"My lord!"

Maanu dropped his arm and leaned on Marvuz, exhausted. His mother and the two miserable old men had defeated him. His wrath was spent.

His hands tied, Marcius contemplated the scene. He prayed to God to be merciful, to take pity on them all. He thought about Jesus' agony on the cross, the torture inflicted on him by the Romans, yet how he had forgiven them. Marcius sought deep within himself to forgive Maanu, but he felt only hatred for the arrogant new king.

The head of the royal guard ordered the queen taken to her chambers. He then drew the king to a chair and set a goblet of wine before him. Maanu drank greedily.

"They must die," he said, in almost a whisper.

"Yes," Marvuz replied. 'And they shall." He made a sign to the soldiers, and they dragged Thaddeus and Josar out of the room.

The king raised his head and glared at Marcius.

"All you Christian dogs shall die. Your houses, your estates, everything you possess, I shall distribute among those who are loyal to me. You, Marcius, have betrayed me doubly. You are one of the great leaders of Edessa, yet you have sold your heart to these Christians who have so bewitched you that you have defiled and mutilated yourself. But I will find the shroud, Marcius, and I will destroy it. That, I swear to you."

At a sign from Marvuz, a soldier took the architect away.

"The king will rest now," Marvuz announced to the courtiers, motioning them out of the room. "It has been a long and trying day."

When the two men were alone, Maanu embraced his accomplice and broke into tears. His mother had embittered the taste of vengeance.

"I want my mother to die."

"She will die, my lord, but in good time. You must wait. First we will search for the shroud and gather and kill the Christians, all of them. Then the queen's turn will come."

Cries of agony and horror and the roaring, crackling sound of fire from the city below echoed in every corner of the palace throughout the long hours of the night.

ANA JIMENEZ COULDN'T STOP THINKING about the fire in the Turin Cathedral. She spoke to her brother every week, and each time she called she asked about Marco's investigation. Santiago invariably fumed at her and refused to indulge her curiosity. He sounded close to hanging up on her as they spoke now.

"You know you're obsessed, but it doesn't matter. Ana, for God's sake, forget about it, will you?"

"But I can help you, Santiago. I know it."

"I keep telling you it's not my case. It belongs to the Art Crimes Department. Marco wanted my opinion and I gave it to him. So did John. That's it. The end."

"Jesus, Santiago, give me a break. Give me one little peek at the file-I know how to chase down a story. I can see things that cops don't even look for."

'Ah, yes-you reporters are God's gift to investigations and can do our job ten times better than we can."

"Don't be so damn touchy. You know I'm not saying that."

"What I know is that you're not going to start pok-. ing around in Marco's investigation."

'At least tell me what you think."

"I think things are usually simpler than they appear to be."

"That's not an answer."

"Well, it's all you're going to get." And with that he hung up.

Ana slammed the phone down on her end, too, just to make herself feel better. She looked at the pile of papers lying on her desk, alongside more than a dozen books, all on the Shroud of Turin. She had been reading about the shroud for days. Esoteric treatises, religious books, histories… She knew the key lay somewhere in the object's long history. Marco Valoni had said as much: There had been nothing remarkable about the Turin Cathedral until the shroud was installed there. The incidents weren't new-and therefore neither was the motive for them. She was sure of it.

The hell with Santiago. She made a decision: Once she'd gone as deep as she could into the history of the shroud and traced it back as far as was possible, she'd put in for some vacation time and go to Turin. It was a city she'd never particularly liked; she'd never have chosen it as a holiday destination, but that's where the story was-a story she was more determined than ever to write.

Marco had called the meeting for immediately after lunch. It hadn't been easy to convince the necessary ministers, but he had at last been given full clearance to mount the Trojan horse operation his way, with no interference and with additional resources at his command. They were authorized to turn the mute loose and trail him to Timbuktu if he took them there. Now he wanted to brief the team on the details.

Sofia was the last to arrive. Marco couldn't put his finger on it, but he had found her different somehow on her return to Rome from Turin. As stunning as always, but changed in some subtle way.

"Okay, the plan is simple," he began. "You all know that every month the parole board makes the rounds to all the various prisons and jails. On the board there's a judge and a state attorney, psychologists and social workers, and the warden of each installation. They visit all the prisoners, especially those who are approaching the end of their sentences, have demonstrated good behavior, and may have earned some consideration for early out. Tomorrow I'll be in Turin to meet with the board members. I'm going to ask them to mount a little charade."

Everyone listened attentively as he continued.

"I want them to help us gauge the mute's reactions if possible and to also start acclimating him to the idea of release. When they're in Turin next, they'll visit him and talk about him among themselves, the way they always have, thinking he doesn't understand them. Only this time I'll ask the social worker and the psychologist to let it drop that they don't see much sense in keeping him behind bars any longer-his behavior has been exemplary, he poses no threat to society, and, according to the law, he's eligible for parole. The warden will make some objection, and they'll leave. We'll have variations on that played out over the next couple of months, until they finally let him loose."

"Will they cooperate?" Pietro asked.

"The ministers are relaying instructions to the relevant department heads. I don't think anyone will object; when it comes right down to it, they're not turning loose some murderer or terrorist, just a nickel-and-dime thief."

"It's a good plan," Minerva said.

'Absolutely," seconded Giuseppe.

"I've got more. Sofia, you'll like this. Lisa, John Barry's wife, called me. Lisa's sister is a woman named Mary Stuart-who just happens to be married to James Stuart. And James Stuart, in case you didn't know, is one of the wealthiest men in the world. Friend of the President of the United States and heads of state of half the countries in the world-the rich countries, that is- chairmen and CEOs of major international corporations, and most of the bankers on the planet. The Stuarts* daughter, Gina, is an archaeologist, like Lisa, and is spending some time in Rome, in her aunt's house; she's also working on the financing for the excavation at Herculaneum. So here's the deal: Mary and James Stuart are coming to Rome in two weeks. Lisa is going to throw a dinner party for them, with a lot of their prominent Italian friends in attendance. And among those friends is your friend Umberto D'Alaqua." Marco nodded at Sofia. "Paola and I are going, and I'm hoping that John and Mary will kindly let me take you, too, Dottoressa Galloni."

Sofia's face lit up, her pleasure obvious. "That's one way to get us closer to this guy," she said wryly. "Probably the only way."

After the meeting, she and Marco chatted for a few minutes.

"I remember Lisa, of course," she said to him. "I wouldn't have thought that a woman like her would have a sister married to a business mogul."