Three Tales From the World of Cotton Malone Read Free Page B

and followed him to the far side where the rock floor dropped down five meters. Her flashlight beam revealed a façade chiseled from the stone, blocks rising on two sides and joined across the top, connected by clearly defined joints.
    â€œA doorway,” she muttered.
    â€œThat is what you came for.”
    She knew Thracians always framed the openings to their tombs in elaborate ways.
    â€œI find it two days ago,” Sokolov said. “This is real tomb. The other is some sort of ante-chamber.”
    â€œYou didn’t tell the others about this?”
    He shook his head. “Not a word.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œGo and see.”
    â€œHow about we both go?” she said.
    He climbed down first, using the boulders as makeshiftsteps. She followed, her finger on the gun’s trigger, ready to instantly react. Was this his plan? Lure her down here. Were the others waiting inside? If so, why give her a loaded gun?
    At the bottom she examined the portal more closely.
    â€œAnother level extends out,” he said to her. “Beneath where we stand, into the mountain. Maybe caused by lava flow from long ago. Not unusual. Creates caves.”
    She studied the doorway as he spoke. Definitely human-made. Rubble lay piled before the portal. The remnants of a marble door, blasted away.
    â€œI do that,” Sokolov said. “I wanted to see what is inside.”
    She stared at the chunks and realized the door itself had been a precious artifact. “You’ve been inside?”
    â€œTwice.”
    She motioned with the flashlight and he disappeared into the blackness. She followed, met by a wall of dank, musty air. Enough daylight slipped in for her to see a circular room about twenty meters in diameter. She quickly aimed the flashlight at the far end and discovered limestone walls, still lined in places with ancient timbers. Her light angled upward and exposed the expected Thracian beehive architecture to a domed ceiling. The vault’s central camera contained the image of a horseman being bestowed a wreath by a goddess, the maroon coloring of the frescoes still vibrant. A high relief of stone statues—women—encircled the vault. Parts of the walls had collapsed, rubble piled on the floor. She aimed the beam at the floor and noticed it was littered with debris. A glitter here and there alerted her that it was not insignificant.
    Gold, silver, bronze, and clay objects were strewn amongst rock.
    â€œEarthquakes do damage,” he said. “But tomb is remarkable.”
    He was right. Perhaps the most fully intact Thracian sanctuary ever found.
    In the center stood the deathbed, fashioned of stone, like the altar from the earlier chamber. Lying across the top were the remains of a skeleton, bones arranged anatomically as they’d been when released from the grip of flesh and muscle. The skull was large and possessed a huge gash across the right side.
    â€œHe died from head wound,” Sokolov quietly said.
    Her grip on the gun tightened as they threaded a path to the remains. She drifted three steps back, adding distance between them, enough that she could see exactly what he was doing.
    Bits of cloth lay scattered amongst the bones—perhaps, she thought, burial robes long gone to dust. A gold band wrapped the neck bones. Gold brooches, earrings, and greaves lay to one side. A gold armlet, corded and patterned, encircled one of the wrists. Bits and pieces of a leather belt remained, inset with a gold band. A gold dagger, figured, tapered, and burnished, lay near the right hand. Remnants of shoes embellished with gold stripes rested opposite the skull.
    â€œHe is important,” Sokolov said.
    She agreed. Only Thracian leaders possessed such wealth.
    She kept one eye on the Russian and studied the rest of the room. Dark shadows signaled more objects. The flashlight cut a swath through the darkness. On the far side, to the right of the entrance, stood a bronze-plated wooden