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“Depends on whether he’s right or wrong. There’s no mistaking he’s obsessed with Xerxes and Delphi. His version of the invasion didn’t make him any friends in the academic world.”
Through years of painstaking research Bucklin had come to an outlandish conclusion: that Xerxes’ raid of Delphi had been more of a success than Greek historians admitted. According to Bucklin, in the weeks leading up to the invasion the keepers of the Siphnian Treasury devised a scheme to protect their wealth. Knowing no place would be safe from Persian plunder, the Siphnians melted down their stores of gold and cast it into a pair of Karyatids. When the columns cooled they were covered in gypsum plaster and put in place of the real columns that stood astride the treasury’s entrance.
For reasons unknown the Persian raiding party did not fall for the ruse. On Xerxes’ orders, a detachment of two hundred specially trained troops called Immortals fled with the Karyatids, intending to head north out of Greece before swinging east through Macedonia and Thrace and returning to the Achaemenid Dynasty capital of Persepolis, where Xerxes planned to melt down the Karyatids and have them cast into a massive throne, a memorial to his triumph over the Greeks that would sit in hi
s Hall of a Hundred Columns for eternity.
Unbeknownst to the Immortals, word of their desecration of Delphi reached Sparta less than a day after the Persian raiding party left. A phratra of Spartan soldiers, roughly twenty-seven in all, gave chase, intending not only to recover the Karyatids, but also to avenge the brothers they’d lost at the Battle of Thermopylae.
They caught up to the Immortals in present-day Albania and cut off their easterly escape route. For three weeks the Spartans hounded the Immortals, chasing them north through Montenegro, then Bos nia and Croatia, before finally cornering them in the mountains of northwestern Slovenia. Even outnumbering them ten to one the Immortals were no match for the Spartans. The Persian raiding party was all but destroyed. Of the original two hundred that had left Greece a month before only thirty survived, these spared to serve as porters for the Karyatids.
The Spartan commander decided not to return home, not while Xerxes’ army was still ravaging their country. The columns had become a symbol of Greece’s survival, and the Spartans pledged to die rather than let them fall into Xerxes’ hands. Not knowing how far the Persian invasion would advance, the Spartans headed north out of Slovenia, intending to find a place to hide the columns until it was safe to bring them home. The phratra was never seen again, save a lone soldier who stumbled into Sparta a year later. Before succumbing to his exhaustion and the ravages of exposure, he claimed that the rest of his comrades had perished and the Karyatids had been lost with them. Their location died with him.
“So that’s the last puzzle piece,” Remi said. “Or one of the last, that is. How Bondaruk and Bucklin found each other we may never know, but it’s clear Bondaruk believes the story. He thinks Napoleon’s Lost Cellar is a treasure map to the Siphnian columns. They’re the family legacy he’s trying to recover. Remember what else Kholkov said in Marseille about Bondaruk’s motive: ‘He’s simply trying to finish what was begun a long time ago.’ ”
Sam nodded slowly. “The bastard wants to melt them down, just like Xerxes did. We can’t let him get away with it, Remi. As archaeological artifacts, those Karyatids are priceless.”
“Beyond priceless. It all fits: After the Battles of Plataea and Mycale, Xerxes abruptly hands over control of the army to Mardonius, and goes home—goes home assuming the Karyatids are on their way. Most accounts have him returning to Persepolis and starting a massive building program—including the Hall of a Hundred Columns.”
“Where Bucklin claims he planned to display the throne. I’ll give you one guess where Bondaruk plans to put his throne.”
“The Persian playground in the basement of his estate,” Remi replied. “It’s sad, if you think about it. Xerxes died waiting for a prize that was never coming—a prize that meant relatively nothing to the Greeks—and Napoleon died waiting for his son to follow the riddles and recover the same prize.”
“We might as well keep the streak alive,” Sam said.
“What do you mean?”
“We make sure Bondaruk dies never getting his hands on the Karyatids. He’ll be in good company.”
At six the next morning Sam’s iPhone trilled. It was Selma. “It’s early, Selma,” he said groggily.
“It’s late here. Good news. We’re getting better at this, I think. We’ve deciphered the code, but we thought you’d want first crack at the riddle.”
“Okay, e-mail it to me.”
“On its way. Call me later.”
Sam shook Remi awake. She rolled over just as Sam’s e-mail chimed. “Another riddle,” he said.
“I heard.”
He called up the e-mail and together they read the lines:
Man of Histria, thirteen by tradition
House of Lazarus at Nazareth
Son of Morpeth, Keeper of Leuce, the land that stands alone.
Together they rest.
“Any thoughts?” Sam asked.
“Ask me after coffee.”
Having already unraveled two of the riddles, Sam and Remi now better understood the patterns Napoleon and Laurent had used to produce them. A patchwork of double meanings and obscure historical references, the solution to each puzzle depended upon the fusion of its individual lines.
By midmorning they’d gathered from the Internet the most obvious references for each line:
