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arrested. You have to help us find a doctor . . . or a clinic that we can trust.’
    Ari led them forward: ‘Follow me, quickly.’ They crossed the room with the Cycladic sculptures, reached the service stairs and descended into the basement. He opened the door of the storeroom. ‘No one will come to look for you here,’ he said. ‘Wait for me, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Try to stop the bleeding, if you can. She mustn’t lose any more blood.’ He left, pulling the iron door shut behind him.
    ‘We should stretch her out,’ said Claudio. They rearranged Ari’s sawdust bed and lay Heleni down gently. Claudio carefully took off her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, baring her shoulder.
    Michel was close by: ‘The wound is very high, the bullet may not have hit any vital organs. We have to staunch it.’
    Claudio pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘This is clean; we can use this.’
    Norman looked around. ‘This is a restoration lab. There must be some alcohol somewhere.’ He went through the cabinets and shelves, opening bottles of solvent and sniffing at them: ‘Here, this is alcohol.’
    Claudio soaked the handkerchief and cleaned the wound carefully. The girl trembled and cried out in pain. She opened her eyes and looked around bewildered: ‘Claudio . . . Claudio . . . where are we?’
    ‘We’re safe, my love. Stay calm, you must be still. You’ve been wounded. We’re going to take care of you. Now stay calm, try to rest.’ Heleni closed her eyes.
    Claudio ripped his shirt into strips and bandaged the wound as best he could. It had stopped bleeding.
    ‘We have to keep her warm. We need a blanket.’
    Michel started to take off his down jacket.
    ‘Wait, there’s a blanket,’ said Norman, pointing to a large bundle under a table. He untied the corners and backed up in shock. ‘My God! Look at this!’ Claudio and Michel turned and saw the embossed golden vase, the figure of a warrior with an oar on his shoulder, the ram and the bull and the boar with its long tusks. The last bell of the revolt tolled its dying peal into the sky of Athens, full of stars and desperation.
    Michel seemed stunned by the vision of the vase. He had stood up and was staring at the wonder which had so suddenly appeared out of nowhere. ‘What is that? My God, I can’t believe it. Claudio, what is it?’
    Claudio was bent over Heleni and was holding her hand as if he could pass his warmth and his vigour into her still body. He turned slightly and saw the vase. For long moments, everything else seemed to fade away. The little book that had fallen at his feet at the archaeological school library flashed into his mind: ‘Hypothesis on the necromantic rite in the Odyssey , Book XI.’ He turned immediately back to Heleni.
    ‘A fake if I ever saw one. Inspired by some verses from the Odyssey , maybe; the Nekya, the journey into the land of the dead . . .’
    ‘But it’s made of gold!’ Michel stuttered.
    ‘Good fakes are always made of the best materials . . . makes them more credible. It looks like an imitation of the Ugarit cups, same style. It can’t be authentic. Give me the blanket.’
    Norman lifted the vase and Michel slipped off the blanket, handing it to Claudio who arranged it around Heleni.
    ‘What do we do with this?’ asked Norman, setting the vase back on the table.
    ‘Hide it,’ said Claudio. ‘It was hidden when we found it.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Norman. ‘Strange, isn’t it? Looks like it was just unearthed. There are still traces of dust and mud on it.’
    Michel ran his finger over the surface of the vase, rubbing a little of the sediment between his thumb and index finger.
    ‘Blood.’
    Norman started: ‘What are you saying, Michel?’
    ‘It’s not mud. It’s blood. Centuries old. Millennia old, maybe. It’s so old it’s turned to humus. I’ve seen it before in a sacrificial trench in the Plutonium of Hierapolis in Turkey. This vase was immersed in the blood of a great number of