Map of Bones by James Rollins Read Free Book Online Page A

bedside table, oiled and polished, a relic stolen from a border guard during her family’s flight. There was no knitting booties for that old woman.
    “It’s just up ahead,” the professor said. She splashed forward toward a glowing doorway. “My students are keeping watch on the site.”
    Rachel proceeded after her guide, reached the low doorway, and ducked through. She straightened into a cavelike room. Illuminated by carbide lanterns and flashlights, the vault of the roof arched overhead, constructed of hewn blocks of volcanic tufa sealed crudely with plaster. A man-made grotto. Plainly a Roman temple.
    As Rachel waded into the room, she was all too conscious of the weight of the basilica overhead. Dedicated to Saint Clement in the twelfth century, the church had been built over an earlier basilica, one constructed back in the fourth century. But even this ancient church hid a deeper mystery: the ruins of a first-century courtyard of Roman buildings, including this pagan temple. Such overbuilding was not uncommon, one religion burying another, a stratification of Roman history.
    Rachel felt a familiar thrill course through her, sensing the press of time as solidly as the weight of stone. Though one century buried another, it was still here. Mankind’s earliest history preserved in stone and silence. Here was a cathedral as rich as the one above.
    “These are my two students from the university,” the professor said. “Tia and Roberto.”
    In the semidarkness, Rachel followed the professor’s gaze and looked down, discovering the crouching forms of the young man and woman, both dark haired and similarly attired in soiled coveralls. They had been tagging bits of broken pottery and now rose to greet them. Still grasping her shoes in one hand, Rachel shook their hands. While of university age, the two appeared no older than fifteen. Then again, maybe it was because she’d just celebrated her thirtieth birthday, and everyone seemed to be growing younger except her.
    “Over here,” the professor said, and led Rachel to an alcove in the far wall. “The thieves must have struck during last night’s storm.”
    Professor Giovanna pointed her flashlight at a marble figure standing in a far niche. It stood a meter tall—or would have if the head weren’t missing. All that remained was a torso, legs, and a protruding stone phallus. A Roman fertility god.
    The professor shook her head. “A tragedy. It was the only piece of intact statuary discovered here.”
    Rachel understood the woman’s frustration. Reaching out, she ran her free hand over the stump of the statue’s neck. Her fingers felt a familiar roughness. “Hacksaw,” she mumbled.
    It was the tool of the modern-day graverobber, easy to conceal and wield. With just such a simple instrument, thieves had stolen, damaged, and vandalized artwork across Rome. It took only moments for the theft to occur, done many times in plain sight, often while a curator’s back was turned. And the reward was well worth the risk. Trafficking in stolen antiquities had proved a lucrative business, surpassed only by narcotics, money laundering, and arms dealing. As such, the military had formed the Comando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale, the Cultural Heritage Police, back in 1992. Working alongside Interpol, they sought to stem this tide.
    Rachel crouched before the statue and felt a familiar burn in the pit of her stomach. By bits and pieces, Roman history was being erased. It was a crime against time itself.
    “Ars longa, vita brevis,” she whispered, a quote from Hippocrates. One of her favorites. Life is short, art eternal.
    “Indeed,” the professor said in a pained voice. “It was a magnificent find. The chisel work, the fine detail, the work of a master artisan. To mar it so savagely…”
    “Why didn’t the bastards just steal the whole statue?” asked Tia. “At least it would’ve been preserved intact.”
    Rachel tapped the statue’s phallic