City of Swords (9 page)

She grabbed the cash box on the way out.

Chapter 16

Annja passed the taxi stand and got on the public bus after landing at the airport in Burgos. The Spanish city was colorful, and she took it in as she watched people get on and off at the stops: Belorado, Segovia, Avenida de Castilla y León, San Roque. She stepped off at Glorieta de Logroño, as it was the closest to the hotel she’d booked.

She’d never been to Burgos before, but she’d done her research. It had less than two hundred thousand residents and was a principal city in the northern part of the country. If she could manage it, she hoped to take in the cathedral of Burgos, Cartuja de Miraflores and Huelgas Reales Monastery while she was here. And she intended to visit the new Museum of Human Evolution, expected to become one of the most-visited museums in the country. She might as well see something more than the inside of an auction house.

Annja left her suitcase at the hotel and took off shopping. She needed something appropriate for tonight’s event, and nothing she’d brought to France for her shoot would do. After the fight at the train station in Paris, the cocktail dress needed some repairs. This “vacation” was getting expensive.

She started with a pair of bronze leather shoes, four-inch heels designed by Sergio Zelcer: the equivalent of two hundred American dollars. The dress, one of Cristóbal Balenciaga’s designs, was four times that amount…on sale. It was a soft print of buttery shades with dark brown accents. Annja didn’t need to be extravagant, but others at the auction would be wealthy, and she had the role of a well-to-do American television personality to play.

A ballroom near the civic center had been set up for the affair, with high-backed velvet chairs arranged around the stage near the center. Annja managed to get in by plying her celebrity status, and the attendant at the door gave her a paddle with a number on it. She was guest 181, but didn’t care about the other one hundred seventy-nine—she was looking for only one name on the list. Archard Gihon, the man who had purchased the rare Japanese sword. But the attendant held the sheet too closely for Annja to see more than a few names on it, none of which she recognized. She selected a seat toward the back, where she could get a good view of the people trickling in.

She’d discovered that most of the bidders would be from various parts of Spain, with others invited from France, England, Sweden and the United States. They made an elegant crowd in their tuxedos and designer dresses, with a smattering of mink wraps thrown in. The majority were in their sixties, Annja observed.

A waiter moved through the aisles, offering white wine and champagne. She took a glass and pretended to sip at it, eyeing people over the rim.

“Bidding is to be in euros,” an owl-faced man in a burgundy tuxedo announced as he strode to the podium. “But accommodation will be made for those preferring to deal with pesetas.”

Another waiter came by with more drinks, but Annja nodded him politely on his way. Alcohol clearly loosened purse strings.

“Lot number one is an oil painting from the Cuzco School,” the auctioneer began in Spanish. A man to his right repeated everything in English. “Spectacular in its condition.” It featured cherubs placing a gilded crown on Mary.

Annja’s attention drifted from the rest of the auctioneer’s description. She concentrated on the people who continued to dribble in. She was glad she’d spent the money on her new clothes; the designer outfit helped her blend in.

There didn’t seem to be a particular theme to this auction. Every kind of object was being put up for sale, mostly from museums that were cleaning out their displays, the announcement had read. Making room for more acquisitions and raising funds for renovations.

Next up was something fairly recent: a twentieth-century bronze garniture and candelabras, gaudy and gold and pulling in only a few hundred euros. It was followed by a set of French commodes, which set an elderly woman in the third row to tittering. Her companion bid the toilets up to four hundred eighty thousand pesetas—three thousand euros—before the auctioneer gaveled it
vendido,
sold.

A variety of French furniture came next, and Annja saw that a few French bidders—one who ran a string of hotels, she heard whispered—competed. Antique tables and chairs, consoles, sofas. She shifted in her chair, half bored, half anxious, picking up a few names here and there when the auctioneer identified the bidders. No Archard. If this was all for nothing… Annja gritted her teeth.

Wall hangings, antique mirrors, tapestries, sketches and watercolors were paraded before the guests, not a piece going unsold.

“¿Por que estás aqui?”
The man next to Annja leaned over. He was in his late forties, tanned and solidly built.

“Espadas,”
Annja answered. “I am interested in the swords.”

His eyes widened. “Ah, American?” he said quietly. “You are the American television archaeologist. Miguel said you had asked to attend. I am Fernando.” He extended his hand, and she took it, feeling calluses that didn’t suit his refined attire. “I dabble in digging, a hobby.”

His smile was warm and beautiful. “Pleased to meet you,” she murmured.

“Shh!” A reed-thin man in front of them drew his finger to his lips.

Sorry,
she mouthed.

Bidding was heated for a selection of fifteenth-
century Spanish pottery and Alcora ceramics. Conversely, an array of nineteenth-century glass pieces, including two
boules d’escalier,
went for very little.

Among the odder pieces were a child’s “rocking boat” that dated to 1910, a pair of mid-eighteenth-
century Spanish fauteuils with provenance, an art deco bronze lantern and a set of Royal Doulton tobacco jars from 1900.

“For those with military interest,” the auctioneer’s translator said next.

Annja sat up, glancing around the room.

“Now we will get to your swords, yes?” Fernando said. “Perhaps you will let me buy one for you?”

“Shh!”

Annja was glad the reed-thin man kept him from saying anything else.

“First up is this German breastplate circa 1580.” It was pitted, as if it had taken a lot of blows in battle. It went for three thousand euros. Annja doubted it was worth nearly that much, especially in that condition, but the bidder had been enjoying several glasses of wine.

“A sixteenth-century sailor’s knife,” the auctioneer’s translator continued. “Fine condition, if simple. See how it is pierced so it can fold, yet it could also function as a deckhand’s tool.” It brought only one hundred euros. Annja nearly raised her paddle, knowing it was a very good price and thinking she could donate it to a museum in New York. But better to not draw attention.

She took another sip of her wine, waving away a waiter who came to offer her a fresh glass.

The next item came with a lengthy explanation. The more elaborate the presentation, the higher the bids tended to range.

“In the second half of the nineteenth century, change swept throughout the world,” the translator droned. “Industries, including for Toledo etched cutlery, came to the fore and brought out a renewed interest in arms and armor. Some artisans rendered masterpieces that rivaled the sword makers of the Renaissance. Anton Konrad of Munich, Germany, was one such designer. We have for your bidding pleasure one of his more noted works.”

Annja leaned closer to Fernando so she could see between the people in front of them. It was a broadsword from the sixteenth century. A monitor overhead magnified the lavish embellishment of mulberry motifs in relief. She put it at a little more than three feet long.

“Would you like that one?” Fernando whispered, drawing another quiet reprimand.

Annja shook her head. A portly man named Javier won the bid at sixteen thousand euros.

Another sword was brought out, a rapier with shell guards etched with classical figures and foliage in a Brescian pattern. The work ended in fleur-de-lis motifs on the guard’s quadrants.

“This blade is Spanish,” the translator said. “Signed by Francisco Ruiz. From 1650.”

Bidding closed at one hundred forty thousand euros.

“Ah, Miss Creed, I fear this next sword is beyond even my price range,” Fernando said.

“I present a sword of El Cid,” the translator proclaimed. The auctioneer launched into a lengthy explanation, reading from a series of cards.

“Rodrigo Diaz de Vivar, better known to the world as El Cid, was born into a small village not very far from Burgos. A knight, a warrior, educated and brave, he was the right hand of Don Sancho and fought battles in Zaragoza, Zamora and Coimbra. He was exiled in 1081 from Castille, but returned to Burgos six years later. He was exiled again in 1089.”

A handful of bidders got up to leave, including the couple who had purchased the collection of French commodes.

“El Cid is credited with furthering the Christian religion. He surrounded himself with poets, living magnificently in Valencia.”

The sword was brought out to a subdued murmur of appreciation.

“On the tenth of July, 1099, El Cid passed from the world, and the Christian community mourned him. He is buried in the cathedral in Castille. One of his swords is here today.”

A blade that was more a work of art than a weapon was placed on a table covered in dark red velvet.

“Tizona,” the auctioneer said. “A sword important enough to have a name.”

Annja wondered if her own sword was named.

“In the poem
El Cantar de Mio Cid,
we learn that the sword Tizona frightens unworthy opponents. It is said to have a divine power. Though forged in Córdoba, it has Damascus steel in its blade and bears two inscriptions. The first reads
‘Io soi Tisona fue fecha en la era de mil e quarenta.’
‘I am Tizona…’”

Annja lost the rest of what he said when she heard someone whisper, “Archard.” She looked for the speaker.

“The second inscription reads
‘Ave Maria, gratia plena. Dominus tecum,’
which is Latin for ‘Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with you.’ We will start the bidding at five hundred thousand euros.”

Fernando stretched an arm behind Annja, and she got up and moved to the back of the room near the door, leaving him openmouthed and staring after her. She stood next to the attendant who had checked people off the guest list. She studied each man who raised his paddle and bid.

“One million euros.”

The auctioneer nodded and then announced, “One million euros to Archard Gihon of Paris.” She saw
him then.

“Do you know this Archard Gihon?” she whispered to the attendant.

He shook his head. “First auction I have seen him at. I understand he and his associate are collectors of antique weapons. They requested invitations.”

“They?”

The attendant sighed. “A professor Charles Lawton of Rouen.”

“One-point-five million euros to William Sandoval,” the auctioneer announced.

“A professor?” Annja pressed. The monk in Avignon said a “doctor” had offered money for Roland’s sword. Dr. Lawton?

“I do not know what he teaches.”

She could tell he was tall, judging by how he sat in the chair. Gray tuxedo jacket, long white hair pulled back in a ponytail. She couldn’t see his face, Archard’s, either, but she would. They would have to walk by her to leave the room. She thought about bidding against them….

“Two million euros to Archard Gihon,” the auctioneer announced.

It was far too rich for her.

Bidding continued in incremental jumps of a hundred thousand.

Fernando craned his neck around, saw her and winked. She pretended not to see him. Annja figured he knew better than to raise his hand, lest the auctioneer take it as a bid.

“Two million five hundred thousand euros.”

There were small waves of hushed chatter. Everyone in this room was rich, but apparently even by wealthy standards this was getting a little pricey for one piece.

“Three million euros.”

The attendant leaned close. “It has now exceeded anticipated figures. The museum was reluctant to put it up, but they will be quite pleased.”

“Four million euros to Archard Gihon.”

The room fell silent. Four million euros for one sword. Annja held her breath.

“Vendido!”
Polite applause followed the signal of the sale.

Another small table was brought out, filled with an assortment of jewelry, with a large tiara sparkling in the light. Annja ignored the spiel and the starting bids. Her full attention was on Archard Gihon and Dr. Charles Lawton, who had gotten up from their seats and were bent over a desk at the side of the room, no doubt making arrangements to pay for Tizona. There was a door nearby, and for a moment Annja was fearful they would slip out before she could catch up.

But they headed down the far aisle toward the back of the room, where she was standing. She decided she would follow them out, rehearsing how she would introduce herself.

They stopped directly in front of her.

“Annja Creed.” Archard took her hand, bowing and lightly kissing the back of it. “I am Archard Gihon, and this is—”

“Professor Charles Lawton,” the other man said. His voice was rich and melodic, and Annja studied his striking features. There was something vaguely familiar about him. “Good to finally meet you, Miss Creed.” His French accent was heavy, but he spoke perfect English. “I have heard a great deal about the famous American archaeologist.”

“Ah, she is from…” Archard pursed his lips, as if searching his thoughts. “Ah…the program called
Chasing History’s Monsters
.” He gestured for her to precede them. “Shall we? So we don’t disrupt the others?”

She stepped outside, and they joined her after saying farewell to the attendant.

“What brings you to Spain, Miss Creed?” Archard asked. “And what brings you to this auction?”

Annja met his gaze. His emotions were unreadable. He remained politely detached. She looked at Dr. Lawton, who appeared to be studying her.

“Actually, I came looking for you,” she said. “Both of you.”

Dr. Lawton clapped his hands. “Excellent,” he said. “A coincidence, Miss Creed, as I have been searching for you, too.”