‘So that only someone who believed they were a worthy successor to Alexander could find it.’
Rasche’s impatience at being shut out of the Greek exchange reached bursting point. ‘Sir, what are you both talking about? We’ve found their treasure — what else do we need from them?’
‘Information,’ Kroll told him. ‘That’s how wars are won, not with tanks or bullets. I told you, you should learn from history.’ He returned to the pithos, signalling for Jaekel to join him. ‘Open the jar.’
‘Sir!’ Jaekel snapped in reply. He raised his gun, flipping it around ready to smash the stock against the pithos’s spout—
Kroll’s yell of ‘No!’ and the horrified cry of ‘Óchi!’ from Patras were simultaneous. ‘Idiot!’ the Nazi growled. ‘Use your knife, not your gun! Take out the stopper.’
The chastened stormtrooper slung his weapon and unsheathed his combat knife. Kroll watched as he worked the plug loose, then turned his attention back to the Greeks. The adults all seemed appalled at the prospect of the great jar’s opening — or was it apprehension? He looked back at the text upon the pithos. More mentions of Alexander, but from the perspective of history. Andreas may have known the great king, but these words had been written long after his death.
Which meant that if Andreas himself had been the author of the Romance, the pithos really might contain the stuff of legends…
A crackle as Jaekel worked loose a chunk of pitch. He tossed it aside, then jemmied away at the stopper itself. More of the black resin crumbled. A sharp rasp of metal — and the cap moved.
‘Careful, now,’ Kroll warned, but Jaekel had learned his lesson. He used the knife to lever the stopper upwards. It was indeed solid silver, but the Nazi leader was now less interested in the metal’s value than in what the pithos contained. Waving Jaekel aside, he hopped up on to the statue’s plinth to look down into the container.
Water shimmered gently in the torchlight. The jar was almost full to brimming, holding hundreds of litres, maybe more. He leaned closer, briefly moving the torch away as he adjusted his balance.
The shimmering remained, even without light.
For a moment he thought it was just an after-image. But the same thing happened when he lowered the torch again to check. ‘Jaekel, point your light at the floor,’ he ordered. ‘Rasche, Gausmann, you too.’
The SS troopers obeyed. The chamber became almost fully dark as Kroll flicked off his own light. He looked back at the jar.
The water in the pithos was aglow, sparkling, but not with bubbles: with light.
It was faint, like moonlight reflected from a pond on a misty night, but definitely visible. ‘What is it, Sturmbannführer?’ asked Rasche.
‘Wait,’ said Kroll. He flicked his torch back on and cautiously dipped his little finger into the water.
The resulting sensation made him twitch. ‘Sturmbannführer!’ Rasche said again, with concern. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Kroll replied, slipping his finger back into the pithos. This time, he was prepared, and did not flinch. His skin tingled, very slightly. The effect was not unlike a mild electric charge.
He withdrew his hand, thinking for a moment. Then he scooped up some energised water in his palm and raised it towards his mouth—
‘That is not for you,’ said Patras. Kroll looked sharply at him. Even surrounded by SS troopers, his family at gunpoint, the old man’s attitude was defiant.
‘Who are you to decide?’ Kroll demanded in Greek.
‘We are the descendants of Andreas — once a humble cook, and later the guardian of the Spring of Immortality. We have protected his shrine for almost two thousand years, and kept his secret from those who think themselves better than the great king. Is that what you believe, German? That you are a worthy successor to Alexander?’
Kroll bristled at the challenge. ‘The Third Reich will become the greatest empire the world has ever seen, yes.’
‘But you are not its leader.’
‘I act in the name of its leader, Adolf Hitler. Therefore I am worthy, since Hitler is the greatest leader in all of history.’ Kroll allowed himself a smug smile, pleased with his own irrefutable logic.
Patras was unimpressed. ‘You may believe what you wish to believe. But the water is not for you. Andreas first thought to keep it for himself rather than share it with Alexander, and though he soon regretted that decision, by then it was too late.’
‘Then the water is the same as in the Romance, yes?’
The old man nodded. ‘It is.’
Kroll felt almost breathless with excitement. He had been right: the gold and silver treasures were nothing compared to the value of the water. ‘And… you know how to find its source?’
A firm shake of the head. ‘No. This is a shrine to the memory and works of Andreas, marking his birthplace — but it is not his tomb. He is buried at the spring.’ Another shift in Patras’s attitude; now he seemed almost condescending, a schoolmaster looking down upon his pupils. ‘The path to the spring is hidden, but it begins here. If you truly think you are superior to Alexander, then perhaps you deserve to find it.’
‘Of course I deserve it,’ Kroll snapped. With that, he brought up his hand and sipped the water. The faint tingling was stronger upon his tongue. He gulped down the rest. For a moment he felt nothing. Then…
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Rasche again, shining his torch into his commanding officer’s face.
Kroll blinked in annoyance. ‘Get that damn light off me. Yes, I’m fine. I’m…’ He paused as an odd feeling rose through him — almost elation, the tingle swirling through his veins to every part of his body.
‘The water — it could be stagnant. Or even poisoned.’
‘I’m fine,’ Kroll repeated. The sensation passed, but somehow he knew that something good — something remarkable — had just happened to him. And his knowledge of the Alexander Romance, a Greek recension of which he had read as a student, suggested what it might be.
He made a decision. ‘Close the jar,’ he ordered Jaekel. ‘Put the stopper back in and find something to seal it with. I don’t want to lose a single drop of what’s inside.’
‘What is inside, sir?’ asked Schneider, who was holding Patras’s daughter-in-law and granddaughter. Even in the low light, Kroll noticed that he had wound his fingers into the woman’s long dark hair and was slowly stroking the strands.
‘Something that will make us very rich. All of us. Now listen. Gausmann, bring down the other men outside — I want the whole unit to hear this.’
‘What about the prisoners in the truck, sir?’ Gausmann asked.
‘Execute them. I know you have wanted to since we arrested them; now is your chance.’
Gausmann was surprised, but pleased, a cold grin crossing his face as he saluted. ‘Yes, sir.’ He hurried up the stairs.
‘If I may ask, sir,’ said Rasche, barely hiding his impatience, ‘what is this about?’
‘It’s about a long and rewarding life, Rasche,’ Kroll told him. He stepped down from the plinth and waited. Muffled gunshots soon came from above.
The prisoners flinched, the little girl beginning to cry. Schneider slid his fingers into her hair. ‘Hush now, little one,’ he said, giving her a snake-like smile. She buried her face against her mother’s neck.
The other troopers clattered into the shrine, gazing at the treasures with awe. ‘Oster, come on,’ said Kroll, waiting for the last straggler to enter. Then he stepped forward to address his men. ‘Attention!’ All those not holding the Patras family snapped upright. ‘I want everyone to listen very closely. You’ve all seen what this room contains. It’s full of treasure… and we are going to take it.’ Eyes widened in avaricious delight. ‘But the gold and silver and jewels are not the most valuable things here. The water in that jar,’ he gestured towards it, ‘is worth the most of all. I will explain why this is later, but for now, I need to make it clear that no one must know about this outside our unit. No one. You are either with me, or you leave now.’