The Last Ember by Daniel Levin Page B

the Bible. The manuscript pages we found in the warehouse”—Profeta pointed at the screen—“were each torn out of priceless editions of Josephus, ranging from medieval manuscripts to Renaissance folios. All from different scribes, different centuries, and different languages, but they are all translations of the same first-century historian. It’s as if they were comparing versions transcribed across the centuries to find something inside the text.”
    Profeta paused a moment, surveying the room.
    “And if our targets are researching the ancient historian Flavius Josephus . . .”
    The officers knew the commandant’s method well enough to chorus, “Then so must we.”
    Profeta turned his attention back to the manuscripts on the screen. “What else do we know of this ancient author?”
    “Sorcio!” Brandisi said, inviting much-needed laughter into the room. Rat , a term unique to the organized crime families that the carabinieri battled in the rougher patches of Torre del Greco, outside Naples.
    “A turncoat.” Profeta nodded. “That’s the popular view. Josephus’s swift rise from prisoner of war to Roman citizen suggests a deal greased during his capture. Even more mysterious are the circumstances of Josephus’s surrender described in this manuscript page on the screen.”
    “You mean when all the other soldiers in Josephus’s battalion chose suicide over capture?” asked Brandisi.
    “Precisely,” said Profeta. “Imagine that Josephus was a general, leading his troops to stop the Roman advance toward Jerusalem. But when Roman forces outflanked his platoon, Josephus and his men were surrounded. The men under his command threatened to kill him if he surrendered. So Josephus suggested a mass suicide pact: pick lots to determine who would kill the next man and the one after, and so on.” Profeta pointed at the slide, running his laser pointer beneath each line, translating the text as he read:
    “Murder me,” Flavius Josephus said, “but let us first draw lots and kill each other in turn. Whoever draws the first lot shall be dispatched by number two, and so on down the whole line as luck decides . . .” Without hesitation each man offered his throat for the next man to cut. But Josephus—shall we put it down to divine providence or just to luck?—was left alive. . . .
    “And here lies the heart of the mystery of Flavius Josephus,” Profeta said. “How was he left the last man alive?”
    “Reminds me of the Josephus problem in computer science,” said Profeta’s technology director, Lieutenant Lori Copia, a woman at the long table’s far side.
    “The Josephus problem?” Profeta asked.
    “A security dilemma in computer database protection. Most firewalls are built to secure a digital perimeter by eliminating unauthorized codes. The Josephus problem arises when an unauthorized code detects the firewall’s pattern of elimination, and can constantly avoid being eliminated each time.”
    Profeta grinned. “The modern term goes to the center of the historical controversy of Josephus. How did Josephus keep drawing the right lots? The original Josephus problem.”
    The projector’s screen whirred upward, and the room’s dimmers gently returned the lights to normal.
    “Speaking of technology, Copia, any information from the smashed computers at the warehouse?”
    “Still searching, Comandante. We managed to retrieve only one of the computers before the explosion. It had an Arabic keyboard. We are running ninhydrin tests for prints.”
    “Hard drives?”
    “There are a few intact sections of the hard drive. Likelihood of recovering anything is slim.”
    “Next, Brandisi. Have we found any activity along the pier near the warehouse? Witnesses?”
    “Not a soul, Comandante . Last reported activity on the pier was a preservation project months ago. A third-century Roman watchtower, a small circular structure adjacent to the warehouse.”
    “Next, Rufio, forensics?” Profeta said, but then