The Charlemagne Pursuit by Steve Berry

shattered floor stones.
    They hadn’t known exactly where to excavate. The crypt had been sealed long ago with nothing to indicate the precise spot. The idea had been to hide its occupant from the coming Viking invasions, and the ploy worked. When the Normans sacked the chapel in 881, they found nothing. But von Lomello had mounted an exploratory mission before Otto’s arrival and had managed to isolate a promising location.
    Luckily, the count had been right.
    Otto had no time for mistakes.
    After all, it was an apocalyptic year, the first of a new millennium when many believed Christ would come in judgment.
    Workers busied themselves. Two bishops watched in silence. The tomb they were about to enter had not been opened since January 29, 814, the day on which the Most Serene Augustus Crowned by God the Great Peaceful Emperor, Governing the Roman Empire, King of the Franks and Lombards Through the Mercy of God, died. By then he was already wise beyond mortals, an inspirer of miracles, the protector of Jerusalem, a clairvoyant, a man of iron, a bishop of bishops. One poet proclaimed that no one would be nearer to the apostolic band than he. In life he’d been called Carolus. Magnus first became attached to his name in reference to his great height, but now indicated greatness. His French label, though, was the one used most commonly, a merger of Carolus and Magnus into a name presently uttered with heads bowed and voices low, as if speaking of God.
    Charlemagne.
    Workers drew back from the black yaw in the floor and von Lomello inspected their labor. A strange odor crept into the vestibule—sweet, musty, sickly. Otto had sniffed tainted meat, spoiled milk, and human waste. This waft was distinct. Like long ago. Air that had stood guard over things men were not meant to see.
    A torch was lit and one of the workmen stretched his arm into the hole. When the man nodded a wooden ladder was brought from outside.
    Today was the feast of the Pentecost, and earlier the chapel had been filled with worshipers. Otto was on pilgrimage. He’d just come from the tomb of his old friend Adalbert, bishop of Prague, buried at Gnesen, where, as emperor, he’d raised that city to the dignity of an archbishopric. Now he’d come to gaze at the mortal remains of Charlemagne.
    “I’ll go first,” Otto said to them.
    He was a mere twenty years old, a man of commanding height, the son of a German king and a Greek mother. Crowned Holy Roman Emperor at age three, he’d reigned under the guardianship of his mother for the first eight years and his grandmother for three more. The past six he’d ruled alone. His goal was to reestablish a Renovatio Imperii, a Christian Roman Empire, with Teutons, Latins, and Slavs all, as in the time of Charlemagne, under the common rule of emperor and pope. What lay below might help elevate that dream into reality.
    He stepped onto the ladder and von Lomello handed him a torch. Eight rungs passed before his eyes until his feet found hard earth. The air was bland and tepid, like that of a cave, the strange odor nearly overpowering, but he told himself that it was nothing more than the scent of power.
    The torch revealed a chamber sheathed in marble and mortar, similar in size to the vestibule above. Von Lomello and the two bishops descended the ladder.
    Then he saw.
    Beneath a canopy, Charlemagne waited upon a marble throne.
    The corpse was wrapped in purple and held a scepter in a gloved left hand. The king sat as a living person, one shoulder leaned against the throne, the head raised by a golden chain attached to the diadem. The face was covered by a sheer cloth. Decay was evident, but none of the limbs had fallen away save for the tip of his nose.
    Otto dropped to his knees in reverence. The others quickly joined him. He was entranced. He’d never expected such a sight. He’d heard tales but had never paid them much heed. Emperors needed legends.
    “It is said that a piece of the cross was laid in the