see, Miss Kemble – ’

  ‘Flora, please.’

  ‘Of course. You see, Flora, there’s been another development this morning.’ Lombardi got up and closed the door. ‘We’ve had a visitor. I can’t give you names, but let’s just say a man the Carabinieri have arrested several times came to see us asking for protection. Third-generation Camorra but small-time: does courier work for them plus the odd break-in, steals cars, scooters, acts as look-out. A foot soldier basically.’

  ‘And he turned himself in because of the robbery?’ asked Flora.

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Lombardi. ‘He was recruited to put a team together for the job, didn’t tell his Camorra bosses and now they’re extremely unhappy that they didn’t get a slice of the action.’

  ‘But I thought the land, the flats and the whole dig site was owned by Camorra companies.’

  ‘It is and that’s another reason they went crazy when they found out. Round here, you don’t steal from other people’s patches. Not if you value your life, that is.’

  ‘Has he said who hired him?’ she asked.

  ‘Says they were American: gave him precise instructions, paid in cash and that’s all he knows. He’s a frightened man and if he knew more, I think he’d have told us. My uniformed colleagues have already threatened to turn him loose if he didn’t open up and he promptly wet himself – I don’t mean metaphorically either – so I reckon he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘And I presume he didn’t say why the Americans wanted the finds?’

  ‘Correct, Flora. That’s where you come in. We’ve got very little to go on, but Doctor Moretti has told me you managed to decipher some of the texts: maybe if you can help us read some of the other fragments it might give us a clue.’

  Flora shrugged. ‘I can try if you like but I can’t see what good it’ll do. Everything I’ve seen so far was very mundane stuff.’

  A look of consternation spread across Lombardi’s features. ‘But I thought you’d managed to decipher some of the finds from the dig,’ he said.

  ‘A few bits and pieces but that’s all – again none of it was earth-shattering. If we hadn’t had the copper sheets with the key to the cipher I’d never have been able to do it. From an historical point of view it’s brilliant that there are other documents in existence which have been encrypted using the same keys, but it doesn’t help you find your thieves.’

  ‘Well it’s a start at least.’

  ‘True,’ she said. ‘But if you’re looking for instructions on where to start excavating then I’d suggest trying the thriller section of your local bookshop before coming to me. There’s another problem too. The university. My department will want me to come back.’

  ‘And if we funded you?’ asked Lombardi.

  ‘Then I don’t suppose they’d mind. I’m happy to stay as long as you like – at least until the Autumn term starts anyway. I’ll ring and ask. Before I do I take it you haven’t ruled out the American Mafia?’

  ‘We haven’t ruled out anyone. Our local criminals have friends all over the globe these days but if a small group of our boys have defied family loyalty to get hooked up with “The Mob” then it wouldn’t surprise me. But in the meantime, if you could make a start on the remaining documents that would be great.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to,’ said Flora. She waited until Lombardi had left and then closed the door. ‘Is he serious, Francesco? Does he really think I’m going to find anything from a few scraps of first-century code that’ll help him solve this?’

  Moretti shrugged. ‘He’s desperate, that’s all.’

  Flora shook her head. ‘I think the poor man’s been reading too many thrillers.’

  ‘You could always say no and go home to Oxford.’

  She frowned at the prospect. ‘I could I suppose. What I want to know is why they didn’t ask Sumter. I could’ve explained the cipher to him and let him get on with it. After all, he’s the language specialist.’

  ‘They did. He said no.’

  ‘Figures, I guess,’ she said, getting to her feet once more. ‘Seeing as I’m going to be cooped up for the rest of the summer decoding Greek and Aramaic shopping lists, do you mind if I go down to the dig first? I just feel the need to get my hands dirty.’

  Moretti laughed. ‘Who am I to stop you making mud pies?’ Sure. I’ll give you a lift.’

  The atmosphere on the site was very different to that of her first visit. None of the team approached the job with any enthusiasm: they all knew that at best they’d find a few tantalising fragments. Matters weren’t improved by the presence of a gang of builders who hung around the trench watching everything that was going on, the foreman repeatedly asking when the archaeologists were going to finish so they could get on with their work.

  Doing her best to ignore them, Flora volunteered to help sieving the spoil heaps in the hope of finding anything worthwhile, but after an hour of working in the heat and dust, all she had to show for her efforts were a Roman belt buckle and a few green tesserae. The site supervisor wandered over to look in the finds tray. ‘Any luck?’ she asked.

  Flora wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Just these,’ she said, indicating the tiny cubes of coloured limestone.

  The supervisor picked one of them up and examined it closely. ‘This is interesting. Where did they come from?’ she asked.

  ‘From the top of the spoil heap. Why?’

  ‘That means they came from the bottom of the trench.’

  ‘True, but what of it?’ said Flora. ‘It’s just the remains of the mosaic floor your people found earlier.’

  ‘But that was blue, white and brown. There weren’t any green tesserae in it.’

  Suddenly, Flora realised the implication of what she’d said. ‘You’re right. I think we need to take another look.’

  They ran over to the ladder and not bothering to put on hard hats or to ask permission of the diggers, swarmed down into the cool darkness below.

  ‘So where do you think we should start?’ said the supervisor.

  ‘Where the trench is deepest I suppose,’ replied Flora. She unhooked the wander-light from the trench support and held it up against the side of the cut.

  ‘You see that darker line that slopes down from right to left?’ she said, tracing along the faint layer with the point of a trowel. The supervisor nodded. ‘Well I think it shows the original surface layer before the eruption. The ash and pumice had the effect of flattening out the humps and bumps, but if I’m right, this house was built into the side of a hill with the ground sloping away to the south-west.’

  ‘And you think there’s another floor further down the slope?’ asked the supervisor.

  In the little pool of light given off by the single electric bulb, Flora’s grin lit up like a beacon. ‘Well, we won’t know unless we try, but I certainly reckon it’s worth putting in another trench.’

  The two women stayed to help the field archaeologists shift the loose earth and pumice from their new excavation and after only five minutes an excited shout called them back to the face of
the trench. ‘What have you found?’ Flora asked.

  ‘A section of wall that’s been cut through by the digger. The earth collapsed back in afterwards which is why we missed it. And guess what’s beyond it?’

  ‘A green mosaic floor by any chance?’

  ‘Exactly. The border’s green and white but I can’t see any pattern yet.’

  ‘That’s fantastic,’ said Flora. ‘I’ll get out of your way now. I can’t wait to tell Francesco.’

  By the time Flora got back to the lab, Moretti was preparing to leave for lunch and she joined him in a small café just round the corner. Bubbling over with excitement, she told him about the mosaic floor.

  ‘You drew a winning ticket today, Francesco,’ she said. ‘The supervisor was about an hour from shutting the dig down. You’re lucky to have her on your team – she’s a fine archaeologist – I’d missed the significance of the tesserae and if she hadn’t been there, we’d be back to square one.’

  ‘Maybe our luck’s finally changed,’ said Moretti in a flat monotone. Flora put her head on one side and looked at him intently. This wasn’t right: rather than dancing for joy as she’d expected, he seemed to be treating the news more as a source of additional paperwork than anything else.

  Unabashed, she continued, hoping some of her surplus enthusiasm might rub off. ‘We need to make sure your luck stays changed. There were some very impatient-looking builders hanging around the dig today, and once their bosses hear there are more finds, I wouldn’t put it past them to have another go.’

  He nodded. ‘First thing I do when we get back is to phone Lombardi. Then I’ll fill in the TPC notification and hand it in personally.’

  Still buzzing with excitement, Flora found it hard to settle to her work on the document fragments. She began by examining their physical composition: chemical analysis of the inks, of the fragments of binding from the leather covers and of the parchment itself. Once started, she was lost to the world, immersed in the thing she loved best – getting close to the people responsible for producing these wonderful artefacts and understanding what made their two thousand year-old world go round.