Excavation (5 page)

“And what does that bloody mean?” Maggie asked sourly, feeling useless, unable to contribute to the translation. Ralph Isaacson, who was just as weak in his Latin skills, at least knew how to cook. He was outside the tent struggling to light the campstove and get dinner started.

Ever since the professor had left, the team had struggled to efficiently clear the ruins and catalog as much as possible. Each had their assigned duties. Every evening, Ralph did the cooking, leaving cleanup to Norman and Sam, while Maggie and Philip tediously entered the day's reports into the computer log.

Sam interrupted her reverie. He scrunched up his nose as
he tried to read the writing. “I think it says ‘Christ preserve them,' or ‘Christ protect them,' ” he said. “Something like that.”

Philip Sykes, the senior grad student, lay sprawled on a cot, a cold rag across his eyes. His irritation at being left out of the discovery still clearly rankled him. “Wrong,” he said bitingly, not moving from where he lay. “It translates, Christ protect
us
. Not
them
.” He followed his assessment with a disdainful noise.

Maggie sighed. It was no wonder Philip knew Latin so well. Just another reason to hate the dead language. He was forever a font of trivial knowledge, ready at any instance to correct the other students' errors. But where he excelled in facts, he lagged in on-site experience—hence, the team was burdened with him now. He needed to clock dig hours before he could earn his Ph.D. After that, Maggie suspected the wanker would never leave the ivy halls of Harvard, his alma mater, where his deceased father's chair in archaeology surely awaited him. The Ivy League was still one big boys' club. And Philip, son of an esteemed colleague, had a key.

Stretching her shoulders, she moved closer to Sam. A yawn escaped her before she could stop it. It had been a long day topped by fervid activity: photographing the door, getting a plaster cast of the bands, charcoal etching the writing, logging and documenting everything.

Sam gave her a small smile and shifted aside the etching of the middle band. It contained only the single crucifix carved into the metallic hematite. No other writing. Sam lowered his magnifying glass on the third and final onionskin tracing. “Lots of writing on this one. But the script is much smaller and isn't as well preserved,” he said. “I can only make out part of it.”

“Well then, what can you read?” Maggie asked, sinking into a folding chair near the table. A seed of a headache had started to grow behind her right temple.

“Give me a few minutes.” Sam cocked his head to the
side as he squinted through his lens. His Stetson, usually tilted on his head, rested on the table beside him. Professor Conklin had insisted on a bit of common courtesy out here in the jungle. When inside the tents, hats had to come off, and Sam still maintained the protocol, even though his uncle was not present. Sam had been raised well, Maggie thought with a small hidden grin. She stared at the professor's nephew. Sam's dusky blond hair still lay plastered in place from the Stetson's imprint.

Maggie resisted the urge to reach over and tousle his hair back to a loose mop. “So what do you think, Sam? Do you truly think the Spanish conquistadors etched these bands?”

“Who else? The conquistadors must have searched this pyramid and left their mark.” Sam raised his head, a deep frown on his face. “And if the Spanish were here, we can kiss good-bye any chance to find the tomb intact. We can only hope the conquistadors left us a few scraps to confirm Doc's theory.”

“But according to the texts, the Spanish never discovered any cities in this region. There is no mention of the conquistadors ever reaching their thieving hands this far from Cuzco.”

Sam merely pointed to the table laden with Latin etchings. “There's the proof. We can at least walk away with that. The conquistadors that arrived here must never have made it back to their battalions at Cuzco. The natives must have killed them before they could make it down out of the mountains. The discovery of this city died with them.”

“So maybe they didn't get a chance to loot this tomb,” Maggie insisted.

“Perhaps…”

Maggie knew her words did little to convince anyone. She, too, knew that if the conquistadors had the time to etch the bands, then they had more than enough time to raid the temple. She didn't know what else to say, so she simply slumped in her seat.

Sam spoke up. “Okay. This is the best I'm able to pick
out of this mess.
Domine sospitate
something something
hoc sepulcrum caelo relinquemeus
. Then a few lines I couldn't make out at all, followed by
ne peturbetur
at the end. That's it.”

“And what does that mean?” Maggie asked.

Sam shrugged and gave her one of his wise-ass smiles. “Do I look like a Roman?”

“Oh my God!” Philip exclaimed, drawing Maggie and Sam's attention. He bolted upright. The rag dropped from his face to his lap.

“What?” Sam lowered his magnifying lens.

“The last part translates,
We leave this tomb to Heaven. May it never be disturbed
.”

Ralph suddenly pushed through into the tent, his hands full with four mugs. “Who wants coffee?” He paused when he saw them all frozen with eyes wide. “What happened?”

Sam was the first one able to speak. “How about we break out the champagne instead? Toast a few ol' conquistadors for protecting our investment here.”

“What?” Ralph asked, his face scrunched with confusion.

Philip spoke next, his voice edged with reserved excitement. “Mr. Isaacson, our tomb may still be intact!”

“How do you—?”

Maggie picked up one of the onionskin tracing sheets. She held it toward him. “By Jesus, you gotta love Latin.”

 

Sam could barely contain his excitement as he waited for his computer to connect to the university's internet site via the satellite hookup. He sat in the communication tent with the other students gathered around behind him. The tent was weathertight and insulated against the elements, protecting the delicate equipment from the eternal mists of the jungle heights.

Sam checked his watch for the hundredth time. Two minutes shy of ten o'clock, the time each evening when Sam or Philip updated the professor on their progress on the dig. That night, though, was the first time the team had exciting
news for his uncle. Sam jabbed hurriedly at the keys as the connection was made. He initiated the video feed. The small camera fixed to the top of the monitor blinked on its red eye. The video satellite link had been a gift from the National Geographic Society. “Smile everyone,” Sam muttered as he finished calling up his uncle's internet address.

The computer whirred through its connections and a small flittering picture of Henry appeared in the upper right hand corner. Sam tapped a few keys and the picture filled the entire screen. The video feed was jittery. When his uncle waved a hand in greeting, his fingers stuttered across his face.

Sam pulled the microphone closer. “Hi, Doc.”

His uncle smiled. “I see everyone is with you tonight. You must have something for me.”

Sam's face ached from the wide grin still plastered to his lips, but he wasn't going to give up the team's prize that easily. “First give us the lowdown about the mummy. You said yesterday that the CT was scheduled for this morning. How'd it go?” Sam regretted his question as soon as he saw his uncle's face cloud over. Even from three thousand miles away, Sam could tell the old man didn't have good news. Sam's smile faded away. “What happened?” he asked more soberly.

Henry shook his head, again it was a jittering movement, but the words flowed smoothly through the receiver. “We were correct in judging the mummy as non-Inca,” he began, “but unfortunately, it was European.”

“What?” Sam's shock was shared by the others.

Henry held up a wavering hand. “As near as I can tell, he was a Dominican priest, probably a friar.”

Maggie leaned toward the microphone. “And the Incas mummified one of their hated enemies—a priest of a foreign god?”

“I know. Strange. I plan to do a little research here and see if I can trace this friar's history before returning. It's not what I wanted to prove, but it is still intriguing.”

“Especially in the light of our discovery here,” Sam added.

“What do you mean?” Henry asked.

Sam explained about their discovery of the sealed door and the Latin inscriptions.

Henry was nodding by the end of Sam's description. “So the conquistadors truly did find the village. Damn.” Henry slowly took off his glasses and rubbed at the small indentations on his nose. His next words seemed more like he was thinking aloud. “But what happened here five hundred years ago? The answer must lie behind that door.”

Sam could almost hear the gears whirring in his uncle's mind.

Philip grabbed the mike. “Should we open the door tomorrow?”

Sam interrupted before his uncle could answer. “Of course not. I think we should wait until Doc returns. If it's a significant find, I think we'd need his expertise and experience to explore it.”

Philip's face grew red. “I can handle anything we discover.”

“You couldn't even handle—”

Henry interrupted, his voice stern and tight. “Mr. Sykes is right, Sam. Open the door tomorrow. Whatever lies hidden beyond the sealed portal may aid my research here in the States.” His uncle's eyes traveled over the entire group. “And it is not just Philip I trust. I am counting on all of you to proceed as I've taught you—cautiously and meticulously.”

Even with these last words, Sam noticed the gloating expression on Philip's face. The Harvard grad would be unbearable from there on out. Sam's fingers gripped the table's edge with anger. But he dare not question his uncle. It would sound so petty.

“Sam,” his uncle continued, “I'd like a few words in private.” Henry's words were severe and scolding in tone. “The rest of you should hit your pillows. You've a long day
tomorrow.”

Muttering arose from the others as they said their good-byes and shuffled off.

Henry's voice followed them from the tent. “And good work, folks!”

Sam watched the others leave. Philip was last to slip out of the tent, but not before shining a tight smile of triumph on his lips. Sam's right hand balled into a fist.

“Sam,” his uncle said softly, “are they all gone?”

Forcing his hand to relax, Sam faced his uncle again. “Yeah, Uncle Hank,” he said, dropping to a more familiar demeanor.

“I know Philip can rankle everyone. But he is also a smart kid. If Philip can grow to be half the archaeologist his father was, he'll be a fine scholar. So cut him some slack.”

“If you say so…”

“I do.” Henry slid his chair closer to the computer. His shaky image grew on the screen. “Now as to the reason I wanted to speak to you in private. Though I voiced my support of Philip, I need you to be my eyes and ears tomorrow. You've had a lot more dig experience, and I'm counting on you to help guide Philip.”

Sam could not suppress a groan. “Uncle Hank, he'll never listen. He already thinks he's the big buck at the salt lick.”

“Find a way, Sam.” Henry replaced his eyeglasses, ending the matter. He stared silently at Sam as if weighing him. “If you are to be my eyes and ears, you'll need to know everything I know, Sam. There are some items I've kept from the others. To properly evaluate what you discover tomorrow, you'll need to be fully informed.”

Sam sat straighter. His irritation at Philip vanished in a single heartbeat. “What?”

“Two items. First, something odd happened to the mummy here at Johns Hopkins.” Henry explained about the explosion of the mummy's skull and the brilliant golden discharge.

Sam's eyebrows were high on his forehead. “Christ, Uncle Hank, what the hell happened?”

“The pathologist here hypothesized a possible burst of trapped methane from sudden thawing. But after four decades in the field, I've never seen its like before. And that discharge…Dr. Engel is researching what it is. I may know more in a few days, but until then, I want you to keep your eyes open. The mystery as to what occurred in this village five centuries ago may be answered when you open that door.”

“I'll watch out for any clues and proceed with care, even if I have to force an iron bit and reins on Philip.”

His uncle laughed. “But remember, Sam, experienced riders know it's best to control a willful horse with only the lightest touch on the reins. Let Philip think he is leader and all will go well.”

Sam frowned. “Still…why the secrecy, Uncle Hank?”

Henry sighed, a slight shake of his head. He suddenly seemed much older, his eyes tired. “In the world of research, secrets are important.” Henry glanced up at Sam. “Remember the looters. Even in the remote wilds of the Andes, a few loose lips drew the scavengers like flies to horse droppings. The same can occur in the research community. Loose lips can sink grants, fellowships, and tenures. It's a hard lesson I don't like teaching.”

“You can trust me.”

Henry smiled. “I know, Sam. I trust you completely. I would have been glad to share all I know with you, but I didn't want to burden you with secrets. Not yet. You'll find how it weighs on your heart when you can't speak openly with your own colleagues. But matters now force me to shift my burden onto your shoulders. You must know the last piece of the puzzle, the reason I am sure an older tribe built this city.” Henry leaned closer to the screen. “I believe I may even know who it was.”

“What are you talking about? Who? This site has the Incas' stamp all over it.”

His uncle held up a hand. “I know. I never disputed that the Incas eventually took over this site. But who was here
before them? I've read tales, recorded oral histories spread from ancestor to ancestor, of how the first Incan king went to the sacred mountains and discovered a bride in a wondrous city. Returning with her, he started the Incan empire that would last hundreds of years. So even in their ancient tales, the Incas admit that a foreign tribe shared their roots. But who? It's the mystery I've been investigating for decades. My research into this matter led to the discovery of these ruins. But the answer to the question—
who built this city?
—
that
I only discovered last month.”