“Something was taken,” Jack murmured.
Katya nodded. “Of all the wondrous treasures of the tomb, only the guardian and the twelve knew what lay at the apex of the heavens, directly over the tomb itself Sima Qian, author of the Records of the Grand Historian, knew nothing of it.”
“A pair of precious stones,” Jack murmured. “Stones that interacted to produce a light like a star in the heavens. A double jewel. The jewel of immortality.”
Katya stared at him, then spoke quietly. “In the last act of the burial ritual, the guardian alone was in the tomb, passing from the central chamber to the entrance before sealing the vault for all eternity. Something made the warriors suspect him of stealing the greatest treasure, and their suspicions hardened when the guardian lived to a great age, well over one hundred years. That was not uncommon for steppe Mongolians, but was enough to convince them that he had taken something that prolonged life, a treasure that should rightly have been left in the tomb to release them from their servitude and allow the emperor to rise again. They never saw the guardian die. He returned to the northern steppes, handing over the custodianship to his son, a tradition that continued. But then, five generations on, the son of the guardian himself disappeared. He did not return to the steppes but went west beyond the boundary of the empire, strayed to where he should not go. The twelve decided to act. The tiger warrior was unleashed.”
“Let me guess,” Jack murmured. “That was 18 BC, maybe a little earlier?”
Katya stared at him again, and continued. “The son of the guardian disguised himself as a Sogdian trader, and joined one Silk Route caravan, then another. The tiger warrior and his henchmen chased him across the Taklamakan Desert, toward the Tien Shan Mountains, up here to Lake Issyk-Kul, into the ravines and passes beyond. They had him in their grasp, but then something got in their way.”
“A band of renegade Roman legionaries,” Jack murmured.
“In their secret oral tradition, the twelve remembered them as kauvanas, an ancient Chinese word for westerners,” Katya said. “But my uncle was convinced of who they were.”
“I was wondering when your uncle was going to come into this,” Costas said.
“This was the story he pieced together. It fits with your scenario, Jack. The Romans attack the caravan and seize the disguised Sogdian. They keep him alive, as a guide. The warriors realize the Romans have him, and attack, but are repulsed, by a foe stronger than any they have ever encountered before. One of their number is cut down in the ravines, and one of the Romans too. That’s the grave we found by the lake. By now there are only a dozen of the Romans left. The tiger warrior and his henchmen pursue them to this place, then see the survivors embark on the lake and row east. They find the body of Liu Jinn, the guardian’s son, but the treasure is gone. They follow the boat along the shore, until it disappears in a storm near the end of the lake. But they realize that the Romans in the boat were fewer in number than they should have been. One is missing. They return to the western end of the lake, to where they had found the murdered Liu Jinn. They track the missing Roman, follow the dripped blood from the weapon the man had used. They glimpse him, high in the passes of the mountains to the south. They pursue him relentlessly, for weeks, months, sometimes coming close, sometimes losing him. They follow him through the valleys of Afghanistan, through the Khyber Pass into India, down the Ganges to the Bay of Bengal. Then, in the jungles of the south, they lose him for good. They know he’s in there somewhere, but it’s as if the jungle has absorbed him. But the Chinese do not give up. They infiltrate the Roman trading colony at Arikamedu, posing as silk merchants. For generations they remain, watching, waiting. But then the Romans leave, and with the rise of the Arabs the sea trade with the west comes to an end. The Chinese return home, and with that the story of their quest moves into the realm of legend, part of the mythology of an obscure secret society who seem to disappear from living history.”
“And now we know their names, the Romans,” Jack said. “From the tomb inscription in the jungle. Fabius, leader of the group, who went off east over the lake. And his best friend Licinius, the one who escaped south. And we know that they had the treasure. Fabius had the one jewel, the peridot. Licinius had the other, sappheiros, lapis lazuli. They must have parted ways unaware of what they had shared out between them, of the power of the jewels together. The Chinese must have thought Licinius had taken both parts of the jewel, and fled from his comrades knowing the power of what he had stolen, something that might make him an emperor in his own world.”
“Katya’s uncle may have read that inscription too, before he was murdered,” Costas said. “And those who murdered him may have found out too.”
“So what happened to the tiger warrior, and the twelve?” Jack asked.
Katya paused. “Their pledge to protect the tomb, to recover the lost treasure, remained strong, through all the vicissitudes of Chinese history, through all the emperors and dynasties who might have plundered the monuments of their forebears. The warriors nurtured the cult of the First Emperor, the mystique that still surrounds his name today. Wu Che, the Chinese diplomat who went to Howard’s lecture, was one of them. He was a keen historian, and wrote down the story I’ve just told you, the oral tradition recounted at their secret meetings. And then it seemed that their quest might be rekindled. In the second half of the nineteenth century, European scholars were reading the newly translated Periplus of the Erythraean Sea, and were beginning to understand the truth of Roman mercantile involvement in south India. Wu Che kept his ear to the ground, seeking anything unusual, anything in the archaeological discoveries that might suggest a maverick Roman, a legionary. When Howard mentioned the jungle shrine with Roman carvings, the light began flashing.”
“And that’s really why you’re here, by Lake Issyk-Kul,” Jack said quietly. “It wasn’t just to record petroglyphs and search for inscriptions from the Silk Route. You wanted to find that Roman. You’re on this trail too. You and your uncle are part of all this.”
Costas eyed Katya. “Well? Your uncle was one of the twelve, wasn’t he?”
Katya paused. “My uncle and my father both knew the story, passed down to them. My father inherited the family papers, but he had little interest in the mythology of the brotherhood. To him the jewels were lost forever, if they even existed. He was into the antiquities black market and easier prizes. It was my uncle who encouraged my interest in ancient languages and archaeology. Two years ago while we were on the Black Sea after my father’s death, my uncle came across those lecture notes of Wu Che, while he was hastily searching through my father’s papers in Kazakhstan before Interpol arrived. My uncle had already made the connection between the tiger warrior legend and Crassus’ lost legionaries. He took up where Wu Che left off He went to the India Office archives in London to research the Madras Military Proceedings and pinpoint where Howard had been during the Rampa Rebellion.”
“The same records I studied,” Jack exclaimed.
Katya nodded. “You were both on the same trail. In a district gazetteer he came across mention of a shrine, to Rama. That was the clincher. And that’s where you found him. His body.”
“Have you told Katya your theory about that name, Jack?” Costas said.
Katya replied first. “My uncle might have been there already. Rama seemed a very similar word to Roman. He mentioned it to me, but we didn’t want to voice it until we were on firmer ground. The similarity seemed too obvious.”
“Nothing’s too obvious in this game,” Jack murmured, peering at Katya. “Is there anything else you haven’t told us?”
“My uncle was being secretive, but for good reason. He knew that once he’d been targeted, so would all his immediate family. It has always been the way. If one of the twelve deviated, his entire clan would pay the price. That was the way the First Emperor had meted out his version of justice. And since there’s nobody else left in my uncle’s family, that means me.”
“Okay, Katya,” Costas said.
“I take it you’re on about those tattooed guys whose bodies we found near the shrine.”
“Jack told me,” Katya said quietly. “How many of them were there?”
“We counted six bodies. Apparently, seven had gone into the jungle, arriving by helicopter. They were all Chinese, wearing shirts with the logo of a mining corporation, INTACON. Bids have been put in to strip-mine the Rampa hills for bauxite, and the local Kóya people are used to seeing prospectors. All it does is drive them further into the hands of the Maoist terrorists who use the jungle as their hideaway. The Maoists occasionally attack the mining parties because it solidifies their support among the tribals, and as a result the police turn a blind eye when the mining groups go in armed to the teeth. What we saw at the shrine suggests that the Chinese got inside the cave, found and murdered your uncle, then were ambushed on the way out. Their bodies had been partly stripped and mutilated by the Maoists, and we could see the skin. They all had the same black tattoo on the upper left arm.”
Katya scribbled on her notepad. “Like this?”
Costas nodded. “Exactly like that. Like a tiger head.”
“Tiger warriors?” Jack said.
Katya shook her head. “Only one of the twelve is called that. He goes out to do the dirty work, the newest of them, as a rite of initiation. The others call themselves the Brotherhood. And the Chinese you saw were mere foot soldiers, lesser clan members bound by birth to serve the Brotherhood.”
“We encountered three Maoists, and one of them wasn’t quite dead.” Costas pointed at his bandaged shoulder. “I’m supposed to be on holiday, not nursing a gunshot wound. You need to come clean on this whole thing, Katya.”
“Only six bodies,” she said. “So one escaped?”
“Apparently, he made his way back through the jungle to the riverbank where the helicopter had landed. The Kóya we spoke to couldn’t distinguish him from the other Chinese. But they did say the man was carrying a scoped bolt-action rifle in an old leather wrapping, an odd weapon for the jungle.”
“Not odd at all,” Katya murmured. “Not for him.”
“You know this guy?”
Katya looked hard at Jack. “Do you think he saw what you saw? What was in the shrine? The carvings, the inscription?”
“It’s possible,” Jack replied quietly. “And your uncle could have told them. It’s possible he was tortured.”
“It’s certain, you mean,” Katya said.
“When Licinius carved that inscription on his own tomb, he was probably living in a twilight world of his own. In his mind, the jewel may have become part of the imagery of his devotion to Fabius, the comrade he had virtually deified on that battle scene carving. Whether or not he was consciously leaving clues for some future treasure hunter, he chose to use that word sappheiros, for lapis lazuli. For anyone already on the trail, that would have had instant meaning.”
“Is this guy somewhere here now?” Costas peered at the shadowy ridge to the west, where the sun had nearly set. “The seventh one, who survived the Maoists? Are we in someone’s crosshairs?”
Katya pursed her lips. “INTACON has mining concessions in Kyrgyzstan, in the Tien Shan Mountains.” She pointed at the snowy peaks in the distance. “Those men whose bodies you found were employees of the company, but all of them have clan connections with the Brotherhood. They have helicopters, and tough horses they use for prospecting expeditions, a famous breed originating in Mongolia. If he’s here, he’s watching us now. They need to see what I’ve found, and where we’re going next. The killing comes later.”
“Great,” Costas said. “That’s just great. So we’re dealing with a mining company? Is that the modern-day face of these warriors?”
“INTACON’s their most profitable operation.” She turned to Jack. “How much time do we have?”
“A U.S. Marine Apache helicopter is due here in thirty minutes.” He checked his watch. “The Embraer should be fueled up and waiting on the runway at Bishkek. The supplies we need are already stowed.”
“Okay.” Katya looked at Costas. “Those horses I just mentioned. They’re the blood-sweating heavenly horses of Chinese mythology. According to legend, whoever rode them could never fail in battle. The horses were highly prized by the First Emperor, and helped to convince his subjects of his invincibility.”
“Blood-sweating?” Costas said dubiously.
“They’re called the akhal-teke, and they’re incredibly rare, one of the purest breeds to survive from antiquity. They’re renowned for their speed and stamina. It’s thought the appearance of sweating blood is caused by a parasitic disease endemic to the breed, but nobody knows for sure.”
“You ever seen one?” Costas asked.
Katya gave him a scornful look. “I’m the daughter of a Kazakh warlord, remember? My father made me learn to ride them when I was a girl. The akhal-teke lived in a few isolated valleys, in Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan, bred in secrecy by families who maintained the purity of the breed. My father’s horse-breeder said his lineage went back to the time of the First Emperor, who sent out emissaries to the valleys to swear the breeders to eternal vigilance, to ensure that the heavenly horses were waiting for his bodyguard when he once again entered the mortal world. In China today there’s excitement about the breed, a symbol of national unity and strength from before the communist era.”
“So did your riding master pass on any other wisdom?” Costas asked.
“He said that those with the blood of the tiger in their veins can sense the akhal-teke, and that the horses sense them too. He said that when the warriors prepared for battle they came up here, past the Tien Shan Mountains to Issyk-Kul, and summoned them with their war drums. The akhal-teke came galloping through the mountain passes and along the shores of the lake, foaming and sweating and spraying the air with a mist of blood.”
“This gets better every second,” Costas said. “Is this in your genes too?”
Katya looked pensively at the lake. “I feel things up here. Maybe it’s the thin air. I never sleep well, and that’s when dreamworld and reality intertwine. I’ve woken thinking my heartbeat was the ground shaking with the pounding of hooves and thudding drums. As if the warriors were coming for me too.”
“Don’t go all Genghis Khan on us, Katya.”
She gave him a tired smile, then looked out over the lake again. “Lying half-awake at night, I’ve been seeing images of my father again, of him when I was a girl, when he was still an art history professor in Bishkek. I’d hardly thought of him since I left the Black Sea almost two years ago. My mind had shut him out.”
Jack glanced at Katya, wondering at the complex emotions she had felt since her father’s death: grief, release, anger with her father, with herself, with him. The best thing for him to do was to say nothing, to let the process take its course. Costas saw Jack’s reticence, and looked at Katya as he spoke. “Your father, what he’d become, was sitting on a sunken Russian submarine full of ICBMs,” he said. “He’d have sold a few to al-Qaeda, and that’s just for starters. A lot of innocent people are alive today because of what we did.” He got up, stretched, wiped the dust off the back of his shorts and turned toward a hollow in the hill behind them. “Time for me to disappear behind some rocks.” He gave Jack a ghoulish look. “Must be all that sheep grease.”
“Be careful.” Katya waved him off, and turned back. Jack saw that Altamaty had stopped the tractor beside the yurt, and the smoke from his cooking fire had gone out. Two rucksacks were stacked outside the tent. “It seems a long time since we sat together by the shore of the Black Sea,” he said quietly. Katya nodded, but said nothing. Jack was silent for a moment, then pointed at the yurt. “Are you still sure about coming along with us?”
She nodded. “Altamaty too. He respects your military experience, but he said Afghanistan’s a different story. He was in the valley we’re going to, as a marine conscript during the Soviet war in the 1980s. His helicopter was shot down and he was the only survivor. He fought of
f repeated attacks but ran out of ammunition. The mujahideen spared him because he was Kyrgyz. He lived with them in the mountains for more than a year.”
Jack nodded. “Good. Someone else is coming with us, a guy called Pradesh. He’s in charge of the underwater excavations at Arikamedu, and flew with us to Bishkek. He’s a captain in the Indian Army Engineers, with combat experience in Kashmir. He’s also an expert on ancient mining technology. He was with us in the jungle. I really want IMU activities to expand out here. If Altamaty’s serious about taking on the underwater survey at the eastern end of the lake, then he and Pradesh might be just the people we need to get things moving here. Pradesh speaks Russian. I’d like to see how they get on.”
There was a commotion from the rocks behind them. “Hey, guys,” Costas shouted. “Come and check this out.”
Jack stood up and turned around. “Do we really want to?”
“Just avoid the gully on your left. I’m a bit farther down.”
Katya got up, and the two of them picked their way over the rocks toward Costas. Jack had his compact diving flashlight with him, and played it into the gloom. He saw Costas hunched over a cleft in the rock, and they slid down a small scree slope toward him. They were in a hollow in the side of the hill, with the lake just visible to the north, the ridges of the ravine behind them to the west and the snowcapped peaks of the mountains to the south.
“Well?” Jack said, squatting cautiously beside Costas.
“I was walking back from washing my hands in the stream, and I saw this,” Costas said. He pointed at two jagged rocks embedded in the side of the ridge, a crack between them. “There’s something metal stuck in there. It’s probably modern, but I’ve got ancient swords on the brain after seeing that Chinese halberd.”
The Tiger Warrior Page 29