ALSO BY STEVE BERRY

The Amber Room

The Romanov Prophecy

The Third Secret

The Templar Legacy

The Alexandria Link

THE
VENETIAN
BETRAYAL

A Novel

Steve Berry

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette Livre UK Company

Copyright © Steve Berry 2007

Published by arrangement with Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

The right of Steve Berry to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious or are historical figures whose words and actions are fictitious. Any other resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Epub ISBN 978 1 84456 830 7
Book ISBN 978 0 340 93345 9

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

For Karen Elizabeth,

A journey complete

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First, Pam Ahearn—and beware, an agent with a new BlackBerry is a dangerous thing. Next, as always, the wonderful folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, my publisher (which I say with great pride); Libby McGuire, for being there with unwavering support; Mark Tavani, who again offered superb editorial insights; Cindy Murray, who takes great joy in sending me away; Kim Hovey, who somehow makes people want me; Rachel Kind, who spreads the books across the globe; Beck Stvan, a cover artist supreme; Carole Lowenstein; and finally all those in Promotions and Sales—absolutely nothing could be achieved without their superior efforts.

A few extra mentions: Vicki Satlow, our Italian literary agent who made the trip to Italy productive; Michele Benzoni and his wife, Leslie, who made us feel welcome in Venice; Cristina Cortese, who showed us St. Mark’s basilica and provided invaluable insights; all the folks at Nord publishing in Italy, what a terrific team; and Damaris Corrigan, a brilliant lady who, one evening over dinner, spurred my imagination. My sincere thanks to you all.

For my brother Bob and his wife, Kim; daughter, Lyndsey; and son, Grant; a long overdue special mention. Though it’s not said enough, all of you are quite special to me.

Finally, this book is dedicated to my wife of the past few months. She’s watched this story grow from a rough idea to words on a page. Along the way she offered guidance, criticism, and encouragement.

Toil and risk are the price of glory, but it is a lovely thing to live with courage and die leaving an everlasting fame.

—Alexander the Great

It is a divine right of madness, not to be able to see the evil which lies just in front.

—Unknown Danish playwright

TIMELINE OF RELEVANT EVENTS

JULY 20, 356 BC | Alexander of Macedonia is born.
336 BC | Philip II is murdered.
| Alexander becomes king.
334 BC | Alexander crosses into Asia Minor and begins his conquests.
SEPTEMBER 326 BC | The Asia campaign ends in India when Alexander’s army revolts.
| Alexander returns west.
OCTOBER 324 BC | Hephaestion dies.
JUNE 10, 323 BC | Alexander dies in Babylon.
| His generals divide the empire.
| Ptolemy claims Egypt.
321 BC | Alexander’s funeral cortege leaves for Macedonia.
| Ptolemy attacks the procession.
| The body is taken to Egypt.
305 BC | Ptolemy is crowned pharaoh.
283 BC | Ptolemy dies.
215 BC | Ptolemy IV erects the Soma to house Alexander’s remains.
100 AD | St. Mark is martyred in Alexandria, his body hidden.
391 AD | The Soma is destroyed and Alexander the Great vanishes.
828 AD | St. Mark’s body is taken from Alexandria by Venetian merchants, returned to Venice, and stored in the Doge’s palace, its whereabouts lost over time.
JUNE 1094 AD | Body of St. Mark reappears in Venice.
1835 AD | St. Mark is moved from the crypt to beneath the main altar of the basilica that bears his name.

PROLOGUE

BABYLON

MAY, 323 BC

Alexander of Macedonia had decided yesterday to kill the man himself. Usually he delegated such tasks, but not today. His father had taught him many things that served him well, but one lesson above all he’d never forgotten.

Executions were for the living.

Six hundred of his finest guardsmen stood assembled. Fearless men who, in battle after battle, had surged head-on into opposing ranks or dutifully protected his vulnerable flank. Thanks to them the indestructible Macedonian phalanx had conquered Asia. But there’d be no fighting today. None of the men carried weapons or wore armor. Instead, though weary, they’d gathered in light dress, caps on their heads, eyes focused.

Alexander, too, studied the scene through unusually tired eyes.

He was leader of Macedonia and Greece, Lord of Asia, Ruler of Persia. Some called him king of the world. Others a god. One of his generals once said that he was the only philosopher ever seen in arms.

But he was also human.

And his beloved Hephaestion lay dead.

The man had been everything to him—confidant, cavalry commander, Grand Vizier, lover. Aristotle had taught him as a child that a friend was a second self, and that had been Hephaestion. He recalled with amusement how his friend had once been mistaken for him. The error caused a general embarrassment, but Alexander had only smiled and noted that the confusion over Hephaestion was unimportant for he, too, was Alexander.

He dismounted his horse. The day was bright and warm. Spring rains from yesterday had passed. An omen? Perhaps.

Twelve years he’d swept east, conquering Asia Minor, Persia, Egypt, and parts of India. His goal now was to advance south and claim Arabia, then west to North Africa, Sicily, and Iberia. Already ships and troops were being amassed. The march would soon begin, but first he had to settle the matter of Hephaestion’s untimely death.

He trod across the soft earth, fresh mud sucking at his sandals.

Small in stature, brisk in speech and walk, his fair-skinned, stocky body bore witness to countless wounds. From his Albanian mother he’d inherited a straight nose, a brief chin, and a mouth that could not help but reveal emotion. Like his troops, he was clean shaven, his blond hair unkempt, his eyes—one blue-gray, the other brown—always wary. He prided himself on his patience, but of late he’d found his anger increasingly hard to check. He’d come to enjoy being feared.

“Physician,” he said in a low voice, as he approached. “It is said that prophets are best who make the truest guess.”

The man did not reply. At least he knew his place.

“From Euripides. A play I much enjoy. But more is expected from a prophet than that, would you not say?”

He doubted Glaucias would reply. The man was wild-eyed with terror.

And he should be scared. Yesterday, during the rain, horses had bent the trunks of two tall palms close to the ground. There they’d been roped, the two lashings intertwined into a single binding, then fastened to another stout palm. Now the physician was tied in the center of the V formed by the trees, each arm secured to a rope, and Alexander held a sword.

“It was your duty to make the truest guess,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes tearing. “Why could you not save him?”

The man’s jaw clattered uncontrollably. “I tried.”

“How? You did not give him the draught.”

Glaucias’ head shook in terror. “There was an accident a few days before. Most of the supply spilled. I sent an emissary for more, but he’d not arrived by the time . . . of the final illness.”

“Were you not told to always have plenty available?”

“I did, my king. There was an accident.” He started to sob.

Alexander ignored the display. “We both agreed that we did not want it to be like the last time.”

He knew the physician recalled, from two years past, when Alexander and Hephaestion had both suffered fever. Then, too, the supply had run low, but more had been obtained and the draught relieved them both.

Fear dripped from Glaucias’ forehead. Terrified eyes pleaded for mercy. But all Alexander could see was his lover’s dead glare. As children, they’d both been students of Aristotle—Alexander the son of a king, Hephaestion the heir of a warrior. They’d bonded thanks to a shared appreciation of Homer and the Iliad. Hephaestion had been Patroclus to Alexander’s Achilles. Spoiled, spiteful, overbearing, and not all that bright, Hephaestion had still been a wonder. Now he was gone.

“Why did you allow him to die?”

No one but Glaucias could hear him. He’d ordered his troops only close enough to watch. Most of the original Greek warriors who’d crossed with him into Asia were either dead or retired. Persian recruits, conscripted into fighting after he’d conquered their world, now made up the bulk of his force. Good men, every one of them.

“You’re my physician,” he said in a whisper. “My life is in your hands. The lives of all those I hold dear are in your hands. Yet you failed me.” Self-control succumbed to grief and he fought the urge to again weep. “With an accident.”

He laid the sword flat across the taut ropes.

“Please, my king. I beg you. It was not my fault. I do not deserve this.”

He stared at the man. “Not your fault?” His grief immediately evolved into anger. “How could you say such a thing?” He raised the sword. “It was your duty to help.”

“My king. You need me. I am the only one, besides yourself, who knows of the liquid. If it is needed and you are incapable, how would you receive it?” The man was talking fast. Trying whatever might work.

“Others can be taught.”

“But it requires skill. Knowledge.”

“Your skill was useless for Hephaestion. He did not benefit from your great knowledge.” The words formed, but he found them hard to speak. Finally, he summoned his courage and said, more to himself than his victim, “He died.”

The time last fall at Ecbatana was to be one of great spectacle—a festival in honor of Dionysius with athletics, music, and three thousand actors and artists, newly arrived from Greece, to entertain the troops. The drinking and merriment should have continued for weeks, but the revelry ended when Hephaestion fell sick.

“I told him not to eat,” Glaucias said. “But he ignored me. He ate fowl and drank wine. I told him not to.”

“And where were you?” He did not wait for an answer. “At the theater. Watching a performance. While my Hephaestion lay dying.”

But Alexander had been in the stadium viewing a race and that guilt amplified his anger.

“The fever, my king. You know its force. It comes quickly and overpowers. No food. You cannot have food. We knew that from last time. Refraining would have provided the time needed for the draught to arrive.”

“You should have been there,” he screamed, and he saw that his troops heard him. He calmed and said in a near whisper, “The draught should have been available.”

He noticed a restlessness among his men. He needed to regain control. What had Aristotle said? A king speaks only through deeds. Which was why he’d broken with tradition and ordered Hephaestion’s body embalmed. Following more of Homer’s prose, as Achilles had done for his fallen Patroclus, he’d commanded the manes and tails of all horses to be severed. He forbade the playing of any musical instrument and sent emissaries to the oracle of Ammon for guidance on how best to remember his beloved. Then, to alleviate his grief, he fell upon the Cossaeans and put the entire nation to the sword—his offering to the evaporating shade of his beloved Hephaestion.

Anger had ruled him.

And still did.

He swung the sword through the air and stopped it close to Glaucias’ bearded face. “The fever has again taken me,” he whispered.

“Then, my king, you will need me. I can help.”

“As you helped Hephaestion?”

He could still see, from three days ago, Hephaestion’s funeral pyre. Five stories high, a furlong square at its base, decorated with gilded eagles, ships’ prows, lions, bulls, and centaurs. Envoys had come from throughout the Mediterranean world to watch it burn.

And all because of this man’s incompetence.

He whirled the sword behind the physician. “I won’t require your help.”

“No. Please,” Glaucias screamed.

Alexander sawed the tight strands of rope with the sharp blade. Each stroke seemed to purge his rage. He plunged the edge into the bundle. Strands released with pops, like bones breaking. One more blow and the sword bit through the remaining restraints. The two palms, freed from their hold, rushed skyward, one left, the other right, Glaucias tied in between.

The man shrieked as his body momentarily stopped the trees’ retreat, then his arms ripped from their sockets and his chest exploded in a cascade of crimson.

Palm branches rattled like falling water, and the trunks groaned from their journey back upright.

Glaucias’ body thudded to the wet earth, his arms and part of his chest dangling in the branches. Quiet returned as the trees again stood straight. No soldier uttered a sound.

Alexander faced his men and shrieked, “Alalalalai.”

His men repeated the Macedonian war chant, their cries rumbling across the damp plain and echoing off the fortifications of Babylon. People watching from atop the city walls screamed back. He waited until the sound quieted, then called out, “Never forget him.”

He knew they would wonder if he meant Hephaestion or the hapless soul who’d just paid the price of disappointing his king.

But it did not matter.

Not anymore.

He planted the sword into the wet earth and retreated to his horse. What he’d said to the physician was true. The fever was once again upon him.

And he welcomed it.

PART ONE

ONE

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

SATURDAY, APRIL 18, THE PRESENT

11:55 P.M.

The smell roused Cotton Malone to consciousness. Sharp, acrid, with a hint of sulfur. And something else. Sweet and sickening. Like death.

He opened his eyes.

He lay prone on the floor, arms extended, palms to the hardwood, which he immediately noticed was sticky.

What happened?

He’d attended the April gathering of the Danish Antiquarian Booksellers Society a few blocks west of his bookshop, near the gaiety of Tivoli. He liked the monthly meetings and this one had been no exception. A few drinks, some friends, and lots of book chatter. Tomorrow morning he’d agreed to meet Cassiopeia Vitt. Her call yesterday to arrange the meeting had surprised him. He’d not heard from her since Christmas, when she’d spent a few days in Copenhagen. He’d been cruising back home on his bicycle, enjoying the comfortable spring night, when he’d decided to check out the unusual meeting location she’d chosen, the Museum of Greco-Roman Culture—a preparatory habit from his former profession. Cassiopeia rarely did anything on impulse, so a little advance preparation wasn’t a bad idea.

He’d found the address, which faced the Frederiksholms canal, and noticed a half-open door to the pitch-dark building—a door that should normally be closed and alarmed. He’d parked his bike. The least he could do was close the door and phone the police when he returned home.

But the last thing he remembered was grasping the doorknob.

He was now inside the museum.

In the ambient light that filtered in through two plate-glass windows, he saw a space decorated in typical Danish style—a sleek mixture of steel, wood, glass, and aluminum. The right side of his head throbbed and he caressed a tender knot.

He shook the fog from his brain and stood.

He’d visited this museum once and had been unimpressed with its collection of Greek and Roman artifacts. Just one of a hundred or more private collections throughout Copenhagen, their subject matter as varied as the city’s population.

He steadied himself against a glass display case. His fingertips again came away sticky and smelly, with the same nauseating odor.

He noticed that his shirt and trousers were damp, as were his hair, face, and arms. Whatever covered the museum’s interior coated him, too.

He stumbled toward the front entrance and tried the door. Locked. Double dead bolt. A key would be needed to open it from the inside.

He stared back into the interior. The ceiling soared thirty feet. A wood-and-chrome staircase led up to a second floor that dissolved into more darkness, the ground floor extending out beneath.

He found a light switch. Nothing. He lumbered over to a desk phone. No dial tone.

A noise disturbed the silence. Clicks and whines, like gears working. Coming from the second floor.

His training as a Justice Department agent cautioned him to keep quiet, but also urged him to investigate.

So he silently climbed the stairs.

The chrome banister was damp, as were each of the laminated risers. Fifteen steps up, more glass-and-chrome display cases dotted the hardwood floor. Marble reliefs and partial bronzes on pedestals loomed like ghosts. Movement caught his eye twenty feet away. An object rolling across the floor. Maybe two feet wide with rounded sides, pale in color, tight to the ground, like one of those robotic lawn mowers he’d once seen advertised. When a display case or statue was encountered, the thing stopped, retreated, then darted in a different direction. A nozzle extended from its top and every few seconds a burst of aerosol spewed out.

He stepped close.

All movement stopped. As if it sensed his presence. The nozzle swung to face him. A cloud of mist soaked his pants.

What was this?

The machine seemed to lose interest and scooted deeper into the darkness, more odorous mist expelling along the way. He stared down over the railing to the ground floor and spotted another of the contraptions parked beside a display case.

Nothing about this seemed good.

He needed to leave. The stench was beginning to turn his stomach.

The machine ceased its roaming and he heard a new sound.

Two years ago, before his divorce, his retirement from the government, and his abrupt move to Copenhagen, when he’d lived in Atlanta, he’d spent a few hundred dollars on a stainless-steel grill. The unit came with a red button that, when pumped, sparked a gas flame. He recalled the sound the igniter made with each pump of the button.

The same clicking he heard right now.

Sparks flashed.

The floor burst to life, first sun yellow, then burnt orange, finally settling on pale blue as flames radiated outward, consuming the hardwood. Flames simultaneously roared up the walls. The temperature rose swiftly and he raised an arm to shield his face. The ceiling joined the conflagration, and in less than fifteen seconds the second floor was totally ablaze.

Overhead sprinklers sprang to life.

He partially retreated down the staircase and waited for the fire to be doused.

But he noticed something.

The water simply aggravated the flames.

The machine that started the disaster suddenly disintegrated in a muted flash, flames rolling out in all directions, like waves searching for shore.

A fireball drifted to the ceiling and seemed to be welcomed by the spraying water. Steam thickened the air, not with smoke but with a chemical that made his head spin.

He leaped down the stairs two at a time. Another swoosh racked the second floor. Followed by two more. Glass shattered. Something crashed.

He darted to the front of the building.

The other gizmo that had sat dormant sprang to life and started skirting the ground-floor display cases.

More aerosol spewed into the scorching air.

He needed to get out. But the locked front door opened to the inside. Metal frame, thick wood. No way to kick it open. He watched as fire eased down the staircase, consuming each riser, like the devil descending to greet him. Even the chrome was being devoured with a vengeance.

His breaths became labored, thanks to the chemical fog and the rapidly vanishing oxygen. Surely someone would call the fire department, but they’d be no help to him. If a spark touched his soaked clothes . . .

The blaze found the bottom of the staircase.

Ten feet away.

TWO

VENICE, ITALY

SUNDAY, APRIL 19

12:15 A.M.

Enrico Vincenti stared at the accused and asked, “Anything to say to this Council?”

The man from Florence seemed unconcerned by the question. “How about you and your League cram it.”

Vincenti was curious. “You apparently think we’re to be taken lightly.”

“Fat man, I have friends.” The Florentine actually seemed proud of the fact. “Lots of them.”

He made clear, “Your friends are of no concern to us. But your treachery? That’s another matter.”

The Florentine had dressed for the occasion, sporting an expensive Zanetti suit, Charvet shirt, Prada tie, and the obligatory Gucci shoes. Vincenti realized that the ensemble cost more than most people earned in a year.

“Tell you what,” the Florentine said. “I’ll leave and we’ll forget all about this . . . whatever this is . . . and you people can go back and do whatever it is you do.”

None of the nine seated beside Vincenti said a word. He’d warned them to expect arrogance. The Florentine had been hired to handle a chore in central Asia, a job the Council had deemed vitally important. Unfortunately, the Florentine had modified the assignment to suit his greed. Luckily, the deception had been discovered and countermeasures taken.

“You believe your associates will actually stand with you?” Vincenti asked.

“You’re not that naive, are you, fat man? They’re the ones who told me to do it.”

He again ignored the reference to his girth. “That’s not what they said.”

Those associates were an international crime syndicate that had many times proven useful to the Council. The Florentine was contracted help and the Council had overlooked the syndicate’s deception in order to make a point to the liar standing before them. Which would make a point to the syndicate as well. And it had. Already the fee owed had been waived and the Council’s hefty deposit returned. Unlike the Florentine, those associates understood precisely who they were dealing with.

“What do you know of us?” Vincenti asked.

The Italian shrugged. “A bunch of rich people who like to play.”

The bravado amused Vincenti. Four men stood behind the Florentine, each armed, which explained why the ingrate thought himself safe. As a condition to his appearing, he’d insisted on them coming.

“Seven hundred years ago,” Vincenti said, “a Council of Ten oversaw Venice. They were men supposedly too mature to be swayed by passion or temptation, charged with maintaining public safety and quelling political opposition. And that’s precisely what they did. For centuries. They took evidence in secret, pronounced sentences, and carried out executions, all in the name of the Venetian state.”

“You think I care about this history lesson?”

Vincenti folded his hands in his lap. “You should care.”

“This mausoleum is depressing. It belong to you?”

True, the villa lacked the charm of a house that had once been a family home, but tsars, emperors, archdukes, and crowned heads had all stayed under its roof. Even Napoleon had occupied one of the bedrooms. So he said with pride, “It belongs to us.”

“You need a decorator. Are we through here?”

“I’d like to finish what I was explaining.”

The Italian gestured with his hands. “Get on with it. I want some sleep.”

“We, too, are a Council of Ten. Like the original, we employ Inquisitors to enforce our decisions.” He gestured and three men stepped forward from the far side of the salon. “Like the originals, our rule is absolute.”

“You’re not the government.”

“No. We’re something else altogether.”

Still the Florentine seemed unimpressed. “I came here in the middle of the night because I was ordered to by my associates. Not because I’m impressed. I brought these four to protect me. So your Inquisitors might find it difficult to enforce anything.”

Vincenti pushed himself up from the chair. “I think something needs to be made clear. You were hired to handle a task. You decided to change that assignment to suit your own purpose.”

“Unless all of you intend on leaving here in a box, I’d say we just forget about it.”

Vincenti’s patience had worn thin. He genuinely disliked this part of his official duties. He gestured and the four men who’d come with the Florentine grabbed the idiot.

A smug look evolved into one of surprise.

The Florentine was disarmed while three of the men restrained him. An Inquisitor approached and, with a roll of thick tape, bound the accused’s struggling arms behind his back, his legs and knees together, and wrapped his face, sealing his mouth. The three then released their grip and the Florentine’s thick frame thudded to the rug.

“This Council has found you guilty of treason to our League,” Vincenti said. He gestured again and a set of double doors swung open. A casket of rich lacquered wood was wheeled in, its lid hinged open. The Florentine’s eyes went wide as he apparently realized his fate.

Vincenti stepped close.

“Five hundred years ago traitors to the state were sealed into rooms above the Doge’s palace, built of wood and lead, exposed to the elements—they became known as the coffins.” He paused and allowed his words to take hold. “Horrible places. Most who entered died. You took our money while, at the same time, trying to make more for yourself.” He shook his head. “Not to be. And, by the way, your associates decided you were the price they would pay to keep peace with us.”

The Florentine fought his restraints with a renewed vigor, his protests stifled by the tape across his mouth. One of the Inquisitors led the four men who’d come with the Florentine from the room. Their job was done. The other two Inquisitors lifted the struggling problem and tossed him into the coffin.

Vincenti stared down into the box and read exactly what the Florentine’s eyes were saying. No question he’d betrayed the Council, but he’d only done what Vincenti, not those associates, had ordered him to do. Vincenti was the one who changed the assignment, and the Florentine had only appeared before the Council because Vincenti had privately told him not to worry. Just a dog and pony show. No problem. Play along. It would all be resolved in an hour.

“Fat man?” Vincenti asked. “Arrivederci.”

And he slammed the lid shut.

THREE

COPENHAGEN

Malone watched as the flames descending the staircase stopped three quarters of the way down, showing no signs of advancing farther. He stood before one of the windows and searched for something to hurl through the plate glass. The only chairs he spotted were too close to the fire. The second mechanism continued to prowl the ground floor, exhaling mist. He was hesitant to move. Stripping off his clothes was an option, but his hair and skin also stank with the chemical.

Three thuds on the plate-glass window startled him.

He whirled and, a foot away, a familiar face stared back.

Cassiopeia Vitt.

What was she doing here? His eyes surely betrayed his surprise, but he came straight to the point and yelled, “I need to get out of here.”

She pointed to the door.

He intertwined his fingers and signaled that it was locked.

She motioned for him to stand back.

As he did, sparks popped from the underside of the roaming gizmo. He darted straight for the thing and kicked it over. Beneath he spotted wheels and mechanical works.

He heard a pop, then another, and realized what Cassiopeia was doing.

Shooting the window.

Then he saw something he’d not noticed before. Atop the museum’s display cases lay sealed plastic bags filled with a clear liquid.

The window fractured.

No choice.

He risked the flames and grabbed one of the chairs he’d earlier noticed, slinging it into the damaged glass. The window shattered as the chair found the street beyond.

The roving mechanism righted itself.

One of the sparks caught and blue flames began to consume the ground floor, advancing in every direction, including straight for him.

He bolted forward and leaped out the open window, landing on his feet.

Cassiopeia stood three feet away.

He’d felt the change in pressure when the window shattered. He knew a little about fires. Right now flames were being supercharged by a rush of new oxygen. Pressure differences were also having an effect. Firefighters called it flashover.

And those plastic bags atop the cases.

He knew what they contained.

He grabbed Cassiopeia’s hand and yanked her across the street.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Time for a swim.”

They leaped from the brick parapet, just as a fireball surged from the museum.

FOUR

SAMARKAND,

CENTRAL ASIAN FEDERATION

5:45 A.M.

Supreme Minister Irina Zovastina stroked the horse and prepared herself for the game. She loved to play, just after dawn, in the breaking light of early morning, on a grassy field damp with dew. She also loved the famed, blood-sweating stallions of Fergana, first prized over a millennia ago when they were traded to the Chinese for silk. Her stables contained over a hundred steeds bred both for pleasure and politics.

“Are the other riders ready?” she asked the attendant.

“Yes, Minister. They await you on the field.”

She wore high leather boots and a quilted leather jacket over a long chapan. Her short, silver-blond hair was topped by a fur hat fashioned from a wolf she’d taken great pride in killing. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

She mounted the horse.

Together, she and the animal had many times won buzkashi. An ancient game, once played across the steppe by a people who lived and died in the saddle. Genghis Khan himself had enjoyed it. Then, women were not even allowed to watch, much less participate.

But she’d changed that rule.

The spindly-legged, broad-chested horse stiffened as she caressed his neck. “Patience, Bucephalas.”

She’d named him after the animal that had carried Alexander the Great across Asia, into battle after battle. Buzkashi horses, though, were special. Before they played a single match years of training accustomed them to the game’s chaos. Along with oats and barley, eggs and butter were included in their diet. Eventually, when the animal fattened, he was bridled and saddled and stood in the sun for weeks at a time, not just to burn away excess kilos, but to teach him patience. Even more training came in close-quarter galloping. Aggression was encouraged, but always disciplined so that horse and rider became a team.

“You are prepared?” the attendant asked. He was a Tajik, born among the mountains to the east, and had served her for nearly a decade. He was the only one she allowed to ready her for the game.

She patted her chest. “I believe I’m properly armored.”

Her fur-lined leather jacket fit snugly, as did the leather pants. It had served her well that nothing about her stout frame was particularly feminine. Her muscular arms and legs bulged from a meticulous exercise routine and a rigid diet. Her wide face and broad features carried a hint of Mongol, as did her deep-set brown eyes, all thanks to her mother, whose family traced their roots to the far north. Years of self-imposed discipline had left her quick to listen and slow to speak. Energy radiated from her.

Many had said that an Asian federation was impossible, but she’d proven them all wrong. Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Karakal-pakstan, Tajikistan, and Turkmenistan were no more. Instead, fifteen years ago, those former Soviet republics, after briefly trying independence, merged into the newly formed Central Asian Federation. Nine and a half million square kilometers, sixty million people, a massive stretch of territory that rivaled North America and Europe in size, scope, and resources. Her dream. Now a reality.

“Careful, Minister. They like to best you.”

She smiled. “Then they better play hard.”

They conversed in Russian, though Dari, Kazakh, Tajik, Turkmen, and Kyrgyz together were now the official Federation languages. As a compromise to the many Slavs, Russian remained the language of “interethnic communication.”

The stable doors swung open and she gazed out onto a flat field that stretched for over a kilometer. Toward its center, twenty-three mounted horsemen congregated near a shallow pit. Inside lay the boz—a goat’s carcass, without a head, organs, or legs, soaked in cold water for a day to give it strength for what it was about to endure.

At each end of the field rose a striped post.

The horsemen continued to ride. Chopenoz. Players, like herself. Ready for the game.

Her attendant handed her a whip. Centuries ago they were leather thongs tied to balls of lead. They were more benign now, but still used not only to spur a horse but to attack the other players. Hers had been fashioned with a beautiful ivory handle.

She steadied herself in the saddle.

The sun had just topped the forest to the east. Her palace had once been the residence of the khans who ruled the region until the late nineteenth century, when the Russians had invaded. Thirty rooms, rich in Uzbek furniture and Oriental porcelain. What was now the stables had then housed the harem. Thanks to the gods those days were over.

She sucked a deep breath, which carried the sweet scent of a new day.

“Good playing,” the attendant said.

She acknowledged his encouragement with a nod and prepared to enter the field.

But she could not help wondering.

What was happening in Denmark?