Clive Cussler - The Tombs

“There’s a natural stopping point at Mantua where the river becomes three lakes. But you could continue eight miles to the place where the Mincio continues to the Po.” She reached into the top drawer of her desk and handed Sam a map. “The bicycle route is marked and shows you just where to go.”

“Thank you,” said Sam. He gave a little bow. “Mille grazie.”

The concierge laughed. “You make a good Italian. Once you get to know this place, you might not want to go home.”

“I’ll try to be a good guest,” he said. To Remi he said, “Let’s get some bicycles.”

They walked along an old canal, following the map, to a bicycle shop. At first, everything in the shop seemed to be the sort of gear used by professional racers. But when the proprietor saw Remi walk past a three-thousand-euro bike and ask for something a bit more comfortable for touring, he showed them some sturdy, practical mountain bikes with thick, knobby tires and well-padded seats. They picked out a pair, with his advice, bought backpacks, and threw in some visors to keep the sun out of their eyes. Sam also bought a variety of accessories—lights, reflectors, and other items that attached to bicycles, and a portable set of bicycle tools.

They rode their new bicycles back to their hotel, then walked them into the elevator and took them to their floor. When they had the bicycles in their room, he attached the magnetometers in such a way that no one looking at the bicycles would know that there was anything unusual about them. The telescoped magnetometer poles looked like reinforced bicycle crossbars, and the sensors extended just a few inches in front of the handlebars.

He removed the two metal detectors from their boxes but kept them stored unassembled in the two backpacks.

As they were preparing, Sam’s cell phone buzzed. He switched on the speaker. “Yes?”

“Sam? It’s me, Albrecht.”

“Are you in California yet?”

“Yes. I’m in your house, with Selma. Since I left you, I’ve spent some time studying the available satellite photography and aerial mapping of the spot where you’re looking, and I’ve rechecked some of the written sources.”

“What can you tell us?”

“There are several versions of the story but a few things we know for certain. One is that Attila left a trail of destruction in the northern part of Italy and came down the west side. There were no roads on the east side until the 1930s, which is an indication of what the landscape is like.”

“Remi figured that out,” said Sam. “And since the Huns didn’t leave a written history, we’re guessing the best sources are the people who kept track of Pope Leo I. They list the cities Attila sacked and destroyed. Mantua is the last one.”

“Leo met him on the Mincio where it empties into the Po. The Pope had come from the southeast, and since he was the supplicant, he went to Attila’s camp.”

“How will we know where the camp was?”

“Your coordinates are 45° 4' 17.91" north, 10° 58' .01" east. Attila had between fifty and a hundred thousand fighters. That means at least a hundred thousand horses and innumerable cattle, sheep, and goats. They would be lined up along the river, drinking and grazing. The encampment would be on a fairly flat piece of ground, but elevated to keep from flooding.”

Selma said, “We put the camp’s tents about two hundred yards from the confluence, stretching west along the north side of the Po.”

Remi said, “Why the north side?”

“Attila had just come down from the north, and they knew that no force was left behind them. The only possible threat would have been a Roman army somewhere to the south, so they would have kept the river to the south of them as a barrier.”

“Okay,” said Remi. “North side of the Po, west side of the Mincio. Flattish ground, look for the highest spot on it.”

“That’s right,” said Albrecht. “We’re still trying to decide how Attila’s men could have buried the treasure secretly.”

“We have a couple of ideas,” Sam said. “We’ll let you know if we’re right. What’s the latest on Arpad Bako?”

“Still no movement. Tibor positively identified Bako going into his office as usual this morning and coming back from lunch in the afternoon. He had four of his security men with him.”

“Great. Please let us know if anything changes. By now, Bako should have read the inscription in the false tomb and he ought to be moving.”

“Maybe he’s not as good at this as we are,” Selma said.

“I’m just hoping he’s not better.”

“We’d better get going,” said Remi.

“I heard that,” said Selma. “We’ll be waiting for news.”

Early the next morning, Sam and Remi dressed in tourist clothes: shorts, T-shirts, and athletic shoes, with their sun visors and sunglasses. In another five minutes they were out on the road, heading for the Mincio River.

An old, level towpath bordered the river and made it a favorite ride for bicyclists. Sam and Remi pedaled along the paved path with dozens of others, admiring the beauty of the city and the equally beautiful Lombardy landscape, the flat fields nearby and low rolling hills in the middle distance, with a row of trees growing along each bank of the river. There were houses that must have dated from the Middle Ages and old vineyards with vines strung on poles and overhead wires. They stopped at a pleasant spot beneath the trees along the river and ate their picnic lunch.

They reached Lago Superiore, the first of the lakes, at one-thirty p.m. and rode along its southern shore into the center of Mantua. They found a sidewalk café where they could rest and have espressos and pastries in view of the second lake, Lago di Mezzo, then rode over the Via Lagnasco bridge to SS 482, the Via Ostiglia.

“Eight more miles,” said Remi. “This is glorious. I don’t feel tired at all.”

“It occurred to me that we’ve been following the river downstream,” said Sam. “Does that suggest anything to you?”

“Yes. That we’ll be pedaling uphill all the way back to Peschiera del Garda,” Remi said. “Or we’ll have to find another way.”

After an hour of easy pedaling, they could see the destination. The Po ran west to east and was wider than the Mincio. On both sides of the Mincio were cultivated vegetable and grain fields as far as they could see, except for the field at its confluence, which had been plowed but not yet planted. The trees were all along the riverbeds.

Sam and Remi dismounted from their bicycles and studied the landscape. “This is a good place not to be noticed,” said Remi. “I can’t even see a building on this side. Albrecht said to stay on the west side of the Mincio, north of the Po. All we need to find now is a fifteen-hundred-year-old campsite.”

“Give me a minute to check the GPS.” After a minute, Sam said, “We’re on it. They would have watered their horses along the riverbed. And if I were a nomadic horseman, I would be sure to take really good care of my horses.” He turned away from the river to face the field. “Fifty to a hundred thousand Hun warriors means something near two hundred thousand horses. It’s hard to imagine what that must have looked like. The line of horses must have stretched along both rivers for a couple of miles.”

Remi wheeled her bike to a nearby tree, leaned the bike against the trunk, stepped on the bike’s lower bar, then the seat, and pulled herself up to the tree’s first large branch. She reached up to the second branch for a handhold and then stood.

“What do you see?” asked Sam.

“From up here, it looks as though the highest part of the field is right over there.” She pointed a hundred yards inland to a section of the field that was slightly elevated.