The Barbary Pirates

by William Dietrich

  “Not cut,” said Aurora. “They were hinged, to catch and focus the sun.”

  “The result would be narrow slices. There are air shafts in the tunnel in which the pieces of a dismantled mirror might have been hidden.”

  “Might?” Dragut asked.

  “There’s nothing there now. I did see a Templar Cross chiseled into rock. This medieval order you want to emulate got here ahead of us, I think. We may be too late.”

  “No,” Aurora said. “Then why hide a map in such a secret place on Thira, and make a signet ring marking it? The knights found the mirror but had to conceal it again, until their investigations were completed. Perhaps they didn’t know yet how to reassemble it, or were waiting for a military base to deploy it from.”

  “Perhaps they decided it was such a terrible invention it ought never be deployed.”

  She ignored me. “If the mirror had been reassembled and used, there would be a medieval record of it. If it was destroyed, there is no need to draw a hidden map. If it was shipped away to another city, they would not have drawn Syracuse. It’s here. I can feel it here.”

  “Not at Euryalus, the abandoned Greek fort: we searched there,” said Dragut.

  “No, some place more accessible than that, from which the mirror might be more easily shipped. Yet somewhere it would never be disturbed. Somewhere sacred, somewhere sacrosanct, somewhere unsuspected.” She walked to the edge of the ancient theater and looked at the city below. “Somewhere like a temple to Athena, the Greek version of Egypt’s Isis, built in 480 B.C. after the Greek victory over the Carthaginians at Himera. The continuity of temple into cathedral would appeal to the Templars. Why else mark its location with a cross on the map?” She turned to me. “Ethan, I think our weapon is hidden in the city’s cathedral, its duomo.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How will you ever get it? Or get it out of town?”

  “I told you to ponder how we might slip by Castello Maniace,” Dragut said. “How can our ship get safely away?”

  I shrugged. “Any lateen-rigged corsair is going to be a primary target. You need a decoy. No—you need a second ship, a Sicilian ship, with your own as a false target. You’ve got to allow the Sicilians to sink the Isis, so you can escape with the other.”

  He considered and nodded. “Sly. See? We are becoming partners, Ethan Gage.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The piazza in front of the Syracuse cathedral is one of the loveliest in Europe, elongated and artfully irregular, its slope following the natural contours of Ortygia. Its border is fine three-story stone-and-stucco buildings that provide a harmony of grand entrances, high windows, and iron balconies. The façade of the duomo itself is a baroque confectionery of pillars, statues, arches, scrolls, angels, eagles, and enough additional architectural frosting to decorate a wedding cake. The cathedral’s side is much plainer, a largely blank wall interrupted by the old Greek pillars of what had been in turn a pagan temple, Christian basilica, Arab mosque, and ever-evolving cathedral.

  Inside, the hodgepodge continued: Greek columns, Norman arches, and baroque side chapels. A circular window with a thick-limbed cross, reminiscent of the muscular signature of the crusading knights that I saw in the aqueduct cave, shone in the sturdy wall above the vestibule. I had a feeling most any prayer would work in here, thick as the place was with the ghosts of intertwined faiths.

  “What this place, Papa?” Harry and Osiris had rejoined us.

  “A sanctuary.” I hoped it really was.

  “What’s a sanry?”

  “Where bad people go to be better, and good people go to be safe.”

  “Are we bad?”

  “Not you, Harry. You’re a good boy.”

  He nodded solemnly. “And safe.”

  A few old women sat in the pews, waiting for the confessional and the one person, the priest, who had to listen to them. An old man desultorily swept dust with a stick broom from one corner to another, and then back again. Except for its mix of architecture, the duomo seemed grand but unexceptional.

  “The mirror must be long gone, Aurora.” Without even thinking about it I whispered.

  “Then your little family will be destroyed.” Crossing herself with holy water—an act of blasphemy, given her character, that I half expected would be answered with a bolt from heaven—she played the English tourist again, slowly circuiting the side aisles while counting pillars and arches. She sauntered as if a cathedral was her most logical environment in the world, and smirked at me as she did it. Every intimacy had become an act of reprisal.

  But even she had respectfully murmured, I noticed.

  Light filtered in through small stained-glass windows, its dim glow supplemented by votive candles burning as offerings to the saints. The place had that church smell of old wood, wax, dust, incense, and water used to mop down the flagstones.

  “There is no crypt, I asked the priest,” she whispered as we followed along. “We can see the roof beams ourselves, eliminating an attic. The walls are as thick and plain as a fortress. But this sacred site is what the Templars would have chosen, I’m certain of it. The spirit of a dozen religions is here. The knights would applaud the continuity of faith. But where, Ethan? Where? You’re the one with the knack for finding old relics.”

  My only knack is for getting into awkward situations like this one, but I didn’t say that. I wandered about with Harry looking for who knows what, struck by how the Norman plainness contrasted with a central white altar that seemed spun out of sugar. The three other chapels were jewel boxes of marble and gold. Castles and cathedrals are where men put their energy, I’ve found: war, and the afterlife.

  But I saw no hiding places for mirrors. Just angels, saints, and miracles on the ceiling, everyone up there floating about in flowing robes and pointing portentously. If only real life were so weightless! I was tired of old legends, and would give this one up in a moment except for Harry. He toddled along holding my finger, awed by a place so big and shadowy. So I looked, counting the old Greek columns—ten on one side, nine on the other—and marveled at the craftsmanship of the artisans. One chapel had steps of rose granite, a silver altar that glowed like the moon, and velvet tapestries like the raiment of Apollo. High above, painted on the ceiling, were cherubs and bearded patriarchs, half of them looking like Archimedes. It was all quite grand and meaningless; I recognized no particular Christian story. My eye was about to skip on when I noticed the central oval in the design, highlighted by a small ocular window that let in a cone of light.

  Cherubs floated there, four baby heads looking down on three more full-bodied angels. The trio looked as uncorrupted as little Harry, their naked bodies strategically draped with red ribbon. I’d seen the same in a hundred churches, and would have paid no more attention except for what they were holding. There was a sun in this painting, beaming down with yellow rays, and it was being caught by what looked to be a hand mirror or magnifying glass.

  A mirror, radiating its own rays.

  I remembered the ring Fouché had shown us, with a second dome on the inside and the letter “A.” Angelus. Angels. I squinted upward, trying to make sense of the scene.

  A white-bearded notable of some sort was pointing with a staff toward a wall, or was he pointing beyond it? I looked down. On the rococo marble masterworks that made up the walls, I suddenly realized, was a most peculiar inlaid piece of art. A dagger was crossed with a palm leaf, represented by different shades of stone. Above was what looked to be a chalice, but a chalice with two eyes of the Greek kind—the solemn almond-type they painted on their ships—looking across in the same direction. Looking at what? I saw nothing in this chapel to hide a mirror. But then I remembered the chapel next door, where the old man was pointing. I walked to it. Unlike the first alcove, this one had a dome like an upside-down saucer, painted not with cherubs but adult angels smoky from centuries of soot. A dome like any other, except it had the diameter and depth of a parabola remini
scent of the shape Cuvier had guessed Archimedes’ mirror might take. I looked up. A dome to hide a fearsome weapon? Could it be?

  I beckoned to Aurora. “Imagine,” I whispered, “if the Templars built the mirror into the ceiling, to hide it until the time was right for retrieval.”

  “The ceiling?”

  “Encased up there, bowl-side down. Look again at the signet ring.”

  I showed her the cherubs and staff and eyes. Her face brightened as she paced rapidly from the one chapel to the other, and then back again. “Ethan, I think you have it!” she hissed.

  “Too bad the Templars were clever enough to hide it in a place from which it could never really be taken. Built right into the skin of a sacred church, in the middle of Syracuse. Hidden in plain sight. They must have done it after an earthquake, when the duomo was being repaired. They put the entire power of the Church to work protecting their discovery, Aurora. Quite brilliant, really. Impossible to steal.”

  “Sandwiched in a false ceiling,” she murmured.

  “Yes. Well, we’ve done our best. It’s too bad, I’m sure the weapon is all very interesting, but the knights have always been a step ahead, haven’t they? Since it’s safely sealed away, can Harry and I go free now?”

  “Young Horus?” She smiled. “But he’s going to help get this for us!”

  The baroque chapel with silver altar and red tapestries had two low and narrow doors at the back. Casting a quick eye about for any priest, Aurora darted to one, shielded herself with the rich fabric, and tried its latch. It was locked. So Dragut brutishly forced it, the pretty wood splintering in a wound that would have made Gabriel weep. A narrow passageway behind the main wall led sideways, toward the rear of the church. That would do us no good.

  “The other. Hurry!”

  The pirate snapped that latch free, too, and this time there was a spiral staircase going upward.

  Aurora reached for Harry but he shrank against my leg. Frowning, she then beckoned to me. I hesitated, hoping we might be discovered and rescued by a mob of angry monks, but we’d deliberately chosen a time in the somnolent afternoon when no masses were scheduled. I picked up my son and quickly crossed to the broken door and the stone stairs.

  “Where we go, Papa?”

  “Up. I’ll hold you.”

  He thrashed his way down out of my arms. “No. Walk!” And he led us all, happy as a monkey. Just behind him, the votive candles that Dragut, Aurora, and Osiris had snatched threw a wavering light.

  We came to a crude attic above the chapels. We were at the edge of the adjacent dome, with room only to crouch where a roof eave came down. It was a cat’s cradle of old beams and buttresses, dusty, cobwebbed, and spooky. I wondered again how long before a priest or prelate discovered our trespass and roused all of Syracuse against us. It was creepy enough that Harry lifted his arms to be held again.

  “I knew we’d need your whelp,” Aurora said, peering into the dark crevice between interior dome and exterior roof. “Give me the boy.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Hurry, or do you want to spend all day up here, waiting for a prelate to discover that broken door?” She pried my son from my grasp and set him on the floor, taking out a stick of sugar. “Now, Horus, do you like candy?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “I think you should have some, but there’s something clever I want you to do to earn it. Only you can do it because you’re small enough to wiggle where big people can’t. I want you to crawl up the space here and scratch what you find with this little knife.” She held out a penknife. “Then bring the knife back to me, and you can have your candy.”

  “He’ll cut himself!”

  “Not if the urchin does what he’s told.” Her voice gentled to speak to the child. “Only big boys are allowed to handle knives, but I think you’re very big for your age. I want you to carefully crawl up this little slope on top of the ceiling here, and when you can go no farther, then rub this knife on whatever is blocking you.”

  “Dark!” my child said, perfectly reasonably. He was as confused as I was.

  “You won’t have to squeeze far, and I’ll hold the candle to light your way. It will only take a moment.”

  “Aurora, are you insane?”

  “Think, Ethan. If the mirror is hidden in the dome, it must be sandwiched between ceiling and roof. But before I start taking this cathedral apart I want to make sure it’s actually there, and I can’t squeeze into the sandwich to see. Horus can. It’s not unreasonable for your bastard to be useful for once.”

  “What if he gets stuck?”

  “Then we’ll jam you in there to pull him out. Stop complaining and help me!”

  I sighed and squatted. “Harry, this edge is sharp.” I showed him the knife. “You have to be careful. Hold it like this.” I formed his fingers around the handle. “Rub the blade against whatever stops you and then crawl backward to Papa. Can you be brave?”

  “Will I get candy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will dog bite me?”

  I sighed. “No.”

  He smiled, rather excited by the importance of his task. He took the knife, held it ahead like a probe, and wriggled up the narrow space between the ceiling of the dome and the rafters of its tile roof overhead. I could still see the soles of his shoes when he called, “It stops!”

  “What can you see?”

  “Dark.” It was almost a whimper.

  “Rub the blade and come back for your candy!” Aurora called.

  Nothing happened, and she swore.

  “It has to be there,” Osiris said, with more hope than proof.

  “We have to be sure.”

  “Eyes!” It was a yelp and Harry’s little feet kicked. I roared and reached in to grab his ankles but Dragut gripped me and then there was an animal squeak and my boy was still again.

  “Harry?”

  “Remember, rub the blade on the dark part for your candy!” Aurora called.

  After a moment’s hesitation we heard a raspy scraping and then he was wriggling backward. Dragut let go of me and I caught his ankles and helped pull him out.

  Harry held up the knife proudly. Its edge gleamed yellow, with scratched flakes of bronze or gold.

  “It’s here,” Aurora exulted, her eyes a glaze of greed.

  “Wait, there’s something more,” I said. The blade had hairs on it. “Horus?”

  He beamed then and pulled from his shirt, where he had tucked it, the dead body of a slain mouse. He had stabbed the little monster to death. By thunder, my son was an Achilles!

  “Candy?”

  I handed it to him, hands shaking. My boy had the makings of a fine treasure hunter, I realized—the worst curse I could think of.

  “Get the Rite,” Aurora told Dragut, “and then ready the ships as Ethan suggested. Thanks to him and his bastard, we’re going to blow this ceiling apart.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The crumbled ancient Greek fortress of Euryalus sits at the crest of the Epipoli plateau at the apex of the old north and south walls, its battlements pointed west like the prow of a ship. We rode rented horses to the forgotten ruin after dark, Aurora having changed from traveling dress to riding clothes. “We’ll get help, and then you’ll save your son.” As if I could believe anything she said.

  The ruins seemed deserted when we approached. Warm wind blew off the mountains to the west, bending the tall grass, and dogs barked from farmyards far below. In the distance we could see lamps from the city and anchored ships, six miles away. Bats flew against the last glow of twilight, and the first stars were faint in the evening haze. I wondered where one would make a secret camp here, when suddenly the ground opened like a mouth.

  “This is the old moat, one of three that fronted the fortress,” Dragut said. “There’s a ramp over here.”

  We were swallowed as we rode cautiously down, passing through a short tunnel to the bottom of the old Greek excavation. Fires reflected from a tier of arches on the s
ide of the moat, and I realized that my captors’ confederates were waiting here in the fort’s underground chambers, out of sight of any Sicilian peasants above. We stopped, the tails of our horses flicking, and then a hooded man came from one of the caves and grasped Aurora’s bridle.

  “Greetings to our Astarte, our Ishtar, our Freya! Lady of moon and womb, the risen eastern star, our dove and our lioness!”

  Well, that was a little much.

  “Greetings, Dionysus. I bring the Fool, as prophesied. And his pup has indeed played a role, as foretold. All is happening as it should, and soon we’ll begin to inherit the true powers of the ancients.”

  I startled at the introduction because a gypsy fortune-teller had once called me the Fool who sought the Fool, the primitive wisdom of Enoch and the long-lost god Thoth. Here the label was again, like that long-ago tarot card.

  “May the gods grant us the courage to grasp such power, the will to wield it, and the ruthlessness of true conviction!”

  “Isis and Osiris are listening to our prayers even now, Dionysus.” She swung down from her saddle as dozens of other hooded figures crowded the mouths of the fortress tunnels to greet us. Pagans again, and if I tripped over many more of them in these bizarre adventures of mine it would be enough to take holy orders. This bunch was lunatic to a man and woman, I guessed, but none the less dangerous for that.

  Dragut took me into the arcadelike tunnel that ran the length of the moat and gave access to caverns behind. Tunnels led deeper into the ancient fortress, and torches flickered back there. In ancient times, I guessed, these passages allowed soldiers to move from one part of the fort to another out of sight or catapult shot. Now they served as a dandy warren for bandit clans like ours. There were at least a hundred of Aurora’s confederates gathered, a few of them Muslim pirates but many more European. These newcomers wore black, gray, and white robes over the more conventional dress of their nations.