The monsignor joined her, and together they studied the box. It was made of stone and was rather plain. There were some Greek letters on it and Greek numbers as well.
“Is it what I think it may be?” Cloe asked the monsignor.
“A reliquary is what I’m thinking,” responded the monsignor.
By this time the others had joined them, and J.E. asked, “What’s a reliquary?”
“It’s not exactly a coffin, but it is a box where the last remains of a saint or martyr can be placed. Usually, there are just a few bones,” said the monsignor.
“So this may be the final resting place of Speratus after all,” said Father Sergio, crossing himself.
“Perhaps. Let me look at the inscription,” said Cloe. She moved closer to the box and began to study the writing. She then turned, went to her pack, and took out a small notebook. Satisfied, she returned to the reliquary and began to make notes of the writings. Once she had done this, she settled back on her tiny camp chair at the stove. She studied her notes carefully.
“Mom, come on. You’re killing us,” said J.E.
“J.E., this box is very old, and the writing has been made indistinct by the ages,” she responded.
“Can you guess what it says?” asked the camerlengo.
“My best guess is that it says ‘Speratus the Martyr,’” said Cloe, smiling. “I think we have indeed found the tomb of Speratus.”
“Is that it?” asked J.E., seemingly disappointed.
“No, there’s one other thing,” replied Cloe. “It’s a number in Greek.”
“A number,” whispered the monsignor.
“Yes, it’s the number 177,” said Cloe. There it was, thought Cloe. She could see the expressions on the faces of her comrades in the flickering light of the camp stove. She could read what they were thinking. It was the same number that had been inscribed on the supposed Speratus tomb in the secret hall of martyrs at the Church of St. John. This very code had led them here.
“What can it mean?” asked Father Sergio. “We already used that reference to get here. Is there nothing more?”
“No, that’s it,” said Cloe.
“Then we are finished here because that’s just a loop. It could even be interpreted to take us back to Lyon,” said Father Sergio.
“I don’t think so,” said the monsignor. “You all remember that we believe the number 177 refers to the first of the Gospels, Matthew, chapter 7, verse 7.”
“Sure, but what does that add?” asked J.E.
“Well, there are several clauses to that verse, all of which we have used thus far as clues to get here, all except one,” said the monsignor.
“Yes, Albert, you are correct,” said the camerlengo, becoming excited.
“Well, what does it say?” asked J.E.
“Ah, young sir, ever the direct approach,” said the monsignor with a smile. “The part of the clue we have not yet used says, ‘Ask and it will be given to you.’”
The room was very quiet as everyone considered the possible implications.
“Who do we ask? How do we do this?” asked J.E., growing impatient.
“Well, we are here in the tomb of Speratus the Martyr, so the situation suggests we should ask him,” responded the camerlengo.
J.E. laughed and said, “Serge, Speratus is a pile of bones in that box. Whatever he knows, I don’t think he’s saying.”
“What’s your idea, jarhead?” quipped Father Sergio. “I’m only speaking conceptually. Of course, we can’t ask Speratus himself. But somewhere in this room, the answer has been left. We just have to find and understand it.”
“Father Sergio may be right,” said Cloe. “Our guide, whoever he, she, or they are, perhaps the Sicarii themselves, did not bring us all this way to hit a dead-end wall.”
Cloe went back to examining the reliquary and the niche in which it sat. But for these objects, the sconces, and the door mechanism, there was absolutely nothing else in the chamber. She found nothing else on Speratus’s reliquary even after running her fingers across it and studying it closely with the flashlight. She moved on to the niche. “Hmmm, what’s this?” she muttered half to herself.
The monsignor came over, and together they examined the niche in which the box holding the remains of Speratus sat.
“Albert, see that just above the niche?” asked Cloe. “It’s a detail of some sort.”
The monsignor studied the area, nodded, and said, “That’s a small indentation with a familiar pattern. What are those markings above the notch?”
“I don’t know. It’s not Greek or any language I know,” responded Cloe. “It looks to be a small circle with a horizontal line through its top quadrant.”
The monsignor took a tiny tool from his pack and cleaned out the small hollow in the stone above the reliquary. Once he was finished, Cloe saw it was actually a small hole about the diameter of a quarter and was maybe a half inch deep.
“What in the world?” she asked.
“It’s the same pattern as the hole outside the marabout that contained the doorstop pin,” observed J.E.
“It’s the keyhole!” cried Cloe. “Albert, where’s the key?”
“Here,” he said, slipping the jade key neatly into the hole.
Everyone stood silently looking at the key inserted firmly in the notch above the reliquary. It stood out almost horizontally from the wall. Cloe backed off and sat on her small camp chair, continuing to study the niche, the wall, and the key. The soldiers refilled everyone’s coffee mugs. J.E. attempted to turn the key. He tried several different positions and angles. He tried to drive it deeper into the hole. Nothing worked.
“The key is static in this location. It does not itself drive the action as in the hall of martyrs in Lyon or as with the pin outside. Something has to act upon it in this location,” analyzed Father Sergio.
Astounded, they all turned to look at the young priest.
“Well, Serge, sometimes you just take my breath away,” said J.E. “But I think you may be right.”
“Assuming that’s correct, what’s the actor?” asked Cloe.
The monsignor stood, walked over to the wall, and then turned to them. “To know that, we will have to figure out what the hieroglyph means.”
CHAPTER 53
“Of course,” said Cloe, “a hieroglyph.”
“I know that hieroglyphs were used by the ancient Egyptians, but what’s the relevance here?” asked J.E.
“Not just Egyptians, J.E., but also Chinese and almost all other civilizations have used and still do use hieroglyphs to communicate,” said Cloe.
“Hieroglyphs are just pictures of something that form a sort of visual word,” added the monsignor.
“But what do you mean we are still using hieroglyphs?” asked the camerlengo.
“They’re everywhere,” said Cloe. “The dashboard of your car contains many—ciphers for the lights, windshield wipers, and so forth. They are just little picture symbols that stand for a word or even a phrase.”
“Okay, we have a little picture that stands for something but what?” asked J.E. “What does that tell us about the key and the cave? What can a circle with a line drawn through it near the top mean?”
“Well, I think we should get some rest. I don’t think there’s much more we can do tonight,” said the monsignor.
Cloe’s pulse quickened slightly. She had heard this tone from the monsignor before. She knew he had solved the mystery. “Albert, I think you have something to tell us,” said Cloe.
Everyone turned to the monsignor. Cloe watched as he considered his words, riveting the attention of the room to himself. He certainly knew how to seize the moment, she thought. Even the Swiss paused in their card game to watch.
“Dawn,” he said simply.
CHAPTER 54
Before the first light, Cloe and the others had awoken and made their breakfast. Locked as they were inside the marabout, the matter of their toilet was a little challenging, but they managed with a hol
e dug in the sandy floor as the latrine and blankets for privacy.
“Extinguish your lamps,” ordered the monsignor suddenly.
In the now-faltering darkness they waited. The night retreated, and slowly light permeated the chamber from the vented area at the roof line. As it did, the jade key began to glow. A low hum was audible.
“Look, the key is absorbing the light!” cried Cloe.
As it did, an ink-black shadow was cast on the floor of the marabout. It started near the reliquary and extended outward as the light grew stronger.
“That’s amazing,” said J.E. “Such a dark shadow should not be possible in this faint light, but somehow the key is emptying all light from the area of the shadow. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The camerlengo stepped forward and scratched an X over the shadow on the earthen floor of the room. No sooner had he done this than the sun rose a bit, and the light changed entirely.
“The key has stopped its absorption of the light,” observed J.E.
“Yes, and the dark shadow is gone,” said the monsignor. “The dawn has passed.”
The hum was gone now, but an acrid smell such as that of ozone lingered faintly in the closed air.
“Wow,” Cloe said. She was at a loss for words, but in her heart she knew that somehow they were being guided by the hand of God. A jade key absorbing the faint early morning rays of the sun and then creating a stygian shadow that should not exist was probably explicable with modern science, but how would the ancients have known and been able to use such a thing? Once again their ingenuity was amazing. Clearly, it was another sign, this time a physical one. But what did it mean?
“Well, I would say that unless someone has a better idea, X marks the spot,” said the camerlengo with a smile.
“Serge, you have to be right for a change,” retorted J.E.
J.E. went to his backpack and withdrew a short folded spade. When he returned to the former location of the shadow, he unfolded the short shovel and put the point of the spade into the center of the X drawn by Father Sergio on the floor. He put one foot on the blade and stomped down. The monsignor retrieved his spade and also began digging at the indicated point. Together they dug for twenty minutes or so and at the end had cleared out a space about two feet deep, two feet wide, and two feet long.
“This looks to be a dry hole,” said J.E., sweating from the exertion.
“I don’t understand; how could we have misunderstood the sign?” said Father Sergio. “It seemed so clear.”
“Now what?” asked Cloe.
At that moment, a booming voice from outside the marabout yelled, “Dr. Lejeune, you and your associates have no place to go! Come out now and tell us what you know.”
Almost immediately, with the new arrivals apparently not waiting for an answer, rifle and machine-gun fire began to strafe the door and other areas of the marabout. Dust was everywhere, but the stone door and walls held strong. The soldiers all hit the floor and reflexively reached for weapons they did not have. J.E. grabbed Cloe, pushed her down, and covered her with his body. Only the monsignor stood where he had been before.
When the fire relented, while the men outside were likely changing magazines, the monsignor said, “They can’t get at us yet, but this old building won’t hold forever. We have to find where this clue leads.”
“Is that the Karik?” asked Cloe.
“I don’t know for sure, but that’s my best guess,” said J.E. “They will do what they have to do to get in. We have no weapons to fight them off. We need to solve this problem. Serge, you are the big science brain here. What did we do wrong?”
Everyone looked at Father Sergio. He studied the floor for a few seconds and then looked at the roof.
“We didn’t adjust for the fact that so many years have gone by, and even the sun’s position in relation to the earth has changed,” muttered the camerlengo. He took a giant step off where he had marked the floor with an X before the dig and yelled, “Here!”
J.E. and the monsignor fell on the new place and dug like their lives depended on it. As the machine-gun fire ate away at the stone door, they could barely hear the monsignor’s shovel hit something solid.
Excited, the cleric jumped back and said, “That’s something.”
Quickly, he and J.E. struggled to clear the spot. In the newly bared place they all saw it.
“My God,” said Cloe. “It’s a door.”
CHAPTER 55
J.E. jumped down into the shallow hole and grabbed the ring at the end of the trap door. He gave a mighty tug, and the portal popped open. As Cloe stared down into the ink-black pit into which the door opened, she thought she had never seen anything so uninviting. But then the machine-gun fire against the door and walls of the marabout intensified, and she realized whatever was down there had to be better than the Karik’s guns up here.
The monsignor shone his light into the abyss beneath, but little was visible except the beginnings of a rock stairwell.
“Grab our gear and let’s go!” shouted J.E.
The Swiss had long since packed everything up to make ready for whatever was ahead. Everyone grabbed a pack and headed for the hatch in the floor of Speratus’s marabout. J.E. led the way down, but his pace quickly fell off as he entered the darkness. There was an absolute and total absence of light. This was even worse than the staircase and tunnel beneath the Church of St. John in Lyon. J.E. used his flashlight, but the tar-like dark swallowed the beam. Cloe could barely see the steps of the stairs before her.
“J.E., we have to slow down. I can’t see a thing,” she said.
Progress slowed to a crawl. Cloe looked back and saw that the monsignor and the Swiss had closed the trap door.
“Albert, can you lock it behind us?” yelled Cloe.
“We are using the handle of one of the shovels to try to bar it. I think we can rig something,” he responded. “I don’t know how long it will last, but it will give us a little time.”
“All right, everyone, carefully,” pressed Cloe.
The descent began again with J.E. on point. It seemed to be a circular stone staircase that ran along the walls of a tubular shaft. Around they went, each footstep echoing off the stone walls.
Cloe was beginning to become disoriented with the circular movement in the blackness.
“We’re down,” shouted J.E.
“Thank God,” said Cloe breathlessly, relieved.
Father Sergio, J.E., and Cloe gathered at the bottom of the stairwell. Shortly, the monsignor and the Swiss caught up. The Swiss had lit their lamps, and everyone had turned on their flashlights.
The group fanned out back to back and shone the lights outward. This part of the chamber was fairly large. At least it did not have a claustrophobic, low ceiling. But Cloe could see no jars, or much of anything else for that matter.
BLAM! From above them came a huge explosion, and Cloe felt the concussion.
“Sounds like they have blown open the outer door to the marabout,” said J.E. matter-of-factly. “If they have that kind of ordnance, they won’t be long getting in here.”
“J.E., what do we do?” cried Cloe.
“Well, as best I can determine from the reports the Vatican had on the battle of El Guettar, Thib’s paratroopers landed and approached the Italian positions from the northwest,” said J.E. “That’s where Thib and Bobby Morrow fell into what we think might have been some part of this very cave.”
“J.E., are you saying we should try to reverse that course?” pressed the monsignor.
“Exactly,” said J.E., pulling his compass from his shirt pocket. “Thib was proceeding southeast, so we head northwest.” J.E. studied the compass and then pointed obliquely away from the stairwell. “That way,” he said.
They crept along in the direction J.E. led, moving through what looked to be a series of rooms. In each of the rooms, they paused, but there was nothing. Some of them contained niches as had been described by Thib, but there was nothing on them. Cloe could not
be sure they were even in Thib’s cave. After a few minutes, they reached the end of the series of chambers. It was a dead end.
“Are there any offshoots?” queried the camerlengo. “Did we miss anything?”
“I did not see anything we missed,” said the monsignor. “This is it.”
“But it’s all empty,” said Cloe. “This can’t be Thib’s cave. Where are the jars? He said there were scores or hundreds of them.”
“Maybe it’s not the right cave,” agreed the monsignor. “There must be many caves under these mountains.”
At that point, they all heard a second, smaller explosion.
“That’s the trap door,” said J.E. “They didn’t bother trying to clear the rigging we used to block it; they just blew it. You know, if we had had just a few choice items from my bag on the plane, we would have booby-trapped that door, and the bad guys would be roasting in hell right now.”
As J.E. spoke, the monsignor was studying the walls, apparently looking for some way out of the trap. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said reverently.
“What is it, Albert?” asked Cloe, moving to him.
When she reached him, all he could do was point to the wall. Cloe shone her light at the area and saw a shelf-like niche. Her light went higher, and she froze.
There above the niche was a single word scratched in the stone in stick-like ancient Greek letters: IOUDAS.
CHAPTER 56
“Oh my God,” cried Cloe. “This must be Thib’s cave. This is the very niche the jar he brought back from the war came from. It’s exactly as he described it in his letter to me, with the word IOUDAS inscribed in the stone over the niche.”
“We can’t be entirely sure,” said the monsignor. “There must be many caves.”
“Albert, what more do you want?” asked Cloe. “You read Thib’s letter. This is the cave, and it’s empty.”
The Last Sicarius Page 16