Inferno: (Robert Langdon Book 4)

erected in Europe or the West. Being a replica of Justinian’s Basilica of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople, St. Mark’s was so eastern in style that guidebooks often suggested it as a viable alternative to visiting Turkish mosques, many of which were Byzantine cathedrals that had been turned into Muslim houses of worship.
    While Langdon would never consider St. Mark’s a stand-in for the spectacular mosques of Turkey, he did have to admit that one’s passion for Byzantine art could be satisfied with a visit to the secret suite of rooms just off the right transept in this church, in which was hidden the so-called Treasure of St. Mark—a glittering collection of 283 precious icons, jewels, and chalices acquired during the looting of Constantinople.
    Langdon was pleased to find the basilica relatively quiet this afternoon. There were still throngs of people, but at least there was room to maneuver. Weaving in and out of various groups, Langdon guided Ferris and Sienna toward the west window, where visitors could step outside and see the horses on the balcony. Despite Langdon’s confidence in their ability to identify the doge in question, he remained concerned about the step they’d have to take after that—locating the doge himself. His tomb?His statue? This would probably require some form of assistance, considering the hundreds of statues housed in the church proper, the lower crypt, and the domed tombs along the church’s north arm.
    Langdon spotted a young female docent giving a tour, and he politely interrupted her talk. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is Ettore Vio here this afternoon?”
    “Ettore Vio?” The woman gave Langdon an odd look. “Sì, certo, ma—” She stopped short, her eyes brightening. “Lei è Robert Langdon, vero?!” You’re Robert Langdon, aren’t you?
    Langdon smiled patiently. “ Sì, sono io. Is it possible to speak with Ettore?”
    “Sì, sì!” The woman motioned for her tour group to wait a moment and hurried off.
    Langdon and the museum’s curator, Ettore Vio, had once appeared together in a short documentary about the basilica, and they had kept in touch ever since. “Ettore wrote the book on this basilica,” Langdon explained to Sienna. “Several of them, actually.”
    Sienna still looked strangely unnerved by Ferris, who stayed close while Langdon led the group across the upper register toward the west window, from which the horses could be seen. As they reached the window, the stallions’ muscular hindquarters became visible in silhouette against the afternoon sun. Out on the balcony, wandering tourists enjoyed close contact with the horses as well as a spectacular panorama of St. Mark’s Square.
    “There they are!” Sienna exclaimed, moving toward the door that led to the balcony.
    “Not exactly,” Langdon said. “The horses we see on the balcony are actually just replicas. The real Horses of St. Mark’s are kept inside for safety and preservation.”
    Langdon guided Sienna and Ferris along a corridor toward a well-lit alcove where an identical grouping of four stallions appeared to be trotting toward them out of a backdrop of brick archways.
    Langdon motioned admiringly to the statues. “Here are the originals.”
    Every time Langdon saw these horses up close, he couldn’t help but marvel at the texture and detail of their musculature. Only intensifying the dramatic appearance of their rippling skin was the sumptuous, golden-green verdigris that entirely covered their surface. For Langdon, seeing these four stallions perfectly maintained despite their tumultuous past was always a reminder of the importance of preserving great art.
    “Their collars,” Sienna said, motioning to the decorative breast collars around their necks. “You said those were added? To cover the seam?”
    Langdon had told Sienna and Ferris about the strange “severed head” detail he had read about on the ARCA Web site.
    “Apparently, yes,” Langdon said, moving toward an informational placard posted nearby.
    “Roberto!” a friendly voice bellowed behind them. “You insult me!” Langdon turned to see Ettore Vio, a jovial-looking, white-haired man in a blue suit, with eyeglasses on a chain around his neck, pushing his way through the crowd. “You dare to come to my Venice and not call me?”
    Langdon smiled and shook the man’s hand. “I like to surprise you, Ettore. You look good. These are my friends Dr. Brooks and Dr. Ferris.”
    Ettore greeted them and then