“You mean you do not know where it is,” responded the Karik, sensing once again that the plans he had laid might be delayed, if not thwarted. He tried to consider what the Kolektor might have done in a similar situation. Fuming, he began to reconsider his long-suffering relationship with his too-often-fumbling servant.
“We know we are in the correct vicinity, but the details on the map don’t coincide with what we are seeing here,” replied the servant. “Our local guides have gotten us this far, but they can take us no further with this map.”
The Karik turned and surveyed the incredibly coarse texture of the mountainous terrain. Before him was a series of interconnected hills and slopes interspersed with cliffs and mountainous jags. Although the sky was clear blue, everything below it seemed to be a shade of gray. The air was filled with sand and pumice. Even after a mere one day of actual searching, the Karik and his men were miserable for the experience. The only thing remotely in the vicinity was the shell of an ancient Roman fortress. Some said the Italians had used the ruins as a base to guard the Gafsa Pass during World War II.
“Do you believe the woman you tortured to get the map deliberately obscured the final location to thwart us?” asked the Karik.
“Yes, Karik,” responded the man. “Either she did it deliberately, or she was out of her head with pain when she drew in these final details.”
“Fanatics!” said the Karik. “These Sicarii bear watching carefully. You tortured her to draw the map betraying her sisters and their secret order, but she has, in death, had the last laugh as we wander these mountains with a faulty map.”
“So it would seem, my Karik,” said the servant. “What are your orders?”
“Our water is almost finished,” observed the Karik after a few moments’ hesitation. “We have to go back to El Guettar for supplies. Leave three men with what water and provisions we have left. Give them one of the satellite phones. Their task will be to look for Dr. Lejeune and her colleagues. I suspect they will be along.”
“Perhaps it is good that they survived the crash,” ventured the servant.
“Don’t tempt my tolerance for your incompetence,” responded the Karik. “Only your honesty keeps you alive. I have so few I can trust.”
“Thank you, Karik,” responded Noosh.
“If you had gotten an accurate map, and if the doctor and her friends had perished, we would have our treasures by now,” railed the Karik. He paced back and forth, anxiously, knowing the Kolektor would have terminated the servant right then and there. But if he did that, what was he to do out in this wilderness without help? “As it is, we are reduced to scouring this godforsaken terrain looking for less than a needle in a haystack.”
“Forgive me, my Karik,” replied the servant. “It shall all be as you have decreed.”
CHAPTER 38
Cloe studied the town of El Guettar as they entered in the rented Land Rover. They had checked again with Captain Reynaud, but there was no news and thus nothing to do but continue with their urgent mission.
El Guettar was relatively small, somewhat primitive and isolated. Thib had written about it, a key venue of the World War II African campaign, in his final letter to her. Here the combined British/American forces under General George Patton and others had beaten the Afrika Korps led by Rommel. Germany had been defeated in North Africa right here, Cloe realized. Her father had been an important part of it.
She looked at J.E. and saw that he was as quiet as a church mouse, taking it all in as they drove slowly down the main street.
“Gosh, Mom, my grandfather was a hero here,” said J.E. solemnly, as if reading her mind. “Look at this terrain. A night drop into the mountains overlooking this pass would have been nearly impossible. Yet he made it in with all of his men intact and knocked out the Italian fortress in the mountains that was protecting the pass.”
“I have always known that what he did was very special, but being here and hearing you describe the details of what must have happened brings it all home,” replied Cloe, pushing a tear from the corner of her eye. “It makes me very proud of Thib and everything he did.”
“It wasn’t just special; it would have been amazing by any standard,” added J.E. “And to think, somewhere up there is Thib’s cave filled with artifacts. We’re gonna need some pretty good intel to find it. I suspect you could wander around for years in those mountains looking for it if you didn’t know pretty closely where it was.”
“The young sir is correct,” chimed in the monsignor. “We have to find a place to stay and then seek Speratus. That’s our clue. We should carefully reexamine our notes to make sure we have not missed anything.”
“Notes … oh my gosh,” said J.E., reaching into his bag. “I completely forgot. When I went to the front desk to check out in Tunis, there was an envelope for you, Mom. Sorry. Here it is.”
Cloe reached for the packet. It was a business-size envelope with the hotel’s name and logo on it, and her name and room number had been typed plainly on the front.
“Looks like it’s from the hotel,” said Father Sergio. “It might be some sort of survey or perhaps a corporate thank-you note.”
“You’re probably right,” she said. Just as she was disinterestedly turning the envelope over to open it, something caught her eye. Looking down the street, she saw a small open area filled with camels and men. There was a lot of commotion, with the men yelling and camels braying. “What is that?” she asked.
“Well, it looks like a good old-fashioned camel auction,” responded the monsignor, smiling.
As they passed, Cloe looked more closely. Sure enough, men were inspecting the camels and yelling bids, trying to attract the attention of the auctioneer. The whole place was filled with dust and noise.
“All good,” said Cloe, absently slipping the unopened envelope into her purse. “Let’s find a place to stay.”
***
As they drove down the central highway through the town, Cloe saw mainly one- and two-story residences interspersed with a few businesses. The homes were what Cloe thought of as early “biblical”—that is, constructed of handmade brick covered by plaster or something similar. Typically, the upper story was open, presumably due to the heat. She knew from J.E.’s research that El Guettar was chiefly distinguished by its pistachio crop—that and the fact that it had been for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years an oasis on the east–west journey of commercial caravans. El Guettar had no commercial airport and, as far as they had been able to determine, no hotels. The occasional pilgrim and pistachios seemed to be the order of the day.
“We may have some difficulty finding accommodations,” said the monsignor. “I suggest we stop at one of the shops and see if we can get a recommendation.”
After trying several of the pottery and souvenir shops, they finally found someone who spoke a bit of English. After much hand waving and yelling, they finally understood they were being directed to a nearby dwelling. It was considerably larger than those around it and had an interior courtyard for parking, which was accessed by means of a gate in the large exterior wall.
“Hey,” said J.E. as they drove into the parking area of the building, which surrounded the interior courtyard on three sides. “This is probably the oldest known tourist court motel.”
“Tourist court?” asked the monsignor with a puzzled look on his face.
“Yes,” said Cloe. “They were everywhere in the United States in the decades before and after World War II. They were mainly mom-and-pop motor hotels where you could drive in and get a cheap room for the night.”
“I see,” responded the cleric. “I guess in Europe we had bed and breakfasts before the great hotels were built.”
“Well, that certainly sounds a lot more charming,” observed Cloe.
Cloe noted that theirs was the only car in the courtyard. As they began to exit the vehicle, a small, much-tanned old man in an impeccably pressed white cotton suit appeared. This must be the proprietor, thought Cloe. She braced
for the communications problems that were sure to follow.
The old gentleman straightened his starched collar and tie, bowed from the waist, and said in perfect English, “Welcome to my humble lodging. My name is Achmed. How may I be of service?”
Cloe smiled brightly and said, “We are touring ruins in the mountains, and we need quarters for the night. Can you help us?”
“Most certainly,” replied Achmed. Their host clapped his hands together sharply, twice, and two boys sprang from the shadows at the edge of the courtyard and began unloading the group’s gear. “Follow me, if you please.”
He led them to a tiny lobby with a desk and an old-fashioned pen-and-ink registration book. They signed in, and he then escorted them to three separate but adjoining rooms on the second floor. Though small, they were clean and well kept. The furnishings were simple and obviously very old, but lovingly maintained. Treasured, thought Cloe. The bed in her room was draped in mosquito netting and had a wash basin with a pitcher of water and towels.
“Where’s the bath?” asked Cloe, noting J.E.’s amused smile.
“My apologies, madam,” said Achmed. “The bath is at the end of the hall, but you are our only guests. Our business generally picks up later in the year.”
“Thank you, Achmed; I’m sure these will do nicely,” replied Cloe.
“The evening meal draws near; please be my guests for dinner,” said Achmed, smiling. “El Guettar is mainly a farming and subsistence community. There is a definite lack of fine-dining options.”
Cloe looked at her son and the monsignor and read that they were as famished as she was. It had been a long day getting here. “Certainly,” she replied. “We would be delighted.”
“Excellent,” said Achmed. “Please join us on the roof after the evening prayer.”
Alone in her room, Cloe heard the solemn call to prayer drift throughout the community. She sighed at the peacefulness of the evening. Cloe considered everything they had been though to get here and finally felt a little at ease for the first time in a long time, even as she wondered whether the feeling would last.
CHAPTER 39
Cloe, J.E., and the monsignor climbed the sandstone steps to the roof of the three-story building. She knew the locals frequently took meals and indeed often slept on the roofs of these dwellings due to the heat. As they reached the top of the stairs and looked out, they were greeted by the sight of a rising moon of impossible size and deep orange color. Cloe stepped back in surprise and might have fallen back down the stairwell but for J.E. behind her. He grabbed her, and together they looked agape at the amazing sight.
As usual, the monsignor was clinical in his appreciation. “Extraordinary, how the light bends at the horizon in the heat of the evening at this latitude. This is what gives the moon the color and the optical illusion of larger-than-usual size.”
“How romantic,” said Cloe, smiling.
“Welcome, my friends,” cried Achmed from across the roof. The trio approached the table and saw it was a heavy wooden affair that had probably been assembled on the roof. That it had been there awhile was clear from the deep fissures in the chair arms, caused by the expansion and contraction of the wood during the heat of the day and the cool of the night. Still, the table and chairs were sturdy things and would likely be there for many more years.
The table was candlelit and covered with a beautiful linen tablecloth. It was the kind of cloth that families handed down generation after generation. Doubtless, it was kept in a special cabinet or trunk for the most special of guests.
“Achmed, my friends and I are greatly honored by your invitation and these special preparations,” said Cloe.
“Please, please, sit,” said Achmed, obviously delighted, offering his guests the seats with the most wonderful views.
Achmed sat at the head of the table, and the woman introduced as his wife sat next to him. Two young girls, whom Cloe took to be granddaughters, acted as servers. They stood silently awaiting the proper cue from the host.
“My friends, it is our custom to bless our food, but our culture recognizes different customs and blessings from other religions. Would any of you like to bless our meal as your tradition may dictate?” he asked.
The monsignor looked at both Cloe and J.E., and Cloe could tell he was trying to gauge their reaction.
“Achmed,” he said, “we all pray to the same One Spirit, and we would be pleased if you, our host, would bless our meal with the traditional Islamic grace.”
Achmed smiled, bowed his head, and said the brief blessing. He next made an almost imperceptible sign to the young girls, who then descended on the table with a variety of local foods. Homemade flat bread with goat cheese was served along with cups of lablabi, a thick soup of chickpeas and garlic. Cloe was so hungry, she thought she had never tasted anything better.
As they ate, they took turns introducing themselves and giving some background. Cloe talked about her position as a dead languages professor and her interest in ancient artifacts. After everyone had spoken, the host inquired, “Dr. Lejeune, we are indeed honored to have such a distinguished scholar here in our humble country. What ruins do you seek to study in Tunisia?”
Cloe looked at J.E. and at the monsignor, weighing their level of caution with Achmed, and said, “Achmed, we are interested in a Christian martyr of the first century. His name is Speratus. We think he may have come from around here. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Hmmm, Speratus … yes, yes,” he mused as the dishes were removed. “Certainly, I have heard of the legend of Speratus.”
The young servers were now presenting the main dish, a couscous spiced with lamb and fresh vegetables. The conversation paused as everyone dug into the wonderful entrée.
“I believe couscous is something of a national food in Tunisia,” suggested the monsignor.
“Quite right,” replied Achmed. “For hundreds if not thousands of years, it has been a core food here. My thanks to my lovely and thoughtful wife for this kindness.”
“Here, here!” exclaimed the diners all around the table, expressing their appreciation. Even in the moonlight, Cloe could see the wife of Achmed blush with happiness.
“Delightful,” said Achmed. “Our couscous is prepared using a special two-chambered utensil, where the couscous is cooked in the upper chamber and the vegetables and meat in the lower chamber.”
“Sounds like a thousand-year-old crock pot,” said J.E. with a laugh.
“What is this crock pot?” asked Achmed, smiling, sensing a joke.
“Nothing, my friend,” said the monsignor. “Let’s get back to Speratus. What do you know of him?”
“Well, as you say, he was a first-century martyr of the Christian faith. He was the leader of the Scillium martyrs who were beheaded by the Romans for refusing to deny their faith. Although they were Christians, Tunisians have always respected and honored persons of such resolve in their faith.”
“What do you know of Scillium? Is it located near here?” asked Cloe.
“There is little to be known of it. If it was ever a real location, it cannot now be found in this area,” replied Achmed.
“But our research reveals Speratus was some sort of teacher, a professor, in Scillium,” said J.E.
“This is all possible, but in the two thousand years since, the location of Scillium, if it ever existed as such, has been lost,” replied Achmed. “It may have been another village or a portion of a town or city or something where the name has simply been corrupted. I cannot help you with that.”
“Well, that can’t be too surprising,” said J.E. “In less than four hundred years we have lost the location of one of our earliest settlements, Roanoke.”
“Okay, but you have heard of Speratus,” summarized Cloe. “It’s just that the location of Scillium is not known.”
“That is correct,” replied Achmed.
“Well, we have come to know that Speratus was buried in Lyon, France, and we have reason to believe he may be a clue to
the ruins we would like to study,” said the monsignor.
Achmed paused and looked at his guests. After a bit he said, “You may continue your story as you wish, but I will tell you two things that are true. The first is that I don’t know much more about Speratus than I have told you, but I know who does know more about him.”
At that point, the servers brought coffee and removed the dishes from the main course. The moon had risen, losing its abnormal size and returning to its usual color. Cloe sipped the brew and found it strong and full of flavor.
“And the second thing?” pressed the monsignor.
“The second thing … yes,” said the old man. “The second thing is, most assuredly, Speratus is not buried in Lyon, France.”
CHAPTER 40
“He could not be in Lyon,” said Achmed. “The legend of Speratus has forever been that he rests in the Atlas Mountains above El Guettar.”
“We did not actually see his remains in Lyon,” said J.E., pondering the information. “We left that for the forensic scientists of the Church, which we notified of the discovery before we left.”
“If he is not interred in Lyon, this gives more credence to the theory that the inscription we found was intended as a message,” said the monsignor.
Cloe saw a shadow cross Achmed’s face, and she wondered if they had said too much.
“Pardon,” said Achmed, “I do not wish to be forward. Although we have visitors who seek various objectives here and in the mountains, we do not have many who inquire about Speratus.”
“We believe Speratus may have some connection with ruins we wish to tour,” said Cloe vaguely.
“Very well; it is your business,” responded Achmed. “He is buried in the mountains above our city.”
“But where in the Atlas Mountains is he then?” asked J.E.
“I cannot say for sure, but I can tell you who might know,” replied Achmed.
Cloe turned to Achmed, studying him carefully, and said, “Anything you can tell us that might help would be so appreciated.”
The Last Sicarius Page 12