woman as backup. All three were security specialists like him, and none of them were very talkative.
He watched a plane leave a trail of white in the blue sky before he closed his eyes to imagine where Aurora Source would send him next. The dank smell of oil came back to him, along with the vision of Omar with his eye hanging loose. How many men had died for gold since the dawn of time? Together, gold and blood were an eternal alloy. His employer loved telling stories about the precious metal and had reveled in recounting the tale of Marcus Licinius Crassusâs horrible death. The Roman general, a rival of Caesar and Pompei, loved gold above all else. The Parthinian army captured him during a bloody battle and executed him in front of his men by pouring molten gold down his throat. At least thatâs what his employer had said. Winthrop had read enough military history to know that the account was disputed.
As for him, Winthrop wasnât particularly attached to gold, and in his line of work, this was definitely an asset. During one of his first assignments in Peru, the local Aurora representative had suggested that he take a bar for himself, but Winthrop had politely declined. Good call. It was a standard test to measure the integrity of employees. He always wondered what would have happened if he had accepted.
Fatigue overtook him, and he fell into a deep, dreaml ess sleep.
39
Nicolas Flamelâs shop, Paris
March 21, 1355
T he nightmare woke him again. He had heard that even the most horrible dreams never exactly reproduced the reality that inspired them. The books Flamel had read said that the imagination always added its own variations. But that wasnât the case now. It was the real event, and only the reality, that was playing over and over again in his dr eam world.
It had been nearly a week since he had staggered out of the dungeon. He remembered every detail, every wordâthe torture chamber, the torturerâs gestures, and most of all, Flore de Cenevièresâs voice recounting the Jewâs arrival at her home in the provinces. Her life had been stuck between her overly religious mother and her elder brother, who was jealous and would have just as soon sent her off to a convent.
She had bitterly recounted the humiliation, the fear, the suspicions, and the threats. And then her mother had come down with a languishing illness. Every morning she woke up weaker. Her fat and muscle melted away until her flesh stuck to her bones. Her breath smelled of death. They had tried everything, from doctors to dark-eyed charlatans, from country remedies to philters that smelled l ike bogs.
Nothing worked. Her mother was afraid, and then she was terrified. Panic poured out of her, soaking her sheets in sweat every night. Then something evil came over her. She was willing to do anything to av oid death.
And Flore was desperate. She had heard of a man who had stopped in Cahors and whose cures were miraculous. Rich and poor spoke of no one else.
One day, when her brother was off hunting, she had gone into the city on the pretext of doing some shopping. Once there, she had asked around and was led to the apothecary, where the stranger wa s staying.
In the shop, among the bouquets of dried flowers and amid the sound of marble pestles meeting mortars, she saw a tall man standing near the fireplace. He was calmly reading while enjoying the warmth of the fire, as if it were there just for him. The only other men she had ever seen reading were priests, and they were always hunched over the ir Bibles.
She spoke to the apothecary, who gestured to the stranger.
Flamel turned in his sleep. Even in his dream, the womanâs confidences made him unco mfortable.
His dream leaped to an image of Isaac Benserade the day of his execution, when his body had been broken, but not his will. He had said nothing. Nothing about what had happened between him and Flore and nothing about why he had come to Paris.
Then
He watched a plane leave a trail of white in the blue sky before he closed his eyes to imagine where Aurora Source would send him next. The dank smell of oil came back to him, along with the vision of Omar with his eye hanging loose. How many men had died for gold since the dawn of time? Together, gold and blood were an eternal alloy. His employer loved telling stories about the precious metal and had reveled in recounting the tale of Marcus Licinius Crassusâs horrible death. The Roman general, a rival of Caesar and Pompei, loved gold above all else. The Parthinian army captured him during a bloody battle and executed him in front of his men by pouring molten gold down his throat. At least thatâs what his employer had said. Winthrop had read enough military history to know that the account was disputed.
As for him, Winthrop wasnât particularly attached to gold, and in his line of work, this was definitely an asset. During one of his first assignments in Peru, the local Aurora representative had suggested that he take a bar for himself, but Winthrop had politely declined. Good call. It was a standard test to measure the integrity of employees. He always wondered what would have happened if he had accepted.
Fatigue overtook him, and he fell into a deep, dreaml ess sleep.
39
Nicolas Flamelâs shop, Paris
March 21, 1355
T he nightmare woke him again. He had heard that even the most horrible dreams never exactly reproduced the reality that inspired them. The books Flamel had read said that the imagination always added its own variations. But that wasnât the case now. It was the real event, and only the reality, that was playing over and over again in his dr eam world.
It had been nearly a week since he had staggered out of the dungeon. He remembered every detail, every wordâthe torture chamber, the torturerâs gestures, and most of all, Flore de Cenevièresâs voice recounting the Jewâs arrival at her home in the provinces. Her life had been stuck between her overly religious mother and her elder brother, who was jealous and would have just as soon sent her off to a convent.
She had bitterly recounted the humiliation, the fear, the suspicions, and the threats. And then her mother had come down with a languishing illness. Every morning she woke up weaker. Her fat and muscle melted away until her flesh stuck to her bones. Her breath smelled of death. They had tried everything, from doctors to dark-eyed charlatans, from country remedies to philters that smelled l ike bogs.
Nothing worked. Her mother was afraid, and then she was terrified. Panic poured out of her, soaking her sheets in sweat every night. Then something evil came over her. She was willing to do anything to av oid death.
And Flore was desperate. She had heard of a man who had stopped in Cahors and whose cures were miraculous. Rich and poor spoke of no one else.
One day, when her brother was off hunting, she had gone into the city on the pretext of doing some shopping. Once there, she had asked around and was led to the apothecary, where the stranger wa s staying.
In the shop, among the bouquets of dried flowers and amid the sound of marble pestles meeting mortars, she saw a tall man standing near the fireplace. He was calmly reading while enjoying the warmth of the fire, as if it were there just for him. The only other men she had ever seen reading were priests, and they were always hunched over the ir Bibles.
She spoke to the apothecary, who gestured to the stranger.
Flamel turned in his sleep. Even in his dream, the womanâs confidences made him unco mfortable.
His dream leaped to an image of Isaac Benserade the day of his execution, when his body had been broken, but not his will. He had said nothing. Nothing about what had happened between him and Flore and nothing about why he had come to Paris.
Then
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