The Last Sicarius

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  Achmed smiled and said, “In El Guettar, as I have said, the people respect the martyrs no matter whether they were Christian, Muslim, or otherwise. Indeed, on your way into town, you passed a wooded area known as the Jardin des Martyrs. There, you will find a man named Kais. He is the curator of the garden and is a Muslim holy man. He may be able to help you.”

  “Thank you so much for your hospitality and this information,” replied Cloe, pushing her chair back and standing.

  “I only hope you will find what you seek,” finished Achmed.

  ***

  Later in her room, Cloe pondered his last words: “find what you seek,” the inverse of the very clue that had driven them to Tunisia: “seek and you shall find.” She wondered whether somehow this was a clue within a clue, or was it merely a random remark? Could Achmed know more than he was telling them? And if so, why had he held back? As she prepared for bed, she took the cosmetics she had purchased at the hotel out of her purse, and the message from the hotel fell out. Cloe picked it up and turned it over. She slipped her finger under the seal and broke open the envelope. A single sheet of unlined paper slipped out. Cloe unfolded the message and saw that it was not a survey, nor was it from the hotel.

  She read it over quickly and then started over slowly.

  Dearest Cloe,

  From your reaction at our good-bye, I know two things. You are aware that I was not completely honest with you. Although it was not a good start on my behalf, nothing was what I expected. I apologize for this and can only say there is an explanation. The second thing is I never thought I could care about another person, but you showed me it is possible. Can you understand that I was dead and now I’m alive again? You brought this to me. Let me talk to you.

  Michael

  Cloe sat for a long time rereading the letter. She knew she too had been emotionally dead for a long time, before coming back to Madisonville to bury her father, after which she had ended up rediscovering her faith, her roots, and meaning in her life. She had felt reborn. Michael’s words hit a chord with her. In this way, they were kindred spirits.

  If his words are true, she reminded herself. She had been swept away once, and she vowed this would not happen again. She was much too sensible for this sort of thing. Still, she studied the note. The date and time were inscribed at the top. It had been written and, apparently, delivered to the front desk early this morning shortly before they had left. Why hadn’t he called her room? Probably off to something or someone else, she thought. But somehow that didn’t seem right. Maybe he had tried to call, but after they had left. She had no answers.

  Cloe sat on the mosquito-netted bed and looked at the note. The only thing she knew for sure was that she had a mystery to solve and a cave to find. Perhaps this was just some romantic BS that she was not used to. Still …

  CHAPTER 41

  Cloe heard a seemingly faraway knocking. She turned in the bed, annoyed, and then started becoming angry.

  “Cloe … signorina?” called the monsignor as he continued rapping on the door. “Are you all right?”

  Cloe slowly opened her eyes but could not immediately make out her surroundings. She looked around tentatively and then recognized her room in Achmed’s bed and breakfast. Had she overslept again? She could almost hear her long-dead mother chiding her to get up: “You’re burning daylight, Clotile.”

  “Give me a moment, Albert,” she replied. She had been dead asleep. As she began to sit up, Michael’s note rolled out of her hand. She must have been reading it when she crashed. Now what? she wondered.

  “Cloe, it’s midmorning,” the monsignor said through the door. “You said you wanted to get an early start.”

  “Yes, yes, Albert, I’ll be down in twenty minutes,” she replied.

  Still feeling groggy, Cloe went to the basin and began to wash. What in the world was she to make of the note from Michael? And what about Achmed? She was unsure of whether he was friend or potential foe. He seemed warm and helpful, but was he even now looking for an opportunity to sell them out? Perhaps they needed to be more circumspect in their inquiries. Cloe wondered whether she had reached the point where everyone appeared to be against them.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, she met J.E. and the monsignor in the small parlor in the lodge. Achmed’s wife had put together some bread, fruit, and fried couscous for breakfast. She ate and drank the wonderful black coffee. Only then did she really begin to come out of the fog she knew she had been in because of Michael’s note. Even so, the note was so personal that she did not want to talk about it yet.

  “All right,” she began, turning to J.E. and the monsignor, “what do we know, and where shall we begin?”

  J.E. said, “I think we start with the Garden of Martyrs and the holy man, Kais. We should see what he knows.”

  “Agreed,” responded Cloe.

  “Cloe, before we go, you should know something else has happened this morning, which is partially why I thought to disturb you,” said the monsignor.

  Cloe’s gut clenched as she absorbed this, afraid she was about to hear more bad news or learn about some other challenge to their quest. “What is it, Albert?” she asked in a whisper.

  “As you know, our cell phones are virtually worthless here, and the coverage is spotty, at best, for the satellite phone,” said the monsignor.

  “Yes,” responded Cloe hesitantly.

  “Well, even so, I was able to make contact with the Vatican intelligence center, our special ops center, this morning,” replied the monsignor.

  Cloe, not in the best of moods to begin with, was starting to lose patience. “Albert, for God’s sake, what calamity has overtaken us now? Out with it!” she exclaimed.

  “Calamity?” he responded. “No, it’s not that. We have learned that some people have been pulled from the sea not too far from where our plane crashed.”

  “Oh my God!” Cloe almost screamed in delight and relief. “How can it be? What happened? Is it our friends? Father Sergio?”

  “We don’t know anything more than this. Some people, number unknown, were found earlier today, adrift, clinging to some wreckage,” replied the monsignor. “We do not have any news of identification yet.”

  “It has to be them!” declared J.E.

  “Or not,” replied the monsignor.

  “What we do know is, whoever they are, they all have injuries of various types and degrees, ranging from broken bones to exposure from being on the open sea,” said the monsignor. “Even so, special ops believes they will all survive. All are in a hospital in Tunis and are being well cared for. We should know who they are within a few hours.”

  “If they are our people, it’s a miracle,” said Cloe. “The way the tail of the plane broke off, I can’t believe anyone could have survived.”

  “Perhaps it is a miracle and God’s will,” said the monsignor. “We will soon know.”

  Cloe’s heart lifted with hope. “God is good,” she said at last.

  CHAPTER 42

  As they approached the Garden of Martyrs, Cloe reflected on the possible rescue of their friends. Her spirits were very high, and she was beginning once again to be excited about their search for the cave. No matter what, it seemed, they would somehow prevail.

  They entered the parking area of the garden and pulled up close to a low, flat-roofed building typical of the others in the city. The difference was the greenery that made up the gardens. It was lush with cedars and ferns. Here and there, even from the parking area, they could also spot date trees and lemon bushes. A water source must have been engineered for irrigation.

  They entered the building, which appeared to be deserted. “Hello,” called Cloe, but there was no answer.

  After a bit they went outside to the rear and into the garden. The silence was like a veil covering this cherished place and protecting it from the intrusions of the outside world. The atmosphere was truly holy.

  Wandering through the garden, they found a number of alcoves where plaque
s had been dedicated to people who had died for their faiths. Although most were Muslim, a few were Christian. Here and there, one or two people were studying the inscriptions or lighting candles or incense in honor of the dead.

  Finally, they came upon an old gentleman dressed in traditional robes who was working the soil in one of the martyr’s niches.

  “Good morning, teacher,” said the monsignor. “Are you Kais?”

  The man paused, seemingly pleased, wiped the sweat from his brow, and said, “I am. May I know who inquires?” he responded.

  “Ah, learned sir,” added Cloe, “we are pilgrims in search of the burial place of one of the martyrs. Our new friend, Achmed, has sent us to you.”

  “Achmed, that old fool,” responded the holy man with a smile. “With what nonsense has he filled your heads?”

  “Only that if anyone might know the burial place of Speratus, it is Kais of the Jardin des Martyrs,” said Cloe. “Did Achmed speak incorrectly?”

  “Achmed often speaks incorrectly, but he has a good heart. Why do you seek this obscure Speratus, who has been dead some eighteen hundred years?” asked Kais.

  Cloe was ready for this and said, “Our work caused us to excavate hidden areas of the Church of St. John in Lyon, France, and we found indications that Speratus was interred there in the church. This seemed strange, so we seek the truth.”

  “Well, whatever you found was false if it said Speratus was buried in France,” replied the holy man as he lifted his gaze toward the distant mountains. “Speratus lies there, in the Atlas Mountains. There is no doubt.”

  Cloe looked at J.E. and the monsignor and pressed a little further. “Sir, may we be allowed to ask you more about this? It’s quite important.”

  “Certainly,” the old man replied, his strong voice belying his apparent age. “It is time for my tea. Would you be my guests?”

  Rather than return to the house, he led them deeper into the garden. In a few minutes, they reached a tiny clearing, the focal point of which was a small spring. It bubbled up into a fountain, which then disbursed the water through a series of pipes and drains. A copper pot of water was warming over a bed of coals next to the water source. A delightful breeze swept through the clearing.

  “Please, be my guests,” said Kais, motioning for them to be seated on the blanket that had been laid next to the fountain. He sat cross-legged adjacent to the small fire that was heating the water. The whole effect was like a Bedouin campsite in the desert.

  “Kais, if I may, I’d like to make introductions,” said Cloe, proceeding to explain who she, J.E., and the monsignor were.

  “I am indeed honored to be in the company of a distinguished languages professor and her son, not to mention an esteemed representative of the Vatican,” responded Kais. “It certainly excites my curiosity as to how you came to be here and, more importantly, why.”

  Cloe thought about this and felt like she was about to be boxed in as she had been with Achmed. She didn’t want to lie to this man but felt cautious about revealing the full truth.

  The small kettle began to boil, and Kais removed it from the heat. He opened the top and from a small box beside him took out what appeared to be a metal egg. The egg had numerous minute holes in it. He added several small spoons of tea to the egg and then let it slip into the heated water, holding it by a tiny chain. As the tea steeped, he set out four small clear glasses.

  “Perhaps, my friends, we should start again,” said the holy man, looking back at Cloe and the others. “I may live in a small, rural community in a mountain pass, but I’m hesitant to believe that such an august group has come here to confirm Speratus is or is not buried in Lyon. As you know, forensics and carbon dating could make this determination without you lifting a finger. Why do you seek Speratus?”

  The monsignor, J.E., and Cloe all looked in amazement at each other.

  “Well, it’s not exactly Speratus we’re looking for,” said J.E. “However, finding him may lead us to our destination.”

  “More riddles, young sir?” asked the old man pleasantly. “My experience and intuition tell me you may be treasure hunters, perhaps even seeking the Cave of the Sicarii itself? Do you think you are the first? There have been many, many expeditions seeking relics and other treasures that are reputedly buried in the mountains. One such expedition, apparently looking for the cave, left here just three days ago.”

  Cloe’s mouth fell open at Kais’s revelations. She had thought they were being so circumspect, but of course, the holy man had to be correct. El Guettar did not get that many visitors, and certainly some would be looking for the cave or other treasures that might be hidden in the mountains.

  “Our apologies for the deception, and yes, we seek the Cave of the Sicarii,” responded Cloe directly.

  “Then you have wasted your time,” said the holy man.

  “Why?” asked J.E. “Has it been found by this other group?”

  “Certainly not,” replied Kais. “Even now the bulk of that expedition is on its way back here to resupply. They have found nothing.”

  “Then why are we wasting our time?” pressed Cloe.

  “Because,” said the holy man, “the Cave of the Sicarii is like your El Dorado, a myth … it does not exist.”

  CHAPTER 43

  A myth? Cloe asked herself. She knew something, at last, that the old man did not know. Her father had fallen into the cave during World War II and had brought back a jar containing evidence of the cave. The old man did not know that. He did not know about Jerusalem or Hakeldama, and he did not know about the Kolektor. She had herself been with the Sicarii. She knew many things the holy man did not know.

  “Perhaps you are correct,” she said, aware that she could not tell him what she knew. “But we have a map, and the burial place of Speratus is an important landmark.”

  “A map,” said the old man with a chuckle. “There have been many maps. Indeed, the hunters who are up there now have a map. Their map is useless. Your map is useless. There is no cave.”

  “All right,” said the monsignor, picking up on Cloe’s approach. “But at least tell us what you know of the burial site of Speratus. What harm can that do? If our map is false, it can do no harm.”

  “You are correct. If you wish to scour the mountains in search of treasure, of what concern is that to me?” he responded finally. “You have been respectful, and I will tell you of Speratus.”

  Cloe sipped her strong tea and leaned in to listen to the old man.

  “Speratus was a teacher and a martyr,” said Kais. “You probably know this. But one thing you may not know is that Speratus, because of his position, came into contact with early Christian writers and their works. He had the opportunity to advise them and to work with certain groups who were interested in propagating the faith through the preservation and distribution of these writings. This was the crime, in the eyes of the Romans, that was committed by the Scillium martyrs.”

  “We wondered about that because the Romans typically allowed the indigenous population to practice whatever religion they wished as long as they did not proselytize others,” commented the monsignor.

  “That is so,” said Kais. “The Romans gave him and the others the opportunity to stop and recant. But they all remained steadfast in their faith. Finally, they were each put to death for it.”

  “Yes, it seemed they welcomed death in their faith,” responded the monsignor.

  “I think that’s the common thread among the martyrs. They believed so resolutely that their conviction was stronger than their love of life. They beckoned death if it meant upholding their faith,” said the holy man with admiration. “Can you imagine? Inviting the termination of one’s existence because of the strength of one’s faith. It has been my life in my latter years to dwell on these matters and to honor such souls.”

  “Extraordinary,” said the monsignor. “They are without peer.”

  “Yes,” said Kais. “And Speratus was among the greatest. Do you know the term ‘ma
rabout’?”

  “Hmmm, marabout?” mused the monsignor. “I have heard the word somewhere.”

  “I know the term,” said J.E. “It means little white house or some such. They are all over North Africa. They’re monuments of some sort.”

  “Indeed,” said Kais. “That is where Speratus lies. In the mountains near the old Roman fort there is a marabout dedicated to him. Perhaps there you will find the answers you seek.”

  ***

  Although they had lingered a bit with Kais and had finished the tea, the meeting was over when he told them of the marabout for Speratus. On the way back to their lodging, J.E. was already lining out the supplies they would need for their expedition into the mountains. They decided they would find the needed provisions and equipment and put everything together today and leave first thing the next morning.

  “Hello, Dr. Lejeune,” said Achmed when they finally returned to the guesthouse.

  “Good evening, Achmed,” responded Cloe.

  “How was your visit with Kais? I hope it was instructive,” he replied.

  “Indeed it was,” said the monsignor. “Do you know of an old Roman fort in the mountains near here?”

  “Certainly. The only such installation in this area is the Fort Romain a Elguettar, which is located on a rock jutting from the mountains above El Guettar. I will show you the location later after you have rested. It can be seen with binoculars very easily.”

  Later, on the roof, as they enjoyed coffee in the now-waning sunlight, they all studied the location of the fort on a high peak above them. Achmed had given them directions to it. It would be about a six-hour drive up into the mountains.

  “Achmed, have you heard of another group using El Guettar as a base to search the mountains for treasure?” asked Cloe.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied. “We have these expeditions from time to time. Everyone knows about them. This one left here about three days ago, and from their radio traffic, people say they seem to be headed back for provisions.”