Crusader Gold

by David Gibbins

  Jack turned away. Reksnys leered at him, enjoying his reaction. “I found this building myself, years ago when I acquired this land,” he said. “It’s a jungle temple, a sacrificial chamber above a sacred cenote.” He jerked his head towards the dark hole in the centre of the floor. “I scoured this jungle for years, searching for just such a find. What I have come across is truly remarkable. We in the félag guessed at such a thing, but there was never any evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” Jack said.

  Reksnys ignored him. “Our sources told us you were searching for the menorah.”

  “Sources,” Jack said derisively. “You mean you tortured it out of Father O’Connor.”

  “O’Connor was very helpful to us,” Reksnys replied, his voice suddenly shrill.

  “But not in the way you think. In the Vatican he had become less cautious.

  Breaking into the Arch of Titus was one step too far. He had a superior who reported everything he did. We already knew about that woman.”

  He jerked his head towards Maria and then saw Jack’s half-smile and suddenly narrowed his eyes. “That information is useless to you now. It is of no consequence whether I tell it to you or not, and I only share the story of my discovery with you as a fellow archaeologist.”

  Jack looked from side to side. “I don’t see any other archaeologists here.”

  Reksnys affected not to hear him. “We heard you had reached as far as Greenland. Of course we knew about the longship in the ice, discovered by my father with the Ahnenerbe expedition in the 1930s. Shortly before he was murdered he told me the full story, how Künzl had snatched the runestone from him and tried to kill him with his own SS dagger in the crevasse. Fortunately my father had a photographic memory and could reproduce the symbols for a runologist in our pay years later, after the war.”

  “I trust the photographic memory of all the women and children he murdered on the eastern front kept him awake at night,” Jack said icily.

  “Only counting them.” Reknys snorted, then carried on. “Something made me remember this little temple, something about the glimpse I had years ago of that battle scene, the appearance of the warriors from the sea. When I found it, the temple was swallowed in the jungle and filled with rubble. None of the local Maya will come near the place. Some nonsense about an eagle-god, the return of the king. I remembered Harald Hardrada, the menorah. The cherished dream of the félag. It was just possible. I cleared out the temple myself, stone by stone.” He looked childishly pleased with himself. “It has been a most satisfying hobby.”

  “Don’t play games with me,” Jack said coldly, looking back up. “This is more than just a hobby. It’s an obsession. And it’s illegal.”

  Reksnys scowled at Jack and snapped his fingers. Loki was on him in a flash, standing chest to chest with him, butting him back, the livid scar on his face turned towards him. Loki was clearly used to intimidating those weaker than himself, but Jack stood a full head taller and stared down at him contemptuously.

  “Enough.” Reksnys barked the command and Loki snarled, hands clenching and unclenching, his eyes turned to his father like a dog to its master. “Time for that later.” Loki sloped off, and Reksnys turned to the mural. “And now for the reason you are here.” He walked over and lifted the large wooden panel off the left-hand side of the wall, abutting the rubble. “There.”

  It was the final scene. A procession was leading away from the base of the temple. It was the only scene not soaked in blood, though the figures were even more garish, more extravagantly attired than before. Some were human, others supernatural. Musicians sang and beat time, with trumpets and gourd rattles. A turtle carapace split open to reveal a god, pouring liquid from a jar. Others emerged from the shell of a crab, the jaws of a serpent. Warriors and women weaved among rows of torch-holders. A jaguar ate a human heart. A company of mummers performed, writhing, snaking in and out, one dressed as a crocodile and another a crab, with giant pincers raised up high. A team of ball players with protective belts and kneepads jostled each other, one being led back towards the temple by a sacrificial priest. Above the procession were poles with human skulls skewered on them. Some were stripped bare, leering skulls like the sculptures at Chichén Itzá. Others were more recent victims, with hair and flesh still on them. Yellow hair. Beards.

  In front of the pageant was a space which Reksnys had left covered by a protective cloth. But leading up to it was a line of white-robed women, with sloping foreheads and tied-back red hair, adorned with mountainous headdresses and green feathers from the sacred quetzal bird springing in hoops from their backs.

  It was a triumphal procession. Another image flashed through Jack’s mind, an image that seemed unbelievably far removed from the world of the Yucatán—the Arch of Titus in Rome. The procession through the Forum. The triumph of Vespasian over the Jews.

  He moved a few steps to his left, Loki’s eyes following him warily. The final depiction was still partly buried under rubble, but was clear enough. It was an abstract shape like a cauldron, its rim marking the end of the processional way.

  It was the jaws of the underworld, gigantic, gaping, hungry for sacrifice.

  Chichén Itzá. The Cenote of Sacrifice.

  Reksnys moved up to the cloth and put his hand on the lower corner. “I believe that is where we are now. The underworld, the end of the procession. We all know who the vanquished are. I believe the victory procession ended where we are standing now, at the entrance to this cenote below us.” He spoke bullishly, with the utter conviction of the ignorant. Jack caught Maria’s eye again. This time she shook her head. Jack looked back. He realised there was nothing in the painting to identify the setting. It could have been one of dozens of Toltec ceremonial sites. The only connection Jack had with Chichén Itzá was the runestone inscription from L’Anse aux Meadows. And that was unknown to Reksnys, safely under lock and key on board Seaquest II.

  “I uncovered what you are about to see a mere four days ago, just before the félag exacted its revenge on the one who had betrayed us. A happy coincidence for your colleague here.” Reksnys jerked his pistol towards Maria. “We knew your ship was in the Caribbean and guessed our paths were converging. I thought we might benefit from your expertise. It is the only reason my son did not practise his art on her as well.”

  Reksnys stood with his back to the wall, then with one quick movement lifted the cloth up.

  There was a stunned silence. Jack felt his jaw drop, then regained his composure. Something Maria had once said came to him, something from rabbinical lore.

  Drawn by the divine finger. Drawn by a finger of fire.

  It was the menorah.

  Seven branches, seven shafts of yellow shining as if they were aflame, shedding lustre like beams of light. At the head of the triumphal procession, raised in front of the Well of Sacrifice.

  Jack looked at Maria, who was staring at the image in a trance, as if she were gathering strength from it.

  Reksnys abruptly let the cloth drop back, concealing the image, and gave a coarse laugh. “Shocked?”

  “I noticed you didn’t look at it,” Jack said coldly. “Or couldn’t.”

  “I despise it. I have no wish to behold this object myself. It is a means to an end.” Reksnys nodded at Loki, who pulled Maria up and pushed her across to him. Reksnys kept her at arm’s distance, prodding her with the muzzle of the Luger, a look of distaste on his face. Then he shoved the gun in the small of her back, aimed down. “I know exactly how to do it. A slow, lingering death. Plenty of experience with her type.” He jerked his head towards the rebreathers and dive bags stacked beside the hole in the floor. He looked at Jack. “You are the world-famous underwater explorer, no?” His voice was mocking, sneering. “Now you and your friend will go down into the underworld and find what I desire.”

  19

  JACK HIT THE WATER WITH A RESOUNDING SPLASH, the echo resonating off the walls of the cavern. Costas had preceded him and was already carrying out an under
water recce, the arc of light from his headlamp visible off to one side.

  Jack quickly released the carabiner on the rope and gave it a tug. The rope began to jerk upwards, and Jack followed the glint of metal from the carabiner as it rose up the thin shaft of light to the hole in the limestone ceiling almost twenty metres above. He and Costas had silently kitted up in the ancient chamber a few minutes before, donning the equipment Reksnys had ordered them to bring from Seaquest II. Jack had refused to divulge any of his thoughts about the wall-painting, and Maria had remained obstinately silent in the corner of the chamber even after the tape had been ripped away from her mouth.

  Jack was convinced that the scene with the menorah showed the Well of Sacrifice at Chichén Itzá, not this place. Yet all the indications were that Reksnys was right to think that the tunnel ahead of them held some clue to Harald Hardrada’s last stand. The location of the temple above the cavern, the depiction of the jungle battle with the river running beneath it, local Maya tradition.

  There had been no chance to make contact with the security team, who had been on standby since he and Costas had left in the Zodiac two hours before.

  Jack knew the Lynx was in the air somewhere offshore, but Ben could do nothing until Jack and Costas found some way of radioing in their co-ordinates and confirming that the situation with Maria was safe enough for an intervention. Jack had given Maria a reassuring look just before he donned his helmet, had been cool and collected as Loki had winched him down the hole. But his mind was in a tumult at the prospect of what might lie ahead, desperately running through the possibilities if they were to return empty-handed. At the moment the options were few, and they were not good.

  Costas’ voice came through the intercom. “There’s an underground river running through the bottom of this chamber, about eight metres beneath you. The current’s pretty vicious. Not exactly recommended cave diving conditions.”

  “Roger that,” Jack replied, floating on the surface and following the sweep of light below that marked Costas’ progress. He tested his buoyancy compensator and ran a systems check on the computer that controlled his gas supply. They were wearing semi–closed circuit rebreathers, variable mixed-gas systems that enabled them to go to greater depths than either pure oxygen or air would allow. It was a precaution, as they had no expectation that the cave system would exceed the thirty-metre maximum typical of the Yucatán cenotes.

  “Remind me about this calcium carbonate stuff,” Jack said.

  Costas surfaced beside him, inflating the buoyancy wings on his backpack and adjusting the intercom on his helmet. “Dissolved limestone,” he said. “During the Ice Age, everything here was above water. That’s when the stalagmites and stalactites that are now underwater formed. Then at the end of the Ice Age, the sea level rose and the caves flooded. Leave something above water in one of these caverns, and it’ll get encased in stone. Drop it in the water, and it’ll stay good as new. We’re in fresh water down to about fifteen metres, when you hit salt water.”

  Jack looked up at the thin shaft of light streaming in from the ceiling above, to the ugly face he could just make out peering down at them. The rope and sling that had been used to winch them down had now been pulled up again, to await their return. He thought of Maria, and took a deep breath from his rebreather.

  He gave an okay signal to Costas. “Right. Let’s get going.” They dumped air from their wings and dropped beneath the surface, Jack following Costas just above the current. It was cooler than the sea, justifying their full wetsuits, but refreshing after the torrid heat above. They both wore triple headlamps on their helmets, and the beams revealed an awesome scene as they panned them around. Stalagmites reared up from the base of the cave in clusters, overlying caves and grottoes. The water was crystal clear, as clear as Jack had ever seen, flickering with pastel colours. They dropped down and rode the back of the current, their arms outstretched and their fins extended behind to keep them stable. Seconds later they swept under an overhang into a dark tunnel, leaving the gloomy light of the entrance chamber behind.

  “When it’s not raining, this tunnel’s partly above water,” Costas said. “You can see the waterline on the walls beside us, with fresh calcium formations above it.

  It looks like there’d normally be enough space for a small canoe or raft.”

  Costas took out a pencil-size lightstick, cracked it to mix the chemicals and then dropped it into a fissure. Jack watched the green glow disappear behind him, and Costas took out half a dozen more. “I’m assuming we’ll want to come back this way,” he said. “The current’s weak near the ceiling, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Jack rolled over and saw a canopy of rock with none of the telltale ripples from air pockets. They had come at least two hundred metres from the entrance, maybe more. “Any guesses how much farther?” he said.

  “I reckon we’re looking for another chamber, somewhere accessible from the entrance chamber. If this tunnel dips below the waterline, we’re on the wrong track.” As Costas spoke, the passageway began to do exactly the opposite, rising up and opening out, and their beams reflected off the underside of a water pool that spread out above them as far as they could see. “Hey presto.”

  They surfaced and looked around, awestruck. They were inside another huge cavern, at least fifty metres across, extending in a great dome that reached up to the jungle floor. It was how Jack imagined the sacred cenote at Chichén Itzá had once looked, before the limestone ceiling collapsed. Unlike the entrance chamber, this one was pitch dark, with no visible opening to the surface. They swam slowly across the pool, their lights reflecting off fantastic shapes that dazzled them like sculptures in ice. Stalagmites rose out of the depths like sub-sea volcanic vents, some of them joining stalactites to form continuous columns like the pillars of some great cathedral. They could see the force of nature still at work, rainwater seeping through the limestone ceiling and spattering on the exposed formations, adding another sheen of minerals in a process that had begun thousands of years before human history first touched this place.

  In the centre was an island, one that seemed to have been created entirely from calcium accretion. The surface was a bizarre array of shapes which looked like some fantasy citadel. Huge tendrils hung down over it from high above, the fossilised roots of long-dead trees.

  As the slope up to the island became visible, Costas dropped down to the bottom, about eight metres below. Suddenly he seemed to be swimming sideways, and Jack saw him grab a stalagmite and pull himself up the slope until the current had released him and he could swim free again.

  “That was frightening.” Costas stopped about five metres below Jack, and was catching his breath. “You’d never be able to swim against that. Take a look to your right and you can see where it goes.”

  Jack peered across to a point directly opposite the entrance tunnel. He could see a shimmering disturbance where the underwater river swept through the chamber, exiting under an overhang near the base of the cavern about twenty metres away. It was a black hole, a forbidding place with no sign of natural light farther on. Jack realized how close he had come to losing Costas. He closed his eyes and swore to himself. As so often in diving it was the casual decision, the deceptively benign conditions, that nearly had fatal consequences. Jack had not given a second’s thought to Costas’ decision to drop down, yet the danger was as great as any they had faced in the iceberg, or back in the tunnels of Atlantis.

  And in cave diving there was rarely a second chance, no going back on a wrong move.

  “Jack, I’ve found something.” Costas was a little farther upslope, but his upper body was wedged in a fissure. Jack sank down beside him, keeping a wary eye on the current a few metres away. Costas emerged in a cloud of silt and pressed an object at Jack. “Get a hold of that.”

  It was a human jawbone. A small one, a child’s. It was brown with age, but perfectly preserved. Costas held the rest of the skull towards him, and Jack could see the eye sockets, the lines
where the bones of the cranium had not yet fused. “They’re everywhere,” Costas said. “Hundreds of them.” Jack looked around. Lying in the silt, piled at the base of stalagmites, grimacing out from under overhangs: skulls, limb bones, ribs. He reached into the silt and pulled out a small jade pendant, shaped like the gaping jaw of some mythical beast, like the image of the underworld on the wall painting in the temple. He glanced through the translucent waters at the dark hole where the river disappeared, and felt a sudden chill of certainty.

  “Human sacrifice,” he said. “The Toltecs must have lowered themselves and their victims through the hole in the ceiling just as we were, then paddled through into this chamber. This was the edge of their underworld, the closest they could get. When the current was strong, after a storm, they could have thrown their victims into the very maw of the underworld, watched them sucked into that black hole and out of earthly existence. This must have been the ultimate place of sacrifice.”

  “We don’t seem to be able to get away from that,” Costas muttered. “I’m beginning to yearn for Vikings again.”

  “You may just be in luck.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Upslope, about three metres. At the edge of the island.”

  It was another skull, larger than the others, with different wear on the teeth. It had been badly crushed, as if the victim had suffered a terrific blow to the face.

  But it was not the skull that had excited Jack’s interest. It was what it was wearing.

  A gilded metal helmet, cone-shaped, with a long nose-guard.

  Jack’s heart began to race. He wafted the bottom, raising clouds of silt. Maya pots, intact. More human bones. A shining disc, gold, covered with glyphs. A handle protruding from a gully, covered in gilt wire. A sword handle. Beside it a long wooden haft, a glint of metal at the end.

  With mounting excitement Jack drew himself out of the water, Costas beside him. Both men quickly doffed their rebreathers and fins and stashed them on the edge. With their helmets removed they could hear the noise of the cavern, water dripping on the pool, the whoosh of bat wings, eerie sounds magnified and distorted by echo. They clambered up on to a level platform and surveyed the underground island. It was about ten metres in diameter, rising to a cone in the middle, covered in slick accretion. The centre was a gigantic single stalagmite, growing from the cavern floor beneath the ceiling where the fall of leached calcium had been greatest. Around it were stalagmites that had formed more recently as the shape of the ceiling had changed, some of them beneath the calcified tree roots which hung over them in a fantastic shroud.