 
Shadows of Al-Bara

Torri Pines

This work is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons, events, or organizations is purely coincidental.

Shadows of Al-Bara

Copyright 2015,2019 Markéta Lebl

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Second Edition

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"Who will tell whether one happy moment of love or the joy of breathing or walking on a bright morning and smelling the fresh air, is not worth all the suffering and effort which life implies."

Erich Fromm

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# Prologue

The ethereal silhouette was floating effortlessly towards him. The chimeric feminine personification appeared translucent, unearthly, and peaceful. But only before the sun illuminated bright stains of blood on a white gown falling loosely from her shoulders, and the disturbing lifeless eyes emerged from the misty image of her face. The apparition tortured Rogier's mind again, reminding him of the past. No matter how intensely he tried to push his memories away, the past lingered. She, the love of his life, inhabited his darkest place. What pathetic life he lived! The life he intended to devote to God, hoping God would make sense out of a senseless and cruel existence. To guide men, God created simple rules about rights and wrongs. Rules so basic and straightforward, they were impossible for men to follow. Rogier's feverish unfocused mind precipitated thoughts in a painful sequence, his consciousness still covered with fog. That fog mixed with smoke, the stench of burning, the smell of blood, sweat, and urine, the scent of death. Was that God's intention? Rogier was holding his sword, shaking from exhaustion, and painfully breathing. The ground around him was soaked with blood. His eyes mechanically scanned gory surroundings covered with the dead and the dying.

At last, Rogier could stop, for there was nobody left to fight. His view widened. Alard, his brother, sweat dripping from his hair, was taking off his helmet and looking at Rogier with concern, "Are you all right, brother?" Rogier staggered and touched his chest, his hand covered with fresh blood. The old wound, a reminder of Al-Bara, opened again. It never healed. That wound was slowly taking his life. At least he suffered it fighting for the rights, not wrongs, Alard hoped. He looked around, unable to distinguish on which side he fought this time. Rogier questioned himself, "How all that around could please God? Is not one of the basic God's rules 'Thou shalt not kill?'" Meanwhile, his brother Alard turned away, trying to count their men. The battle was fierce, leaving many of them dead. The brothers looked at each other; Antioch fell, but no exhilarating feeling of victory came. Rogier felt drained. No matter what he did, he could not escape from guilt.

# Chapter 1

The air was wet and cold. After three days of constant rain, all the grayness of the old city penetrated people's minds and moods. All of Prague's charm disappeared from the streets that morning. Nooks and alleys looked abandoned and grim. The atmosphere sucked out all of Vanda's energy. She tried to ignore the joyless faces surrounding her when she got on a tram. That day she paid no attention to what she was wearing and bound her hair in a ponytail. It made her look younger than her age. Vanda was not young anymore, but she did not consider herself middle-aged either. Even though she became more skeptical in many ways, after years of not appreciating herself as a woman, Vanda finally found herself fascinating. The years of an unsatisfying marriage taught her many things, mainly, the value of independence. Without it, she was not herself. Her resistance to settling into a simple married unambitious life led to frustration slowly poisoning her confidence. Vanda did not need a man, a husband, to direct her life. Life was too short and beautiful to spend it frustrated, unchallenged, and emotionless. She had to get out to maintain her identity. The end of Vanda's marriage was emotionally exhausting, but through the process, she became herself again. The newly gained inner strength radiated from her, which seemed to be one of the reasons she was attractive to some, in her opinion, fascinating men. It may also be because she did not look for an opportunity to re-marry again. Perhaps there was an even more particular reason. However, today's weather in combination with her yesterday's revelation put her in a strange, confused and angry mood. Vanda tried to summarize all the facts before taking any action. Right now, she needed to get a better idea of what was going on.

Yesterday evening Vanda was examining some artifacts for an upcoming exhibition of Bohemian medieval history at the Prague Castle. The objects ranging from religious monstrances and candle holders to parts of medieval armor were sent to her office from the Castle for assessment and possible restoration. Vanda would have typically examined individual pieces, decided whether they need a cleaning, and, if necessary, performed some additional testing to confirm authenticity. As an expert in ancient material science, she had been involved in the board overlooking collections for the Prague Castle exhibitions in the last five years. These artifacts were intended to complement the renowned collection of the Treasury of Saint Vitus Cathedral. The Cathedral was erected on a foundation of an original Romanesque rotunda of Saint Vitus, which Duke Wenceslaus founded in the 10th century, to preserve his collection of relics. It was the beginning of a so-called Treasury that was gradually expanded by many generations of Bohemian rulers in later periods, thus creating a unique historical record. Most of the artifacts represented everyday religious objects and reliquaries. Made of gold, and artistically ornamented using gemstones they signified the wealth and power of the Catholic Church. Vanda was not impressed by the glitter and was highly skeptical about the authenticity of the holy relics themselves. She was attracted by items with a spirit, with some hidden beauty, items with marks of everyday use on them, in other words, objects with memory. Like the so-called Saint Wenceslaus' helmet—part of an armor presumably worn by Duke Wenceslaus himself. If that was Wenceslaus' helmet, and Vanda would hope so because it became a symbol of Czech statehood. Supposedly, the Duke wore it to combat, and his life depended on it. It gave meaning to the object, other than being a symbol. She was familiar particularly with that item because in the early nineties she evaluated it. Moreover, just yesterday, she was reminded of it once again in the most mysterious way.

Thinking of her professional career, Vanda always wanted to become an archaeologist, as long as she remembered since childhood. However, the communists in the old Czechoslovakia limited numbers of students at universities and also prevented certain people from studying specific subjects, or studying at all, she decided to take a different approach and studied analytical chemistry instead. Years later, here she was, working with archaeologists as an expert in material analysis and dating of ancient art and artifacts. It was Greg who played a significant role in her focusing on the subject. The first time they met, Vanda was a student, and he was already an established scientist and entrepreneur with his private non-profit foundation, Harbor Restoration. Harbor Restoration laboratories were dedicated to research and development of restoration and conservation methods and technologies to preserve ancient artifacts. It happened at a summer workshop on novel restoration techniques and analytical methods in York, England. Later Greg admitted she had been the only woman who attracted his attention there. Professor Karel Mach from Prague who knew Vanda well introduced them. She was at the time a graduate student of one of his colleagues, and he knew Greg as a fellow historian of many years.

Greg was the one who asked professor Mach to introduce them. He noticed Vanda before at the reception. A slender and athletic body, dressed simply, revealing well-shaped legs. Dark brown hair cut short framed her feminine face with a focused set of dark eyes. Vanda drew his attention by her demeanor in talking to her colleagues. It was the energy rather than just her appearance. Greg knew nothing about her, only that she did not look like a typical scientist or a historian. Something about her radiated around. At least, Greg thought so. It was her smile together with all the crisp, feminine attributes. There was nothing prearranged about her look. Vanda seemed real, and that was the most attractive. That morning they were introduced during a coffee break, she smiled and looked relaxed but curious. Greg sensed she was equally interested in him. Although, that could be because he was well-known and his foundation was sponsoring the workshop.

Until that moment he was only a famous name for her. Vanda expected somebody full of himself as was usual for this type of career-oriented man. Greg was an impressive looking man, and she already heard a lot about him before. He was a scientist and entrepreneur with expertise in antique artifacts, who was able to combine science and business and make money along the way. Greg had not stopped there; he founded a private laboratory for research and conservation of antiquities. Professionally, it seemed quite useful to get connected with him. Vanda was entirely focused on her work and career at the time. Her personal life was impacted by her failed marriage and infrequent, usually uninspiring, dates. She was tired of men with no imagination. After a short exchange of small talk, Professor Mach excused himself, and Vanda stayed with Greg on her own. They continued in conversation, and she realized that Dr. Greg Wood was interested in her, personally. Vanda still remembered the feeling of that moment. They had become lovers even before they became friends.

Not too long after that, she got involved in project Archaedat that was founded by Greg three years before. Based on an elementary idea, Archaedat would archive all available data of antique objects from all over the world and create an extensive searchable database. Vanda, as the head of one of several research teams cooperating on the development of the database, became responsible for organization and classification of analytical data, in other words, data relating to chemical and material compositions. She liked to compare her metallographic samples to fingerprints. Each material has a unique chemical composition, and every technological process leaves marks and typical signs visible under a microscope. Archaedat was a way to make use of these data and make them available to a broad scientific community. As the relationship between Greg and Vanda grew, Greg's initially humble project took off, and Archaedat became their professional connection.

Vanda focused her thoughts on yesterday's evening events again. She worked on stirrups from the collection for the Prague Castle and was recording metallographic data. For a comparison, Vanda needed to see some other iron made pieces, dated roughly between the 9th and 11th century. That was how she found out that her file containing a paper copy of the data for Wenceslaus' helmet was missing from her organizer. The folder included all the analytical data showing elemental composition and pictures of metallographic microstructures of the artifact. Vanda clearly remembered assembling the data when she filed the report. She went through the file cabinet once more, looking for a green folder with a distinct label, to exclude the possibility that she misplaced the paperwork, but she did not find it. Vanda did not worry about losing the data since those were already in the database. However, where was the paper copy? It was not the first time she noticed things out of place or missing in her office. The last time Vanda could not find her notes, they materialized two days later inserted in a stack of old mail. She recalled jokingly plotting traps with her friend and colleague, Alena, to catch the intruder on camera. In the end, the friends just laughed about it and joked that a janitor secretly studied history after hours. Vanda missed her girlfriend dearly now. Ironically, the last time they saw each other was when they met "under the tail," a popular spot for locals to meet friends in the center of Prague. The name refers to a place which is literally under the tail of a statue dominating the central square in Prague, the Saint Wenceslaus Square. The sculpture portrays Duke Wenceslaus on a horse wearing his armor with his emblematic helmet.

Vanda's friend of many years, Alena, took a different professional, as well as the personal path. She became an Egyptologist, and together with her husband, also an Egyptologist, usually spent springtime in Egypt working on a site. The rest of the year Alena worked from the office at the university in Prague. However, Alena took a sabbatical earlier this year, and at the moment she was in Paris. Smart and witty, Alena appreciated Vanda's rather independent personality. Phone calls or messaging could not replace their interaction. This time Vanda did not laugh. It was upsetting. Somebody was in her office spying, looking at her data, and "borrowing" her notes. That somebody, with access to the institute, had either a universal key or a copy. He or she also knew Vanda's schedule very well or watched her.

The tram stopped at Malá Strana, and Vanda got off. She was heading to the Institute of Archaeology, where she has been working for more than ten years. The presence of a police car highlighted an otherwise insignificant building reminiscent of the fallen Habsburg monarchy located on a narrow winding street in the center of Prague. Vanda noticed several colleagues standing at the entrance gate. A friend of hers, Radim Benda, was one of them. Seeing her, he waved his hand toward the right side of the building and said, "Somebody broke into the building last night. They are trying to figure out what happened." Vanda shook her head with a skeptical look. There was not much to steal. The Institute was no museum. They temporarily stored materials from excavations in many boxes deposited in corridors on all levels, and wherever space allowed it. However, the content of the containers was usually broken glass, fragments of ceramics or bones to be processed in the lab, classified and cataloged. In other words, it was antique trash with a cultural, but almost no collector's value. The intruder seemed to have no idea. Vanda recalled that the Institute used to have a much greater archive and depository before the destructive flood in 2002, but never any treasures. Radim agreed with her that it probably was a random incident, and they both dismissed it as an act of some desperate drug addict.

The police blocked the right side of the building. Two uniformed police officers watched the entrance, and a tall man in a black parka was on the phone. He seemed to be in charge. The director's assistant has just appeared on the upper stairway telling everybody to go to their offices, and that they would be informed about the situation later. "And also, if anybody has some knowledge or observation that could be of interest for the investigation, he or she should talk to detective Dostál," and she pointed to the tall man on the phone. Vanda turned to Radim, "Let's get some coffee." He nodded, and they walked upstairs to a small break room on the first floor.

Dr. Radim Benda was an expert in the Middle Paleolithic era in Europe. He was about ten years younger than Vanda. Gifted socially, he was active in the behind-the-curtain academic politics, which Vanda hated and tried to ignore. It was for her good. She knew her emotions would fail her, and soon she would end up in pointless, nonconstructive confrontations. Radim enjoyed the intellectual side of a political power play. He made some enemies, but for the most, he was popular. His personality rewarded him with an abundance of affairs and short-term relationships, however as much as he would like, his charms did not work on Vanda.

Radim thought she united a rare combination of bookishness and attractive femininity. However, it was apparent that she preferred him to be her close friend and a colleague and never really considered other options. Radim valued the positive energy between them enough to settle with the idea. He also admired that Vanda behaved like she did not care what other people, specifically women, think of her. At the same time, Radim could sense signs of fragility and occasional insecurity, making her curiously real. Besides, as her younger colleague, he highly valued her as a scientist who was sincerely interested in the broader aspects of her discipline and curious about other fields of science. They could also discuss life and politics, day or night, which they usually did over coffee. Today they were hashing over what happened. Based on what Radim heard, there was a break-in on the first floor. Somebody climbed up, broke a window from the street, and entered through it to the Institute. Then they broke into some offices next door as if they were looking for something, and without creating any more damage, they left. The authorities were still figuring out what if anything was missing.

Vanda did not see any connection between what happened overnight and someone's spying in her office. She decided to keep the whole thing for herself, for now. It was late morning, and she still had much work to do on her presentation for tomorrow's meeting. It was a milestone meeting of Archaedat's principal collaborators. When Radim's phone rang, he excused himself, and Vanda walked away to her office with a mug of coffee. She unlocked the door and looked around. Everything seemed in order. The moment Vanda turned on the computer, she knew something was not quite right again. After briefly checking her desk, she sat quietly for a moment thinking. Vanda still could not put her finger on it. She logged on the computer and went directly to the Archaedat database. As the login automatically started, she proceeded to enter her info. In the middle, Vanda stopped and stared at the previous line displaying, "last login: at 02:18:48 on 10-02-12."

Vanda's brain froze. She was unable to focus her thoughts. Early that morning somebody accessed the database from her computer, using her login and password. Now what? She probed the log of the last changes made in the database, but none were made from her computer since yesterday. She also checked that the internal clock showed the correct time. She was puzzled. A resentful feeling of an attack on her privacy remained. After a brief reconsideration, Vanda sent a message to Greg, who was on his way to the meeting in Prague. She needed his input. After that, Vanda mindlessly dialed her friend Alena's number. Nobody picked up. Vanda did not bother to leave a message. Her thoughts were all over the place. Despite not being able to focus, she tried to do some work.

It was around noon when Radim thrust into her office, "You will not believe it. Straka was found dead." Dr. Jan Straka was their colleague, an archaeologist with expertise in medieval settlements in Bohemia and a bitter looking skinny man in his late fifties. Vanda could recall his irritating pose and strong body odor. The frequency of the word "indeed" in Straka's active vocabulary was in direct correlation with the pompous content of his comments. The more Straka emphasized his insignificance, the more attention he demanded. Always portraying himself as "a servant of science," which would be comical if he did not mean it in all seriousness. The man was phony. Vanda was unable to digest the news. She felt cold in her stomach. Too many strange things were happening today. Before she could respond to Radim's story, her phone rang. It was detective Dostál, whom she saw in the entrance in the morning. He was asking Vanda to come to the conference room on the first floor of the Institute, and he sounded urgent.

Vanda entered the Institute's conference room where director Gross was already talking to detective Dostál and three other men. Detective Dostál had introduced himself and his colleagues, and then he turned back to Vanda saying officially, "Dr. Skalická, we have a reason to believe that you could help us with our investigation." He offered Vanda a seat and continued, "As you already know, there was a break-in to the Institute last night. Now, we do not know, so far, what was the motive, or who the intruders were. However, in the light of the present circumstances we believe that there is a connection with another crime," and Dostál got directly to the point, "As you may already know, your colleague, Dr. Straka was found dead this morning. He was shot. Besides many other items of interest, we have recovered a box in his home. It was labeled with your name, containing a set of keys, some drawings, schemes and a green folder with your name on it." He looked into his notes, "It has a label coded SV1-03/20/97, and it includes some data." The last sentence hung in the air. Vanda was speechless. It had to be Straka that repelling low life! It was him!

Vanda realized that it had to be the traces of Straka's body odor, that gave her that strange feeling, and that stayed in her office long after he left. "He was shot," echoed in Vanda's head. However, instead of sadness, she felt disgusted and angry. They all sat around the table, focused on her. Director Gross nervously cleared his throat and interrupted the silence with a question, "Coffee anybody?" Without waiting for an answer, he got up to call his secretary. The room was quiet. Vanda fighting her emotions tried to focus her thoughts. Not sure where to start, she began describing little things she noticed in her office in the past couple of weeks indicating that someone searched her documents and computer when she was away. The secretary arrived with a coffee pot and several cups. The smell of coffee seemed to relax all tensions. Vanda described in detail how she was searching her file cabinet yesterday and could not find the folder with data for Saint Wenceslaus helmet. It was that green folder SV1-03/20/97 that the police found in Straka's possession. Then she told them about the mysterious login around two o'clock in the morning and how she reported the login incident to the Archaedat project director Greg Wood.

"We have to search the office of Dr. Skalická for fingerprints," Dostál said in a formal tone and turned to the other detective. Without being asked, Vanda handed her keys to Dostál. Gross stood up and addressed the detective formally, "You mentioned in our conversation that Straka may be associated with the illegal trade of antiquities. Do you have evidence? Also, could you help me understand what would be the role of the Institute in all that? And the burglary, was it connected to Straka?" Dostál responded, "It's too early to answer these questions. The investigation is ongoing, and we do not have enough facts in our hands yet. All I can tell you is that Straka was murdered the last night and we recovered antiquities of unknown origin on a crime scene. Based on the fact that Straka kept them at home tucked away, we have to assume that they were illicit."

"Straka was murdered," the words resonated in Vanda's head. It sounded unreal. Gross was pacing heatedly across the room, mumbling, "We should check our inventory and see what's missing. So far, it is not clear what the burglars were after. Right?" and he turned to Dostál for approval. Dostál shook his head and looked at Vanda, "At this moment we cannot exclude anyone from the investigation. We do not know if Straka had accomplices at the Institute. We do know, however, that he had a partner outside his work and we are looking into it. I need you, Dr. Skalická, to file a report with us. If you could go with me now, it would be great," he said, looking at her.

Vanda only needed her purse. The detective issued directions to his men. He made sure they would examine Vanda's computer, and turning to director Gross, announced, "Our officer will assist you with the inventory. We do not want any interference." Dostál then followed Vanda through the door towards her office, where his colleague detective was already working along with a forensic technician. Dostál curiously peeked into Vanda's office. The office was a narrow dark, well-organized room with a small attic-like window. The detective entered, approached the desk, noticing personal photographs on the wall, he grabbed Vanda's purse and handed it to her. On the way out, passing his colleague, Dostál said, "Let me know as soon as you are finished here." The other detective focused on the contents of a cabinet in front of him, responded by nodding without looking up.

Dostál drove Vanda to the police station. The informal conversation between them took off only slowly. He had questions about the Archaedat project, and Vanda was glad to tell him about her work and the complex idea of the database of artifacts and archaeological finds. The detective was curious and interested in the technical aspects. Vanda appreciated that he was not interrupting her, and his questions were direct and logical. Later in his office, it took over an hour to file the official report. Then a technician took her fingerprints that they needed for comparison with the material found at Straka and in her office. Despite Dostál's assurance that she was not a suspect, Vanda felt nervous. The detective also asked her not to leave the city to be available to the investigators. When Dostál thanked her for cooperation and offered her a ride back, Vanda politely declined and decided to take a walk instead. She needed to get on fresh air and grab some food on the way.

It was almost three o'clock afternoon, and she was hungry. It was not raining, but clouds kept the sun from shining. The air smelled moist. With her head full of unsettling thoughts, Vanda took a long walk. Back at the Institute, the search of her office was over, and a fine powder used for visualizing and taking fingerprints covered nearly everything. Vanda sighed, grabbed her laptop, and left the 'violated' office. She had to finish her presentation, and for that, she retreated to the comfort of her home.

Later that night Vanda finished her notes for the talk she was expected to give tomorrow at the Archaedat collaborators meeting. Under different circumstances, she would be happy with the progress the project has made, but the cloud of everything that had happened that day did not give her a rest. It all was disturbing. Vanda needed to organize herself for the upcoming days because she had to keep up with her demanding schedule. The annual symposium of archaeological sciences and archaeometry community was scheduled to take place beginning of the next week in Amsterdam. However, Vanda could not think about making travel plans. They were supposed to travel there together with Greg after the Prague meeting, but she might not be able to go due to the investigation after-all.

Vanda was sipping her tea when the phone rang. It was Greg finally. "I got your e-mail. I have no idea what to think about it," he immediately commented adding, "Right now I am stuck in Paris. My plane was late, and I missed the connection, but I should be on the first flight to Prague tomorrow morning. Let's not worry too much before we understand the situation." "Greg, there is more," said Vanda and tried to explain today's events briefly. Greg was digesting the information and asked several questions. Vanda knew he was alarmed, but as usual, he sounded calm. Typical Greg. She could visualize the impenetrable expression that he often used as a cover for his real feelings. Greg calmed Vanda down, "Once they have enough facts, the whole situation will clear up. Also, it may help us understand why Straka tried to get into our database." "We do not know that it was Straka yet," noted Vanda. "Who else?" argued Greg and added, "Straka stole your folder, he managed to get a key from your office. He has been probably sniffing there for some time." It all seemed logical. "But why?" asked Vanda. They still do not understand the motive. Greg sounded reassuring, "I'll be with you tomorrow. Hopefully, we'll learn more soon. Try to get some sleep. Take care. I love you," he ended the call.

# Chapter 2

Greg was frustrated. The spectacular view of the Eiffel tower he had from his hotel only provoked stronger worries about Vanda. It was not hard to stay calm for her on the phone, however, now alone in lifeless silence, Greg's mind was preoccupied with the situation. The contemplation about what she said resulted in intensified feelings for her. They have always had almost enigmatic chemistry between them. Vanda gave him a sense of unique and exclusive sensuality he had not experienced before. As many times before, Greg caught himself imagining her body. As if he almost felt her skin and had a vivid sensation of her smell. They became physically and intimately close in a way Greg could not imagine possible. He wanted to keep Vanda in his life.

There were other women in Greg's life. Mainly Claire, his wife, a stable, intelligent, and understanding partner for twenty-five odd years. Their marriage functioned on long-term mutual trust and friendship. They had a lot in common. Claire has also been a hardworking and successful professional, a costume designer for theater and cinema. Having many friends around combined with Claire's lifestyle did not always make the relationship with Greg exclusive. That was clear very early on in their marriage that they could respect each other and still have other people in their lives. Sometimes they shared their romances, and sometimes they did not. They had their ups and downs from time to time, but so far the system worked well for them, and their relationship seemed strong. Their boys, Brian and Kevin, already moved out from home. Brian has been studying physics, and he was in the second year at graduate school, and Kevin was a freshman planning to study theater theory to become a writer.

Overall, life was good for Greg. He thrived on having a busy life and work. Archaeology was his passion. He was fascinated by the historical aspect of it and did not care much for treasure hunting. Research and understanding the past by finding material evidence in excavations, putting together puzzles of broken history, that was his interest. Greg enjoyed assembling the complex mosaic of historical events or exploring the simple everyday living of the past. It was fascinating to him, how the story of life kept repeating in never-ending cycles, century after century. Lately, he had been involved in too many projects, committees, and boards, to be able to carry on his own research.

Nevertheless, Greg was still passionate about archaeology and history. In being also a businessman, he could enjoy a great deal to be perceived as a successful and influential man. Who would not? It was a significant asset in the eyes of most women, and Greg liked to play. In his opinion, he was good at it but did not particularly like drama, although he appreciated some romantic aspect of it. However, Greg never took sex too seriously. At least not until he met Vanda.

Vanda was different. She did not flirt. Greg's interest in getting to know her had been quite apparent to his old friend Karel Mach when he first introduced them. Karel, a professor at Charles University in Prague, made a friendly ironic comment and quickly excused himself the moment their conversation turned away from professional topics. Vanda and Greg made a connection at first sight. Vanda's matter-of-fact attitude was refreshing. It felt almost like she knew him, and was ready to understand and accept Greg in a very open-minded way. They liked each other from the first moment.

Greg remembered that evening which they spent together talking, both of them interested in each other. They spoke quite openly about very ordinary things in their life, the people who were close to them and also their work. A physical attraction between them grew from the honesty and trust they shared. After two hours of conversation, their understanding built up into an intimacy that brought them up to his hotel room later that night. That was the moment when Greg suddenly felt an impact of responsibility. He got overwhelmed by an impression that Vanda seldom engaged in relationships. Everything steered out of his usual control. Two opposite feelings were fighting inside him. Suddenly Greg became aware of all those things causing prejudice, like his age or his social status. However, at the same time, he embraced hedonism and pleasure of the moment. Greg's off-balance emotional state did not stay unnoticed. He still did not decide how far he wanted to go when Vanda made the first step by stepping close to him. She put her hand on his shoulder, and they kissed. They liked each other's taste, loved the smell, and enjoyed the touch of their skin. Greg's confused feelings entirely disappeared. Their affection was natural and calming. Interestingly enough, that state of mind did not change the next morning, nor the morning after.

It was upsetting that someone's crooked interests could potentially harm his baby, Archaedat. It made Greg feel powerless. What bothered him was: Why would anybody secretly access Archaedat? Greg was considering that it might be only one of those malicious attacks happening all the time. In the era of the Internet, some people would corrupt data for no good reason, in the act of vandalism, just because they can. On the other hand, for all kinds of criminal activity, bank accounts were being hacked, customer information stolen, identities forged. However, there was no apparent reason for acquiring data that were more or less available free through Archaedat. It remained a mystery.

The Archaedat project was Greg's baby. Even though it was Vanda, who inspired him. It was her enthusiasm and passion with which she spoke about her collection of metallographic 'fingerprints' and data. Greg later developed the idea and envisioned a project of a more significant concept. It was him who gathered funding and got several research groups from different parts of the world involved. Now, after several years of developing and optimizing, the whole system functioned reliably, and many researchers around the world were using it. It gave Greg great satisfaction. The database was dynamically updated, and every day new data and new items were uploaded by the participants. The use of the database provided opportunities to search and compare data to estimate or determine the age and origin of artifacts.

Greg looked at his watch. It was almost midnight in Paris, therefore three o'clock in the afternoon in the Bay Area. He picked up a phone and dialed a number to his office at Harbor Restoration in San Francisco. Pam, his secretary, connected him with Cliff Olson, the head of the database administration, an old Silicon Valley tech veteran. Greg explained the situation and asked him to inspect all new entries to the database, and verify, when possible, all recent logins. He also instructed him to look for anything unusual. They could not afford to lose all that work they had invested in the project.

# Chapter 3

The stench coming from behind the encampment was unbearable. Rogier, sitting on a rock high above, watched his men from a distance arguing about something. He guessed that it was about food. Not far from them, a group of ragged individuals quietly knelt and prayed in the dust. The cross symbols were hardly recognizable on their worn clothes. They all were hungry. The long journey, the struggle on the way, the hot and dry summer, and after that the endless siege, it all took a very high toll. Their horses were dying; Rogier's train had six left, down from twenty-eight. Only God knows how long people would last, thought Rogier. Desertions occurred every day. Now even in the higher ranks, and people of a royal stock were turning back home to end the suffering. Where were the faith, the commitment, and the exuberance of the old days? It was the second year of Rogier's pilgrimage to the Holy Land and the third month of the siege of the city of Antioch. War was his life. Rogier had been fighting since he was sixteen. Everything in his life was focused on becoming a warrior and a knight. He had never questioned his purpose before. God gave him meaning, and this war was the promise of God's mercy. Rogier was sure he needed God's mercy. His life in this world was only a chain of sins.

Rogier remembered the winter, a little more than a year ago, a greater part of which, they had spent in Apulia. Now, that all seemed a long time ago. Life there was peaceful. In his memory, food was ever-present. Their train had reached Brindisi in Apulia in late fall. The whole contingent had spent winter in the region. They needed to replenish their supply and to rest. Due to a good relationship between Robert the Duke of Normandy and the Count Roger Borsa of Apulia, their army of Crusaders readily obtained access to supply in the region and contracts for transportation across the sea. Rogier thought that his late lord, Count of Mortain, would be very critical, had he still been alive, of the son of William the Conqueror, on the side of whom he victoriously fought at Hastings. Robert, the Duke of Normandy, William's firstborn son, did not inherit the glamorous attributes of his legendary father. However, in the eyes of Rogier, Duke Robert was a competent and brave leader.

On their way from the port of Brindisi, Rogier's Crusaders were sailing from the spectacular Adriatic Sea, through the Mediterranean Sea to Constantinople. The morale was still high. The glamorous city of Constantinople welcomed them with magnificent churches, palaces, and colorful markets filled with countless people. What more, the place abounded with plenty of food and ice-cold water. Rogier sitting on the rock felt the heat. He was thirsty, the sun was burning, and his mind was floating. Then he saw her again, a slender, transparent figure. She walked to him barefoot, her dress torn and her face empty. Rogier glanced at his own hands and saw blood on them. He closed his eyes and could not recall who she was.

"Rogier, it's time," his brother Alard said. He watched Rogier with worries and added, "Supper is served. We have to get ready for the engagement." Alard was concerned about his brother, who became less friendly and often absentminded in the past months. Rogier was often unresponsive which made close people around, mainly his younger brother Alard, worry. Even though he did not share Rogier's perception of this world, Alard tried to understand his brother, who was often in a somber mood. Recently Rogier suffered from overwhelming feelings of guilt the cause of which was not completely obvious.

However, after the latest events, Alard as well was conflicted. The younger brother struggled to accept the deeds of some fellow Crusaders. Thinking of which, he was sure that the change in his brother's behavior came after their involvement at Al-Bara. Several months ago Duke Robert sent Rogier and his troops to support Duke Bohemond's envoy on an expedition to seize a place called Al-Bara. The situation in their camp had been worsening for some time, and in late fall the provisions were low. The Crusaders' leadership believed that having villages and towns like Al-Bara under control would help supply the army here at Antioch. None of the previous raids in the surrounding countryside had been successful. The Crusader's Army urgently needed to replenish supplies now. The whole contingent was starving, and winter was coming. Patrols reported that Al-Bara might provide enough provisions and also the much-appreciated spoil. Crusaders did not expect any resistance when they had recently attempted to attack the settlement. However, the defenders had not only resisted but also warded off the invaders. Alard did not get a good feeling about the quality of strategical decisions of the Crusader's leaders. He hoped that they would prepare the upcoming raid on the city of Al-Bara better and not repeat the same mistake.

Thus now, a week later, more hungry and desperate, the Crusaders' forces finally took over Al-Bara in a targeted surge. The fight took unnecessarily long, lasted all day and night, but the Crusaders crushed the resistance. The community was in chaos. The defenders were no soldiers, in the end, they panicked, many locked themselves inside their homes. When the turmoil ceased, Rogier and Alard ordered their men to keep together and wait for Bohemond's orders. However, none were coming. Day changed into night and groups of bloodthirsty, undisciplined Crusaders flooded the streets, determined to revenge the suffering of previous months. Some just went after the spoil. There seemed to be a universal agreement in dealing with the city inhabitants. The Crusaders started a gory massacre, and by the end of the next day, there was no infidel soul alive.

Alard just tried to black that whole event in Al-Bara out. He rejected to deal emotionally or any other way with it. Rogier, on the other hand, observed the scene with deep interest, absorbing all the painful details. No one, no Crusader lord ordered or attempted to stop the killing or looting. Rogier's small group found shelter in a rather humble-looking house. First, they had to pull out corpses of the former inhabitants. Alard ordered his men to cover all the blood there was on the floor with sand. He then checked a small pantry the house had and realized how little supply these people lived on. There was plenty of water in the kitchen, but there was no bread or grains. A bunch of onions and a bag of nuts hung from a ceiling. On a counter in a bowl, Alard found some kind of seeds. The kitchen was immaculate. In their family estate in Normandy, there was no indoor kitchen; his cook prepared all food outside on an open fire. Sun or rain. Alard found himself surprised, as many times before in that curious land. The people living in those premises were civilized in comparison to his men, who seemed desperately barbaric. The town of Al-Bara was not a city in a standard way because there were no city walls, no fortification or battlements of any sort around it. It was not a village either. The streets were paved, surrounded with two-level stone houses, floors, fountains, and cisterns with running water. The place seemed very elaborate and prosperous, and its founders built it for a very different era hundreds of years ago.

Alard issued orders to his men to make themselves comfortable in the house. Two men stayed guarding the doors before the situation calmed down. He picked the roomiest chamber for his brother and himself. And again, he was taken by the level of sophistication of the furniture and decorations. The walls were adorned with tapestries. The room smelled very intensely with exotic spices or herbs. Fortunately, no killing happened in the upstairs' chambers, hence there was no scent of blood present like on the lower floor and in the kitchen. The room featured small windows open to the street. Alard could hear noise from the ravaged city. The sound of the commotion was repulsive and attractive at the same time. He and Rogier could not help but look outside.

Down below, a horde of soldiers searched the street. They all were wearing the cross. The group spotted a movement on the opposite side of the road. A fast-moving streak in the dark attracted their attention. The Crusaders rushed behind the promising target. The chase ended quickly with screams at the wall on the far right side. Rogier did not see the whole scene well, but it was clear that whoever wore the white gown was not alive anymore. Shouts from the crowd unveiled those men as Normans, "There are no more of them here," one voice yelled, and the other one said, "Let's find some food, I am hungry." Someone else from the dark welled, "You go eat. I need a woman. Who goes with me?" "Yeah, women are close to a kitchen, anyway. Let's go find some!" the other voice agreed.

Rogier's conscience had startled, and he turned his head in disgust. Analyzing his feelings for a little longer, he realized he was oddly tense, and almost inappropriately excited. Rogier fought the feelings. It was precisely the reason why he had taken the cross and came here believing the holy pilgrimage could cleanse his mind of sinful thoughts like these. Once again, Rogier was losing the purpose, his reality, himself. He could not help to be who he was, after all. There was no help for him, no salvation. Angry with himself, with those men on the street, and with that nonsense idea of invading this land, Rogier looked at his brother, pulled his sword and without saying a word he rushed out onto the street. The glance of despair on his brother's face made Alard act fast. He made sure that their people stayed in the building and pointed only to his two lieutenants to follow him to look after Rogier. In the dark, on the street, he caught a glimpse of a tall silhouette pacing after the noisy crowd. Alard did not hesitate and followed his brother.

Rogier always envied Alard's uncomplicated acceptance of himself and his ability to reject the concept of guilt willfully. His younger brother was able to conform with the Church authority and at the same time, ignore the Church teachings. Outside, Rogier's thoughts were dark as the street which sounded with screams of violence. Cursing the Norman Crusaders, Rogier followed their steps. Their primitive language brought him back the odd sensation. Suddenly, Rogier could picture the woman he saw in his visions distinctly again. Her look was almost provocative, and there was a fire in her eyes. Now, Rogier remembered her warm lips and her soft body. He remembered how he was fighting with her and how she soon gave up, and then he was feeling great satisfaction. Rogier recalled seeing her emotionless eyes, which filled him with uncontrollable anger. It was only later when he noticed blood on his hands. His self suddenly came back, and he felt terrified. Rogier bit his lip and sped up after the men in the dark.

The agitated crowd in front of him was now visible in the moonlight. Rogier could see the two leaders. From a distance, their coats of arms were not recognizable, but they did not belong to Duke Robert's envoy. The street in front of them widened and shined in the light of a fire. Rogier noticed the sheer devastation around. Roofs were in flames, doors of the homes broken in and everywhere dead bodies were lying. Some soldiers were busy pillaging the houses, another bunch of Crusaders surrounded a fire pit cooking food. They all looked wild and excited from the rush of a victorious fight. The air was full of noise and screams. Rogier kept following the moving crowd in front of him. He did not know why, but he felt an urge to kill them all. There was not a trace of the higher principle or Holy Spirit in their behavior. No act of God. All of a sudden, a cluster of rocks started hammering the street and the heads of men in front of Rogier. Looking up, he saw movement above on the roof. It was a small group of people. Their action did not make any sense. It was as if they only wanted to attract the attention of that out-of-control crowd below them. They succeeded. The Crusaders set the building afire.

Rogier, watching the scuffle, suddenly felt someone's firm hand on his shoulder. He quickly turned only to see, in the light of fires, his brother's luminous eyes. Alard had finally caught up with him. Both men looked up on the roof of the burning house, but they could not see anybody anymore. At that moment they heard a rumble behind their back. They both turned ready to fight. An anxious face of a young boy looked at them from the dark. Also, there were other figures in the shadows behind him, women. Alard and Rogier froze with their swords ready. In a flash, Alard put his hand on Rogier's and signaled to his two men not to take any action. Then he looked over his shoulder to check on the Crusader's mob only to see them distracted by something farther on the street. Alard put his index finger on his lips and started pushing the strangers back through a gate from where they came. Rogier and their men followed him through the gate that led to a courtyard lit by a nearby fire. It was enough light to see that the teenage boy was accompanying six women. Two of them carried young children, and one other was visibly pregnant. Nobody said a word. Alard realized the trouble that he got himself in. Rogier turned to him, "What is your plan now?" "I have no plan," answered Alard shaking his head.

Rogier's rage was dissipating due to new circumstances. His strength and balance were back again. He ordered, "Let's move them quickly to our post. We could get them there," and added, "For now." Alard saw his older brother in charge again, his eyes focused and determined. The boy appeared confused, but he seemed to understand. The women were terrified. Alard thought that it might be impossible to convince the group to follow them quietly. He touched the boy's shoulder in a gesture that showed no hostility. Then he pointed to the women and waved his hands in a gesture suggesting someplace far from there. From a look in his eyes, the boy seemed to cooperate. He spoke in his language towards the women with more hand waving, and they were saying something back. Rogier lost his patience and retook charge by raising his arm holding a sword. He got immediate attention, then he turned to Alard, "Follow me out. If they want to get out of here, they have to come with us." Rogier gestured to the boy and the women to follow him and sent his lieutenants in the front to make sure there was no obstacle to their retreat. Rogier soon followed his lieutenants, and Alard started pushing the group out of the courtyard.

On their right-hand side, in the place where they saw a crowd of Crusaders before, a house was on fire. There was not a sign of anybody at the moment. Their small group kept quietly following Rogier. After the last turn, when Rogier could already see their house, a group of four armed men materialized from the dark in front of them. They were fellow Crusaders carrying bags filled with loot. There was no other way around. Rogier halted them, "I am Rogier of Mortain. Who are you, and where are you going?" The men reacted to authority and stopped. In the dark, they could not see the whole crowd behind Rogier right away. They responded in French, "We are soldiers of King Fillip." Before Rogier could say anything, the Frenchman noticed the women in their company, and asked, pointing at them, "Who are they?" Rogier reacted quickly, "This is our booty." The Frenchman put a crooked smile on his face, "I want a share!" Rogier decisively swayed his sword, "Mind your own business. They are ours." The Frenchman without hesitation stepped forward, and attacked Rogier. The rest of the men joined the fight.

Alard made sure he had Rogier's back. In the corner of his eyes, he saw the boy shouting something to the women who did not hesitate and fled. Alard focused on fighting his opponent entirely. The man seemed neither well trained nor equipped. Unable to block Alard's blows, the soldier was visibly contemplating to retreat. Alard intensified his attacks, hitting his opponent with a flat sword several times to cause enough pain, and then suddenly stepped back. The soldier understood that was his opportunity to run, took his chances, and disappeared in the dark. At that moment Alard switched his focus to Rogier and his opponent. The tall and muscular Frenchman fought ruthlessly, and his sword technique was flawless. Alard noticed that his two lieutenants pinned their opponents to a wall with ostensible prevalence.

Alard moved to help his brother. Rogier's foe realized the danger and intensified his attacks. He was lucky. Rogier staggered under the storm of blows. Alard ready to kill his opponent took charge. His sword hammered the Frenchman's right side to distract him from Rogier. Alard then closed in and followed by an assault from the left with his dagger. He stabbed the man deep in the neck with one devastating blow. Blood splashed at Alard's hand when he pulled his blade back. The Frenchman groaned and fell face down on the ground choking on his own blood. His other two companions swiftly turned their backs running and soon disappeared in the morning twilight. Alard turned to Rogier. The older brother had his chest bloody, and he was visibly in pain. There was no sign of the boy or the women anywhere close.

Later that day, still without a word from Lord Bohemond, Rogier decided to leave for Antioch. Not only Rogier's wound seemed severe enough, but the arguable outcome of Al-Bara victory undercut their morale. It did not and never could have provided the needed spoil to supply the army. The disillusioned men were leaving the home that gave them temporary shelter when they were taken by a surprise. The teenage boy from the last night was peeking at them from the rubble on the street. He had blood smears on his shoulder but did not look hurt. Alard stepped towards him with a question on his face. The boy gestured to him and then pointing to himself, he said, "Asu." They looked at each other silently for a moment, and Alard again felt that irrational impulse and made a gesture allowing the boy to join them. Asu quickly became a part of their company, but it was clear that he was Alard's personal loyal companion and adjutant. The trip back to Antioch was not smooth. Rogier's mangled ribs caused him excruciating pain. The injury sapped further his already diminishing will to live.

Rogier was not hungry, but he followed his brother to the tent. The food was very modest. Rogier noticed that their armors had gotten ready. The Crusader armies were gearing up for an attack scheduled for tonight. The Antioch siege was to be concluded at last. There were rumors that a massive Seljuk army was on the way to help the besieged city. It was now, before the Seljuks get here, or never. Rogier was not interested anymore. His thoughts were floating in memories. Strangely calm Rogier hardly touched his food and was unable to listen to what Alard was saying. He was looking at the armor, thinking, "This is it. I wish God be merciful." It felt like he had never seen it before. Every little detail and each flash of silver glitter seemed magical.

Rogier realized how stringent and straightforward his suit of armor appeared compared to everything he saw in this cheerfully ornamental new world. The world he was now helping defeat, and ravage in the name of God. Simple engravings on his sword were considered fine craftsmanship in Normandy. The unassuming and plain decorations reflected the Church teachings about the modesty of life. Rogier recalled the first impressions after his arrival in Constantinople. Everything seemed so bright and colorful, even the air smelled of spices, flowers, and food. It was overpowering. As long as he could remember, his world in Normandy was always associated with the smell of sweat, animals, and urine. That day in Constantinople, he had experienced a new spirit of life.

Rogier's eyes were transfixed at the armor. Both, his and Alard's, helmets were nearly identical. He recalled his brother's excitement as they scrutinized the armament the first time. Master Serlon, the armorer, brought the suits of armor from his workshop in Mortain the night before their departure to the Holy Land. Serlon was one of the best armorers in Normandy. His shop was famous for crafting dependable, long-lasting protection, as well as for precise artisan decorative work. Helmets, with functional cross-like nose protection, crafted as a symbol of the crucifixion of our Lord, Jesus Christ, were ones of his most beautiful. The creation made the helmet costly, but it was a beautiful piece of art. Alard, his brother, unlike Rogier, always seemed to enjoy ornamented clothes and fine art. Rogier remembered how he had worried at the time. It had been taking several weeks to finish the armor, and Rogier with Alard was already expected to join Duke Robert's army. Serlon's craftsmen were rushing to finish the order throughout the last night before the departure. It all was completed on time. Rogier remembered how Serlon's red eyes smiled with pride. Of course, his effort was rewarded with a significant payment. Nearly all of Alard's assets disappeared overnight. It did not seem to bother him a bit, and it was only the beginning of the journey. Unlike Rogier, Alard was impulsive, and never planned anything too far.

Rogier's thoughts turned to dark-skinned Asu, the young and unlikely companion of his brother. The boy was helping Alard into his armor. Rogier had to admit that he was perfect. Asu learned quickly everything he needed to know about a Crusader's life—both their language and their customs. Asu became almost inseparable from Alard. While other serfs were helping him into his armor, Rogier was thinking about his brother's unusual affection for the boy.

At the same moment, Alard's thoughts focused on his brother as well. Rogier's injuries from Al-Bara did not heal, and his spirit was dark and unresponsive. Alard worried for him but kept his thoughts to himself. When finished dressing, the brothers stood in their full armors unrecognizable from each other. They were ready for the battle.

# Chapter 4

The clouds have finally dispersed, and the sun was shining coldly. The rain of previous days washed down most of the yellow leaves from trees. Still, lasting colors of the fall brightened the nostalgic mood. The Archaedat meeting went well. Greg arrived directly from the airport, late for a roundtable discussion. Vanda was in the middle of explaining a new descriptor recently introduced to the database. She was relieved to see Greg. In her eyes, he seemed untouched by age. However, she noticed critically that he still had not given up his boring all-American fashion style—beige chinos, and oxfords.

In contrast to dull clothing, Greg's eyes were expressive, and his appearance displayed confidence and energy. Professor Vidal, the chair of the discussion panel, suggested taking a coffee break. Greg was beyond question popular, and everyone wanted to greet him. He walked directly to Vanda and hugged her, with a question mark in his eyes. Before she could say a word, her cell phone beeped showing her a new message from Detective Dostál, who wanted to meet her as soon as possible. Vanda raised her head and said, "It's the detective. He wants to talk to me. I'll better call him back." Greg held her shoulder firmly and said, "Nice to see you, too." Vanda smiled at him and blurted, "You wouldn't believe how glad I am seeing you," and she was already dialing Dostál's office.

The detective was on the way downtown and wanted to meet over a coffee somewhere. Vanda suggested the lobby of the hotel where the meeting was taking place, Hotel Intercontinental. They got together in less than an hour. Dostál looked a lot less formal than previously. When they sat down at the hotel bar and ordered coffees, Vanda calmed down. The detective went directly to the point, "We need your help." He explained that his department needed an expert to evaluate the evidence from Straka's place. Vanda was already familiar with the circumstances of the case, and that would make her a preferable candidate.

Vanda was surprised, she felt relief and also curiosity. "I already have a busy schedule and also travel plans," she answered. The detective nodded, "That's fine with me. If you could take a look at Straka's notes and the mystery box he kept labeled with your name. I believe you could help us to track his activities." Dostál would get Vanda access to the police depository and suggested meeting with her the next day so they could go through the evidence together. "I appreciate your help," he concluded with an expression of urgency that she could not resist. "OK, I'll look at it, but I need to leave the day after tomorrow," Vanda said and briefly checking her calendar added, "Tomorrow morning around nine would work." Dostál nodded. Satisfied, he handed her his card with the address of the police depository. Vanda smiled at him, realizing that she ended up with one more task on her list, but she was free to travel.

Later that day, when the meeting was over, Vanda and Greg stayed in the hotel. After nearly four months without seeing each other, they needed time to reconnect. Vanda realized how much she missed Greg. She laid empty-headed in his arms, experiencing calming relaxation. Greg connected with reality sooner than she did. He was hungry and therefore called room service, which to his disappointment, offered at that late time cold sandwiches only. They both managed to take a shower before their order was delivered. Vanda caught herself, staring at Greg's body. It was the body of a runner, that did not show signs of being almost sixty years old. For a moment, Vanda considered the possibility that she is not realistic but then concluded for herself, that he was probably able to cheat mother nature. In the back of her mind, Vanda wished she could have done the same. Greg's thoughts meanwhile were already entirely focused on Archaedat. His intuition was telling him that someone was exploring options to profit from manipulating data in the database. Together they came up with various theoretical scenarios, but nothing was substantial at the moment. Vanda did not forget to mention her afternoon meeting with the detective and commented on the progress of the police investigation, and her new role in it.

Dostál was waiting in the entrance to the police presidium headquarters. For some reason, he looked younger than usual, and since he put a smile on his face, he was handsome. At least in Vanda's eyes. The detective greeted her and together they walked to the main lobby. They signed-in at the front desk and proceeded to the elevator that took them to the lower floor with the central depository. A musty odor that usually comes with old storage or a basement filled the air. The detective pulled out his post-it note with a location number, and they followed signs directing them to a particular row and a shelf. As Vanda walked behind him, she noticed an unobtrusive smell of his aftershave. They passed several rows of shelves, and there it was. The box in the location had her name hand-written on by someone using a black marker. Dostál pulled the box out and placed it on a clunky office desk. Then he switched on an old-fashioned table lamp and removed a lid for Vanda to see inside. The box contained a set of keys, Vanda's green folder and several sketches on loose paper sheets. "Those keys fit the lock in the door from your office," the detective commented.

First Vanda opened the green folder containing several photographs of the Saint Wenceslaus' helmet including details, and several pages of print out documentation. She looked at the detective, "It seems complete. Nothing is missing." She pointed to a photograph of the helmet, "Did you know that the helmet was assembled using two entirely unrelated parts?" Vanda pointed her finger at the picture explaining, that a bell shape helm and a cross-like nasal-guard each had an origin in a different historical period. The base was forged from one piece of iron, and its exact origin was unknown. Other similar articles were discovered in the middle European region, dated between the 9th and 12th century. Both the shape and the material used were characteristic in that era. The cross on the helmet was not only for decoration. It served as nose protection, and it was made of roughened iron covered by silver foil. Its central depiction represented the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. The creation resembled of Franco-Saxon insular art or even Nordic motives. Vanda explained to the detective: "Meaning, nobody knows who made it and where. It could come from anywhere west or north of Bohemia. However, we are sure, the nose-guard was made later, after Duke Wenceslaus' death. Maybe as late as in the 11th century." It was apparent, Vanda enjoyed sharing her knowledge, and the detective seemed interested in her lecturing him.

Vanda recalled entertaining controversy concerning the origin of the nasal-guard and did not hesitate to share it with Dostál. In the middle of it was the fact that corrosion consumed a part of the stylized cross. Unfortunately, it affected the head of the crucified figure. Depending on imagination, the blotch resembled, for example, a big eye, or massive open lips. It became a popular topic for the Czech community of historians as well as cranks. The subject provided an excellent source for creating fantastic theories. "People love mysteries and controversial theories," Vanda commented. To her, the cross-like ornament symbolized the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. However, anybody with common sense could come up with that. It would have been too trivial!

"The social media embrace unorthodox interpretations capable of blowing people's minds, something bizarre," Vanda recounted a hypothesis, published on the Internet, sketched by some art-historians and history enthusiasts. According to them, the nasal guard might be a Viking origin, symbolizing the screaming God Odin bound to a tree. That theory was rooted in a good-old Czech love for mythology, especially when it suggested the mysterious Celtic or Nordic origin of the predominantly Slavic nation. Vanda was curious enough to research that possibility. Reading Nordic mythology reaffirmed her skepticism to that theory—Odin would have hung from a tree for 'nine long nights,' upside down. The nose-guard depicted an upright figure with stretched out hands, with no signs of a tree to hang down from. "Why not Odin?" Vanda asked rhetorically. "Nobody can prove it otherwise," Vanda concluded her lecture.

For a second, Dostál looked puzzled when Vanda finished her monologue, and then he started laughing, "I see. Not only it may not be the Duke's helmet, but it may belong to some bloodthirsty Viking." Vanda appreciated his sense of humor and matter-of-factly replied, "There is a certain chance that Duke Wenceslaus did wear the helmet, but the nose-guard was probably added later." Most likely that happened sometimes after Duke's death when the cult of Saint Wenceslaus was already established. Worshiping relics is as old as religion itself. Duke Wenceslaus himself was a collector of holy relics. He became the founder of the Treasury at the Prague Castle by acquiring remains of the arm of Saint Vitus from Henry I, the Duke of Saxony, in the year 929. When the Roman Catholic Church canonized Wenceslaus, as Saint Wenceslaus, anything he had touched become a religious object. Trade with relics of saints had been a very lucrative business throughout the Middle Ages. It was fairly common to forge them, and the Roman Catholic Church has been conflicted for centuries by the issue of veneration of relics that had been suspected forgeries. Bodily remains were easy to forge, and as a result, there was, for example, an excess of heads of John the Baptist. At one point, they were at least three skulls recognized by the church as the authentic relic of Saint John the Baptist. In addition to it, seven different countries claim to own his skull fragments.

"Are you suggesting that Straka also ran a forgery business?" Dostál asked. "Well, I do not know, I am just trying to find some explanation. It may be one of the possibilities," Vanda answered. She went on explaining how easy it would have been to forge a shape and an appearance of such an object. However, the difficult part was to imitate the wear and decay of the material on a microscopic level. Modern-day science offered many methods used for dating of metal objects, metallography, for instance. It would require a great deal of sophistication to produce a plausible forgery. Dostál wittingly nodded, "Yes, I understand that. It is hard to imitate aging." Vanda took it as an excuse to continue her lecture on the impact of environment and time on the quality of materials. To an expert, certain modifications in materials, on a microscopic level, are related to aging. Those characteristics cannot be forged. The presence of typical microstructures is essential evidence for dating, and their absence is a direct indicator of forgeries. Metallographic pictures are evidence of specific materials and technological processes used. Additionally, other analytical methods can support dating estimates with qualitative or quantitative data.

Vanda focused her attention back on the box. She pulled out papers with sketches and some notes. A handwritten note, "Ballioz Koyu," was scribbled next to a small circle in a drawing that looked like a map with lines, possibly roads. On the bottom of the scheme, there was a code D817 and the capital letter S. Vanda shook her head, saying, "I have no idea, what that could mean." Detective Dostál pointed at the unusual term, "I have googled it, and it directed me to a place in Turkey. The spelling is a little different since they have some unusual characters in their alphabet." He took a pen and wrote, "Ballıöz Köyü." The detective explained, "Köyü means a village in Turkish. Ballıöz is the name of a small village located near the city of Antakya, and D817 is a highway you have to take to get to Ballıöz from Antakya." The area of Straka's expertise was medieval settlements in the Central European region, and to Vanda's knowledge, no researcher from the Institute operated in Turkey. Vanda ran out of ideas.

The last piece of paper was full of nonsensical scribbles. Probably random notes that meant something only to Straka. Dostál shook his head and pulled yet another box out of the shelf. The box contained a simple organizer with transparent folders. The content was visible—photographs of artifacts. Vanda was interested. That was another portion of evidence recovered from Straka's house. There were notes on the backs of the pictures. A photo after a photo showed old artifacts; several photos pictured the same object from different angles. The images gave an impression of professional work with good composition and contrast.

The collection looked like a random sample representing the Mediterranean or Middle Eastern region. A majority of the items were smaller statues made of stone, bronze, or other materials. The rest were all kinds of tableware, cups, and bowls, everything in a well-preserved condition. Looking through the pictures, Vanda suddenly recognized a familiar object. A nasal-guard with a stylized figure in the shape of a cross. The same, or very similar, as the one on Saint Wenceslaus' helmet. The photograph depicted the cross-like artifact unattached to a helmet or another element. Vanda flipped the picture and read a handwritten note on the back, Ballıöz Köyü. The same was written on the backside of the other two photos in that folder, one showing a rusty sword and the other one a pair of spurs.

# Chapter 5

"Could that be a mix-up?" Greg asked. Vanda hesitated, unsure what to think and then said, "The detective told me that they have been looking into several locations in which Straka stashed his loot." The police already located some of the items from the photographs. They were convinced that Straka smuggled artifacts. Smuggling was only one part of his business. The proof that trafficking constituted the core of Straka's operation was self-evident, all the objects recovered lacked any provenance information. However, there was no apparent connection with the database incident. Also, it did not explain, why was Straka willing to risk being caught in Vanda's office with the green folder. "He could simply ask me," Vanda reasoned and questioned, "What did he need it for? Forgery, perhaps?" She could not come up with one good reason for forging a historical object of that magnitude.

The helmet's value was symbolic, and its monetary value was, therefore, impossible to determine. Neither Greg was able to think of a possible motive. Usually, his practical and pragmatic mind could recognize essential details, but here he could not find any logical explanation. "There must be a clear link. We should be able to figure it out but now let's eat. I am hungry," Greg concluded. Grinning at Vanda, he pulled her closer. That was what Vanda liked about him. Greg was able to switch between his working mode and the personal one in a split of a second. She kissed him. It was shortly after five in the afternoon when they left Vanda's apartment clung to each other in a cold wind.

Schiphol Airport greeted them with heavy rain. Greg was deep asleep when the plane landed. Vanda had to wake him up. Together they walked out into the downpour and took a taxi to downtown Amsterdam. Their reservation was at the Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky, a stylish place with all the amenities necessary for the meeting to take place. The rain stopped by the time they got there, and since it was only noon, they decided for a walk along canals. It was their time together, the luxury they could not enjoy often.

Greg felt like he was once again twenty-something years old on a day like that. Deep inside, he never felt old, but he was realistic enough to know that his appearance and his physique slowly gave in. Mother nature equipped him with a solid body that allowed enjoying life in full. Even though Greg was drafted to the Vietnam war, it was only months before the war was over and he, unlike other kids of his age, returned alive and unbroken. However, the experience had become the ultimate motivation for his new life after the war. The intensity of those thoughts made him nostalgic, and he consciously pulled Vanda closer. "Let's have some fun," he said playfully navigating Vanda through a street to the closest coffee shop. Vanda looked at him, surprised, "Aren't we supposed to be at the reception tonight?" He grinned, "We'll get there. Don't worry, it'll be just one joint," and he was already aiming for the counter and checking the menu. Vanda watched him from the door through the pungent smoke of weed with amusement.

The crowd gathering at the reception held in the Hortus Botanicus, not far from the center of Amsterdam, was a mix of academics, private researchers, and entrepreneurs, overall folks interested in the progress in the field of dating historical artifacts. Greg still felt comfortably high. He appreciated the relaxing effect of smoking pot. Unlike alcohol, cannabis calmed him down. Following Vanda towards the bar, he noticed a couple of people he knew and wanted to talk to them. Greg stopped to shake hands with his colleagues. Somebody whom he did not recognize greeted him. Greg did not see some of those people for almost two years since he skipped most last year's conferences and meetings. One of them was Dr. Harrison Jones, his old friend from UC Berkley and the chairman of the conference. Harrison was engaged in discussion with David Feldman, an affluent historian. Feldman only recently founded an independent research center in New York, dedicated to history and archaeology. Greg, of course, intended to find out more about the operation.

To Vanda, it seemed like a brilliant idea to organize the welcome reception in the botanical garden. She liked the serenity and open space of the place. After Greg had blended in, as always effortlessly since he was a recognizable figure, Vanda got her glass of wine and positioned herself strategically to observe the bunch. She promised herself not to judge scientific stereotypes. However, it would be interesting to know if others perceived her as a stereotype. Vanda looked around. Greg was talking to a shorter and younger man, on the other side of the hall. Before she could make any observation, both men turned, apparently talking about her, catching her by surprise staring at them. Greg smirked at her and waved his hand, signaling to her to join them. The other man looked at her with a soft smile and penetrating blue eyes. "Let me introduce my friend, Dr. Vanda Skalická," said Greg and placed his arm around Vanda's waist as a sign of relation. "This is Dr. David Feldman. He is interested in our database. We were just talking about his new project and his brand new private foundation." Vanda shook hands with the man, "Nice to meet you, Dr. Feldman." "David, call me David. My pleasure to meet you," said Feldman with a slight accent. Even though it sounded Russian, Vanda was willing to ignore her profoundly rooted prejudice. It was time to get rid of the antiquated grudge against the Soviets. In 1968, during the occupation, David Feldman was only a baby. However, today, he was an interesting man.

Feldman's piercing eyes were studying her. "My family left Russia when I was twelve," Feldman explained, responding to her unspoken question. Vanda smiled at him, and then returned to a professional subject, "So you started a research foundation? What's the main focus?" Feldman looked pleased to give her an answer. "I have been fortunate having some available finances and, of course, necessary connections. Long story short, my foundation is a well-connected source of money to finance research projects. Anyone, for example, you, can send us a proposal. After evaluation, the board decides if the foundation can fund that project. By 'the board,' I mean the expert board of the Moon Rock Foundation. It is non-profit, so as you know, all the results must be made public and no artifacts, no technology or products of the research can be sold for profit. Several people with 'deep' interest in world history and, of course, with deep pockets, are behind the Institute," Feldman made a pun with a sarcastic undertone to make sure that he did not take himself too seriously. He then mentioned his personal interest in the Near East history. Feldman kept himself active by overseeing a few active excavations at various sites that originally constituted the Ottoman Empire. However, the region overlapped over several modern-day countries with complicated politics. "It has not been fun lately," Feldman sighed. One of his excavation sites was in Syria, or at least it used to be. The chances, to continue the exploration, there were dim. Greg agreed with Feldman, "The conflict in Syria is devastating. I heard that looting is at an all-time high in Syria." Digging and selling ancient artifacts was one of the ways to make a living for people with no other opportunity in destroyed areas. Unfortunately, it also was a way to fund extremism in the region.

Vanda understood the last remarks very well. Her friend Alena had struggled in Egypt with a similar situation not so long ago; the Syrian conflict was just much more violent and bloody. They were not there to solve the world's problems and to keep the conversation running, Vanda expressed her interest, "I am neither an archaeologist nor a historian. I am a material scientist. What about financing a book project? I mean, if I write a monograph, for example, on metallographic analysis." Feldman nodded, "That is exactly, what the foundation was meant for." Vanda took a sip from her glass of wine and observed the man. Dr. David Feldman charmed her with his unobtrusive and neat appearance. His charisma was impossible to overlook, and his ego stood out; however, he tried to camouflage it. Feldman studied her with a knowing expression when he said, "Greg mentioned that you are involved in Archaedat. I would be very interested in getting to know more about it." Greg used the moment to excuse himself to talk with some of his colleagues who just arrived.

Vanda turned to Feldman saying, "I do not know what you have heard about Archaedat, but Greg is going to have a plenary lecture tomorrow morning, and I am sure it will be quite a complex summary of the project." Feldman explained that he was interested in practical details of using the database with whose general concept he was already familiar. Vanda nodded, "You mean searching the database and comparing data." She then went on describing to him various features of the database. How it enabled searching in categories of objects for a variety of descriptors, including searching pictures of the objects, their measurements, locations, or dating. Vanda excitedly highlighted what was most important for her, "The main asset is that you can search materials including hard analytical data, well, under the condition, that they are available. That is also the part for which I am responsible. We all work on ultimate accessibility for scientists anywhere in the world," Vanda concluded. Feldman's eyes were smiling, "It sounds like a great mission statement. But seriously, I am very much looking forward to using the database. Maybe you could show me some examples of searching. When you have time, of course." Vanda agreed to meet him the next day after lunch before the afternoon session.

Greg looked unusually tense. He was still holding his phone, walking through the room looking for Vanda. She watched him approaching with growing uncertainty and stopped paying attention to the discussion in which she and other colleagues engaged. When he got to her, Vanda whispered, "What's going on?" He grasped her elbow in an odd gesture and said, "I have just talked to Claire. Kevin is in the hospital. He had a car accident. A serious car accident," Greg added and choked. Kevin, Greg's 'little boy,' who just left for college. Vanda instinctively hugged Greg and whispered, "Let's leave, now." They left the reception without saying goodbye to anybody.

Vanda only had two hours to go through Greg's notes and prepare herself to present his plenary lecture. Greg already left for the airport. There was an exchange of several calls during the night, and it was apparent that the situation was not good. Kevin's condition was serious. Vanda did not have much time to analyze her feelings in that situation. Her heart went out to Greg. Drinking coffee, she recapped the lecture, realizing again how well Greg had planned and organized it. Since it all was about Archaedat, Vanda was confident that she could present the facts and answer questions without embarrassing herself. At eight o'clock, Vanda called Dr. Jones, told him about Greg, and explained to him that Greg had handed her his materials and she was taking over the plenary lecture. Jones was genuinely concerned about Kevin, whom he knew personally. He suggested meeting with Vanda twenty minutes before her talk in the auditorium, so he could properly introduce her.

"Good morning, Dr. Jones," Vanda greeted the tall, gray-haired professor. He was already in the auditorium, making sure the morning session started without delays. They briefly talked about how she wanted him to introduce her. Vanda set up her laptop and looked around. Feldman was the first person she recognized among the people filling the auditorium. He smiled at her, and Vanda smiled back but did not have time to spare. She needed to get ready for the presentation. Everything went smoothly. She was so focused on her talk that it took her by surprise when it was over. Since that was a plenary lecture, there was plenty of time for questions. The response seemed quite good despite the unexpected last-minute change and Greg's indisputable popularity. Vanda felt like she did a decent job in replacing him in advertising Archaedat. She was gathering her notes after the session when she heard Feldman's voice behind her, "Any plans for lunch? We could talk about Archaedat over lunch. By the way, congratulations, it was a very comprehensive talk you presented," and he closely looked into her eyes with sincere respect. Vanda nervously thought that he played her well. She still managed to keep her face and stay as professional as possible when she answered, "No plans for lunch. Yes, you can join me."

That same day in the evening, Vanda was stretched on a bed in the hotel room that now fell lifeless without Greg. She was thinking about the lunch they had with Feldman. He was charmingly funny and enigmatic at the same time. Either he treated everybody the way, or he was on a mission to impress her. Either way, Vanda enjoyed his pursuit a lot. She tried to stay objective but was split about his direct and unrestrained style of communication. It confused her. There should be some mystery, a secret corner of a person's mind, that one should keep for herself, or reveal slowly, partially and not to everybody. Vanda's nature was to be somewhat secretive and very private. How could Feldman convince her to trust him so fast? She was quite sure that it was that same candor that made her uncomfortable, and at the same time, that made her open and honest with him. His seemingly effortless confidence and charm attracted her. Vanda was curious to learn more about that pragmatic and rational man, who was as well passionate about things that had importance to him. Feldman's personality was intensely unquieting, and Vanda could not get him off her mind.

David Feldman thought that lunch with Vanda went well. "Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he said to himself, smiling. He then picked up the phone and called his broker in New York. Feldman needed an update on his financial operations and also to know if all the recent transactions went well. The broker, a friend of his, Aaron Brodsky, ran David's finances for some time. Without asking questions, he made sure everything added up at the end. Their Moon Rock Foundation was a result of Aaron's and David's heated discussions about theirs, as Aaron put it, 'ethically challenged operations.' Aaron designed a concept for establishing a private charitable institution that would put their money to work for a higher purpose. David loved the idea of being a philanthropist, and together they worked hard to make the foundation a success.

Aaron's voice on the phone was calm. Everything was running smoothly and was under control. The friends exchanged jokes, and at the very end, David mentioned that he needed a break, a vacation, to enjoy life and stop the hectic pace of his overly ambitious lifestyle. In a deep, secretive voice, he explained, "I met someone." Aaron replied, "I hear you, man. Just call me from wherever you are. Good luck!" They finished the call, and David dialed Vanda's number. He was not sure what he wanted to do. Hearing her voice helped him to make a quick decision. "Would it be too much to invite you for a drink tonight?" he asked. There was silence for a moment on the other side and then she answered with apparent astonishment, "I was just thinking about you," and then she added laughing, "I do not believe, I am saying that to you." Feldman was silently waiting for her response. Vanda took her time, and after she cleared her throat said, "Yes, sure. Why not? Let's go for a drink." David, astonished how uncomplicated that was, quickly suggested, "Let's meet at the place called De Ysbreeker. Take a taxi, and I'll meet you there after eight."

After the call, Vanda realized how amazingly efficient and fast Dr. Feldman was. Alternatively, was it her who was fast? She was amazed. It did not feel strange. To the contrary, it felt good. Vanda, unable to focus her thoughts, held the cell phone when the ringer went off again. This time it was Greg. His voice sounded firmer than before he left. The call brought Vanda quickly back to reality. "How is everything?" she asked worriedly. Greg had encouraging news. Kevin was conscious and doing much better. The bad news was that his left leg injury demanded an extensive reconstructive surgery and there was still a chance that he would need an amputation. Greg was ready to do anything in his power to get the best care for his son. "It was a scary accident, and two other people were injured. Thank God, nobody died!"

Vanda was glad. It all seemed much better now. Greg sounded back to normal when he asked almost casually, "How was the talk? Did it go well?" Vanda smiled, "Sure. Did you doubt me? But seriously, yes, we have several new requests for collaboration, and many are interested in using the database. Also, your friend David Feldman is highly interested. Although I am not sure what's exactly on his mind." She expressed her thoughts with sarcasm, "If he is attracted by our ingenious database or my magnetic personality." Vanda was happy to hear Greg laughing when he replied, "I am sure it's both. Say hello to him from me. I doubt it'll discourage him."

Kevin's accident kept reminding Vanda of her own past experience. It all became too personal to her. As she imagined the boy, in a hospital, worried because of uncertainty, in an unnaturally quiet medical facility with cold lights and the smell of antiseptics, overwhelmed with fear. It seemed like ages, but she still could feel that cold wave of learning something that was going to change her life permanently. Even now, long after all that happened, she remembered the desperation of realization that she just lost her chance to have her biological child. After the accident, they saved her life, but she wished to be dead. She recalled that time. Her marriage had been long in ruins, and her personal life nonexistent. It took time, but she managed to adjust. The relationship with Greg was a result of her newfound confidence, and it was Greg who helped Vanda to reinvent herself. She loved him and valued his touch on many different levels.

"So, tell me what did you think when I called?" asked David. She took a sip from her glass of wine and without blinking replied, "Are you asking me if I was touching myself thinking of you?" He laughed, "Were you?" She kept her eyes on him and said, "I was trying to understand who you are. And no, I did not do touch myself." A waitress brought their order. They both went silent, staring at the plate with oysters. David was first to interrupt the silence with a grin, "Well, at this point, I am supposed to ask some banal questions, like 'What is possible between us?'" Vanda accepted the game and responded, "And I am expected to reply, 'I don't know,' but I say: Everything. I think everything is possible. But following strict logic, it does not mean that all of it should or will happen." He glanced at her with a meek smile, like he was not sure, and said, "Thank you." Vanda had no idea what she meant by that 'everything,' perhaps 'anything is open.' She smiled and reached for an oyster, squeezed some lemon juice over and slurped the rich flavor of the fresh ocean in one piece. Quietly eating, they watched each other.

The moment called for a silly joke that would help them unwind, but David was overwhelmed by a wave of unexpected thoughts. Vanda interrupted the awkward quiet by speaking her mind. "Have you noticed how many people are afraid of living? They entangle themselves in a structure of rules. Then they live their entire life in fear, in their little hole tied up with all those rules, unable to change their habits and afraid of change. The structure gives them an illusion of security," she concluded. David looked directly into her eyes, "I may be one of them," and with a mischievous grin, he added, "I became dependent both on money and property. My life is very structured around managing my material stuff. I am afraid that I am slowly becoming a lonely cane-waving old man yelling, 'Get off my lawn!'" Vanda laughed despite having only a vague idea about what was David talking. Aloud she said, "I'd prefer to be more about 'being' than 'having,'" and quickly finishing her glass of wine she jokingly added, "But right now I feel like 'having' more wine."

They hashed out several topics in the course of the evening, only to find out that they wanted to know more about each other. Vanda sparked David's interest on many different levels. Of course, her physical appearance played a role, but her wit and free spirit took him completely. David admired the consistency she kept in the conversation they shared. Vanda made him feel relaxed the way he did not experience in a long time. Observing her, David was under the impression that the feelings were mutual. The conversation naturally brought up personal topics. To Vanda's surprise, David reacted as a genuinely open and warm person. His shallow-looking shell peeled off and Vanda learned fragments of his past that he shared with honesty. The honesty that brought them close. Vanda started to like that man. Time flew, and Vanda lost herself in the flow of conversation.

"I would like to show you something," David said when he lead her out of the restaurant. Vanda glanced at her watch and realized that it was almost midnight. He gave her a secretive look and waited for her reaction. "Well, what is it?" she asked. They were heading to the bank of the Amstel River. Instead of answering, David put his hand firmly around her waist and led her towards the center. After walking less than one block, he stopped and pulled keys out of his pocket. Still holding her, he navigated them through a short staircase over the water down to a platform with a box-shaped house floating on the water. If that was a houseboat, nothing suggested a boat. Lights at the door switched on automatically. In that light, Vanda noticed a name tag with his name next to the doorbell. David was already unlocking the door. As they were entering the doorway, she recorded absentmindedly—hardwood floor, stainless steel, contemporary interior, warm dark orange colors. He walked her inside and in front of a glass window that covered one entire wall of a vast living room. A mindblowing view of the city on the river shined in front of them. Vanda was looking outside, leaning on the glass window in amazement. She felt David's hands rounding her from behind and turned to him. They kissed. Vanda found the idea of the transparent glass wall cunning.

It was not anything Vanda expected. However, what did she expect? Vanda realized that she was spoiled by Greg and anticipated to be disappointed. Greg set the standard high up. This other man, David, was somebody else. Vanda felt like two different universes collided, allowing her to enjoy both. She enjoyed every part of the night that she and David spent together. He was fun, adventurous, and incredibly straightforward. However, she detected the impenetrable layers of David's persona. In the early morning light, she was looking around with a different perspective. The place was strictly contemporary except for a few miniature sculptures that looked antique and very expensive at first sight. She turned her head and saw David, with his chin in a pillow, observing her. "I am planning to spend a week at my island house in the Mediterranean. Would you like to join me in a week or two?" His voice was raspy. "No work, just sun and sea and that kind of stuff," he explained. Vanda replied with a smirk on her face, "OK. When and where?"

# Chapter 6

The detective's voice on the phone sounded strangely unfitting to Vanda's hotel room in the center of Amsterdam. Too many things had happened in the last couple of days that Vanda spent in that city. She almost forgot about reality in Prague. She needed a moment to refocus her thoughts. Dostál asked her for help and explained, "We have found a collection of artifacts hidden in a basement under Straka's summer cottage. Specifically, several pieces related to Ballıöz Köyü." It caught Vanda's attention. "Did you find the nose-guard?" she asked. "Yes, we have found that and more," the detective assured her, and continued, "We also have a better idea of the matter that Straka was involved in, who possibly killed him and why." Vanda was fully back and eager to see into that mystery. She confirmed, "I am back in Prague today before midnight. I will be available tomorrow morning, let's say around nine o'clock."

It was late after midnight when Vanda arrived home from the airport. She did not feel tired, still full of energy, and running high from excitement. Several messages were waiting for her to answer. One from Greg was among them. She read quickly through the lines, afraid that there may be bad news. Nonetheless, Kevin's condition seemed to improve a bit, and the only remaining concern was his leg. "I hope you enjoyed the rest of your stay in Amsterdam. I talked to Feldman on the phone, and he was oddly vague when I mentioned you. Lucky bastard! By the way, he is serious about fueling some money into Archaedat." Greg's comments made Vanda smile. She looked through the rest of the messages. Her friend Alena was still unaware of Vanda's recent adventure and was only commenting on her stay in Paris and her colleagues at Sorbonne. Vanda did not want to write banalities. She needed to set apart time to share with her friend all that she was through the last couple of weeks. Vanda felt that by writing it, she could see a different, more realistic perspective. It was late, and suddenly she was overcome by fatigue.

The ringing phone woke Vanda up thirty minutes after nine. Still half asleep, she answered. It was Dostál growing already impatient. When she entered his office, it was several minutes after ten. She was holding her coffee in one hand and a half-eaten pastry in the other. Dostál grinned at her, "I see. You can multitask. Let's get to work." She was grateful for the silly joke and smiled back. Quickly swallowing her breakfast, she said, "I cannot wait to see what you have got." The detective led her through the door, out of his office, and then to another door with a sign, Laboratory Room II. Inside, on the table, there were exhibited various items each one with a tag attached. "This is all we've recovered so far from the basement," and pointing to the cross-like nose-guard, the detective announced, "and here it is." Vanda focused on the intriguing object. "Gloves are right there," the detective pointed to a box of latex gloves on the side of the bench. Vanda put the latex gloves on and started examining the artifact.

The nose-band seemed to be in excellent shape. The ornamentation was a little bit faded, but it was visible. It only needed some cleaning. Vanda was still puzzled. The object looked almost exactly like the nose-guard fro Saint Wenceslaus' helmet. She expressed her thoughts to the detective, "I need to look at it closer, I mean to run metallographic tests, and check the elemental composition. That should help us to find out if that is a forgery." Dostál commented, "Our investigation ties Straka to smugglers from the Middle East. But so far, we did not find any direct evidence that he was involved in trafficking forgeries. Straka used his expertise to create provenance and fake certificates for actual antiquities. He helped with the legalization of questionable artifacts, most likely looted ones, and mediated their transportation and distribution to Western Europe and the USA. However, Straka ran into an unspecified conflict of interest. We still do not have the full picture, but we learned some names." Dostál then looked at Vanda with a concerned look, "I need to ask you to keep it for yourself."

Vanda was carefully wiping dirt from the cross-like artifact. The contour of the figure became recognizable. She looked at the photograph of the original nose-band in her file and at the cross in her hand. They both seemed very similar, but not the same. In detail, there were distinctive differences between those two. Wavy lines varied in thickness and shape of curves, which was best visible on the small hands of the crucified Christ. In size, they were comparable. Vanda cautiously scratched some material from both the front and the back of the cross for elemental analysis. It was apparent that the silhouette and the complete delineation was crafted similarly as to the original from the Saint Wenceslaus' helmet.

Similarly, a thin foil of, presumably silver, was used for coating the surface. Vanda assumed that it was silver, like on the original, a technique frequently used by medieval craftsmen and armorers. After preparing and labeling her samples, she inspected the surface under a microscope searching for marks of abrasion and some exciting details. Vanda made two samples for metallographic analysis by cutting off minuscule pieces from the back of the cross. She etched each piece with a solution of alcoholic picric acid. When finished, Vanda looked into the microscope. Several typical signs of ancient metalworking were presented. Vanda inspected the samples from different angles and took several pictures for documentation. Nothing indicated that the item was forged recently. Vanda weighed the cross in her hand, thinking that the similarity was unquestionable. It was a very complicated puzzle. There was no doubt in her mind that the Saint Wenceslaus' helmet, displayed at the Prague Castle, the same one she held in her hands several years ago, was authentic. As a part of the Treasury, the object did not leave the exhibition. It was protected by a state-of-the-art security system at all times. Vanda 'hypnotized' the nose-band in her hand, hoping for some clues.

Radim Benda, eager to hear some news, was already in the break-room when Vanda got there. Having a coffee break together was part of their everyday routine at work. Vanda was glad to see him there. "Sorry, Radim, I can't share most of the interesting stuff. I promise I will tell you all about it once the police are done with their investigation." Radim, pretending disappointment shook his shoulders and bitterly asked, "And how was your trip to Amsterdam? Is that also a secret?" Vanda, with a slight smile on her face, started, "Amsterdam was ..." she was looking for an expression, "fascinating and inspiring." Then she quickly turned the page, "What did I miss here? Any new gossips?" Her colleague pierced her with a suspecting look and answered, "Same old same, just dry research, nothing exciting here. Nobody knows anything but people talk a lot. I heard that Straka was recently trying to promote his private business, maybe an agency, as an art dealer. As far as I know, he got a license. He's been providing expert evaluation of art and artifacts for years. But, you know, people talk a lot, and nobody was actually a friend with him. The guy was so full of shit." Vanda agreed, she did not like Straka either. Although she had to admit that she did not know him well. Moreover, it was hard to overlook his accomplishments during those many years they worked at the same institute because he was a knowledgeable and hard-working researcher. It was his exterior and manners that turned her, and many others, off.

Vanda would love to spend more time chatting with Radim, but she felt the pressure of work waiting for her. In the back of her mind, she could not help but think about David and the time they enjoyed together. The idea of escaping from everything, and spending time in the Mediterranean with him was intriguing. Vanda had to work on her regular projects, and now in addition to it, she agreed to consult the police and had her interest in solving the nose-band puzzle. Radim raised his eyebrows when Vanda excused herself but respected that she had work to do. They both took the unfinished coffees and walked to their offices.

A cold conference room was filled with a lingering odor of heavy smokers. The police department was a non-smoking environment, but most of the senior policemen smoked. Dostál began the meeting with a short introduction to summarize the case. When finished he introduced Capt. Kraus from the Organized Crime Unit, and said, "We have identified the suspects. Capt. Kraus will explain what we know about them and how we can, or rather cannot, proceed." His bald colleague, in quiet, but confident voice, said, "It is unusual for smugglers of antiquities to hire a hitman, to kill someone." Traditionally, the primary focus of organized crime has been drugs and prostitution. On the other hand, Kraus explained, "Smuggling of art or antiquities has usually been carried by individuals or small groups. Therefore, the volume has been incomparably lower and related violence minimal."

The case of Straka's murder was complicated by his interactions with several different groups. Based on his own records, Straka provided expertise and fabricated proofs of provenance for items trafficked by Turkish, Bulgarian, Russian and Lebanese dealers. "I'll be happy to hear your hypothesis on a motive for killing Straka," Kraus concluded and knocked his knuckles on a brown folder on the table. "What made someone so mad that they sent killers?" Kraus asked and pulled out two photographs of two unremarkable faces of dark-haired males. He explained that his unit was able to link evidence from the crime scene to those two suspects from Ankara, Turkey. An informant was able to place them in the greater Prague area for the time of the murder. The Turks arrived in Prague, visited Straka, killed him, and left for Ankara on that same day. Professional job. Dostál moved back in his chair and asked, "Do they belong to any organized gang?" Kraus shook his head, "To answer your question—their names pop up sporadically always in connection with organized crime operations. Nothing sticks to them. They are shady existences." To understand the motive, Kraus suggested looking into Straka's connections in Turkey.

Being one of the antiquity-rich countries, Turkey has always been dealing with illegal trafficking. In recent years the situation has worsened because of shared borders with war-devastated neighbors, Syria and Iraq. Smuggling of looted antiquities over those borders has become rampant. Consequently, the Turkish government took strict measures, which resulted in more resilient and better-organized groups of smugglers. Profound and traditional corruption within the region was a complicating factor for the investigation. Kraus finished with skeptic predication. Even-though his unit formally charged those two suspects with the murder, there was nearly zero chance that they would be apprehended. In cooperation with Interpol, Kraus obtained an international arrest warrant and contacted Turkish officials. However, Turkish law enforcement could not locate either of the suspects so far.

The room was quiet as the detectives were digesting the information. Dostál scratched his head, "We should look closer into Straka's other acquaintances." Kraus visibly agreed and replied, "It seems that he was a mediator for stolen or looted antiquities coming anywhere from East Europe to the Middle East. Besides Turkish contacts, he had relations with Lebanese dealers who control trafficking from Syria and Iraq. We do not know much about the Bulgarian group, and we know even less about the Russians, but Straka kept them on the very top of his list of customers." The investigators agreed that it was critical to identify Straka's dealers in Prague and other cities in Europe. His operation did not deal with the large volume. As an expert who focused on elegant, small, and unique objects, he maintained a channel between the black market and a seemingly legal world of art dealers. Straka concentrated on objects with the prospect of creating a new utterly legitimate identity. Using his expertise, he re-created or forged provenances for antiquities which enabled their sale on legal markets through authorized international dealers.

Dostál asked his younger colleague, a stereotypical geek in unfitting corduroys to summarize what he discovered on Straka's computer at work. "These are all his contacts linked with specific objects and dates, which I was able to pull from his emails," the young investigator stated, and handed out several copies of lists and a chart. All eyes were on the handouts. Straka was confident and used his work computer for many of his transactions, which made it easy for the police to map the network he established in Europe and the USA. He was building a reputation for his business that he intended to transform into a legitimate art dealing firm. Straka was already taking steps, through his lawyer, to set up the main office in Dutch maritime port, Rotterdam. The correspondence suggested that his activity increased, and the machinery was set into motion after he had received a shipment from Ballıöz Köyü.

The young detective clarified, "That's why we invited Dr. Skalická. She will join us in a moment, and hopefully, she'll put some light on the importance of those objects." He then pointed out a timeline, traceable through the emails showing a radical change in Straka's activity towards creating his renowned private firm. In several cryptic messages, Straka indicated his realization of the significance of the objects. However, the police did not find any evidence that he would sell any of the items from Ballıöz Köyü. They were in his possession for many weeks, according to the records. It was in stark contrast with the other antiquities passing through his hands rather quickly. It almost looked like he wanted to keep them, at least, temporarily.

The cryptic emails were exchanged between Straka and an individual whose nickname was Tar. The identity of that person, an old Yahoo account owner and most likely a Turkish national, was unknown. Before Straka died, he contacted Turkish authorities in Antakya, but his message was not answered. The young detective's theory was that it might trickle down to the ears of thugs, and they took care of the "snitch." Dostál cleared his throat and remarked, "Remember, there is also the burglary investigation at the Archaeological Institute. The burglars broke into several rooms there, including our friend Straka's. They were searching for something, and we do not know for what. Nothing was missing according to the occupants of the other rooms, and we do not know if anything is missing from Straka's office." Because the computers and other electronic equipment stayed untouched, it was not an ordinary burglary. The thieves were looking for something specific. Dostál suggested, "Maybe they were looking for the objects from Ballıöz." He finished with a question, "If they were, why are those objects so significant?"

Detective Dostál and members of his group were already in the conference room when Vanda walked in. It was an official update meeting on Straka's case, and Vanda was invited to give a summary of her findings and the analyses concerning the cross-like artifact. She could recognize the faces, except for a bald man who was not at the Institute on that day Straka was murdered and the Institute was burglarized. Dostál briefly introduced the bald man to her as Capt. Kraus, who was there on behalf of the Organized Crime Unit. Vanda was seated. Dostál turned to her and gave her the floor.

Vanda laid several photographs on the table for everyone to see, and started without any introduction, "What you see here is the set of objects which were most likely a part of the armor of a medieval knight." She realized the complexity of the case and decided to focus on the main story. For the presentation, she selected the sharpest possible picture of the Saint Wenceslaus helmet, that she could find. Everybody's eyes were focused on the images. Vanda proceeded, "The nose-guard is the element connecting all these other items. If you look close, you can see the two cross-like elements are strikingly similar. So similar, that anyone familiar with the Wenceslaus' helmet can make an instant connection between those two. After careful inspection, I can conclude, the objects are not precisely the same. The nose-band found at Straka's is a stand-alone object. Considering the circumstances, it is not surprising. If it used to be attached to a helmet, as you can imagine, in a thousand years many things could happen." Vanda pointed to the rest of the photographs showing a pair of spurs and a rusted blade of a sword, "These items, found in Straka's storage, were all labeled the same—Ballıöz Köyü. Detective Dostál was the first to figure out that it is the name of the village in Turkey."

Vanda then went ahead to speculate that it might identify the location where the items were found. With no evidence yet, she could only perform tests to prove the authenticity of the objects. She discovered that the iron parts were made using old-fashioned hammering and the content of materials points to metallurgic technology expected during the Early Middle Ages. In both cases, the cross-like element was initially coated with a thin layer of silver for decorative purposes, which helped to protect the iron core against atmospheric conditions. Metallic material composition and other characteristics of the core showed that both objects were made by the same technology and using practically indistinguishable wrought iron. Vanda took a deep breath to generalize her conclusion, "No two samples can be identical unless they originate from the same artifact, or they were made from the same material at the approximately same time. I am convinced that all these objects come from the same blacksmith, or at least the same medieval workshop."

# Chapter 7

Alard stood on a bastion of the tower he and other knights of Duke Robert's envoy took from the enemy earlier that day. He observed the struggle within the walls of the city of Antioch. Desperate skirmishes continued in the streets deep below him even now, several hours after the initial attack.

Despite the help of an insider, allowing the Crusaders to set a surprise attack in the middle of the night, the battle was no less fierce. Defenders of the city reacted surprisingly quickly. The night was lit up by numerous fires. Smoke was blown around mixing in a concoction of unpleasant smells. Screaming and grunting merged in almost consonant background noise. The scene from above seemed unreal. The battle transformed into an immense chaos. Alard tried to estimate the progress of the fighting. The view from his post revealed the complexity of what was happening. If God is on our side, he does not make it easier for us, Alard thought. The surrounding streets showed a gruesome picture of Crusaders and Turks fighting fiercely for the city and their lives. The walls vibrated with the screams. Men fought to kill, and when they did, they finished opponents by cutting their heads as a symbol of defeat. The streets were covered with mutilated bodies, body parts, and blood.

The night before, a shell-shocked group of defenders trying to fight their way out of the city attacked Alard's men. The Antiochians assumed correctly that the Crusaders would not spare their lives. The sides, fueled by hatred, near insanity and desperation, clashed. Alard remembered an overwhelming rush of elation. He felt strange appreciation for the well-trained opponents who knew how to use their curved swords, the kilijs. Alard's vision narrowed. Like an animal, he relied on his instincts. His personal space and positions of his men versus the enemy consumed all his attention. Alard was confident his men formed a defense, the way they had been practicing it most of their life. As he also had. In fights like those, everyone had to cover each other's back.

Alard did not remember hearing anything, but his throat was sore; therefore, he knew he was yelling and screaming while slaughtering Turks. Somewhere in the background, he was noticing Rogier's men who were, at that point, mainly protecting their wounded lord. Alard managed to knock down his opponent, which give him a second to look around. His people were gaining an advantage. Alard's nearest lieutenant was pressed by a man almost twice his size. Alard jumped to help attacking an exposed enemy from his side. The Turk fell, and Alard stabbed him right below his neck. There was a moment when he could not pull out his sword deeply plunged into the throat. In an attempt to loosen it up, he stepped on the chest of the collapsed body, crushing his rib cage. The blade finally moved out, gnashing the neck bones. Alard freed his weapon, just in time to cover a blow from another enemy fighter.

Alard was in control again; systematic, disciplined, and ruthless, when necessary. He and his men fought till the last enemy fell, and even afterward, the soulless corpses suffered many unnecessary blows. The combat in surrounding streets was fierce and raged for hours. The surge left many of Alard's fighters dead, and the rest were bloodied and shaken. Alard had enough of the war. First of all, he never even bought into the delusion of the higher principle of the crusading adventure. It was Rogier, the troubled brother of his, who lived for such ideals. However, when the idea of the pilgrimage perished, there was not much life left in Rogier. The journey has been slowly sucking the life out of him. Alard was aware, that not the physical injury got a grasp of his brother's spirit; instead, it was apathy and something dark growing from inside. There was a hidden place in Rogier which Alard was not allowed to enter, and that worried him.

Alard was interrupted from his thoughts. His attention attracted the chaotic movement of Seljuks on the other side of the river. At first, he thought those might be reinforcements sent from approaching Kerbogha's Army, but he quickly realized that they were enemy soldiers fleeing the city. The siege was over. Alard stood there, watching defeated men running away to save their lives. However, the main thought on his mind was Rogier, his brother, dying. There was nothing, in this city and this land that could keep them here. It was time to leave, and go back home, to Normandy.

Alard descended from a staircase to the main hall. What he saw made him realize how dramatically the number of his men shrunk. Tired and hungry soldiers were resting, sweaty, and smeared with blood from the previous fighting. Alard ordered them to stay inside to avoid the fights still erupting throughout the night. His thoughts were gloomy, and exhausted appearance of the men disquieted him even more. Alard let his lieutenants take care of the night watch and walked upstairs to check on his brother. Light from a torch cast long shadows on the walls. The spacious upper room was decorated with colorful tapestries with cheery motives of nature.

Rogier, bare-chested, laid on an improvised mattress near the floor. Asu, on his knees, was cleaning his wound. Rogier's feverish eyes stared at Alard, who entered the room. Alard bent down to his brother. They did not exchange a word, only looked at each other. Rogier then closed his eyes, and Alard turned to Asu. The boy was focused on his duty. Gray shadows under his eyes and a serious expression made him look older than his age. His slender appearance was evoking something that Alard could not resist, he touched Asu's shoulder and showed him a weak smile, surprising himself. Asu was alive and well—the fondness Alard had never felt for any person before overwhelmed him. Ashamed for that moment of weakness, he turned to Rogier, "Rest, my brother. Everything is under control. The city is conquered. The lords do not need our help anymore, for I have decided to stay here and hold this tower as long as you need to recover. Our men will take care of the provisions." Rogier did not seem to be aware of what Alard said. He coughed painfully, and then he closed his eyes. "I am going to get some fresh air and check the situation outside. You will find me up on the battlements," whispered Alard to Asu while still watching his brother.

On the verge of exhaustion, Asu still found the strength to pray to Jesus Christ, his savior. He thanked God for protecting him. In his prayers, he also asked God to keep Lord Rogier alive but was not sure if his prayer would be of any help. There were many sins on the shoulders of these knights. Al-Bara, Asu's home, used to be home for many people—Turks, Armenians, Byzantines, as well as Asu's own Greek Christians. The same was true for the city of Antioch. However, the Crusaders did not even seem to care that many Christians lived in this land for generations. The invaders were, in Asu's eyes, a bunch of uneducated, dirty and smelly barbarians. Except for Lord Alard, he was different. It was him and his brother Lord Rogier, who saved Asu's life that night in Al-Bara. Also, thanks to him, Asu's sisters and nephews could flee from the city unharmed. The Crusaders did not spare anybody. Because they had not found enough spoil, they turned on people, butchering and torturing them indiscriminately, both Muslims and Christians. Nearly everyone in the town was killed on that night. The Crusaders behaved like savages. There was nothing sacred to them.

Asu's thoughts returned to Alard. There was also nothing sacred to that man but in a different way. Visibly, Lord Alard was not passionate about the Crusade and the Holy Sepulchre. He was very sober in worshiping God and more concerned about living people and life pleasures than about the afterlife. Asu admired Alard's confidence and fell for the man so different from anyone he met before. As he heard the rough voices of soldiers downstairs, Asu had no desire to join them. At the moment, there was nothing he could do for Lord Rogier, so he decided to join Alard on the battlements.

The view into the streets of the burning city from above presented an extraordinary picture. Only yesterday, Asu could see the besieged city walls from far away. Now, standing on the top of one of many towers of the city battlement, he observed dramatic dream-like spectacle partly obscured by smoke rising from burning roofs. Asu felt detached from the violence happening below. Lord Alard lost in his thoughts watched the dark scenery, not noticing Asu's presence. When Asu stepped to the edge of the battlement, Alard finally realized he was not alone. "Life is curious, isn't it?" he said and watched Asu leaning toward the cold stone rampart. Alard put his hand on Asu's shoulder, and the young man turned around. They looked into each other's eyes. There was an unusual tenderness in them. Both men embraced and at first hesitantly, and then intensely kissed.

It was a quiet morning. Fights only sporadically emerged, as the last pockets of defense were eliminated. The leadership issued orders to remove dead bodies that clogged the streets. Heat sped up the decomposition releasing intolerable stench. Only a few of the remains, mostly those of noble Crusaders, got a burial at the Saint Peter's Church graveyard. The rest was disposed of in mass graves together with the remains of the enemy. Many bodies were mutilated below recognition or headless. Pavements throughout the whole city were soaked with blood. In the river, hundreds of bloated corpses poisoned water. To boost the gruesomeness and to intimidate Kerbogha's approaching army, Duke Bohemond who led the siege ordered to display as many heads of the enemy as possible at the gates. Alard found the exhibit disgusting and not only because it caused stomach-turning stench. It was just one of many decisions of the Crusader's leadership Alard was critical of.

The idea that the city of Antioch had a capacity to supply the thousands of the Crusader's Army turned out to be an unrealistic delusion. After the prolonged blockade, Antioch could not provide, in the wildest dreams, supplies for the occupation forces. Moreover, Kerbogha's upcoming counterattack constituted additional complication with the possibility of another siege. This time the roles switched—the besiegers would become the besieged. Alard analyzed the situation considering Rogier's deteriorating health. He would not risk transporting his brother in that shape. Whatever the future would bring, Alard already decided their company would be leaving the show soon.

The messenger sent by Robert Curthose, Duke of Normandy, arrived to inquire about Lord Rogier's health. In the process of counting all men under his command, Duke Robert called upon every knight to prepare for the defense. Kerbogha's Army had set up encampments in front of Antioch's gates, and the Crusaders were trapped, 'oh the irony,' in the same city that they had been besieging for months. Alard decided to speak with the Duke in person and accompanied the messenger heading back to the headquarters. As he walked through nearly empty streets of the ravaged city, Alard noticed only small groups of patrolling soldiers. The main body of the Crusader's Army concentrated at the gates and on the battlements ready for fighting.

Only now, Alard had time to look around and realize how beautiful the defeated city was inside. Without the ever-present display of death, it was colorful and imposing. Alard admired elegant stone buildings with carved ornaments and colorful mosaics depicting remarkably realistic figures. Many of those buildings were Christian churches. It almost seemed like there was an uncountable number of them. This beautiful city remembered Saint Peter and the first Christians. Alard was amazed by the sophisticated water system supplying the whole town with fresh water. The more he saw, the more he became convinced that what he and the Crusaders did here was wrong. It was only a fraction of the never-ending periodical cycle of destruction and barbarity happening in the name of whatsoever authority. Back in Normandy, barons had always found a justification to attack each other and legitimize plundering other barons properties. The adventure of the Crusade was intended to deploy ambitious lords far away, so they did no harm in their old country.

To enter Duke Robert's headquarters, Alard followed the messenger into a courtyard connecting a complex of several stone buildings. Soldiers in Duke's colors guarded one of the entrances. A spectacular and colorful mosaic, a manifestation of life and happiness, depicting people, animals, and flowers, covered the floor on which they were stepping. Alard passed between the guards and entered a hall full of Duke's knights, barons, and their lieutenants. He recognized most of them. In their loose, worn and dirty clothes, the Crusader nobility hung around and pretended like nothing was going on. However, their hungry eyes betrayed them. The stocky built figure of Robert Curthose, the Duke of Normandy, was hard to overlook.

The Duke was listening to a group of his barons in command. The messenger who brought Alard to the hall hurried to announce him to the Duke's lieutenants. Alard was surprised to get immediate attention. In a short moment, Robert greeted him in person, "Welcome, Alard. It is unfortunate that your brother Rogier of Mortain is not well. It could not escape your attention, Kerbogha's Army encamped in front of the gates. We will need all men to keep the city and defeat the enemy of God. We all lost many of our brave men during the last battle. How many of the people from your train can fight?" Alard expressed his respect by a slight bow, and answered, "My brother and myself have together only fifty-six men and five horses left to your disposition." The Duke shook his head, made his lieutenant take note and said, "I want you to join Lord Ivo de Grandmesnil, who is in charge of backup forces for the upcoming operation. God bless you all and my greetings to your brother Rogier. We all hope he will recover to gain his former strength." Duke Robert beckoned Alard and released him from the hearing.

The company of Lord Ivo de Grandmesnil had many benefits. Lord Ivo was a moderate, dependable man. He and his brother, Aubrey, had about two hundred men under their command. They occupied gardens and adjacent buildings not far from Alard's current post. Unlike Duke Robert, who was severely religious, Ivo was a man of rather conventional piety. The practicality of his interest in Holy Sepulchre was close to Alard's own. Ivo's headquarters were visibly better supplied than others. Grandmesnils also employed a number of civilians, Antiochian Christians, who became a part of the retinue, including women, who were taking care of various needs of the lords and their men. The encampment was noisy. It was time for the midday meal, and Ivo's men were waiting for their turn to get their share of bread and soup. These men were not starving, which was in quite a contrast compared to other troops in the Crusader Army.

Alard was seeking out Lord Ivo to arrange a line of communication between Ivo's headquarters and their post in the tower. A group of soldiers pointed him to a stone residence in the back corner of the broad courtyard. Small bushy trees next to the building cast a shade over a rectangular water fountain, built of marble. Fresh water poured through the mouth of a creature carved in stone continuously, then ran through the reservoir, overflowing on one side to a groove leading underground towards the gardens. At the door, Alard passed a group of folks who were speaking in a language unknown to him. The loudest of them was a tall, bony man. He noticed Alard and nodded a greeting. Alard acknowledged him, and before entering the building, he tried to recall if they ever met before. A guard directed him to Lord Ivo, who was feasting at the table with his entourage. Alard introduced himself and was invited to join them. Ivo Grandmesnil appeared to be pleased by Alard's company. They exchanged formally polite conversation, during which Ivo asked about Rogier's well-being. Alard described the bleak prospect of his brother's health. Lord Ivo expressed sincere concern and ordered his servant to prepare a package of food from his table for Lord Rogier of Mortain.

The generosity surprised Alard, who considered Ivo to be practical at best, if not unscrupulous. It was difficult to distinguish a man of character among the mob of Crusaders. Alard realized his misconception, thanked for the lord's generosity, and soon excused himself, feeling mildly embarrassed. On his way back, he was accompanied by the lord's guardsman, Rollo. Rollo was appointed by Lord Ivo to be a connection between both groups. A rather inconspicuous, bantam man, with a smile revealing missing teeth walked with Alard, when, at the door, they ran into the tall man with bright eyes. "Who is that man?" asked Alard when they passed. Rollo answered, "His name is Phocas. He is a Greek merchant. His company joined my lord several months ago and ever since Phocas had been supplying our retinue with all we needed. He seems to be on good terms with everyone in this land."

It looked like the Turks were not leaving anytime soon. Rogier was falling deeper and deeper into lethargy and suffered more frequently with hallucinations. Alard kept himself busy by running around and collecting gossip from the different contingents scattered along the city walls. Most of the Crusaders were bored or hungry, or both, and therefore understandably half-hearted about the campaign. Alard was considering his next steps. First of all, he needed to get more provisions for the journey. It was time to meet Phocas. Alard asked Asu if he could help him translate from Greek. However, Asu's French was not perfect, and Alard only knew a little Latin.

Phocas' quarters were located on the opposite side of the courtyard from Lord Ivo's. The massive wooden door to that building was plated with shiny bronze ornaments in the shapes of lion heads and flowers. Colorful tapestries decorated the inside walls of spacious rooms, the floors of which were covered with runners and underneath dazzled gleeful mosaics, similar to those Alard noticed in other places around the city. The merchant greeted Alard and his companion with a broad smile, offering him red wine. Alard did not drink good wine since his visit to Constantinople. They all seated themselves comfortably on pillows around a low table. While drinking, they communicated in a mix of French, Greek, and Latin with the considerable help of other means of expression. The wine had an enhancing effect on their understanding, and Alard realized that Phocas was a fascinating man of incredible wit and charm, curious and knowledgeable.

The morale among Crusader's troops was low. Rumors circulated that some knights from Lord Bohemond's company defected last night. Since nobody knew anything specific, Alard doubted it was true. Understandably, many smears aimed Bohemond and his people. Lord Bohemond did not enjoy popularity outside his camp, and his initiative to claim the entire city of Antioch for himself caused him losing the trust of his last loyal barons. In Ivo de Grandmesnil's circles, they were discussing the situation quite openly. Many Crusaders lacked means to continue in the expedition and some lost interest because the diminutive plunder they managed to gather did not compensate their expenses and needs. They all could agree on one thing; they needed to eliminate the Turks in front of the city gates. It required a successful break-through, a tremendous surprising surge, a decisive victory. The question was, how to enthuse the hungry and unmotivated Crusaders. They needed a miracle.

The Pope's prelate organized collective prayers. Some of the Crusaders fasted to cleanse themselves from sins, and many talked about visions of Jesus and various signs from Heaven. Alard was skeptical, for he also imagined 'things' from the extreme heat that lasted for weeks now. Although his 'visions' were not related to biblical revelations, they were rather unholy, and at times he found himself fantasizing about Asu. His young friend was at the moment laughing and horsing around the water fountain with Rollo and some other people from Phocas' entourage. He noticed Alard, who was resting in the shade of an olive tree. Asu smiled and yelled, "Did my lord hear the news?" He walked to Alard and not waiting for his reaction said, "Some lunatic is trying to get attention. He is proclaiming that he talked directly to Saint Andrew, who advised him to search for the Holy Lance. According to him, the spear that pierced the side of Jesus as he hung on the cross is here in Antioch, concealed in the Saint Peter's Church. Some people take it seriously." Alard was impressed with Asu's improvement in French, but it was the information which got his attention. Thinking of the Holy Lance, Alard noticed a familiar tall figure. Phocas' was just looking for him. They greeted, and Phocas conspicuously glanced at Asu and said, "I see you have already heard about the revelation. God is clearly on our side." Alard laughed, "Too good, to be true." Phocas grinned and responded cryptically, "If need be, we'll make it real."

The fragrant smell of spices from the boiling soup was irresistible. Alard and Asu, strategically positioned nearby the kitchen, waited for food. They were killing time arguing about how often one should get a bath. Asu insisted that everybody should go at least once a week to the bathhouse. People in Normandy seldom immersed their bodies in the water, believing it could cause incurable sickness, and hence Alard did not support the idea. However, he had to admit that taking a bath would prevent a bad body odor Crusaders were famed for in the Holy Land. Asu explained to Alard that when he grew up in Al-Bara, everyone in the town used a public bathhouse and nobody died from being too clean. Alard instinctively inhaled his body odor. He could smell sweat and old dirt. Maybe he could give it a chance and try to go to a bathhouse one day. The exchange only reminded him how refreshing Asu's personality was for him. The fellow was young but so exciting and different from other men his age. Alard's thoughts were circling in the same spiral again. That same way as the last couple of weeks. Suddenly, he awakened from his dreaming by the rough voice of his loyal lieutenant Raven, "Your brother wants to speak with you, my lord." If Rogier was asking about him, he must have felt better. Alard hurried to his brother's bedside.

Colorful ornaments painted on the wall behind a bed stood in stark contrast with his brother's gray skin tone. Curtains covered narrow windows, helped keep cold air inside, and prevented overheating during the afternoon heatwave. Rogier was staring at the ceiling also covered with paintings—motives of people and animals. Without looking at Alard, he softly spoke, pointing to the pictures, "Did you notice these paintings? They must be from a different world."

Alard touched Rogier's forehead and looked into his eyes. Maybe thanks to a herbal concoction mixed by Phocas' Persian surgeon, his brother was not feverish or hallucinating. Rogier did not look like he was in pain anymore. Alard reacted to what Rogier had said, "The entire city is full of mosaics and paintings. You are right. These images are like from some other world. I see you are doing better, brother." Rogier shook his head, feebly, "On the contrary. I know I do not have much time." Rogier's weak voice contrasted with the firm look in his eyes. Alard did not try to argue. Rogier continued dispassionately, "Before I go, I wish to share my will with you. I am asking you to take care of my men and bring them home, to Mortain. Back in Normandy, I want you to sell my belongings, and the money you will receive with half of my land should be dedicated to God, preferably to the Abbey in Caen. The other half of my land is yours. In Mortain, I want you to visit a grave of Gunnore, daughter of Tiebalt. Give her my prayers and ask for forgiveness. You'll find the grave on the east side of our church's cemetery. As far as my whereabouts, I want to be buried in an unmarked grave outside Antioch. I wish to keep my sword and armor, in the tradition of our ancestors, the pagan warriors, which is what we are." Alard calmly nodded. He realized that his brother decided to die, and his thoughts entirely focused on the last things. Without even mentioning the complication of the Turkish siege of the city, Alard responded, "I am glad to have a brother like you, with a mind so similar to mine. I'll carry through your wishes." In reply, instead of thanking him, Rogier grasped his brother's hand firmly.

Rollo was pointing his finger to a group of filthy hungry-looking pilgrims. "There he is, Peter Bartholomew, the one with the 'visions.'" An exalted tall man with long dirty hair spoke in theatrical manner, with big dramatic gestures. Surrounded by a gathering of listeners, with the manic look in his eyes, he did not project much of a character; rather it was an expression of a fanatic. Although a charismatic one. Phocas nodded to the speaker and instructed Rollo, "Invite him to our quarters and bring him tonight. Only him." Rollo made a face of a surprise but shook his head without comments. He thought that neither Grandmesnils nor Phocas could believe that lunatic dirtbag had a spiritual vision.

When later that day Rollo found Peter Bartholomew in the Provençal pilgrim's camp, 'the visionary' was already drunk. He was happy to get invited by Phocas, who was known for having an abundance of food. Phocas organized his people to make Bartholomew feel special and comfortable, serving dinner with wine. He wanted to see if there was any use of the pilgrim. When Peter Bartholomew showed up, it was all too clear that there was nothing sophisticated about him. Phocas seated the man so he could see his face, and he was ready to engage in a spiritual conversation. However, Bartholomew did not pretend to come for anything else than food and wine. By the end of that night, Phocas and his men, in spiritual awakening, become determined to search for the Holy Lance of Antioch. During that night Peter Bartholomew had a spiritual conversation with Saint Andrew, who entrusted him with the location of the Holy Lance. Of course, Peter Bartholomew did not remember any of that when he woke up the next day with a splitting headache. Fortunately, Phocas and his people did remember, and they reminded him that Saint Andrew denoted Saint Peter's Church as the place where the Holy Lance was to be found. That morning they all eagerly started digging there.

Alard had not seen Phocas for a day or two. When he learned the news that Peter Bartholomew found the Holy Lance, he did not think much of it. However, he noticed the excitement amongst his men. Likewise, the whole Crusader Army was in a feverish motion. Alard paid a visit to the Duke Robert's quarters only to learn that Lord Robert and his chaplain, Arnulf of Chocques, were skeptical, but presently discussing the event with the Pope's prelate. Wherever he looked, he could see signs that Crusaders were fired up. On the way back when entering Phocas' camp, Alard could not overlook shovels displayed for everybody to see. He grinned. Phocas seemed pleased when he saw Alard coming. With a broad smile, he greeted his friend, "It seems like everybody is back in the fighting mood. God is on our side." Alard replied, "With a little help," and then he looked directly into Phocas' eyes and added, "God is on our side. Let's see how much on our side."

There was no other explanation for the Crusader Army's crushing victory than a pure miracle. The Crusaders launched an attack under the standard of the Holy Lance, with far fewer men than their opponent, and only about two hundred horses. The Turks could not stop the audacious offensive. The Crusaders launched through the narrow gate bursting out from the city directly on the enemy positions, unfolding the devastating attack formation. The ecstatic Crusader army had swallowed up the enemy encampments with such ferocity that Kerbogha withdrew his army in a hurry, leaving his camp for plunder. Unable to form a counteroffensive, after they lost the support of allies, the Turks fled.

Alard with brothers de Grandmesnils was observing that spectacle from battlements. They were drinking Phocas' wine and arguing about the next steps the Crusaders would take. However, Ivo and Aubrey were quite open about quitting the expedition and going back to Normandy. In reality, they have already issued orders to their men to get ready. They wanted to leave the moment the Turks were gone, and the way out was safe. It seemed, the timing was right. Clouds of dust showed the path of fleeing Turkish forces. Meanwhile, the Crusaders were already plundering Seljuk's deserted camp. Observing the situation from a safe distance, de Grandmesnils made sure their procession was ready to leave at sunrise the next day. They planned to cross the sea from Saint Simeon port. Phocas gave them a tip. A Genoese fleet was in control of the harbor, and for a fee, their ship could sail Grandmesnils to Cyprus and then Genoa.

Alard was looking at the clouds of dust marking the direction of the retreating Turkish army. He was thinking about joining de Grandmesnils. It might be the safest and the most comfortable way to get back, considering that they would have to transport his ill brother. However, Alard also knew that it was going to be expensive. He was trying to weigh financial aspects, when a rough voice so typical for Phocas declared from behind in broken French, "Kerbogha of Mosul lost the battle." Then without hesitation, Phocas directly asked, "Now, what's your plan? I am going back to Constantinople and hoping you can join my caravan. The two of us have a bright future. Trust me." Phocas' offer came as a surprise. Alard quietly looked at Phocas and realized that traveling with his caravan to Constantinople sounded alluring. There was only one problem. His brother's health. That was the only thing keeping Alard and his men at Antioch. "Your offer is tempting," said Alard and added, "but I am afraid our financial situation does not allow us to join you." "Let me worry about the cost," laughed Phocas patting Alard on the back.

Alard was not even trying to protect the honor of brothers de Grandmesnil after they had left. Many knights had abandoned the Crusade much earlier. Usually, after a day or two of backbiting, their fellow warriors forgot about them. The untimely departure of Grandmesnils caused most likely an embarrassing setback to Duke Robert since both brothers were companions of his for twenty odd years. On the other hand, the Duke moved with all his entourage to the comfort of Latakia seaport the previous winter. Robert then unscrupulously left a part of his envoy, including de Grandmesnils, under the command of egoistical Duke Bohemond of Taranto. Alard took note of how fighting the enemy of God changed people's loyalties.

As Phocas did not make any definitive plans for the departure, it seemed like he and Alard had all the time in the world. They spent hours sharing their passion for debates on almost any topic while drinking wine. One evening the discussion turned to holy relics, remains of saints and their value for the Church authority. Phocas pointed out that, to his knowledge, several 'authentic' skulls of Saint John the Baptist existed within the gates of Constantinople—each one 'undoubtedly' genuine, and each one sold as a relic for a fair price. Alard's smiling eyes pierced Phocas, when he asked, "And how exactly was the Holy Lance of Antioch discovered?" Phocas looked into his goblet and plainly admitted, "Since the entire thing was only a matter of faith, it was quite simple." He then briefly sketched the circumstances. All they needed was a piece of iron to be found in the church by the right person. Phocas expressed his cynicism when he said, "Men are stupid sheep. The opportunity presented itself in that blindfolded bigot, Bartholomew. He was ideal. Bartholomew himself initiated the search we just gave him some encouragement and a piece of rusty iron."

Alard nodded because it was something he expected. The merchant seemed fearless and followed only his own rules with no respect for authority. Alard felt very close to him. However, he was no match for Phocas' self-reliance and confidence. Alard had been fighting feelings of guilt and fear, the two emotions instilled in him by strict religious upbringing. He learned to ignore them most of the time. However, the reality of life made him yearn spiritual hope. Frequently, to his disappointment, Alard found the Church, and particularly clerics, vain, pitiful and sinful.

That night, in the presence of Phocas, Alard felt liberated. The friends planned their future, drank and laughed a lot. Alard stretched comfortably on cow skin, his head on a pile of pillows listened to Phocas' convincing voice, "This is a marvelous opportunity." Phocas, holding a goblet of wine, laid out his idea of partnership and Alard's role in it. They would trade relics from the Holy Land. "People and mainly the Church is ready to pay well for the garbage they think are holy relics. We could sell the air that Jesus exhaled," Phocas said in a hyperbole making it look like he was joking. However, Alard detected a candid note in it. Phocas continued, "Holy relics are in great demand in Constantinople, as well as in the rest of Christian world. Trust me. So far, my most profitable enterprise has been the crafting of reliquaries. We could make a fortune." That night Alard and Phocas defined their future enterprise.

The next day, Phocas' surgeon sent for Alard with a message. Rogier was at the end of his journey. Alard thought that he would be ready when the time comes because Rogier's condition had been worsening for weeks. However, reality still caught him by surprise. Alard was not prepared to say goodbye to his brother yet. The room was quiet. A priest was whispering prayers at Rogier's bedside. The afternoon sun cast light on vibrant tapestries and paintings on the walls depicting the fantasy world of peace and harmony. Bright colors contrasted with the grim aura of death. Alard took his brother's hand, and he was overwhelmed by an enormous feeling of loss. Rogier's hand was cold and bony. Rogier pressed Alard's hand with closed eyes, indicating that he recognized his presence. That was the last sign. He was still shallowly breathing for one endless moment, and then there was silence. Without any dramatic gesture or gasp, Rogier was dead.

Rogier's death and his request for burial gave Alard an excellent excuse to leave the city at last. Without telling anybody in command, he gathered his men and departed with no intention to return and carry on in the pointless expedition. It went almost unnoticed when, around the same time, Phocas' caravan was leaving the city as well. The friends agreed to meet on the road at the point where the northern passage gets closest to the mountains. Alard and his men set out for hills visible from the city towards sunset, to find an appropriate place to lay Rogier's body to rest. They were following a narrow trail along a seasonal dry creek. The path was rocky, and it took them several hours to move the body. Finally, Alard stopped. He was standing on a plateau overlooking hills running down to the valley with the city of Antioch crowned with high mountains behind. That was where they started digging the grave. The soil was dry and rock-hard. It required enormous effort to dig even a shallow grave. Looking down at his brother's dead body wearing the armor, Alard recalled the excitement of freedom and adventure he felt before leaving Mortain. Now, what was left was only a sense of loss and confusion. Alard looked back towards the city and felt tears streaming down his face.

# Chapter 8

Vanda felt the sun on her shoulders and enjoyed the crisp morning air. The view of the sea with scattered islands and the mainland in the distance took her breath away. From the terrace which laid on the top of rocky cliffs, Vanda could see far. Her thoughts were restless. David was still asleep. She realized it did not take them long to reconnect. The house was charming, almost too much. The ancient stone building, provided all imaginable comfort with plenty of open space, so typical for David. However, no matter how much influence David had over places he inhabited, there was something essential missing. The lack of personal items only increased Vanda's curiosity. The interior was a display of good taste and wealth, but it did not give a hint of David's own life. It felt like a rental property. Vanda forgot herself in thoughts when she suddenly noticed David standing at the door to the terrace and watching her. Barefoot, in his casual sweatshirt and jeans, he appeared relaxed and said coolly, "Ahoj." Vanda grinned, she did not expect him to greet her in Czech.

"An award for promoting women in science? Are you kidding?" Vanda looked at David and firmly shook her head in disbelief. David just finished reading her an e-mail from the International Society of Women in Science announcing him that he was nominated for their annual award. Vanda felt a mix of amusement and annoyance. She never believed in things such as affirmative action for women. In her opinion, particularly in science, these policies undermined real emancipation and hurt both women and science. And to give an award to a man for promoting women was pure irony!

Vanda felt like she had to say something, "One should be promoted for her skills and knowledge, not for being a woman. To me, it's humiliating and sexist." David was looking at her, smiling with his characteristic expression, and responded, "You sound terribly serious. Maybe you should try to look at it from a positive angle. I hope you do not think I am a sexist." David understood her perspective, but he felt like women should be given a chance because their biological role might handicap them. He argued society needed positive role models for young girls to see women achieving great things and not being just in supporting roles for men. Vanda understood what he wanted to say, but stuck firmly with her position, "No offense, but you cannot artificially increase the number of women in key positions. I think it is only natural that women make different choices than men." Vanda did not want to argue. It was evident that David understood her. She toned down, "I know you are not an evil sexist. It's just the type of thinking which upsets me." David grinned, "You are mistaken. I am much worse than you think. I just cleverly pretend," and he pulled her close. They kissed, and he whispered, "I believe that it's a good time to set up a mind-altering experiment." He reached into his pocket for two green pills.

Vanda rested bundled in a soft blanket. The smell of surrounding pine trees felt unusually intense that morning. Her senses were tuned in sharply. All the colors were brighter than usual. Vanda had a surreal feeling as if she saw everything the first time. David siping his strong black tea, started thinking aloud, "As long as I remember, my dad has always been preoccupied with his mortality. In a good way. It is his driving engine. Always ready to try something new, always wanting the best, always enjoy all pleasures. He is fun. It may have something to do with him being a Jew. I mean the reality of being a Jew during the war. On the other hand, my mom was never like that. I guess people are different, and they learn differently from life lessons. I feel closer to my dad. My mother takes life too seriously."

It surprised Vanda how personal David became. Must have been the pill. She wanted to hear more, and asked, "So what's more important for you? Your Jewish heritage or European roots?" He fixed his eyes on her and answered, "I am a New Yorker—a citizen of the Earth. But, of course, I feel a burden and a gift of being in all those other categories. I mostly consider it a benefit. It gives me an understanding of different cultures from the inside." Vanda thought about it and said, "Right, it gives you a perspective to see the thing from different angles. I feel pretty limited. I understand well my middle European people. I was born in Prague, grew up in Prague and I live in Prague. My parents and both my brothers live in Prague. Nobody had ever thought of moving anywhere else." Vanda felt a lightness of communication that was mediated by David's pill. Why would anyone want to spoil that experience by dancing or partying in the rhythm of trance music? The quiet setting seemed a better match for these psycho-actives. Vanda was calm and relaxed, while her thinking was not affected. It opened her to communication on a close and personal level.

Only when the boat got close enough, Vanda could see the man's face. He reminded her of her father. An old wrinkled and good-natured face. The man was bringing groceries and other supplies for the house. Vanda watched David helping him unload. It was maybe the image of responsibility, perhaps the friendly and homelike way David interacted with the local fisherman, which evoked strong emotions that Vanda could not resist. It was purely illogical, irrational. Vanda watched David and was sure that she wanted him in her life.

Mljet, evergreens cover this volcanic island in the Adriatic Sea. The white walls of Saint Mary's monastery were flickering through pine trees. Unique conditions created a lake within the island with another smaller rocky isle in the middle. A green amphitheater of trees circled the scenery with the central image of the stone-built monastery. The place seemed deserted and peaceful. There was a romantic spirit embedded in that land. No wonder the ancient monks decided to place a cloister right here—on an island within an island. The place kept the same look for a thousand years. The ambiance encouraged imagination, picturing ancient Romans sailing the surrounding seas, or medieval monks walking to prayers. Their spirit was still present. David watched Vanda from a distance. She was absentmindedly touching stones in the wall of the monastery. When Vanda noticed David looking at her, she smiled. It was a fragile, honest smile. David felt a sudden flow of emotions—an overwhelming sense of temporality, the transience of life and beauty. Irrationality, so unusual for him, overwhelmed his thoughts. He approached Vanda and hugged her, saying, "You are very sexy. Do you know that? Also, I think, pregnant you'd be even more beautiful." Vanda smiled meekly without any comment.

The weather was right for sailing between islands of the Adriatic Sea. The yacht was silent, only sails resonated in the wind. Vanda was thinking about things that could never happen when her phone beeped to notify her of a new text message. It was from detective Dostál, and the text brought her back to reality. The police found more items in Straka's secret storage, and they asked her for an expert opinion. Vanda immediately dialed Dostál's number. David behind the ship's wheel made a face expressing a question. She shook her head like there was nothing about to worry. "There was a new development in the investigation," Dostál said after greeting Vanda. He continued, "We have recovered more artifacts and hoped you could help us again." Dostál kept talking, but his voice was breaking due to weakening signal, and Vanda could not make out what he said. When it finally came back, Dostál's voice was asking, "Are you still there?" After Vanda complained about the weak cellphone reception, the detective continued, "Our investigation changed its direction a bit. As I said, now it is in the hands of Organized Crime Unit, but I am still in, and they ask you for your expertise."

Vanda did not hear all of what the detective said, but the mention of Organized Crime Unit provoked imagery of mafia, that stuck in her head. Living in her intellectual, upper-middle-class bubble, the reality of criminal groups, gangs, or mobs seemed purely fictional. It was something Vanda would only see in a movie or read in a mystery book. However, the events of the past couple of weeks opened the door to the strange world of crime. David noticed the change in her mood and let her take time. It was after they got back from the sail, David opening a bottle of wine, when Vanda started herself, "It was a call from the detective from Prague. I do some consulting for them. He called me because of a new development in their investigation."

Vanda took a deep breath, knowing only too well, she was not supposed to share the information, and explained, "The case revolves around the murder of a colleague." David's eyes narrowed, and he recoiled, "I am sorry." Vanda stopped him, "No, no. He was not my friend. It's just very unsettling and puzzling." Vanda sketched for David the picture of Straka, his shady business and his death, probably ordered by some mafia type organization. Then she described the artifacts that made the story so fascinating, and she concluded, "Straka recognized the importance of the objects and realized the connection to Saint Wenceslaus' helmet. Maybe he hoped that it would be his claim to fame which would help him establish his new business. Straka needed to provide indisputable provenance for those artifacts. I am sure he had his ways. It is not clear how that connects to organized gangs?" David shook his head and said, "It's hard to believe that a mafia-like organization would be interested in smuggling antiquities. It requires a high level of sophistication, plus it is not a big market either. Drugs and prostitution are much more profitable. Either way, you have to take it seriously."

The nose-band story entirely captivated David. Vanda explained to him the historical background and all she knew about the item and its discovery. They shared the passion for history, and they both were intrigued by possible explanations and theories of how the two nose-guards could be related. It was late in the night. David poured them another glass of wine and said, "It would be interesting to learn more about where the second nose-band was found. If that is even possible. What about we go to visit that place in Turkey?" He was visibly excited by the idea. Vanda answered by a question, "You mean to visit that village, Köyü? I am all for it. There is so much I would like to know about that piece of rust." David reached for his cell phone and checking his calendar, he said, "I could go for a couple of days next month just before my trip to Sofia." He noticed Vanda's curious look and explained, "Interestingly, a friend of mine works for the Bulgarian government. He asked me if I could help their agency for the protection of cultural heritage as an independent expert. They are dealing with an increased scale of smuggling and trafficking of antiquities. Honestly, I am curious. I have never been to Bulgaria before." Vanda smiled and jokingly said, "You are an important man. I, on the other hand, have never been to Turkey. Let's pay them a visit." David leaned closer to Vanda and looking in her eyes said, "We should not waste our time talking. You and I have only two more nights here together, and we have better things to do."

It was late afternoon when Aaron Brodsky called. Vanda was still in the swimming pool, and David took the call in the kitchen where he was in the middle of preparing fish for grilling. Aaron sounded excited. The last transaction earned them a couple hundred thousand dollars. The money was successfully passed on to Moon Rock Foundation. David was satisfied. The foundation needed some financial injection. Now he did not have to feel guilty to take some more time off and travel with Vanda to Turkey. He shared his travel plans with Aaron, "I am back in New York the day after tomorrow. We will have plenty of time to look at our new acquisitions, and I want to oversee the restoration process personally." Then David continued, "At the end of the next month I am traveling to Turkey, and then Bulgaria. We have to plan everything around that." David did not notice that Vanda, wrapped in a bath towel, walked into the kitchen behind his back when he said, "You should start looking for customers," and added, "Discreetly." Then he heard her steps, and turned around saying over the phone with a smile on his face, "I guess, I'll talk to you soon in New York. Bye, Aaron." Vanda was looking at him with curiosity. David put down his phone and said, "Did you have a nice swim?" Vanda responded, "Yes." However, questions were hanging in the air. David realized that she would deserve some explanation, but he chose to keep her from knowing, for now.

# Chapter 9

The air was dry and smelled of sweat and warmed-over food, so characteristic for commercial airlines. David had several more hours on the plane before scheduled landing in New York. His thoughts were restless, running from Vanda, to work and back to Vanda again. The time they spent together was all-consuming. David could not get back to normal. Thoughts filled with her were popping up from unexpected associations, and he enjoyed that feeling. He thought of their endless conversations on various topics in politics, history, equality, human rights, and just anything geeky and everything reminded him of his European roots.

David had always had a good understanding of the main cultural differences between the western and eastern world. He was sensitive to subtle variations even within Europe. For a long time, David considered himself fully westernized. He loved American individualism, the powerful engine of progress and entrepreneurship. However, he felt a strong familiar and almost instinctive longing to coexist within a tighter social structure of friends, colleagues, people with similar social instincts, so contrasting with western individualism. David's thoughts wandered far, and his brain produced further associations. That call he got from the old friend Kostadin Radkov, who worked now for Bulgarian government, was still on his mind. Kosta invited him to Sofia. They met in grad school in the nineties. David, then an assistant professor of Anthropology, remembered a naive and smart student, Kosta, who struggled to understand an individualistic spirit of the American academic system. He represented, in David's eyes, a personality from the Balkan region. Emotional, friendly, warm, and spirited. David stopped himself, face to face with the stereotypical categorization, he just made. Simplification did not explain the complexity of that part of Europe. Historically, the Balkan region had always been unique and always split by cultural, ethnic, or religious conflicts. In some areas, powerful family or clan structures still dictate the composition and hierarchy of society. When these robust ties overshadow democratic mechanisms, the government becomes reminiscent of a mafia. Albania could serve as an example. David inexplicably found himself thinking about Vanda again, perhaps because of the nose-band puzzle and possible mafia involvement. David was amazed at how he got from Vanda to Balkans and back.

The phrasing of the official invitation to the capital of Bulgaria, Sofia, sounded overly formal. The official letterhead hailed David as an expert for protection of the cultural heritage. It was the truth that so-called cultural heritage in Bulgaria suffered from looting and smuggling for decades. The trip preceded a surprise call David received from Kosta one morning. A voice with a strong accent introduced himself as Kostadin and added, "Remember me? Kosta." David remembered him and Kosta went directly to the point, "I am looking for an expert with practical knowledge of trading antiquities. Someone like you, who is familiar with both legal and illicit aspects, as well as someone who could provide deeper insight into forgeries and how to recognize them. Not that we don't have local experts, but your interests cover a broader region, including the Middle East. We are dealing with smuggling through us from there."

Kosta explained his role in the government agency and asked David if he would be willing to prepare a seminar with a series of lectures for the law enforcement unit, specifically for combating organized crime. The topics should encompass everything from fabricating provenance of looted artifacts to smuggling corridors and techniques. Another portion should be focused on the basics of forging art and artifacts. The Bulgarian government seemed serious about protecting cultural heritage. Several years ago, they implemented an amnesty program that prevented the prosecution of individuals who willfully turned illicit artifacts in their possession into Bulgarian authorities. "A success of the program is arguable," Kosta commented. David liked the offer and without hesitation accepted invitation.

The world of trading antiquities is murky. Both legal and illicit artifacts enter the market through the same or similar path. The term "illicit artifacts" covers all kinds of illegally traded items. A lack of provenance, a proven record of legal ownership, makes the legality questionable, and points usually to looted or stolen objects. The other categories are counterfeits or fakes. The most common inexpensive forgeries are sold to tourists in the markets everywhere around the world, or online through sites like eBay. More sophisticated frauds are traded through galleries and dealers. In reality, all the trades use the same market with antiquities, and it is challenging, sometimes almost impossible, to recognize genuinely legal artifacts from illegal ones. Collectors argue that not all objects without provenance are unlawful. The argument is that there may be a believably legitimate reason why some items lack records. What they have in mind is a hypothetical existence of objects found in someone's estate, where they were forgotten for an extended period, nobody recognized their value, and no one remembered wherefrom the items came. For archaeologists, a piece without a known place of origin loses its historical significance. There has always been a deep divide between collectors and scholars. The latter blaming the former for the devastation of cultural heritage.

David Feldman, unlike most of his colleagues, was a distinguished scholar, a successful entrepreneur, as well as a collector. His view was that if people like to own a part of history or a beautiful piece of art, they should be allowed to. Artifacts should not be accessible only in museums or their depositories where nobody can enjoy them. Feldman would also never consider himself to be a part of the illegal market with antiquities. In other words, he did not find anything immoral in providing people with what they desire, and all his transactions were kept formally legal.

David's side project was not a large one. It started from an anecdotal incident. A couple of years ago he ordered a copy of a unique and valuable Roman brooch. A wealthy collector bequeathed the original to a museum. The family of the collector wanted to have a replica for sentimental reasons, and thus they asked David, a family friend, and an expert, to help. He contacted a friend in Saint Petersburg, Russia, who owned an artisan workshop. Besides designing and creating their own artisan jewelry, the shop also restored antiquities. When David received the piece, the product of their work, he almost could not distinguish between the original and the copy. The material looked genuinely old. They even created a fake patina, and they reproduced imperfections, including a small crack. Unless subjected to rigorous analysis, nobody could tell the difference. An expert in material analysis, Vanda, for example, would be able to find variations and determine which brooch was contemporary, using sophisticated methods and instrumental studies. David overrun by intense emotions, smiled, thinking of her. Vanda would not have approved of his side business.

The unassuming workshop in Saint Petersburg had since been producing numerous "copies" of ancient artifacts ordered for David's art collection in New York. A pathway was always similar. After the historically worthless 'art jewelry' legally crossed the Russian border, the items were redirected into various directions all over the world. Some objects were sold as expensive copies and some as antique originals without provenance. Buyers not always sufficiently investigate items they want to own, and once they own them, they do not want to call the genuineness of their antiquities into question. "Forgeries work because the pride of ownership blinds their new owners," one of David's colleagues said about his experience working for a famous art dealer. He further explained, "It's basic psychology. And when a fake is in the door, it is hard for the buyer to admit that they were fooled, all the more so if the fake is an impressive or costly one." That was what kept the market with antiquities running, and David Feldman knew it. Fake or original? Most people cannot tell the difference.

The rain was pounding the window in Vanda's office. Another cloudy, cold day in Prague. However, nothing could wreck Vanda's elevated mood. The old life that she had lived before her trip felt strange and distant now. Getting back to her routine was painful. She spent the whole morning going through a pile of mail on her office desk. It was not as terrible as she expected after the week. The volume of incoming mail significantly increased after she joined Archaedat. People interested in using the database or in collaborations were contacting her via mail, or email all the time. It soon became a popular project that was useful to many professionals around antiquities as well as historians. Vanda imagined that Archaedat could become a centralized database not just for archaeological artifacts, but also for art in general. Such an online catalog would streamline historical context and facts, and could also serve as a source for provenance claims. The database could help not just to a community of academics, but also government agencies, including law enforcement, and of course, art collectors and dealers. It reminded Vanda of the call she overheard that David had with his friend Aaron. She felt like David kept some of his work from her.

Detective Dostál was reading the report from the previous day. He learned that a patrol arrested Alex Braun, who without permission, entered Straka's sealed apartment using his keys. He was disturbed by a police lab technician, who came to collect evidence. The report stated that Braun cooperated out of fear. According to his statement, his only intention was to disappear and hoped he could take some personal items he left at Straka's. The person who terrified him was somebody going under a nickname, Tar. Braun provided some valuable information which led to identifying Tar, who as it turned out, was identical with the Tar from Straka's emails.

Dostál was impressed by the Organized Crime Unit summary labeled 'Tar, a person of interest,' which was attached to the police report. Based on that material, Tar, also known as Tase Bahar, was a self-proclaimed art dealer from Ankara. He was born in Albania, claiming both Turkish and Bulgarian descent. There was a well-founded suspicion that Tar was tied to Albanian organized crime. Turkish authorities have been keeping an eye on him for some time, but they had nothing, so far. When interrogated, Braun indicated that Straka crossed the line dealing with his partner in Turkey. That partner's name was Tar. According to Braun, Straka initially wanted to make a deal with him. Tar would send packages with artifacts filled with some 'additional' packing material—heroin. There was an agreement that Straka would pass 'the material' to Tar's liaisons. Braun claimed that he was against that arrangement because that would undermine their starting business. He also claimed that he and Straka argued because of that, and later Straka never mentioned it again.

Supposedly, we could trust Braun, speculated Dostál. Looking back, it seemed that Straka made a deal with Tar after all. That would explain Tar's intervention. Straka broke the agreement by trying to get rid of Tar, and that cost him his life, Dostál thought and continued reading. The report indicated that Straka attempted to eliminate Tar by reporting him to the Turkish law enforcement. That information was passed to the Czech Organized Crime Unit from their Turkish counterpart, Unit for Smuggling and Organized Crime. It was clear that Straka underestimated Tar and that proved fatal to him. When Braun learned that Straka was dead, he went into hiding. He was convinced that Tar or his people were somewhere in Prague. The report was concluded by listing charges against Braun. None was crucial enough to keep him in custody before his court appearance.

When Dostál called Vanda in the morning, she agreed to meet in his office before noon. Now, sitting across the table from the detective and drinking the department's instant coffee, Vanda realized that the relationship between them slowly transformed from strictly professional into a warmer, friendlier one. He showed her pictures of artifacts found in the other Straka's hideout. The police learned about that location from Alex Braun, Straka's accomplice and 'a fortune-hunter,' as characterized by Dostál. Straka and Braun were friends since high school. Braun was instrumental in setting up the office in Rotterdam. Vanda never heard of him. The detective explained further that Straka was entangled in smuggling heroin to Eastern Europe. No heroin or traces of it were found at Straka's. Dostál suspected that it did not reach its intended destination and Straka paid dearly for it. Now, it all made sense. Neither the nose-band or other artifacts were the motive for murder; it was all about drugs. The detective concluded, "Well, it's a plausible hypothesis," and added, "So far, we have no direct evidence to support it, only Braun's words. Either way, we should be careful. I mean, you should be careful."

Vanda did not feel like she should worry. Her interest was in the historical aspect of the case. However, she still had unanswered questions concerning the mysterious logging onto her computer. The detective had an answer to that. Braun claimed that Straka was allegedly preoccupied with the idea of using Archaedat for their operation and it was Straka who logged on Vanda's computer. He only wanted to see how it worked. According to Braun, he was exploring an idea of how to use Archaedat to fabricate provenance. Vanda frowned. Once again, she faced the reality of the world outside her bubble—the world of money and profit. "I am so naive!" she sighed and further questioned the detective, "So, the case is solved? What would be the next steps?"

Dostál shook his head, "Sure, we know who is behind the murder. We also think we know the motive. We have contacted the Turkish authorities, and now we wait. Waiting is a considerable part of our work." Vanda asked, "And what about the artifacts? They may have unprecedented value." Vanda was interested in knowing how were those objects related to Saint Wenceslaus' relic. The clue could provide the location in Turkey, where the artifacts were unearthed. The detective smirked, "As interesting these antiquities seem, nobody is actively looking for them, and the items are not officially missing from any collection. From a purely legal standpoint, they have no owner, as far as we know." Vanda's eyes were wide open with wonder, "And nobody is trying to investigate that?" Dostál replied, "We do not have resources to do that. Technically, the items should be deposited and registered with us as long as a legal owner does not show up, in a legal time frame."

Vanda did not scrutinize why she did not mention that she and David intended to visit Ballıöz Köyü to the detective. Maybe she considered it to be her professional interest, and perhaps she did not want to complicate it. Later she summarized everything she just learned to David on the phone. He did not seem surprised when Vanda mentioned that drug trafficking conveniently intertwined with smuggling artifacts. "That's bizarre how organized crime has exploited all imaginable sources. It also shows an unexpected level of sophistication," commented David. He sounded like he was talking to himself. It occurred to him that if organized criminals, like drug cartels, decided to exploit world historical heritage, there would be nothing, no agency or government, able to stop them.

Archaeological sites had hardly any protection against local looters, and those were amateurs compared to well-organized gangs or paramilitary groups. Vanda could almost read David's mind. She sighed, "It's sad. Everything is about money. People are not interested in history or culture." David laughed, "Don't be so serious. It is not the end of the world. There will still be plenty of interesting and fun stuff in this world, and I intend to enjoy it. By the way, I have already booked a hotel in Istanbul. We can explore the city before we move on Ballıöz Köyü." Vanda grinned, "I suggest, we will do sightseeing before you try to have too much fun. I prefer to enjoy the spirit of two thousand years of history, not completely high." Vanda could hear David laughing. After they finished the call, she could focus on her work, feeling happy. Sorting and reviewing data from her ongoing projects that piled up while she was gone was very fulfilling. She was back in her comfort zone.

There was a moment of silence on both sides of the phone. Then Greg said, "I can't wait to see you." Vanda laughed, she was happy to hear his voice after such a long time. He was in a great mood mainly because his son Kevin was recovering fast from the injuries. They spoke about work, and Archaedat and Vanda interpreted what the detective told her. Greg did not seem surprised by Straka's idea to manipulate Archaeadat and create fake records, "We cannot completely prevent altering data, but we can restrict certain areas and people from handling data." He went on in explaining that Archaedat already put some restrictions in place. Knowing that Cliff Olson, the mastermind behind the database architecture, was in charge provided some assurance.

However, Greg was overall skeptical, "You know, scum will always find its way." Vanda knew he was right. Greg's voice softened when he asked, "How was your trip?" Vanda replied, laughing, "Fabulous." Greg commented with amusement, "Only picturing you with David makes me horny. I hope you had fun with the dude. He's quite, hmm. What's the word?" Greg was looking for an expression, and found it, "Enigmatic. Strangely, even I find him charming. Don't tell me anything. I like to imagine all the juicy details myself," Greg added jokingly.

# Chapter 10

Phocas ordered the whole train to move forward and continue on an old paved road. It was one of the old routes built a long time ago, as he explained to Alard, to connect all parts of the ancient Roman Empire. The surface, paved with stones, had become glossy from centuries-long use. The caravan was crossing rocky hills covered with scarce vegetation. The land around seemed uninhabited. Alard thought how different it was to travel with a small retinue, compared to the whole Crusader Army. Now he could finally look around and see the scenery without clouds of dust, screams, and noise made by crowds of people and their animals. This way, Alard enjoyed the travel. It made him feel liberated.

In the distance, they were passing ruins of a village, a reminder of the Crusaders' presence. Wild dogs were roaming around, feeding on whatever was left. The blowing wind brought the smell of death to remind Alard of mortality. He turned around looking for Asu. The boy seemed tired for the past couple of days. Alard found him resting on one of Phocas' carriages. The young man's eyes were closed, and his skin was gray. Alard approached the side of the carriage, "How are you doing, my friend?" Asu heard him and opened feverish eyes. He smiled a little and said, "I am good, just need some sleep." Alard shook his head and replied, "Rest. I'll call for the Persian, he will get you some remedy."

When they stopped that evening for the night, Phocas' Persian surgeon, whose name nobody could pronounce, and therefore they called him, the Persian, came to check on Asu. The surgeon's appearance had always been somber. His black eyes never smiled. An old scar on his left cheek made his face asymmetrical. A deep set of eyes was transfixed on his patient. First, he checked Asu's mouth and eyes. Then he grasped his hands and checked carefully both his palms. When he finished, the Persian explained to Alard using a mix of languages his findings. Alard understood that it was some fever and that the surgeon would treat Asu with a concoction of his own making. He was confident that Asu's young constitution should be able to deal with the fever itself.

The Persian sounded reassuring, but Alard was full of doubts and skepticism, for he has already seen too many young men perish. Lightheartedness, so typical for him in the old days, was long gone. Alard worried. He and his men were without shelter, still far from the closest Byzantine city and it could take weeks to get to Constantinople. During the night, the weather conditions worsened. Dark clouds poured heavy rain, and everything soaked with water and felt cold. In the early morning hours, the group unenthusiastically packed their belongings and left the campsite. Their procession slowly approached higher mountains visible in the dissolving morning fog.

In the late afternoon, the caravan finally slowed down. A mountain range that the men were crossing was steep and covered in places by dense brush. They just crossed the highest pass, and a rocky trail led them down to a small valley wherein in the distance, a herd of wild goats was grazing. Everyone was exhausted, drenched, and cold. The rain finally stopped, and the sun coldly gleamed behind scattered clouds. Alard with Phocas agreed that the place suited for setting a camp and decided to take a day-long rest there. The valley offered fresh water streaming from a steep mountain massive which also protected the site from one side. In the past several hours of their ascent, it became apparent that Asu's condition worsened. He had lost consciousness, and in brief moments when he woke up, he hallucinated. The Persian tried several different potions, and so far they did not seem to help. The night that followed was long and sleepless for Alard who cared for the patient. Asu shook and rolled restlessly, hallucinating all night. At dawn, the fever finally dissipated, and Asu calmly fell asleep. Alard, who could not sleep, poured himself a cup of warm wine from a big pot hung over hot coals. The wine warmed him up. He was hopeful.

The misty mountains had a calming effect on Alard's mind. He was less anxious and able to think about his brother's recent death without bitterness. Alard realized that his life had changed. It had been a long process, but it was only now when he noticed. He did not know that he could ever have such strong feelings for another person before it happened with Asu. Last night Alard found himself thinking that if the boy died, there was nothing left in his life. The fact that he was able to feel like that surprised him. Strong winds cooled tears on his face. He thought about his old life and his late brother. Alard loved Rogier, but it was different. Brotherly love had nothing to do with his feelings for that young man. He also never felt that way about any woman. Alard remembered his brother's love affair and the woman for whom Rogier fell. It was a long time ago while they were in Normandy. Alard's understanding of Rogier's emotional state, at the time, was that it was a combination of passion and lust. However, now he realized that it could have also been something else, something complicated to comprehend, and something very personal. Alard also remembered the tragedy that followed which haunted and stigmatized his brother for the rest of his life. Ultimately, Rogier took his feelings and the inexplicable circumstances of the tragic event to his grave.

Alard made himself comfortable on a table rock above their encampment. From the place he sat, he overlooked a plateau spreading below the camp. It was close enough to hear what the people huddled around fires at the encampment talked about. Their open happiness only barely covered the personal pain that they suffered along the journey. Those people became a part of his world, and their shared destiny melded them together. Alard had a feeling as if he could feel their souls. He stood up and for a moment, enjoyed the colorful effects of the lingering sunset. With the last sunray gleaming from the skies on the horizon, Alard descended the hill slowly to join his men. As he was approaching the camp, he noticed a slender figure standing in the opening of his tent. Alard recognized the captivating dark eyes. A feeble smile on man's face shined towards him. It was Asu.

The two men were sitting in the dark. The camp was asleep. It was nearly quiet. Only the noise of sleeping men and horses disturbed the peaceful night. Alard and Asu huddled together. It was getting colder. Asu laid his head on Alard's shoulder and touched his warm hands. Asu was weak, and his hands were cold. He still lacked energy. Asu pulled himself to Alard, whose body radiated heat. It was calming and comforting. Alard felt a thrust of emotions and then a physical tension. He pulled Asu closer, and they kissed. Their naked bodies melted together.

Constantinople was as Alard remembered her. Glamorous. This time he had plenty of time to explore the city. Thanks to Phocas and his family, Alard and his men received accommodation with all thinkable comfort. Phocas' residence resembled a small palace. It was a charming ancient building surrounded by tall walls with a spacious paved courtyard and an ample garden. The interior of the walls was decorated with vines and live plants. Painted decorative reliefs around windows of the main hall shined with vibrant colors. The residence invited visitors with cheerfulness, warmth, and open space. An artisan wooden furniture complemented a mosaic flooring. On every step, there was some elegant piece of art on display. It was clear that Phocas was a wealthy man, and judging from people who visited him in a short time after their arrival, also a man of influence. Alard was puzzled by that fascinating character. Phocas was the man who, led by curiosity, left his opulent mansion with his wives and children and traveled with Crusaders in dust and discomfort. His passion for learning about the world must have been stronger than his love for pleasure and good food.

Indeed, Phocas had two wives, and also two concubines. His household was impressive, with a crowd of children, numerous servants, and many slaves. The oldest son, Alexus, bright and confident, was already in charge of the family business when his father traveled. Basil, the second-born, was a smart and educated young man. His future was not clear yet, but his father loved him dearly. Basil could speak several languages, he had a passion for the arts, and now he temporarily oversaw the family workshops in Constantinople. His easy-going personality reminded one of his father. Basil did not think about starting a family of his own anytime soon. His father's house offered everything he needed, including his own concubine. Basil worked for the family business, and in his free time enjoyed independence. He loved music and attended classes of rhetoric. It was not long before Asu joined him. They quickly become close companions. Soon enough, Basil noticed more than a fond relationship between Asu and his master Alard. It spared him worrying about his friend's personal needs. In the time they spent together, Asu learned about arts, craftsmanship as well as a trade.

The young friends often visited Phocas' workshop that specialized in manufacturing of reliquaries. The modest shop employed only a few artisans. They designed reliquaries of unusual shapes to accommodate all types of relics. Such feretories were basically containers, usually custom made for each particular holy relic using gold or silver and ornamented with gemstones. "Where do all these relics come from?" asked Asu once he learned that that was the family's most profitable enterprise. Basil smirked saying, "My father has his sources, he is well connected."

Alard followed Phocas inside where the air smelled of burning and forging metal. The crowded space of the workshop was a display of excellent craftsmanship. Objects in various stages of creation, all shiny and strikingly decorative, were in the hands of workers. Gold, silver, and gems were applied with excellent craftsmanship in the most impressive way possible. Alard realized how powerful these objects were. No matter what hid inside. Whether it was a genuine relic or a pig bone, the stunning appearance of reliquaries already celebrated God. The power of religious beliefs added to the significance. It reminded Alard of the episode with the Holy Lance of Antioch, where a piece of rusty iron delivered them the victory.

In addition to the principal property in Constantinople, Phocas also kept a farmstead, not far from the city, where he bred horses. He was a proud owner of Arabic horses with distinguished lineage. These animals were lighter and gracious compared to the robust horses used by Normans. The Norman horses had to carry an armored knight and therefore were stocky and heavy. Phocas' country manor was a down-to-earth, men only, retreat. The stables were the place of central importance. Their tidy and spacious structure was attached to a complex of small huts accommodating servants and slaves. The primary residence was built on a foundation of an older two-story building equipped with running water and a bath. Alard already became accustomed to the degree of comfort and extravagance the Byzantines enjoyed in their everyday life. The climate of the rolling inland foothills supported positive mood and thinking. The otherwise dry and rocky landscape glowed with the undisturbed serenity of the sunshine that seldom failed. In a certain distant way, Alard found some scenes reminiscent of the countryside in Normandy, where he grew up. There, as well, distinctive marks of the ceased past decorated the land. Ancient ruins and forgotten monuments with elaborate ornamentations and nearly illegible inscriptions reminded of human ephemerality.

Alard enjoyed riding his horse in broken terrain while imagining previous inhabitants in colorful details. He also tried to picture how that all would change in the future. However, Alard found that challenging. He spent days with Phocas at his countryside manor riding horses, hunting deer and enjoying other pleasures which the country manor offered. Alard felt like his old self again. The conversation with Phocas had been turning to their planned enterprise more often. Phocas had merchandise ready to be sent to Normandy. Alard and his men would secure safe travel, and Phocas' son Basil would be in charge of the trading. At that point, all the cost was on Phocas. They agreed that after establishing a trading post in Normandy, Alard would get two-tenths of all the profit. It was time for Alard to prepare for the journey back to Normandy.

As the day of their planned departure approached, Alard felt that leaving the enchanting metropolis and his friend Phocas would not be easy. Their lives intersected for only a short period, and now they would separate again. Alard would miss their endless conversations, Phocas' curiosity and wit, his critical views, but mainly his ordinary, everyday companionship. To occupy himself with something else, Alard decided to focus on arrangements for the long trip home which got nearer. Although the travel was essentially safe, they had to be prepared to face all kinds of circumstances. They choose to sail on the sea through Genoa. A wealthy Genoese merchant, who had a long-term business engagement with Phocas', agreed to transport Alard's entire train, including Phocas' goods for a reasonable fee.

Basil did not seem surprised by his father's decision. He was looking at a seal ring with a simple, but a unique image of a bird, that his father handed him. It was in his family for generations, and his father gave it to him just now, before the long journey. For Basil, it was a symbol of independence. It meant that from now on, Basil was in charge of his share of the enterprise. He felt the weight of responsibility. As much as he was honored, Basil was split about leaving his father's home, the beautiful city, and everything he knew and loved. At the same time, he was excited by the adventure of exploring new places and learning things yet unfamiliar to him. Unafraid of the future, his curiosity was stronger than fear.

The entire expedition was ready, only waiting for the weather to calm down, following a big storm in the Sea of Marmara. There was a sense of excitement among the men. Alard was nervous for a reason he could not explain. He felt like losing something, something that he would much miss. Then a courier arrived with a message that the fleet was set to sail in a couple of hours. That was it. Alard briefly hugged his friend Phocas and turned promptly to his men to issue orders. He refused to get emotional. At the port, the ships were loaded in organized chaos. It seemed like everybody headed for the sea at the same time. To increase the confusion, other ships loaded with goods were on their way into the port. That made the swarming at the port even more challenging to navigate. Alard noticed groups of weary Crusaders departing from Holy Land and waiting for orders to board. Right next to them, a stinky cargo of livestock and black slaves was unloaded. Alard with his men headed to Genoese ships anchored just behind. The crew was loading and securing everything to set sail. Basil, in front of the whole group, greeted a bald man onboard one of the ships. The man waved back and sent his lieutenant down to the group. The man greeted them and showed them to their quarters, where everything was ready. Their merchandise was also on board. The horses boarded the last. Those Arabians were Phocas' pride and a personal gift to his friend, the expression of how much he appreciated Alard's friendship. The loading was smooth and did not take more than an hour. Alard was impressed by the discipline on board, and when they showed him into his lodging, he was surprised by the luxury, unexpected on a ship and incomparable to their previous experience when they sailed to Constantinople more than a year ago.

After waiting for several endless hours, their ship finally left the port. As far as Alard could see, the sea was sprinkled with boats of all sizes. The stormy weather in previous days delayed departures of many vessels anchored in Constantinople, and now they all headed out of the seaport. Strong winds blew waters into the air, and waves were breaking on decks of boats. Whitecaps on the wildly dancing sea contrasted to the dark blue color of the water. Waves were shaking ships, their cargo, and people on board. Breathing the mist dispersed in the air, Alard tasted salt and felt a slight discomfort in his stomach. However, he enjoyed the intense energy of the natural forces as he held onto a rope standing wide, watching the sea and shores. The legendary city of Constantinople became smaller and then slowly blended in with the horizon.

# Chapter 11

The Bosphorus, a narrow strait and a divide between Europe and Asia, a place with thousands of years of history, connecting the Mediterranean with the Black Sea through the Sea of Marmara. In the morning light, clear waters below sparkled aquamarine with a cheering brightness. The fresh sea breeze carried smells of the sea and mixed with the aroma of pine trees. Vanda enjoyed a spectacular view of Istanbul from the Asian side of Bosphorus, sipping her first genuinely Turkish coffee on a balcony of her hotel. The imposing picture of the multimillion metropole, combining modern and ancient styles, inspired Vanda's imagination. The place had an exceptional historical significance—Byzantium, Constantinople, or Stamboul, those were distinct names for the city used in different periods.

David entered the balcony holding a tray with breakfast. He was naked. Vanda smiled, "You could not dress better for the occasion." He produced a smirk and said, "Hurry up. Mesut will meet us at the airport at noon." Yesterday, they both met with Mesut, David's friend, and he agreed to take them to Antakya by his private jet. He also offered to help them contact one local art dealer there. David seemed energized and did not feel like dawdling away their time. Vanda felt tired, but since David took care of everything, she smiled at him and thought about how different they were. His endless curiosity propelled him to everlasting activity. He never seemed tired.

Yesterday, David took her to an old friend and a long-time business partner of his, Mesut, an owner of an antique store in Istanbul. The store was located in artsy narrow streets of Cihangir district. Mesut's place was rather impressive with a dramatic hall in an old building tastefully displaying various kinds of antiquities. Even the furniture and showcases were dazzling pieces from different periods of the Ottoman Empire. Behind the showroom, a small shop crowded with art in all stages of repair or restoration was the place where the deals closed. Some items around looked genuinely antique, and some seemed like second-hand store junk. Mesut, an art dealer, a restoration expert, and the owner, in one person, was a loud, tall, and colorful character. With his black beard, long hair and bewitching eyes, the man looked as if he walked directly out from the book of 'Arabian Nights.' The three of them huddled around a small, no doubt antique, coffee table with a chipped decorative finish. They sipped coffee, and Mesut entertained them.

Vanda learned that Mesut and David had an intriguing past in common. When David asked about his business, Mesut complained about increased crime, but also the bureaucracy in art dealing in Turkey. The main reason was the Syrian war and illegal trafficking from there. The discussion then turned to the grim condition of archaeological sites in Syria in time of war. "I have seen pictures taken in Apamea, my friend, the ruins look like the surface of the Moon, except the craters are not made by meteorites. They are man-made, by looters," Mesut described the looting in the ancient Roman city located in Syria. The site was left unprotected since the war erupted and illegal digs slowly consumed the entire area. David shook his head, saying, "We have already completely lost one of our sites in Aleppo. The Syrian Army made an outpost on the hill above, and they bulldozed trenches through our digs." He talked about one of the sites directly funded by Moon Rock Foundation. Vanda knew that it meant years of someone's fieldwork and research which fell victim to a Syrian army bulldozer. Ironically, history is full of such episodes.

Mesut, happy to impress Vanda on board of his jet, served martinis that were 'shaken, not stirred.' Vanda felt silly, but laughed and deep inside really enjoyed it. David seemed content, reading The Economist and drinking his soda. Mesut entertained her for most of the flight. His glaring passion for history was refreshing. In the center of his fascination was the conflict-creating coexistence of cultures of the East and the West. The plane was approaching Antakya, in ancient times called Antioch. Mesut pointed to the metropolis below and marveled about how great and powerful the city of Antakya used to be throughout history. It was founded by one of the generals of Alexander the Great, strategically on the Royal Persian Road. In Roman times, the whole region was booming, and the city's population grew to half a million people. It was the capital of early Christianity with a large population of Jews. However, the Medieval history of the city become bleak. First Arabs, Armenians, and Turks were fighting with each other to conquer the city, and then finally, Crusaders entered the scene.

Mesut reasoned, "The Crusaders were no different from other invaders, besides the ideology. For locals, they were barbarians, and their religion was just an excuse for expansion. Allah forgives me, there were idiots on both sides of the battleground, but these so-called 'God's warriors' were sent here just because their home countries wanted to get rid of the trouble-makers." Vanda liked his take on the issue. She responded, laughing, "Well, history is full of morons who did everything in their power to make themselves part of the history." "And because we know of them, it means, they succeeded," David stepped into the discussion to show that he was listening to the conversation. The entire city of Antakya spread out beneath. The plane was ready to land.

Vanda shook her head in disbelief. In the morning, they talked about how they would get around the town, and shortly after David disappeared. Only to show up now, in front of the hotel on a motorcycle. However, in a brief moment of riding through the old district of the city, Vanda had to agree. The motorbike made sense since narrow and winding labyrinth-like streets of ancient Antakya remembered times when the only means of transportation were horses and donkeys. As he promised, Mesut waited for them in the heart of the old district, in front of an unattractive door that led into a dark and smelly shop. Mesut grinned at Vanda and showed them in. After crossing a small shabby hall, they entered the interior quarters of the house. The musty smell was replaced by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and they walked into a quiet, sunny room that welcomed them with an interior packed with antiquities. All windows were opened into an inner courtyard shaded with small trees. Mesut loudly in Arabic greeted a smiling man wearing a strange combination of New York Yankees baseball hat, and a Turkish national soccer team t-shirt. Both men hugged, and Mesut introduced his friend as Nadir. Nadir was a local art dealer and the owner of the store.

The guests were seated at a small coffee table. Nadir poured the steaming beverage from an ancient-looking ibrik. He and Mesut switched to English, engaging in a polite conversation, both expressing interest in the well-being of each other's families. David seemingly familiar with the culture voiced interest in Nadir's family health as well, and only afterward asked about the business. Nadir sighed. The 'unfortunate' war in Syria was killing his livelihood. He explained, "We are too close to the border. All the tourists are gone. Instead, the town is filled with refugees—a gray mass of people with no clear affiliation. They seek temporary asylum here, before they go back to Syria, mostly to fight Al-Assad."

On the other hand, the black market with weapons was, according to Nadir, booming. One could trade arms for all kinds of goods or currency, and also looted artifacts from Syria became a valued commodity. The Hatay region, the capital of which Antioch is, became increasingly unsafe. Nadir described how the business climate changed lately with the arrival of many shady characters operating in Hatay. He seemed honestly upset when he said, "We have always been proud to be diverse and open-minded. Our community had been inviting all guests and visitors. But now there is an atmosphere of mistrust and suspicion, not to mention an abhorrent corruption of the local officials." Mesut reacted by shaking head with understanding. Obviously, it was hard to keep the business running under the current circumstances. "You can always rely on my friendship," Mesut assured Nadir who acknowledged his friend's offer and asked directly, "What brings you here?"

"This time, I am not here for my own business. My friends here need help," Mesut explained. David checked Vanda if she agreed, and started to recount to Nadir everything he needed to know about the nose-band from Prague. Nadir was aware of the village called Ballıöz but had never been in that area. Similarly, he did not know of anyone named Tar. He promised, however, to ask around. Nadir then opened a drawer of his antique office desk and pulled out a tattered map. They all huddled above the unfolded chart. Pointing his finger to the north-west from Antakya, Nadir commented, "That is a hilly countryside. If I remember correctly, new residential developments grew recently somewhere around here. Close to Ballıöz." Nadir circled a ridge behind the village. He added, "I don't think there is anything exceptional about that place. As you see, it is not far from Antakya, roughly about ten kilometers." Nadir nodded and visibly interested he suggested, "We can go there and see for ourselves. I can help you ask around. The locals could know something."

As the car exited a highway, the road became rough, and Vanda turned back to get a glimpse of the dramatic view of the city framed with a panorama of hills transitioning into the mountains. She watched steep rocky foothills with scarce vegetation. It used to be a rural countryside until recently. With Nadir behind the wheel, they passed a group of modern houses built in artificial rows and then followed a dirt road climbing into the hills. In that time of the year, the land was dry, covered with bushes and small trees losing leaves before winter. They approached a small farmhouse on the side of the road. The surrounding landscape steadily ascended from the Orontes river valley. Several goats grazed in front, and warped olive trees dominated the scenery behind. Shrubs and vines overgrew the unattractive pseudo-architecture of corrugated iron sheets. Nadir stopped his car and waved at a man carrying boxes from a shed nearby the house. Everyone got out from the vehicle to stretch after the bumpy ride.

The previous day, Nadir made a couple of calls to his friends and family in Hatay. He learned that there were rumors about a skeleton in Ballıöz, and by the end of the day, they had the name of the local living in the village, who may know something. Nadir drove them there to talk to the man. The middle-aged farmer stopped whatever he was doing and walked to their car hesitantly greeting them. Nadir spoke to him in Turkish. The man was shaking his head at first, but when Nadir pulled out his wallet, the man's body language changed, and he guardedly nodded, pointing towards northwest to higher hills. Both men spoke several sentences. Nadir paid the countryman his reward and turned back to the group saying, "I think we might be lucky. He says workers at a new construction site, a little higher from here, uncovered some bones. According to him, they were superstitious and left the remains untouched in the ground. Of course, people talk. Everybody here knows about it, and this man's cousin knows exactly where the place is." They followed the directions the man gave them following the road up to the closest intersection. A house decorated with clotheslines and a run-down red Jeep was the only building on the adjacent lot. Two cats roamed around. Nadir knocked on the door. A man's head showed in an open window. Nadir shouted greetings, and the man slowly nodded. The man's head then disappeared, and everybody was waiting when the door would open. When it did, a bony guy showed up.

The cousin's name was Kemal. He was one of the workers who uncovered the bones on the construction site. The workers called a supervising engineer, and he told them to cover it by soil and move the project a little bit further. Of course, the whole village knew about it. Tell officials? Nobody bothered. It would have just stopped the entire construction, which gave them the paycheck. Nadir translated for them. Kemal also told them that he only saw a couple of bones, not the whole skeleton. The bones looked human to him, but he was no expert. Kemal agreed to show them the site for a small fee and asked not to mention him, for he did not want to have anything to do with that. The location was higher in the hilly area on a small plateau on a slope of a hill. That highland was overlooking the rolling land with the city of Antakya in the distance, down in the valley. A brand new telecommunication tower erected nearby dominated the plateau. Except for the visible traces of digging and relatively fresh soil piled on the place that Kemal pointed to, there was no symbol, no gravestone, nothing that would mark the spot of someone's burial.

The soil was loose, and easy to remove—evidently a freshly covered dig. Vanda watched David and Mesut, who hardly ever engaged in manual labor, with amusement. Both of them energized by excitement worked layer after layer systematically until they stripped off-white skeletal remains of dust and dirt. In a short time, they unearthed a complete skeleton. Judging from the bone disintegration, the bones laid in the ground for a long time. They took time to carefully remove dirt from all the bones and a close surrounding of the remains to look for some clues that could help to date. The hope was that they could find some physical evidence that would connect this body to the nose-band. Of course, if this was the right skeleton. Vanda could not resist and knelt next to the dig to look close. She inspected the surroundings of the remains, scrutinizing the soil for foreign particles using her fingers. The skull was almost intact. Jaws were wide open with most of the teeth loosened or misplaced. The robust bone structure suggested that it was a man, probably not too old—his teeth were in good shape at the time of death. The soil around the skull had a different color, and Vanda noticed small particles of rust. She examined the quality of dirt around and below the cranium. Her fingers ran beneath when she felt something harder. Vanda looked at David, "I've got something," and pulled out a rusty, about an inch long, fragment of a metal object. It was not much, but it was everything they got. The burial did not contain any personal items or other entombments. Not anymore.

They left Nadir to deal with the authorities in Antakya. He knew the right people and was able to explain the 'accidental' discovery of the skeleton and keep unimportant details for himself. It was in their interest to make the location and the grave official. The burial would gain historical value dated back to the time of the 11th century, the time of the First Crusade, under the condition that they could draw a link between these remains and the nose-band found at Straka's. Still, the relationship between the nose-band found at Ballıöz and the Saint Wenceslaus' one remained unclear. To Vanda, it was a fascinating conundrum. She understood that people largely ignored history because they found it boring. Its attractiveness only came to light when antiquity of unprecedented value was auctioned by Christie's, for example. Or in case the gold plated Tutankhamen mummy was exhibited with all the treasures from the King's tomb. And only horrific or shockingly cruel historical events got chance to fascinate the average population.

Most governments are unable to protect their historical heritage primarily because of lack of interest among people with money and political power. Either insufficient laws or budget is the cause of the devastation of historical sites. Vanda never lost her passion, no matter how hopeless it all seemed, and at that moment, her motivation for solving the mystery was stronger than her professional ethics. She, most likely, broke the law, by taking that piece of rust, but she knew that the grave was already disturbed and looted. Full of self-justification Vanda observed the metal fragment on the palm of her hand and thought about a person whose remains were buried at Ballıöz. She tried to picture that person, a man, perhaps a Crusader.

That last night in Antakya, Nadir invited them to a party he hosted at his house. A colorful bunch of people, mostly members of Nadir's family, entertained the guests. His wife kept an eye on people catering pastry, and grilled meats. The aroma of the coffee, cardamom, cinnamon, and cloves filled the main hall of the house. Vanda felt slightly out of place, as a stranger, not speaking the language. Nadir entirely monopolized David for himself. Both men taste-tested traditional rakı and discussed politics. Vanda did not enjoy hard liquor and got herself a glass of earthy fruity Turkish red wine. Two or three sips put her in the right mood. Finally, feeling comfortable Vanda observed a small crowd of Antakyan celebrities. Earlier, she overheard Mesut telling David that one of them is a local police official. Identifying him was easy. Only one man was wearing a police uniform decorated with a lot of gold and medals. However, Vanda noticed another man in the official's company whose visage, as well as something in his behavior, made her think that he was somebody important. The dark intensity and utter confidence radiating from the man's deep-set eyes attracted her attention. Although he was not her type, Vanda registered the face.

Nadir introduced Vanda to his wife, and they talked briefly before David finally got back to her. Visibly, the spirit of the party put him in a great mood. As they both were hungry, together they joined others and sampled that extraordinary food presented on the tables. David was having fun feeding Vanda olives with small peppers when the man with the hypnotic eyes approached them. He spoke in proper English, "I see, you are enjoying the food. My friend Nadir knows everything about good food." Noticing their confused faces the man apologetically added, "We have not been introduced. My name is Tarık Serhan Bahar. I am from Ankara and my trade, besides other things, is art and antiquities." He reached out to shake hands with David, looking the whole time at Vanda. David shook his cold hand and introduced himself. Vanda also offered her hand for a shake. Bahar took it, but instead of shaking it, he chivalrously kissed it. Momentarily it seemed he was the only one who felt comfortable. Vanda nervously introduced herself, and David laughed.

Luckily, the relief came from their friend Mesut who, with a glass of wine in his hand, paced to them and loudly addressed Bahar, "Wasn't that a bit old-fashioned?" He then added jokingly, "But that's understandable." Mesut grinned at Vanda while shaking hands with the man, and introduced himself, "Mesut Sandalli—antiquities sale and restoration. My business is in Istanbul. I only visit here." Bahar introduced himself and explained, "I operate a small network of craftsmen and artists in Ankara. I am no expert in fine arts, specifically, but I know how to sell merchandise to customers and how to find a client for a particular kind of goods. It's all about connections." For a split of a second, Bahar's face lacked honesty and Vanda thought that he did not leave the impression of a trustworthy businessman. It was not just that one moment. Vanda found his virtually non-existent enthusiasm odd for an art dealer. The conversation with Bahar continued in weirdly vague tone, and David seemed to take all that seriously.

When Bahar left, Mesut whispered to Vanda's ear, "I have doubts about the guy. He doesn't look like an actual art dealer. Although he seems to operate some art export-import company." He made sure that Bahar could not hear him and added, "I heard from Nadir, who is no friend of his, that Bahar has been trying to get into the antiquities circles in Istanbul's Cihangir district. I am sure he might do some business there, but I keep my operation far from types like him. To tell the truth, Bahar seems just like a dirt-cheap amateur with no interest in actual art or history. He may be a con artist."

Vanda was not fond of that man either, Bahar was irritating. Mainly, his suggestions to David and comments about David's business left unanswered questions. Later, Vanda shared her thoughts with David, and he just laughed. Bahar's behavior was somewhat eccentric, but otherwise, David found nothing out of the ordinary about him. "It's good to know people who are well connected," David put it with pragmatism and added, "You know, the business brings you all sorts of opportunities, and you have to deal with people, like them or not." Vanda was not concerned with the man's strange acting much, but rather his attitude when he offered David to do business with him. "First of all, he sounded unprofessional," Vanda spelled out her objection. "Also, I did not like his tone, and I found his business peddling." She meant the bragging about his people and how unbeatable they were in copying art and artifacts. Vanda already visibly upset confronted David directly, "If you do what he suggested you may do, how can you keep integrity as a professional? Also, how does he know? Wouldn't you be ashamed to make money like that? It's immoral, to knowingly sell forged artifacts. Not just that, it's criminal."

David was surprised, but he did not seem offended when he answered, "I'll be honest with you. I give people what they want. It may seem unethical, but it's pragmatic. Also, it's a way of funding our research. By that, I mean original and ethical scientific projects sponsored or ran by Moon Rock Foundation. Let me explain something to you. People, to whom I decide to sell our art, are handpicked, they are rich, and they are after elusive ownership of some, in fact, any antiquity. They do not care for the object's historical value. Their only concern is the monetary value and the fact that they can show off and present themselves as cultural snobs. I do not feel sorry for them, and I make sure that they never figure out that they own a forgery. They would never waste money researching the authenticity of their artifact, partly because of their greed and partly because they would feel ashamed that they fell for a forgery. They simply do not want to know. Also, it may look simple to you, to prove a fraud using modern analytical methods, but these instrumental techniques and expertise are expensive and practically unattainable outside of the academic world. However, I prefer if these snobs own forged art, rather than buying authentic stuff that was looted and smuggled, which, in my opinion, causes unrecoverable damage."

Vanda listened to David breathlessly, and then she gasped, "So, you admit it! Moreover, you have developed a philosophy supportive of your slimy forgery business. You are good! Savior of the culture!" Her eyes were burning when she added in a low voice, "I think, I did not know anything about you. Now I see where all your money comes from. Your houseboats, cabins, mansions, what else? But you cannot buy me with your money. I am so disappointed!" Vanda got angry, mainly blaming herself for not seeing him realistically before. She also felt confused, thinking about his rational reasoning. The room was too small for her. Vanda grabbed her jacket and walked away. It was long after midnight.

David did not expect her to react that impulsively. It should have been just an intellectual exchange of opinions on the subject. Vanda took it seriously, as a matter of principle. David understood the argument was about his questionable ethics as a scientist and a legal status of his enterprise, and Vanda simply rejected his philosophy. David felt terrible that he made her feel bad. What was so special about her, David asked himself when he was leaving the room, decided to find her.

Vanda was at the hotel bar gazing into her glass of vodka. David softly took her around shoulders, and she let him walk her back to the room. They did not talk, only huddled together on a couch. Vanda slowly fell asleep.

When Vanda woke up, the room felt empty. David was already on his way to Sofia. He left a note on a coffee table for her, "I love you. We will talk soon, David." Vanda was emotionally worn out. After checking out from her hotel, Vanda walked to a next-door coffee shop and waited for Mesut. He was taking her back to Istanbul by his jet. Mesut was an excellent observer and noticed right away a different climate. He tried to make her feel comfortable during the flight keeping a light conversation about historic sites they were flying over without asking any questions. Vanda appreciated his sensibility. After their paths had split in Istanbul, she had plenty of time to think while waiting for her plane to Prague.

Vanda was upset with herself because deep inside, she felt quite comfortable with David's logical arguments. The fight was of her own integrity. She accepted a long time ago that money ruled the world. People valued their over-priced electronics higher than any cultural or historical knowledge. Art or antiquities only have value if you can buy it or sell it. Vanda tried with all her heart to resist the materialism. Admittedly she enjoyed certain aspects of vanity but still religiously insisted on holding at least some principles. Without those ideals, ethics, and morality, she would feel simplistic, a programmed selfish bio-robot. That was what Vanda would like to tell David. She missed him.

Tar was glad he was so well connected, and therefore the information about those two historians sniffing around in his territory got to him fast. Why would any grave be so important was a mystery to him. However, it was immediately apparent that something was going on after the bastard from Prague started to have many questions. And then he even tried to throw him, Tar, under the bus. Now those two others, a corrupt historian and his chick, from Prague were asking around. That was not a coincidence. Tar could not afford any attention. It complicated his primary business. The Prague corridor must stay quiet. He already lost several pounds of brown sugar somewhere there.

However, Tar still thought that was an ingenious idea, to run a trading business with antiquities as a cover for a considerably less legal and more profitable business. However, he should have never got involved with that full-of-himself idiot Straka. Now it seemed Tar had two new obstacles standing in his way. His people watched the couple. Tar knew about their every move and weighed the situation. Feldman might be dangerous. Sooner or later he would see through Tar's business. The naive chick, Vanda was her name, did not have a clue. A pretty face. Thinking of her, Tar felt a growing tension. There was something about her, something tempting, never tasted before. He cursed the imagination that played a nasty game with him.

# Chapter 12

The air was moist with a familiar smell so different from anything Alard smelled on his journey to the Holy Land. Late spring in Normandy was usually rainy and foggy. Nothing changed for that matter. The land was not as colorful as he kept it in his memories, but it was charming, and mainly, it was his home. Home—everything here reminded him of his late brother. He found his brother's estates in good standing. After Alard settled all the family financial and material obligations, he immediately sent a messenger to his lord, William, Count of Mortain, to ask for a hearing. The young lord was known for his temper and restlessness. It was also known that he unsuccessfully tried to claim his late father's earldoms in Normandy and England. The lands his father acquired for his service to the King, William the Conqueror, after the battle of Hastings.

William the Conqueror, in Alard's opinion, showed poor wisdom when after unifying England and Normandy under his rule, divided it again after his death by granting the Duchy of Normandy to Robert, and the Kingdom of England to his younger son William Rufus. Whatever reason was behind the decision, as a result, the country became politically split and unstable. Currently, Count William's only legitimate properties were those of Mortain and surrounding countrysides. The situation in Normandy was complicated because the Crusade that still occupied Robert Curthose, the Duke of Normandy, in the Holy Land. Barons all around Normandy grew increasingly political and divided, and Count William was not any different. Alard heard that patience was never William's strength either, but to his excuse, based on rumors coming from England, aspiring English lords were equally interested in claiming Norman lands as Count of Mortain was. It was evident to Alard that the Crusade did not eliminate leading players from the chessboard, and a power struggle continued, only now without the Crusaders. Alard wondered what the future would bring after the return of Duke Robert Curthose from the Holy Land.

The audience at the castle of William of Mortain left Alard disquieted. First, he did not expect the Count being that young. However, in his teens, William acted confident, and his political agenda against Royalists in England was apparent. The conversation turned almost instantly to the expected Duke Robert's return. "He is instrumental for my rights to claim my father's lands," the Count's voice was decisive. He then continued, "My knights and I are ready to join Duke Robert's forces to protect Normandy from Englishmen and secure our rights." Alard did not want to take any part in that, and replied cautiously, "As soon as my health allows it, I will eagerly join you and Duke Robert in the lawful cause." Then he added, "My health is rather frail momentarily, causing my thoughts to be preoccupied with the spiritual content inspired by the journey to the Holy Land." When asked about Duke Robert's plans for the return to Normandy, he answered in truth, "I have no knowledge, my lord, about the Duke's plans. However, I can comment on rumors spread in our camp at Antioch. The Duke felt that the campaign in the Holy Land became too political. In his opinion, it served only to selfish interests of the leaders, like Lord Bohemond—Prince of Taranto set out to the Holy Land to seize lands."

Alard explained his own early return by ill health and his brother's death. He did not mention that he was not bound by the same contract to Duke Robert as his brother Rogier. Alard, as a younger brother, was only a member of his entourage. It made things so much easier after all. The Count did not challenge Alard's claim of one-half of his brother's estates and let him keep the manor 'At Three Roads,' which was in Alard's family for generations. As everything worked in his favor, the audience with the Count only confirmed Alard's deepest concerns for the nearest future. The inevitable power struggle threatened to disturb the peace. Alard did not realize how right was he in his prediction.

Only tips of gravestones surfaced from the grass of the overgrown church cemetery. Alard walked to the east corner looking for a grave his brother mentioned in his last will. There it was. A simple unremarkable tombstone with an elaborate engraving which said, "Gunnore of Fontenay, daughter of Tiebalt and Maud" and underneath a biblical quotation followed, "Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven, Saint Luke." Alard was not sure if the quote had a specific meaning. However, he knew that the death of that woman had changed his brother permanently. Alard's thoughts were with Rogier, the brother he lost. Alard knelt next to the grave, grass tall to his chest and prayed for the brother and the woman. Perhaps they were already together in a better place, he thought. It was difficult to imagine. Sometimes it was difficult to see God's intentions in events that Alard lived through. He was confused but still kept his beliefs and hopes.

When Alard concluded his contemplation, he stood up and saw Asu waving at him from behind a cemetery stone hedge. Alard realized they must have finished up the loading, and they were ready to leave. Basil with Asu was expected to take off with a carriage full of religious objects and relics from the Holy Land. It was supposed to be their first actual enterprise, and Men's Abbey in Caen, whose abbot was Alard's godfather, was the first stop on their trip. The esteemed head of the monastery was a key person whose recommendation letters would open doors to other customers. Alard hurried after Asu to make sure everything and everybody was ready.

The trip was thoroughly planned. Alard carefully selected two Abbeys that he thought had the most significance to establish the trade with prominent circles of the Church. Men's Abbey of Saint Stephen in Caen due to the personal connection, and Bec Abbey because of its enormous influence reaching from Normandy across the Channel to England. If all went well, Abbot Lucius of Caen would support Alard and write a letter confirming the trustworthiness of the merchandise which would help with sales even outside of the Church, to wealthy aristocrats. Alard chose his words carefully when compiling his letter to the Abbot. He emphasized his devotion to the Church's teachings and his faith in God, and as an attest of it, he had offered the involvement of his own in the Crusade, where his beloved brother Rogier, and Abbot's godson, lost his life. Alard did not forget to mention the ample contribution his brother Rogier bequeathed to the Caen monastery. However, he pointed out his own suffering and losses, and mainly financial burden. Those few relics he brought from the Holy Land, which he would all have given to the Church, "if not being compelled to settle all my and my brother's financial obligations rightfully." At the end of his letter, Alard explained, that only due to his poor health, resulting from the hardship suffered on the journey, he could not deliver his gifts in person. That was the reason for sending "my trusty squire Asu in the company of Basil, an influential Byzantine merchant, and the son of a dear friend of mine." Alard then assured the Abbot that the Church, namely his Abbey, would benefit from all the sales. To sway the official he hand-picked relics to be donated as a personal contribution. Again Alard realized how impressive selection of items Phocas gathered, each enclosed in ornate reliquaries.

When Basil's carriages escorted by ten men-at-arms had left, Alard felt slight anxiety. He was sure everything was arranged correctly with a focus on details, but somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a reminder of guilt. That little something that was instilled in him by the Church when he was a little boy. It was a feeling of being watched continuously without the possibility to conceal any of his thoughts, acts, or sins. The Church was everywhere. The teachings, rules, and explanations for everything provided a rigid structure of his young life. As a child, Alard was under the impression that the Church had absolute power and control over his life. In a sense, it was true. He shook his head with the usual confidence. Nothing could alter Alard's crumbled trust in the institution of the Holy Church now. His relationship with God was just between him and God.

The mission was a success. The relics presentation and reliquaries shining with gold dazzled clergy officials, who by no means were in a hurry to question the relics' authenticity. By the winter, Alard and Basil managed to establish a respectable operation. They set up a workshop in Mortain right next door from the renowned armorer, Master Serlon. Alard personally paid a visit to Serlon, also to inform him of brother Rogier's death. The Master was glad to see Alard back. He expressed curiosity about the experience with the armor that he manufactured for the brothers to serve them on their journey. He asked if any malfunction of the protecting gear was to blame for Sir Rogier's death. Alard assured him that the equipment served them both well. He explained, "No armor could have saved my brother. His hurt spirit and disinterest in life was to blame. That was, what slowly killed him, Master Serlon, not Saracen's weapons."

Alard kept for himself that his brother's injury was caused by a fellow Crusader, not by a weapon of an infidel. Serlon politely responded, "I am sorry to hear that. It is a shame that such an outstanding knight did not make it back home." Serlon cleared his throat and added, "On the other hand, I am pleased to have a new neighbor, Nicetas, the goldsmith. We may join our forces in the future. His fine artwork would complement the best pieces of my armor." Serlon already contacted Basil's goldsmith. It was a promising sign for the starting enterprise. To Alard's knowledge, Basil's people previously initialized a small production of silver and gold ornamented religious items, as planned for their next undertaking. Basil intended to sail with the merchandise to the ports of the North Sea, as soon as the weather permits, next year in early spring.

Alard was inhaling a moist breeze. He loved the rainy summer and enjoyed every moment of it. Everything suggested that there will be a good harvest. Lush green vegetation covered every open space like a carpet. Alard watched horses on a pasture nearby. Those animals carried a future promise of a new breed. Alard's brawny mare was in the center of attention of a stallion from Phocas' Saracen breed. The male danced around her in circles, and she was playing with him. Escaping and biting into his direction. Much bigger and heavier, the mare did not stand a chance in avoiding him, but that was not her intention. It was to increase the stallion's desire.

The gracious foreplay did not take long, and the mating that followed was no less graceful. Alard noticed Basil, who was watching the encounter from the other side of the fence. The merchant brought good news. The delivery from Constantinople just arrived together with a letter from Phocas. The merchant expressed worries to Alard that Constantinople had become vulnerable due to the presence and the increasing power of Crusaders in the region. He also commented on Duke Robert's decision to leave the Holy Land following the victory at Jerusalem. "People around Curthose saw him troubled because of the unholy prospect of the city under Crusader's rule," Phocas wrote and continued, "The situation there had become too political for lord's taste which you would understand." In the next passage, after he mentioned the well-being of his family, he thanked Alard for caring for Basil like he was his son. At the very end he wrote, "Hopefully, you, my brother, are safe and in good health, and Normandy is prosperous and firm, or at least the Duke's return should provide for security and wealth." Alard sighed. It was apparent to him that the world was a strange place where people could not live in peace.

Duke's messengers arrived in Mortain at the time of harvest to let everybody know that Duke Robert Curthose had returned to Normandy. It was being rumored that after the victory at Jerusalem, Crusader barons parted due to their different expectations. Duke Robert became tired and disgusted by political intrigues among them, and therefore he turned back to Normandy. Alard remembered very well, the power struggle he witnessed during and after the siege of Antioch. In Alard's opinion, Duke Robert Curthose was a decent spiritual man who lacked the real passion for the conquest and ruling. The Duke's presence was no guarantee of stability for Normandy and her people.

The tiny foal was trying to keep balance on his wobbly legs. Asu, all sweaty, was cleaning the broodmare. It did not take long, and the future stallion was nursing from his mother. It was a reason for celebration, a promise, a beginning of a new bloodline. The little horse showed some characteristics of both breeds. Alard and Asu were watching his first steps. The neck seemed longer than usual. His amusingly winding legs were healthy covered with dark brown fur, just like his father's. The proud breeders with broad smiles on their faces looked around. It seemed like everyone stopped working and came to see the new offspring. It was magical—the birth of the little horse made people cheerful. Alard's immediate thought was, "Life is beautiful." He realized how far he got and how much his views and values have changed since he left for the Holy Land. Now, it would not cross his mind that this baby-horse could once become a warhorse.

Asu, leaning on a fence next to Alard, was wiping sweat from his face to the sleeves. A stubble he grew on his chin made him look older than his age, mature. His dark eyes stared at Alard. "Are we expecting guests?" Asu asked and pointed towards a group of arriving riders. Alard nodded, he expected Basil and those were his people. The merchant followed shortly behind the main company of his entourage. He just returned from another trip, this time in upper Normandy. Still sitting on his horse, Basil shouted at Alard and Asu, "Greetings brothers! I see we are arriving in time to welcome a new family member of yours," and laughing, he pointed to a newborn foal.

Basil's pregnant-again concubine rode her horse right next to him. It was no secret that he decided to marry Zora, even though she was his father's slave. Alard did not blame him. She was beautiful, healthy, and smart. Moreover, she already gave birth to two other Basil's children. "Did you come to invite us to a baptism of your next child?" asked Asu jokingly gesturing to Zora's belly. Basil put on a meek smile and replied, "No. We finally decided to have our wedding before the baby is born and before winter comes."

The news arrived from England. King William Rufus, the younger brother of Duke Robert Curthose, died in a hunting accident and Henry, the youngest brother, promptly made himself the new king. The youngest of the brothers seemed the most eager to rule. He also proved himself very skillful in pulling strings on both sides of the English Channel. From early on he presented a challenge for the Duke's position in Normandy. Alard felt an increased pressure from the young Count of Mortain who, more than before, sided with Robert Curthose. In political unrest, Norman barons were talking behind each other's backs, forming alliances, and assuring loyalties. Everything suggested that there would be a confrontation between the two royal brothers. Their followers were ready, raising men-at-arms in significant numbers. Alard also was preparing his men and making sure they have all the equipment needed for a weighty military operation. However, the priorities were set on securing his estate and the thriving business with relics.

Moreover, the workshop in Mortain needed more hands because master Nicetas with his two apprentices were soon overloaded. Master Serlon seized the opportunity and let one of his metalsmiths help them in exchange for learning the subtle techniques directly from Nicetas. All the craftsmen worked late hours. Alard looked amazed at some exquisitely crafted items as he walked behind Basil into the shop. Even at this late-night time, the room was crowded, men still worked on their projects. Products of their work were shelved along the walls. A pleasant smell of smoke from a fire-pit filled the whole room. "How much more merchandise do we need before you can set for the trip to the North Sea?" asked Alard. Basil turned to him and answered, "We already made enough for that venture." He pointed to the working men explaining, "They are already working on something else. At this point, we have customers around the whole Normandy." Basil went on and acknowledged Master Serlon, who also helped them to some new customers. Alard nodded. It was no surprise. The armorer was well known. His clients were mostly lords of lower Normandy, and they all were getting their weapons and armor ready for the inevitable conflict. Basil noticed Alard's worried look and remarked, "You think, that there will be some confrontation. Don't you?" Alard shook his head and whispered, "I am certain of it. We have to make arrangements to secure our workshop and people."

The bride was heavily pregnant, which added another dimension to her beauty. She walked barefoot on grass towards her future husband. The ceremony was held in front of the church doors, under an open sky. A priest of their parish, Father Simon, had an unpretentious speech and then pronounced Basil and Zora, husband and wife. She had tears in her smiling eyes when Alard, followed by Asu, wished them good fortune, health, and long life. There was only a small group of guests, neither the groom nor bride had their relatives near. Basil's family lived in Constantinople and Zora's family, if there was any left, dwelled somewhere in the Slavic lands.

The feast which followed burst with bold flavors. Fragrant spices of the East complemented rich, meaty sauces prepared by Alard's household cook with the help of a servant who usually cooked for Basil in eastern style. Home-brewed ale and cider soon dissolved the worries of uncertainty from the future. While Alard was joking with Basil about married man's life, Zora was laughing about it. Basil's two young sons clung to Asu. He was always their hero because he played with them like he was one of them. The vibrant spirit affected everyone. At one moment, Alard observed the happy crowd and thought how young they were and that all of them could be his children, the children he never had and would never have. He felt blessed to have all these folks around him. Alard then looked at Asu, playful and young, and so precious to him. Father Simon, who sat on his left-hand side, noticing Alard's contemplation, leaned to him and he said, "God's ways are inexplicable, son." Alard replied, "Yes, I know Father Simon. That's the one thing I am sure of."

It did not take long and the Englishmen brazenly, unannounced crossed the channel. After terrorizing the coast, they started attacking inland farmsteads, plundering properties of lords who did not side with the new King Henry. The dreadful news spread quickly. Alard just got back from a horse ride, when his lieutenant brought the message. An English encampment was spotted near Brécey, about two hours from Mortain by a horse. "On their way to Mortain, they will be welcomed by the forces of Count William's men. The Count and his allies are already on the way to meet them," the lieutenant interpreted what he was told, breathing heavily in excitement. The Count sent messengers to alarm all his vassals along the way to Mortain and surrounding estates. Alard's manor, 'At Three Roads,' was one of the most exposed. Now, when he knew he could not rely on the Count's immediate help, Alard called all his men and ordered them to prepare for combat. The women and children were ordered to retreat to Mortain, behind the well-protected city walls. Everyone was getting ready. Alard felt the weight of responsibility. Serious faces of his men reflected the gravity of the moment. It reminded him those times when he was able to avoid all the liability in the shadow of his big brother, Rogier. Now it all depended on him. To his own surprise, Alard felt confident and almost excited. Blood was rushing in his ears, but he felt calm. He was here to protect his land and people, to defend their way of life. It made perfect sense.

# Chapter 13

Predictably, it was raining when Vanda got out of the airport in Prague. She was not upset anymore. Her view of David's character, even so shaken during their argument, transformed. Now, Vanda appreciated his openness and honesty. And later that day in the evening, when the phone rang, she expected David to call. However, it was Greg who was curious about her trip to the ancient city of Antioch. Vanda told him what she and David found and also did not forget to mention a small fragment of corroded metal that she pulled from the shallow grave. That piece should give her plenty of material to analyze and be able to link the nose-band with the burial. "Anyway, it still does not explain how the other almost identical nose-band landed on Saint Wenceslaus' helmet," Vanda noted.

Greg sounded excited, "It's still quite spectacular. I cannot wait to learn the results. Even then, we can suggest numerous theories, but will never know the exact story. It'll remain a fascinating archaeological mystery with several plausible explanations. Too bad we cannot travel back in time and see for ourselves, only imagine." Vanda listened to Greg and thought how much she admired him, and appreciated the strong connection that developed between them. A long time ago, he became a part of her life. She trusted him. Like he was reading her mind, Greg asked, "What about you? Are you happy?" She did not know what to answer. Still confused, she responded vaguely, "I am OK." Avoiding the topic, Vanda switched back to the nose-bands, "Well, it is evident, both nose-bands are from the same craftsman. But even if I can prove that one was buried in the grave in Ballıöz, how are we going to connect Prague and Ballıöz?" Greg, on the other continent, burst out laughing, "Right, the most interesting part, and we may never know." That was true. Vanda felt a wave of positive energy. Somehow, it was all right not to know.

David's first-time visit in the Bulgarian capital, Sofia, was refreshing and stimulating, so far. The country went through many changes in the post-communist era. Still, there was plenty of signs and scars of the country's totalitarian past. David's friend Kosta has changed a bit since he worked at the government. He gained weight and lost some hair. He also seemed a bit less optimistic, which could be due to his involvement in fighting organized crime. Apparently, according to Kosta, corruption was one massive issue in Bulgaria, and David thought that it was the most typical and ever-present problem across the former Soviet block. One of the most persistent obstacles in making progress. Kosta confided to David that he felt like always having to watch his back, and learned not to trust his colleagues. The corrupted police apparatus, with its ties to organized crime, complicated Kosta's work even further. Gangsters created sophisticated on the surface legal organizations with names like—Security Insurance Company, which engaged in extortion and money laundering, besides other typical mafia-style activities.

Kosta tried to explain the local specifics to David the best way he could. At the end he seemed tired, saying, "Sometimes I think it's all worthless. The hardest thing is to keep motivated. You have to watch notorious figures from criminal underworld entering politics with money, bribing officials, and corrupting law enforcement." Kosta shook his head and added, "Well, but not everything is dire. We had small victories that gave me hope." David took a sip from his cup of coffee and replied, "It is interesting to see how democracy works. Slowly, but surely." His view was not so pessimistic. In his opinion, the country was doing quite well. Although David was aware that his optimism was a purely American thing.

When David returned to the hotel, he took a long shower. Random thoughts popped out, and Vanda after the latest events in Turkey was in the center of it. David still felt a bit down because of the argument they had. It became increasingly important to him what Vanda thought and how she felt about him. David realized that he thought of her almost perpetually. Every minute he did not spend with Vanda, he felt out of place, and now, he missed sharing thoughts with her. However, there were other things that she changed. David now felt differently about his life. When Vanda became a part of it, he started seeing things from a different perspective. Reproduction was one of them. There was also the sense of his mortality that more frequently occurred to him. The flow of hot water felt good. David focused on enjoying the sensation by every pore of his skin. The physicality of his body filled him with positive emotions. Still, in the back of his mind was Vanda and their journey to Ballıöz in search of the mysterious counterpart of the nasal-guard from Saint Wenceslaus armor.

David, dripping and a towel around his shoulders, walked to his laptop. He got an idea. It seemed simplistic but worth to try. David logged in to Archaedat and looked up the Saint Wenceslaus helmet. The file contained a good deal of information and data, all sorted in various categories. He pulled out a detailed image of the helmet and zoomed in the nose-band. Then he saved the enlarged detail and submitted it to the search for similar objects, based on pattern recognition. This feature was one of many tools allowing searches within Archaedat. Vanda mentioned that to him when she explained all the useful properties of the database. They did not get actually to examine that tool. David recalled they had better things to explore that night.

In principle, electronic images of objects were compared according to a variety of parameters, like their sizes, shapes, colors, and even detailed comparison of parts or fragments of the objects. David waited for hits, curious about what kind of results the system would provide. The searching engine worked surprisingly fast. After showing progress on the screen, the task finished by opening a list of objects with similarity to the nose-band. The analogy was calculated by an algorithm giving each object a weight based on resemblance to the image of interest.

The first hit showed familiar ornamentation. David tensely looked at the top of the list. It was astonishing—the little figurine of crucified Jesus with tiny hands which were well preserved and pictured in great detail. Those hands with slender fingers popped out from the image. The similarity was striking—a stylized figure with stretched out hands, the symbol of crucifixion. David leaned forward and focused on the screen. Then he opened both images each in a separate window and compared them next to each other. The ornamental curves and details on both depictions were nearly indistinguishable. Coincidence? Unsure of his finding David scrolled back to the list of images. He impatiently inspected other pictures with some degree of similarity. To his satisfaction, he did not find any other object resembling the cross-like nose-guard. David felt like he was on something. He opened a file associated with the hit from the search. The description briefly stated, "A fragment of a larger object, likely a decoration of armor, 11th century, Mortain, France." The file contained more information about the size, material, and short statement of the finding, and its location. The item was found after the war, in the ruins of a building that collapsed during the Allied invasion in 1944. David learned that the site belonged to the estates a former monastery called Abbaye Blanche. A more detailed description followed below, but nothing that would help reveal clues for understanding its origin.

Vanda was surprised how happy she felt to hear David's, "Hi, how are you?" on the phone. After taking a deep breath, she blurted, "I love you." David laughed and said, "I love you too. We have so much to talk about, but it can wait. I've got something incredible to tell you." Vanda listened to his excited voice explaining to her how he got his idea to search the database and how he got the improbable result. "I am sending a file number for the object right now, so you can see it for yourself," David further commented. He also recapped all he learned about the object so far. It was a part of the collection of items discovered in the ruins of a collapsed structure after an offensive following D-day in northern France. All objects unearthed in those ruins were cataloged and deposited after the war in the regional archive. Mortain is a small town that used to be a seat of a county for the reigning house of Normandy during the Middle Ages. However, after several somersaults of history, the town declined and became somewhat memorable only due to the invasion of Normandy during WWII.

As Vanda was listening to David's commentary, she logged on Archaedat and quickly checked the file that David sent by email. The image materialized on her screen. The ornament, blackened from corrosion, presented the familiar stylization of the figurine. The upper part was missing, but it was still an astonishing match. Vanda commented, "It looks like we have a third piece." However, her skeptical inner voice already questioned the legitimacy, "Who entered the object? Maybe there is a mistake in our database." More and more questions popped up. David, on the other hand, was convinced and kept assuring Vanda, "The data was entered by a graduate student from the University of Caen during his research for a dissertation. You can check out his web page. It looks credible." It seemed like Vanda finally got used to the news. "How is this not complicating the entire mystery?" she asked. David laughed and replied, "Well, I am not sure how is that all connected, but it gives us an excuse to travel to Normandy."

The metal fragment recovered from the grave near Antakya was an inch long chip of rusty iron. Vanda was carefully cleaning its surface not to miss anything important. To see details, she held the object under a magnifying glass. After removing a layer of dirt, underlying frail particles of rust separated. Vanda did not want to lose the material that she needed for comparative analysis; hence, she proceeded slowly with a soft brush. After the cleaning, it became apparent that it was not just a random piece of iron. A subtle wave on the surface was too short and incomplete to compare with ornaments on both nasal guards. The shape suggested that it used to be a part of some more massive object. The next steps were purely routine.

A closer look under the microscope revealed signs of the substantially corroded iron. Vanda had to wait for the instrument processing spectroscopic data for metallic and inorganic composition. It was late, only the screen of the device was shining in the dark when she printed out the data. For comparison, Vanda pulled out the data for the two other cross-like artifacts. The Saint Wenceslaus' nasal guard showed a very consistent similarity in chemical composition. The same was true for the nasal guard recovered from Straka's. Now she was certain. The grave in Turkey belonged to someone who owned a twin-like piece of decoration on his armor as is believed to be worn by Duke Wenceslaus.

David could have taken a taxi, but the glorious sunny day was inviting for a walk. On the way to the Bulgarian Ministry of Interior, he had to cross heavy traffic, which was a challenge at that time of the day. The imposing Alexander Nevsky Cathedral dominated the view of the central part of the capital city. David was smiling for himself thinking of Vanda and the adventure they shared of searching for medieval artifacts belonging to Crusaders, and Saints. The main boulevard was noisy from all that traffic. To escape, David took a back-street route. Avoiding puddles of water from the rain of last night he walked into the residential area. Crisp morning air filled his lungs. David felt the way he had not experienced for years. Colors felt brighter than usual, and the perception of merely everything was intense. The universe was balanced and perfect. David was able to follow his thoughts in subtle details, and feel all the painful nuances of emotions coming from his past life.

Passing street signs written in Cyrillic reminded David of his childhood in Russia. The memories of those times consisted only of fragments. In none of them he felt like himself, as if detached from the past. A sequence of motion pictures showing his failures projected on the white screen of his mind. To his surprise, David was honest with himself. In light of the new relationship, he could see his character flaws and imperfections. Vanda meant so much to him. David would not alter his thinking because of her. However, he was ready to reconsider his positions and views which he would not do for any of his past lady friends. As he was passing by a small convenience store on a corner, a staggering blow hit him from behind. Overwhelming pain knocked him on the floor. Without knowing what happened, David instinctively touched his chest. With both hands bloody, he tried to stop the warm flow of blood seeping through the shirt. Then a violent burst exploded in his head, and David fell into the darkness.

# Chapter 14

The alarm clock showed '3:12 a.m.' Vanda picked up the ringing phone. An older voice with a thick Russian accent asked in English, "Is your name Vanda?" and added with urgency, "I need to talk to Vanda." Still half asleep Vanda answered, "Yes, Vanda, Vanda Skalická speaking." The man cleared his throat and said with his voice breaking, "My name is Feldman, Dr. Oded Feldman. I am David's father, and I've got bad news." Vanda felt a cold sensation around her stomach. David's father took a deep breath and continued, "My son, David... David is dead. They informed me that he was murdered in Sofia." There was silence. Vanda, shocked, was unable to react. "I have just learned about it," David's father, who did not know what to say either, interrupted the silence. Vanda, stunned, remained quiet.

Dr. Feldman went ahead, explaining, "He left your number with his friend Aaron. David would want you to know." His voice broke. Vanda finally collected herself and sighed, "Oh, no. Why?" She could not grasp the true nature of the news, hoping it was only a nightmare. There was silence. Two people connected by fate, neither of them wanted to end the call. Both of them felt close by grieving together. Finally, David's father suggested that she should call him tomorrow and they can talk. Maybe, he might have some more information and also expressed a belief that she needed time to process the fact. It seemed impossible to Vanda at the moment. The idea that she could ever settle with David's death seemed unreal.

Detective Dostál skimmed the report once more. It got on his desk from the unit for fighting organized crimes. It stated, "According to a reliable informant, a Turkish national with Albanian ties, traveling under name Tarık Serhan Bahar, alias Tase Bahar, alias Tar was spotted in Prague." In the info, the detective received in the morning, he read that Tar attempted to contact the local Albanians. A picture, attached to the report appearing like it was borrowed from an old passport, showed an average looking man with piercing eyes. Dostál decided to give a call to his colleague from 'organized crimes,' Kraus. "We did not expect to hear about the guy so soon, if ever," commented Kraus and continued, "We can hope he used his passport when checking into a hotel. My people are working on it. I will keep you posted."

If you want something to be done correctly, you have to do it yourself, Tar reasoned about his Prague trip. He needed to take care of his business in person. It was necessary to establish a new connection that would be more reliable than the previous one. This time he will use the family ties. Tar's second cousin was influential in the Albanian circles in Prague. That should make it easy. Tar could not risk losing another shipment if he wanted to be trusted by his partners. That stupid bastard with the funny name, Straka, did not understand the business and it cost him dearly. Tar did not want to take a chance with that other nobody named Braun. However, questions had to be asked because Braun might know something. It was not hard to find him because he was a complete amateur. Only an idiot would be using the real name, paying with a credit card, or even making himself a public person by spreading information everywhere, including Facebook.

While waiting for Braun to show up, Tar drank soda at the lounge checking girls. The club looked better from the inside than from the outside and seemed more than acceptable. Tar expected worse for a whorehouse with the word "paradise" in the name. He also had to admit that the girls were picked well. He did not have to wait too long. Alex Braun showed up not long after seven. At almost precisely the time he usually visited his favorite nightclub every Friday for the last several months. That was, according to his Facebook, since his girlfriend broke up with him.

It was not difficult to convince Braun to join him for a glass at the bar. Braun seemed happy to help an English speaking foreigner and share a drink or two with him. It was much harder to get the drugged Braun into the car later. Tar did not want to overdose him. He needed him to talk. Tar stopped the car at an old warehouse in an unsightly suburban industrial park and made sure there was not a soul around. Braun was weighty and incoherent which made it difficult to pull him out from the car. A street light produced just enough light to see nearby. Braun sat on the ground, shaking his head. Tar lit a cigarette and waited for him to get sober.

The dose was not supposed to last long. It did not. Soon Braun started staring around, evidently confused. Then he took out his wallet and reaching to Tar he said, "Do you want my money? Here you are." Tar exhaled smoke from his cigarette and answered coldly, "I need you to tell me what happened to the package. The one that arrived with your friend's old garbage." Braun looked up at Tar only now realizing who the man was and mumbled, "What package? I did not see any package. I have no idea about any of that." Tar did not look like he was buying it. He pulled a gun from his jacket and said without emotions, "I have no time for this. You either tell me where my package is, or I'll kill you." Braun's eyes were filled with fear and disbelief. He tried to convince Tar again, "You have to believe me. I don't know, and I don't know anybody who would," he was sobbing, and his voice was breaking. Braun sat on the ground stiffly, as he was petrified. Then Tar without warning pointed his gun to Braun's leg and fired. The echo from the shot was deafening. The scene changed. Braun, on the ground, was holding his knee, blood on his hands. He was producing a shrieking noise. Tar's voice was calm and gloomy, "This is your last chance to tell me!" Braun was sobbing. Tar did not hesitate and pulled the trigger again. This time he aimed between Braun's eyes. He did not miss.

Tar lit another cigarette. The encounter with Braun was quite disappointing. The man was worthless, but it was hard to predict. Tar did not get any further to resolve the problem with the lost package. His situation was not great before, but the 'incident' could complicate his good relations with Prague's Albanians even more. Today in the afternoon, he had spent time talking business with his cousin, who expressed concern about Tar's involvement in one of the previous "screw-ups." The cousin made himself clear that the family did not appreciate Tar's soloing on Prague's scene. Tar's pride was under attack. He was not used to being scolded. It infuriated him. Tar was used to running his own business and to being accountable to no one. To hell with the cousin, he dismissed the episode. Nobody would scold him and tell him what to do. Tar had already taken care of the stuff with Braun on his own. Now, to shake off all that nonsense, he decided to have some fun. It was the time to pay a visit to the dear friend of his, Vanda.

It was dark. Vanda woke up with her eyes irritated and swollen from crying. She looked at her alarm clock. It was 9:23 p.m., and someone was ringing her doorbell. Nonstop. Unable to think clearly with her mind foggy, Vanda mechanically walked to answer the door. Before opening, she instinctively peeked outside through a peephole and saw a man's face. There was something familiar about that man, but Vanda could not put herself together, to focus. She acted on her impulse and opened the door. There he stood, in the dim light outside the door, a middle-aged man with dark hair and a deep set of eyes. Vanda was sure they met before, but she could not figure out where. He was looking at her with a broad smile, casually dressed, nothing odd about him. "I hope you do not mind that I dropped by unannounced," he said. Vanda, still searching in her memory, stood still. All of a sudden, it struck her. The man at her door was the art dealer she met in Antakya.

Vanda could not recall his name. She started politely, "It is nice to see you, but this is not the time." The visitor did not look like he would get easily rejected, on the contrary. He sleekly made his way through the door, leaving Vanda behind, astonished and unable to respond. Holding a bottle of wine in one hand, he was already helping himself in Vanda's kitchen searching cabinets, looking for glasses and a corkscrew, before she could act. "I just wanted to say hello," he noted and added, "You see, I happened to visit Prague and thought a glass of good wine in a company of a friend could be enjoyable." Vanda was shocked by his platitude, and unable to react appropriately to his unseemly and unwelcome visit. The man looked at her and then announced, rather than suggested, "Only one glass. Let me take care of that." He was already opening the bottle. Vanda stood speechless. Partly it was her numbness, and partly it was his stunning arrogant confidence. With no energy left, Vanda almost whispered with resignation, "Okay, one glass only then."

Dostál was still at his office desk when the phone rang. It was long after midnight, and he would have been already home if not for a pile of unfinished paperwork sitting on his desk. Kraus called that he was with his people on the way to an obscure hotel in the suburb of Prague. According to him, someone matching Tar's description checked in late afternoon the day before. Kraus invited Dostál to join his team unofficially. Of course, Dostál wanted to go. He could not miss the real action, which was so rare in his department. He got driving instructions from Kraus, and on the way to his car, he checked cell phone messages. There was still no call or text from Vanda Skalická. He tried to call her earlier and then he left her a message. She needed to know that the primary persona, Tar, appeared on the scene and that the case may still have a chance to be closed.

Dostál was sure Dr. Skalická would get back to him tomorrow. At that moment, he was excited to go into action. He was tired of sitting behind the desk. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there still was that little boy dream about chasing criminals in the dark underbelly of the city. However, in reality, he never even worked on the street. As a criminal investigator, he had been consistently promoted and ended up sitting at the desk most of the time. Not tonight. Dostál did not expect to hear from Kraus that soon. It was impressive how fast the Organized crime unit got the information. They must have better and quicker methods of getting their sources. It was also the right timing, but Kraus characterized it as a complete coincidence. One of the hotel receptionists they contacted that evening told them that he saw 'the guest matching the description' walking in before midnight in the company of a visibly drunk woman. "She could not keep on her feet," Kraus quoted the receptionist.

Vanda opened her eyes and looked around. Unable to focus, she slowly registered the foggy reality around. She was, in what seemed to be a hotel room, laying on a bed. Her whole body felt strange. She had no control over it, unable to move a finger. The man was leaning into her, unbuttoning her blouse. His very gentle hands were touching her breasts. He was looking in her eyes and saying, "I know you'll like it." Then he used a scarf to bind her paralyzed hands together and pulled them up to tighten them to a headboard. Vanda was dazed but capable of noticing that, except the blouse, she was wearing only panties. He moved his face closer to hers and lit a cigarette, apparently enjoying himself. Vanda's senses started to come back slowly. Her thinking was still quite sluggish. He took the time to take off her panties using both hands, with a cigarette glued to his lips, looking in her eyes. There was no reaction on her side—partly because she was still drugged. He took off a sweater he was wearing and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Keep up with me," he said, "Try to wake up, my darling. I am going to open up new horizons for you. You're gonna love it. I like it this way very much."

All of a sudden, Vanda sobered up. She stayed, to her surprise, calm. Most likely, due to the heavy sedation effect of the drug. The fact that surprised her the most was, that she felt no emotions, none. It was like she was strictly rational and analyzing her situation remotely, almost like watching herself from a distance. The guy was creepy, in a bizarre way. His creepiness was sophisticated—smooth, attentive, and confident. Exactly, as Vanda remembered him from Antakya. The 'weirdo' who kissed her hand—Tarık Bahar. His name just popped from Vanda's memory. "And by the way, sorry for your loss," Bahar said in a flat voice.

Greg had been trying to reach Vanda since yesterday with no luck. He started to worry. Then after reading the email from a secretary of Moon Rock Foundation, his concerns began to materialize. The message opened by saying, "I am saddened to inform you of the unexpected tragic death of Dr. David Feldman, the president and CEO of Moon Rock Foundation. Keep him in your thoughts and prayers." Greg reread the short message several times. "What? What happened?" he asked himself. The announcement was too brief, not providing any details. Greg was quick to put things together. What if something happened to Vanda? He realized that he would not have a way of knowing.

Greg felt like a fool. The thought made him see the limitations of their relationship. Greg was severely alarmed and was not sure whom to contact. He hardly knew any of her friends besides her best friend, Alena. However, Alena was in Paris and probably unaware of the current situation. It took him only minutes to find the names of Vanda's colleagues from the Archaeological Institute on the Archaedat website. One of the names sounded familiar. Greg was sure he met Radim Benda before when Vanda introduced that colleague as a close friend. Radim Benda was surprised to hear from Dr. Greg Wood on the phone. "No, Vanda was not at work today," Benda answered Greg's question. He also sounded concerned and offered that he would check her home. Greg, in a hopeful tone, asked if Benda could call him as soon as there was any news and finished the call.

Dostál made the last turn and slowed down. Lights of police cars were flashing in front of the entrance to an unremarkable two-story building. A group of uniformed policemen was in disarray around a body on the ground. Dostál quickly parked his car. He thought he was too late. However, when he got a closer look, he saw that it was an injured uniformed officer. Alarmed, Dostál looked out for Kraus. His colleague was talking to a receptionist at the entrance to the hotel. Everyone seemed visibly upset. An ambulance was approaching, and officers frantically made space for the medics. When Dostál reached Kraus, he was questioning a receptionist, a young guy in an unfitting gray suit, who was saying, "That space is usually empty, but tonight my boss left his van parked there."

The receptionist looked like he was apologizing. Kraus nodded dismissing that as a coincidence when he noticed Dostál. "The gangster-run away, and he shot one of my men," Kraus explained to his colleague and shook his head in resignation, adding, "We were just one step behind. The guy jumped from the window on the second floor. The owner of the hotel sometimes uses the back alley to park his car. Tonight the van was there, and that allowed our guy to escape. The suspect landed on the roof of the van and ran away. My men tried to follow him, and that's when he started shooting. When my men took cover, he disappeared in the dark. We are looking for him since, but so far with no luck. A helicopter is coming to help us. That man is more dangerous and experienced than we expected." Kraus looked at the detective and added, "The good news is we have at least saved the woman." Dostál almost forgot that there was supposed to be a lady with Tar in the room.

A young police officer guarded the hallway in front of the hotel room. The door was open, and through the opening, Dostál could see a medic attending to a woman swaddled in a blanket. The detective entered the door following Kraus and already scanned the crime scene for clues about their suspect. Only after he scanned the room, Dostál turned his attention to the woman. To his astonishment, he recognized her. The woman looked tired with dark circles under her eyes, but it was her, Vanda Skalická. Except for the blanket, she was not wearing anything. Dostál was confused. "How the hell did she get here?" he thought.

Vanda was shaking. She was glad to see Dostál. Her entire universe had collapsed, and the remains of her inner balance were hanging on a thin ligament connecting her with reality. At the moment, Dostál happened to be her only connection with normality. His eyes were examining her. Kraus, occupied with Tar's passport left in a briefcase on a sofa, noticed that something caught his colleague's attention. It made him closely look at the woman sitting on the bed. He reacted surprised saying, "What is Dr. Skalická doing here?" Both men stared on her for an answer. Vanda was crushed, unable to put pieces of herself together. She acted like a puppet with no strength or will. Her only response was, "I don't know how I got here." Her thoughts were only slowly coming together when she incoherently added, "That pig!" Her memory only slowly came back. She blurted out, "He dropped by at my home. I remember seeing him in my kitchen and then nothing. The last I recall, before I woke up here, is him standing in my kitchen." Vanda then shared with the detectives how she met the man a week ago in Turkey, and that he called himself Tarık Bahar. "I did not invite him. He invited himself to have a drink. I remember nothing about how he got me here. That pig!" She repeated whispering in disgust, and then she covered her mouth with both hands and closed her eyes. Vanda wished it was all gone, that the whole nightmare never happened. She tried to push back thoughts about Tar and David and then broke down. Struck by great emotional pain, Vanda leaned her head on her knees and started crying. She had no reason to control her emotions.

The call was from Greg. Vanda was clutching a phone, listening to his voice. She barely grasped what he was saying. Like if he was calling from a different dimension, from her past life. His voice was telling her, "I've just got to JFK. I'll be in Prague tonight. Hold on there." Vanda's voice sounded empty when she responded, "I'll wait for you," and after a pause, she sighed, "Greg," and her voice broke. Greg sensed the desperation in her voice. It did not make his flight any shorter. He still did not know what happened. Two hours ago he learned from Vanda's colleague, and also her friend, Radim Benda, that she was in some accident. Benda told him that the police was conducting surveillance at the Institute and even around Vanda's apartment. He was unable to reach her in person, and he understood that she went through some trauma or a medical condition. So, when Greg got Vanda on the phone, he felt a great relief.

"I've put all my men on this," Kraus told detective Dostál on the phone and continued, "Let's see if Tar contacted the Albanians. He may also be already gone." Dostál sighed, his resources were limited. The detective felt like they underestimated Tar, who was a genuinely cold-blooded psychopath. So far, he got away easy. Dostál evaluated the situation. What options did Tar have? Considering, he had some money on him. To get back to Turkey through the airport, he would need his ID, which he left in the hotel. The same problem he would face if he wanted to rent a car. He could steal one, which may be risky. Tar's options depended on whether he would get help from his fellow Albanians. The safest way out, and also an anonymous one, seemed to be a train. That would also be the fastest. A train station was near the hotel at which Tar was staying.

Filled with anger, Tar was marching in the dark through unfamiliar streets. Cold and persistent drops of rain were falling from the sky. Tar had only a vague idea of where he was. If he remembered it correctly, a train station was somewhere in that direction he was heading. Tar left everything behind in the hotel when he was surprised by the police. Things usually did not go that wrong for him. He needed money. Tar could not believe it, he was outraged. His own blood, his cousin, rejected him and showed him such disrespect by refusing to help. Maybe he wants to get rid of him. Tar was aware of his surroundings and kept looking over his shoulder. Perhaps the Albanians were following him.

Tar passed several blocks of dilapidated residential buildings. Still, without a plan, his eye caught outdated neon signage flashing above lifeless windows of a bar on the opposite side of the street. Hesitantly, he crossed the road and walked into the entrance filled with the smell of cigarettes, beer, and cheap sanitizer. After cautiously checking the street behind, he peeked inside the bar. Impersonal unwelcoming faces of bar regulars drinking alone did not deter him. The bartender, a skinny tired-looking man, did not express any surprise when a stranger speaking German ordered a drink. Tar looked around to find a place at the table. Several pairs of frowning eyes of patrons measured him with a lack of interest. He grabbed his beer and took a seat in the corner. Now Tar needed to figure out what his next move was going to be. He took a long sip and realized how thirsty he was. The beer was refreshing and left a pleasant hoppy aftertaste. The tension slowly dissipated, and Tar started thinking clearly again. He felt like he needed to wash his face and hands, stood up and walked to the restrooms. The uninviting smell of the toilets spread to the hallway. Inside, the odor was not any better.

Tar was refreshing his face with running water when he heard someone walking in. A drunk voice was muttering something in Czech. Tar did not pay attention at first, but when the man turned to a urinal, he took a closer look, noticing expensive Italian designer shoes. With no time to waste, Tar quickly assessed his chances. As the man was trying to gain lost balance, Tar approached him, striking man's head from behind with a brutal determination. The head hit the wall, and the body collapsed, hitting the urinal and ended motionless on the floor. Tar did not hesitate and turned the man's pockets inside out. A leather wallet packed with cash and a couple of credit cards was what he was looking for. Satisfied, Tar walked back to his table and finished the beer. The bartender asked him if he wanted another one. Tar shook his head and paid. Before he stepped out on the street, he made sure the air was clear. Just in case, Tar put his hand on the wallet in his pocket. When he got to the corner, he looked around again to see if anyone was following him. The air seemed clean. From that intersection, Tar could see the train station in the distance—only a block or two away from him.

Dostál arrived at the train station not sure what to look for. He was neither sure that the place was right, nor that he would recognize Tar. However, somehow, he took his chances. It was a hunch. The waiting area was quiet. The evening rush hour was over, and traffic was slow. At the entrance to the main hall, the detective passed several homeless men. Dostál walked through the doorway and then paced along a glass wall like he was waiting for somebody. He noticed some people at the ticket office, but nobody who would fit Tar's description.

Dostál waited. He was used to waiting. A train arrived, and some passengers got off, others got in. The station nearly emptied after the train had left. The last train that night was supposed to depart ten minutes before midnight. The following scheduled train was after four in the next morning. For Tar to wait for that one would not make sense, Dostál thought. The midnight train was the last chance for his theory. Out of all people still waiting for their commute, nobody could fit Tar's description—two professional-looking women, an old man with his wife, a group of teenage soccer players, one lonely bald man, another blond man with a service dog, and a biker. None of them even distantly resembled a middle-aged, dark-haired Mediterranean type. The last train arrived. Dostál walked along the train in the hope that he would at least notice something. Nothing. The train closed the doors and departed. The station became deserted after the uneventful night, and the detective walked away empty-handed.

# Chapter 15

Horses—gracious animals with knowing eyes and beautiful posture, powerful and fast. Alard watched Asu as he was letting their breeding horses into a barn. Inside, they will be in relative safety. There was not much else they could do. Asu closed the gate and waved at Alard and his entourage. The horsemen were fully armed, ready to take positions on outposts, and await the enemy's approach. There were only a few men left to guard the manor 'At Three Roads.' Asu was one of them. He was never fond of weapons and did not spend enough time practicing with them. Now, dressed in an ill-fitted chain mail shirt, wearing Alard's old helmet, and holding a sword which seemed too large for him, Asu looked vulnerable. He grinned and jokingly tapped on the helmet with the blade of his sword.

It started raining. Cold drops of water slid through leaves of oaks looming above Alard's horsemen. Soon the road became muddy. The leading riders in front searched for fresh footprints. At one point the path winded through a mound of rocks. The group reached the edge of the forest. Alard stopped his men. Through an opening, they could see a farm field. So far, there were no signs of the English invaders. Alard with several of his men unmounted their horses and left them behind the rocks. On foot, the company proceeded cautiously, hiding behind trees and in the underbrush, to the very edge of the woods. Their elevated location gave them an advantage of overlooking the road without being seen. Alard dispatched Raven, his lieutenant, to scout the path towards Brécey. Alard did not want to attract any attention. Raven left on foot, leaving his heavy armor behind. The rest of the company took positions behind trees waiting.

Except for the whisper of rain, it was quiet. It did not take long, and the crouched figure of Raven emerged on the road. Their scout rushing back and breathing heavily, he reported seeing a small group of approaching horsemen. "We can easily take them, there are only twelve of them," Raven suggested. Alard was cautious. He instructed his men to mount their horses and get ready. Those riders might be an advance guard and could be followed by more substantial power. Raven addressed his lord's concerns, "I did not see anybody follow, but it may be just that they are far behind." Alard decided for quick action. The plan was to cause the most damage and quickly withdraw. That way, his company would avoid possible confrontation with the main group, the size of which was unknown so far. Alard's men took cover behind the rock formation and waited for Alard's signal to attack the approaching enemy and take him by surprise. It all happened fast and was executed flawlessly. The fierce ambush left the English horsemen on the ground either dead or severely injured. Alard's men caught the enemy's horses and withdrew back to the forest. Although the attack gave them a small victory, the primary question persisted, 'Where was the main body of English forces?'

The captured horses slowed the company down. Alard decided to bring them to a fenced barn used to store their hay in winter. It was conveniently close and on the way to Montigny Estates. As they were approaching the crossroads, near where the barn was located, somebody noticed the smell of smoke. Alard ordered to halt and sent Raven with two other men to survey the situation in front of them.

Meanwhile, Alard and his men waited. The horses nervously trampled the ground. The smell of burning became intense. Something was happening. After a while, one of Raven's men returned and informed Alard that the barn was empty and nobody around. They moved the English horses there and followed faster on the way towards Montigny in Raven's footsteps. When the group finally caught up with their scout, it was near the Montigny Estate, and they already saw the source of the heavy smoke. A barn and several buildings were burning. The place, however, visibly plundered, bore no signs of English presence.

Alard's retinue cautiously approached the burning farmstead. Alard hoped that they would at least gather some information about the enemy's movements. He knew Lord Thiry, the owner on the property, well. Thiry was a good neighbor, who recently bought one of Alard's best steeds. As the riders entered a burned gate of the estate, they spotted some individuals. The three men looked desperate. When they spotted Alard and his men, they ran directly to them. The oldest of the group spoke directly to Alard, introducing himself, "So glad to see you, Lord Alard. My name is Guy, and I am a bailiff on this farmstead. God help us! Such a misfortune!" he lamented.

Guy knew Alard, for he has been a hunting companion of Lord Thiry. Alard learned that Thiry left at dawn to join the company of the Count of Mortain which assembled northward from there. Guy and some others remained to protect the manor. Everyone else who could not bear arms, retreated to Mortain. The estate was attacked by the English early that morning not long after Lord Thiry departed. "They overpowered us. We were lucky to save our lives escaping into the woods," Guy tried to explain with a sense of guilt protruding between the lines. "Everyone expected the Englishmen from the North, and they came right behind our back," he added. 'And now they are heading towards Mortain,' concluded Alard for himself. He had to inform Count William. He and his soldiers had to return to Mortain immediately. Alard ordered Raven and Guy to rush the message to the Count as fast as possible. Alard thought about his estate 'At Three Roads.' Logically, the property was next for pillage on the way to Mortain. He had to hurry back to its defense if it was not already late.

Alard, with his men, rushed their horses as fast as they could. The rain increased in intensity. Hoofs of their horses kept sliding in the mud. The path winding in front of them was a narrow trail hardly ever used by horsemen. It was used as a shortcut to pastures behind the forest. Suddenly, the front rider abruptly halted his horse. He noticed fresh horseshoe prints accompanied by several footmarks emerging from an adjacent side-trail. The enemy was in front of them. Judging from the tracks, it was not the principal envoy. The footprints suggested that they must have used the help of some local peasants. The intruders moved forward using back ways to sneak unobserved behind the lines, and their target was the town of Mortain. Alard rode his horse ahead of the group as fast as he could, blaming himself because he left Asu with his less experienced men. Alard's poor judgment put them all in grave danger. His mind floated in a fog. He felt physical pain; Alard cared for Asu as he never cared for anyone before.

Visibly from a distance, the manor was under attack. Smoke was rising from the main building. The entryway gate, bearing signs of a break-in, was wide open. Men were fighting between carriages that someone pulled in the courtyard, someone who wanted to load them with loot. By the number of horses, Alard estimated there could not be more than twenty enemy soldiers involved. He centered on a fighting trio in a corner and rushed to help. It was one of his servants, Bertin, fighting two Englishmen.

Alard still on his horse picked one of the soldiers and incapacitated him by throwing an uppercut with his sword to the man's head. Alard halted his horse and was getting off when the other enemy fighter attacked him. Before Alard could return the hit, the English soldier staggered from a blow he received from Bertin. Their opponent made himself an easy target for the final decisive counter move of Alard's sword, which found its way into his chest. The soldier's body slid down and stayed motionless on the ground. Alard used the moment to quickly look around only to see that the rest of his entourage already plunged on the looting Englishmen. The pillagers were caught by surprise with their hands full. Alard took a deep breath and shouted in a raspy voice at Bertin, "Where is the rest? Where is Asu?" Bertin looked desperate when answering, "We fought the best we could, but they were too many. Some are dead," Bertin vaguely pointed to a body lying underneath the stairs and continued, "Some of us retreated in the tower, and Asu with your hostler ran to save the horses. I haven't seen them since."

Alard rushed through the back gate to the orchard, and then along the row of the old walnut trees towards the stables. His lieutenant and two other men followed him. Alard ran like a madman. He could already see five English horses in front of the barn across the lawn from him. The door to the stables was wide open, and the sounds of a scuffle were coming from inside. Alard sped up. At the doorway, he stumbled into a surprised enemy, knocking the man down with brutal power. Inside, in the dark, some figures were struggling in the hay. The person he recognized first, was his hostler; a large, muscular guy who was circling an ax around himself discouraging two soldiers from an attack. Below at his feet, there was a body on the floor. It was an Englishman, from the clothing. Alard directed his lieutenant to help the hostler, and himself proceeded to the men fighting in the back. In an instant, he recognized Asu.

The boy was cornered by a soldier wielding a sword in one hand and swaying a mace in the other. Asu blocked all his blows decidedly but showed signs of exhaustion. Unhesitatingly Alard jumped into boy's defense attacking the opponent. The man stepped aside to prevent Alard's strike, and at the same time, he stretched his left hand with a mace swinging at Asu's head. The move was a display of his considerable experience with that weapon. Asu did not manage to avert the unexpected charge and received a direct blow. His helmet slid on to the side, and he made a feeble step back. The boy's body hit the wall and slipped to the floor.

Alard was furious, his vision narrowed, and he focused strictly on the movements of the opponent. He blocked one of the man's attacks registering how effortlessly the soldier used his mace. The man was quick and used his sword to distract the opponent, only to give him a horrific blow by the other weapon. Alard learned his moves and waited for the moment when the soldier repeated the same pattern. Then Alard blocked the wielding sword and quickly stepped on a side. The enemy's left hand holding the mace swung around Alard's head but missed the target. It took the man out of balance, and in the next move, Alard jumped closer and delivered his decisive blow using the short dagger in his left hand. The moment the blade cut through the soldier's neck, Alard pulled back and let the body collapse. He immediately turned to Asu, laying on the floor in a pool of blood. At first sight, the boy did not show any signs of life. The helmet covered one side of his face, and the blood gushing from underneath covered the rest. Alard got down on his knees and took off the mangled helmet to expose the pale face with smears of fresh blood. Close inspection showed an ugly wound gazing from Asu's hair above the left ear. Instinctively, Alard bowed and waited to feel Asu's breath against his cheeks. After a seemingly endless period, he felt a light stream of air. The boy was breathing. Alard was still kneeling next to Asu when his men joined him after finishing the last Englishman.

Alard's men carried Asu on a pile of hay, and one of them cleaned the blood off the wound. However, Asu did not gain consciousness. His closed eyes seemed sunk deep in the face, and his skin turned gray. Alard picked up the helmet. Its mangled cupola-like top testified of the severity of the blow. The metal plate twisted and cracked under that enormous impact. Clotting blood covered the leather straps and seeped through the edges of the crack dripping to the ground. Alard, holding the helmet, spoke silently to the figure of the crucified Savior, "My Lord, I put my faith in you. I hoped you would protect him." Alard used to admire that piece of the armor which he wore to the battles throughout the big journey in the Holy Land. The helmet was no ordinary piece of armor; the craftsmanship and the symbol of the crucifixion meant something essential, extraordinary, or at least, that was what Alard used to think. Now he could not see anything exceptional, and he did not understand the sentiment he had felt before.

Meanwhile, Basil with his men arrived from Mortain. Unaware of English tactics, Basil assumed that his help would be needed 'At Three Roads' more than in the fortified town full of soldiers. On the way, his group did not encounter any indication of the enemy presence. Alard grateful for the reinforcement gathered all his forces. Now strengthened by Basil's armed men, his company had formidable power. They could set for a meaningful operation to neutralize the English attack that relied on using back roads and local walkways to approach Mortain. Alard hoped to confront the invaders, who split their forces, from behind, even before they could re-assemble at the town of Mortain.

Before the expedition set off, Alard had his injured men including Asu, moved to the church, where Father Simon attended them. Alard was now in charge of his men, and that gave him considerable responsibility. It did not intimidate him, on the contrary, he felt empowered. Alard also understood that the soldiers needed to hear words of encouragement from him. "As long as the Englishmen kill our people, plunder our properties and roam around, everyone is in danger," he spoke to the men before taking off. Alard kept his talk simple, "This is our home. We have to confront the invaders and defeat them. They have no business in our lands." Alard acted confident, he did not have time to be occupied with his worries and emotions. There was nothing he could do for Asu. His men had to move promptly to pursue the enemy. Alard himself was driven by blind anger and sheer anguish.

The rain ceased for a moment. The road towards Mortain led through pastures with short vegetation and later through woods. Not long after they set off, Alard's retinue ran into the riding company under the command of Count William's cousin, Lord Renart. They belonged to Count's forces that were all independently moving towards the town. Their mission was to encircle the English from behind and attack them before they assemble for a siege. Alard did not hesitate and joined them. Together they soon reached the edge of the woods from which they could already survey the enemy's movements in front of the fortifications of Mortain. At a glance, the main body of the English forces was not very large. It was less than two hundred heavily armed knights and only several hundreds of supporting foot soldiers. The enemy did not waste time to set up a camp; the Englishmen intended to take the negligible town quickly betting on the element of surprise.

Count William of Mortain had sent a foot messenger, who was all covered with mud when he reached Alard and Renart with orders. A coordinated operation was underway. Everybody was waiting in hiding for the Count's signal. When the horn sounded, men mounted their horses and foot soldiers lined for the attack. The prolonged sound of the second signal repeated three times. It was the command to attack. The edge of the forest suddenly swarmed with hundreds of men and horses on the move. The surprised enemy chaotically started forming a defense. What seemed, at first, as an easy to win siege of a small town, turned into the possibility of a fierce battle not worth the risk. Most of the English soldiers started to retreat promptly. The unlucky ones had to face the onslaught and fight for their lives. To make sure that the enemy would not re-assemble, Count William dispatched a formidable group of horsemen with orders to chase the English far and inflict maximum damage on them.

The gate to the town of Mortain opened to welcome the Count's triumphant troops and allies. Nobody minded the rain and the mud. Jars with beer soon circulated among the defenders celebrating their victory. The town and its people were saved. If not for the dead bodies underneath the ramparts, it almost seemed like nothing happened. Those unfortunate paid the high price. Bloodied and already naked corpses of enemies were exposed to many insults.

The English attack was averted, but for how long? Alard and his men fulfilled their duty helping Count William of Mortain. Their service was not needed anymore. Alard's place was next to Asu, and nothing could hold him anymore. His men did not join the celebrations in the town. Alard sent his apology to the Count and turned his people back home to 'At Three Roads.'

No good news was waiting for Alard. The patient was still breathing, but other than that he did not show any other sign of life. Father Simon did as much as he could applying herbs on Asu's wound and praying. Alard felt only anger. He was unable to pray, and there was nothing he could do for the person that meant the most to him. He took a long look at his friend's fragile body, and then hastily walked away from the church filled with desperation and anguish. Alard paced across a small field next to the church, his feet slipping in the mud. The rain intensified again. Sweat and tears mixed with rain on his face, the water around the lips tasted salty. "Please, God, I'll give you my life for his," he tried to pray. Alard was desperate. It used to be so much easier when he lived carelessly and hid from the wind behind his big brother Rogier. No responsibility, no commitment.

The door of the church opened. Alard could see, from a distance, Father Simon stepping outside. The priest stood there, looking towards Alard. Alard knew. Only hesitantly, he walked to the church. Father Simon beckoned to him without speaking a word. Like in a dream, Alard entered the church and approached Asu's improvised bed made of blankets. The image of the lifeless body made him pause, and he powerlessly fell on his knees, reaching with both hands to Asu's face. Alard grasped the boy's head in a desperate hug and slid next to him on the floor. The voice of Father Simon from behind him sounded like it came from a far distance when he said, "He has just stopped breathing, my lord. The boy did not suffer. God is merciful." Enormous pain overwhelmed all of Alard's senses.

Fresh soil marked Asu's grave. 'That's it, the end of someone's existence. My existence!' Alard contemplated. The fading lights before the sunset painted dramatic and unusual colors. Alard stood there, motionless. He knew he was expected to go on, to take care of things and make decisions, but he did not see any sense in doing it anymore. His thoughts belonged to the only person in his life whose existence made a difference, who made him feel something. That experience changed his entire view of life and people. He realized that he cared for people. That thought brought him back to reality. Alard realized that it was about time for Basil to leave for his journey to the North Sea. Initially, the plan was to explore trading opportunities in the ports of the North Sea. However, after the English attack, even though unsuccessful, Alard felt like he could not guarantee protection for their business anymore.

After Mortain became central in the conflict, Alard talked Basil into changing plans. There was no point in holding on to Mortain's workshop. That could be set up anywhere. Basil agreed. He decided to travel farther to the east and explore eastern Slavic duchies. On the way, they could take advantage of his wife's native language to establish new trade connections with that part of the world. The Slavic lands were, until recently, considered barbarian but as Christianity took root as the official religion there, it opened promising market opportunities, particularly for holy relics.

Wagons were ready. Basil's people had loaded them with everything they had. Before they set out for the journey, Basil and his entourage gathered on the courtyard at 'At Three Roads.' People from the neighborhood showed up to say goodbye, or out of curiosity. Alard and Father Simon watched the swarming from a distance. Alard waited for Basil to free himself from the crowd. He wanted to have the last word with the young man. Many conversations the two men had carried before always turned to Basil's curiosity to explore new lands. They had been discussing Basil's grand vision for the journey for a long time. The sailing through the North Sea to the port of Hamburg was just the beginning. After that, they would take a boat up the river Elbe to the Princedom of Bohemia. From there they planned to continue to the east by foot and then to the South using the usual route down the river Danube to the Black Sea that would bring them to Constantinople.

Basil felt like he was not leaving Normandy forever and hoped that one day, he would be able to come back. Now, it would never be the same without his dear friend, Asu. Basil grieved for Asu, who became a part of his family. Basil's children loved uncle Asu. Besides, seeing Alard beaten after Asu's death was heartbreaking. Basil was hesitant to say the final goodbye. They might never see each other again. Now, when they stood face to face, Basil thanked Alard, and both men hugged. Alard looked in Basil's eyes, and for a moment, he saw Phocas. There was a moment of silence. Alard shook his head and pulled an object from a bag that he held. It was a cross-like ornament, the nasal guard from his old helmet—a silver-coated figure of Jesus on the cross. He had it removed from the damaged helmet. The statuette itself looked like a small crucifix. "It did not bring luck to me. It traveled with me to the Holy Land. Now it is stained with the blood of an innocent man. It is a true relic," Alard expressed the dark irony. He handed the piece to Basil and said, "It will make good company to all your holy reliquaries. Sell it with a compelling, heroic story to good Christians in the Slavic lands."

The bright azure skies and fragrant air contrasted with Alard's depressed mood. He was almost at the end of his journey. The gates of the city of Caen were open, and the impressive walls of the Abbey were visible from a distance. Alard felt emptiness. He used the time spent on the back of his horse contemplating. Nothing made sense anymore. Human life, so wonderful and fulfilling in one moment, seemed so desperate and senseless only a second later. We know our existence is fragile and temporary; however, we take it for granted. Ignorant humanity perpetually engages in mindless power struggles with no respect for human life. For what? For a temporary gain, and fleeting glory.

Even though the last onslaught was averted, it was clear that it would not be too long before the next attack. The fact that a massive English invasion would take place was inevitable. Young King Henry was eager to rule the land that his father so thoughtlessly divided. His brother, Robert, Duke of Normandy with his cousin William of Mortain did not constitute any substantial opposition. However, neither of them intended to give up their rights without a fight. The war was inescapable, and Alard did not want to play any part in it. He did not have the energy and mainly the will to continue his life the way he lived it before. Alard made the decision. The hardest of it all was leaving his marvelous horses. They used to give him great satisfaction and happiness. Those horses were a symbol of life, beautiful and graceful. They reminded him too much of what was irrevocably lost in his life. They reminded him of Asu. Alard made arrangements for the horses in the Count's stables near Mortain. He gave up his estates and sold all his property.

The Men's Abbey in Caen did not have any objection to accepting him with a generous contribution with no questions asked. Alard was grateful, for only pain and emptiness filled his mind. He wanted to be left alone. Passing a group of beggars, Alard entered the gates of the Abbey. The air should have been filled with God's presence. However, Alard only felt endless emptiness. He was afraid that there was no sense in human life.

# Chapter 16

The room was filled with the morning sun. Vanda was laying on a couch where she fell asleep shortly before the sun went up. Greg did not sleep at all. He fixed himself a coffee but could not find anything to eat, so he just added sugar to his cup. Thinking about his place in Vanda's life, Greg started with her qualities. She was given a personality which did not allow her to live an ordinary life. Vanda was too independent, too complicated to settle for a conventional lifestyle. Free-spirited, she expected the same from her partner. Greg was impressed by her firmness and no sense of ownership. How did Greg fit in that picture? It all had started as a banal affair only to turn into an extraordinary long-lasting friendship.

The detectives met informally in a small coffee shop on the corner from Dostál's office. "No luck. We only know that he contacted his Albanian cousin," Kraus commented on his investigation regarding Tar's whereabouts while pouring milk into his coffee. "So, he disappeared without a trace," Dostál summed up with no intention to mention his futile visit of the train station last night. Kraus felt like he had to clarify the info he received, "My source was quite explicit. From the beginning, the Albanians were not happy to have him around. Tar acted like he was one of them, but they weren't having any of it." Dostál commented with sarcasm, "It seems like Tar is a nuisance for everyone, not just us cops." The tone of his voice changed, when he said, "By the way, we have another dead body. It's Braun. Somebody shot him yesterday. I wonder if Tar had anything to do with that." Kraus frowned and replied, "You can bet on it."

Greg's voice was saying, "I guess there is always a chance that somebody tries to manipulate or falsify data... also, you are right. You cannot take everything for granted." Vanda was slowly awakening and watched Greg speaking on the phone, "Thanks, Cliff, I appreciate it." Greg noticed that she was awake and finished the call, "I'll get back to you soon. Bye." Vanda sat on a couch. She was pale and seemed fragile. Greg sat next to her, folded her in his arms, and said, "Hi! Here I am," and he explained, "It was Cliff Olson. We have just discussed the security of the database. He is working on some adjustments."

Vanda was thankful that Greg acted like everything was normal. "Can I get a coffee?" she asked in a hoarse voice. Greg smiled at her, stood up, and walked to the kitchen. Vanda watched him and thought about how much strength he radiated with. He came back with two cups of coffee. Vanda took her mug and whispered, "Thanks. Thanks for everything." Greg made himself comfortable on a couch, and Vanda realized how calming his presence was. She had no desire to think or talk about what happened. She needed an illusion of normality. They sat quietly, watching each other. Greg was first to disrupt the silence, "It's better to step back for the moment. If you don't feel like talking about it, don't." Vanda was glad he said that.

The two of them were quietly sipping their coffee when Vanda suddenly asked, "Remember the metal fragment I took from the burial in Turkey?" Greg nodded. Vanda went on, "Its composition is indistinguishable from both nose-guards. But that's not all. There is another object cataloged by Archaedat that features that same ornament with crucifixion. Also, it is nearly identical in size and shape. Although we do not have analytical data for that one." Greg looked at her like he did not understand. Vanda explained, "That other object was found in medieval ruins in Normandy. It is a fragment from a decorating piece that looked exactly like the Saint Wenceslaus nose-guard. The entry into the database seems legitimate." Greg frowned and said, "It would leave us with three almost identical objects found on three unrelated sites in three different countries." He recoiled and corrected himself, "Well, suppose the objects are authentic, then those three places must be somehow related."

Vanda responded calmly nodding her head, "Exactly, and that's what I want to find out. And that's why I am going to Normandy. I want to see the piece for myself." Greg gave her an observant look and said, "That sounds like a project. I assume you are going to publish your findings." Vanda smirked, "Sure, if I can make sense out of it." Greg thankful for that smirk replied, "In that case, Archaedat could sponsor the trip."

The train was half empty and unusually quiet. Vanda picked a window seat and hoped to sit by herself. The dark was setting down casting sharp shadows in Vanda's face. She looked changed. Somewhere inside her, there was a dark space. Everything seemed different after the recent intense days, which followed several emotional weeks.

The scenery behind the windows went through quick metamorphosis from one dramatic image to another. Normandy, the archaic and charming land with rich history both distant, and recent. Some places, more than others, emit a spirit of the past and evoke visions. Normandy provides that fascinating ground to envision life how it was in the previous so different eras. The esoteric twilight fell and played with imagination. The countryside transformed into a vivid scene of the invasion during WWII. The fierce man against man combat, in the picturesque hedgerow maze, evoked medieval warfare. In Normandy, power struggle kept repeating again and again, for different reasons and objectives. The same stage with the same scenery, century after century.

As a child, Vanda wished to experience various periods of history or meet historical figures in person. Instead of daydreaming, she envisaged heroes and events of the past. Her imagination usually took a near accurate form. For her to visualize the history was always a personal and thrilling game. It was a way to escape from reality. Vanda felt pathetic, but it felt good, imagining David as a warrior, a medieval knight, in full armor—graceful and attractive. His life in the Early Middle Ages would be glorious and probably short, she thought with tears in her eyes. It takes great effort to bring a human being in this world. Even more, is needed to educate and create a person. All that, only to waste it all in a split second in senseless violence. The pain was still inconceivable. It was only a brief moment from the time she and David met. Vanda was sure of one thing. She did not want to forget. She would never forget.

The regional museum and archives of Normandy Manche department were located next to a municipal building. The building was made-believe to look old from outside but had an entirely contemporary interior. The main exposition focused on D-day and WWII. There was very little information about the town of Mortain and its medieval history. Vanda knocked on the door of the archive. She was looking for a person to help her. The contact Vanda found through Archaedat was the former student who cataloged the third nose-guard, as a part of his graduate research. Now he worked there in the archive. A lady in the office only spoke French, but she smiled at Vanda with a telling expression. She picked up a phone and called her colleague. After a short exchange in French, she passed the phone to Vanda. Vanda introduced herself and a man's voice with a euphonic French accent offered to meet her within ten minutes in front of the museum.

Jean-Paul was a nerdy-looking young man, a fresh graduate of the University of Caen. He seemed happy to be able to talk to someone with similar interests. They sat in a nearby coffee shop, and Vanda explained to him what brought her here. Jean-Paul commented excitedly, "It looks like there is a story behind that scrap metal after all." He summarized to Vanda a short history of the site of the findings. The cross-like piece was discovered on premises of a former convent founded in the 12th century. Abbaye Blanche monastery was an extensive complex of buildings that were used for various purposes. Some of them were built in medieval times when the monastic order owned lands and properties on the territory of Mortain. The monastery was abandoned many years ago, leaving the imposing buildings as a reminder of great times gone. During the WWII invasion, a part of the complex was destroyed. After the war, during debris removal, archaeologists inspected the ruins and uncovered medieval artifacts. Jean-Paul ended his lecture saying, "The Catholic Church still uses the church, but the rest of the complex is empty, and everything of any historical value is archived here."

The regional archive had a clean and modern depository. Jean-Paul led Vanda directly to the shelves with artifacts found in or around the abbey. He pulled out a box full of metal artifacts. The cross-like fragment Vanda was looking for was there among unidentifiable pieces of rusty iron and some corroded tools. A black patina coated the front and rust covered the backside. Vanda looked close. It was the familiar shape of the nose-guard. She wiped the surface gently with a paper tissue. Black smears of a corroded coating stained the paper, and a subtle figure on a cross glistened with silver. The top of the cross broke off a long time ago, leaving the statuette without its head. Jean-Paul pointed to the box, "All that was found in the ruins which were a part of the farmstead. My guess, it used to be a blacksmith's workshop." Vanda's hands were shaking slightly. That was where it all connected! A medieval Norman blacksmith crafted three nose-guards: one of them belonging to the Saint Wenceslaus armor, one was owned by a Crusader who died at Antioch, and one never made it out of the shop, perhaps because it broke. With the help of Jean-Paul, Vanda collected a small sample of the iron from the back of the cross. To confirm her theory, she needed to compare metallographic data. However, Vanda was sure what the result would be.

The path took Vanda to an old cemetery adjacent to a small Romanesque chapel. A stone hedge framed the scenery of gravestones lurching on the green grass. The air smelled of earth and moisture. Several horses grazed on a pasture behind the chapel. The cemetery was not in use for decades, but someone, presumably the local parish, took good care of it. There were only simple gravestones, and some of them looked centuries old. Vanda walked between the graves. She liked walking through cemeteries, reading engraved inscriptions, and imagining the people to which they belonged. Now it felt more personal. The loss she suffered made her feel the pain of others. As she walked to the most weathered side of the cemetery, she noticed a simple gravestone with a small engraving 'Asu.' What a strange name, Vanda thought. Maybe it is just a part of a name or a nickname, she speculated. All that was left from a person's life was a fragment of the name and the grave. Another headstone drew her attention. Only a fraction of the original Latin inscription was recognizable. It read, "... and you will not be condemned, forgive, and you will be forgiven, Saint Luke." The name, the identity, and the only mark of that person's existence vanished as the stone crumbled and gradually turned to dust.
