The Last Ember by Daniel Levin Read Free Book Online Page A

glasses and thinning dark hair, like iron filings, on his head. Despite the ornate woodwork of his throne, he resembled an overwhelmed bookkeeper.
    A legal assistant handed Jonathan a black gown like a judge’s robe, and a white doily cravat, a fiocco , for Jonathan to wear around his neck. It resembled something from a sketch of the seventeenth-century British House of Lords, and by the time Jonathan was done fidgeting with the fiocco , it looked like a lobster bib.
    “That’s the Cultural Ministry’s lawyer, Maurizio Fiorello,” Mildren said as Jonathan sat down at the counsel’s table. He pointed to a short man with windswept gray hair who was in the process of donning his lawyer’s robe over a rumpled suit and knit tie.
    “That’s Fiorello?” Jonathan said. Maurizio Fiorello was renowned in art-recovery circles for his ability to wrest art and antiquities from private collections and museums. From his reputation, Jonathan expected a more imposing courtroom presence. Then again, perhaps Fiorello’s ordinary appearance was a deliberate contrast to the aristocratic elegance of Tatton, and a reminder to the Italian magistrate of what the country’s antiquities squads were up against. The rivalry between Fiorello and Tatton went beyond appearance. Fiorello once called the Dulling partner the “American consigliere to the organized illicit relic trade.”
    “Silenzio!” a bailiff called out, and with the sound of a hand bell, the hearing was called to order. Without introduction, the magistrate picked up the papers before him. “Article Forty-four of the 1939 Italian patrimony law, prohibiting the unauthorized removal of historic objects from the Italian Republic. The Cultural Ministry has alleged that artifacts in the defendant’s collection belong to the State Archives. Is that correct, Signore Fiorello?”
    “That is correct, Magistrato .” Fiorello stood up, reviewing some final notes in his hands. He stepped toward the center of the courtroom and placed the notes down on a wooden lectern in front of the magistrate.
    “May I proceed to call our first witness to testify?”
    The magistrate nodded, leaning back in his chair.
    At the sound of her name, Emili rose from her seat beside Fiorello and settled into the banco dei testimoni . She removed her glasses and folded her hands. She looked composed and professional. Jonathan envisioned the last time he saw Emili alone. She was sitting on the edge of his single cot at the academy, naked from the waist up, smiling as she read him a stanza of Ovid’s erotic poetry in Latin.
    Jonathan held the bridge of his nose, taking scattered notes, trying to proceed as rationally as he could. “I can’t believe this,” he murmured.
    “Me neither,” Mildren snickered. “Bloody lucky testimony isn’t weighted by sex appeal, right?”
    “Would you please state your name and title?” Fiorello said.
    “Dr. Emili Travia,” she answered. “Deputy director of the International Centre for Conservation in Rome.”
    Fiorello’s direct examination of Dr. Travia developed a rhythm of question and answer, establishing her expertise—her Ph.D. at La Sapienza, her receipt of the Rome Prize, awarded to only one Italian biannually by the American Academy in Rome—her rise through the International Centre’s administrative ranks, from staff assistant to deputy director.
    Fiorello stepped away from the lectern, his line of questions turning to the events surrounding her team’s preservationist efforts in Jerusalem. He asked Dr. Travia to explain her team’s work on the ground to survey the Temple Mount.
    “In 2007 my team of preservationists from Rome arrived in Jerusalem to respond to allegations of archaeological destruction beneath the Temple Mount by the Waqf Authority.”
    “The Waqf Authority?” Fiorello said.
    “From Al Waqf, or literally ‘the preserve,’ the Waqf is a religious land trust that has administered the Temple Mount in Jerusalem since 1187. Our