The Last Chamber (16 page)

Will led the way with the other three falling behind him in single
file, creeping deeper and deeper into the dark. The walls became moist the
farther they went.

“Is it possible,” Lindsey began, his voice bouncing off the corridor
walls, “that this place is much older than the one we found outside of Luxor?”

“That is certainly likely,” the Frenchman answered. “But there is no
way to be certain. And where are the carvings, the inscriptions? There is
nothing here but cold, wet rock.”

The passageway made a sudden turn to the right and as the four moved
forward, the last remnants of outside light disappeared at the lip of the
entrance. They were plunged into complete darkness, save for the flashlights in
their hands. Like before, the cavern path began to descend downward, something
Lindsey took to be a good sign since the passageway in Nekhen had done the
same.

They continued down for another fifty feet, the air became more damp
and musty. Without warning, the floor leveled out, and they could see a wall at
the end of the tunnel. Will wondered if it was another turn in the path. When
they arrived at the dead end, they were greeted with the first signs of
humanity they’d seen since entering the cave.

Dramatic lettering, almost like calligraphy, stretched from one side
to the other. There was an object also carved out of the stone, just below the
words. It was a tree with two trunks stretching over what Lindsey imagined was
a river.

DeGard was behind the other three and pressed forward to get a look at
what they’d found. His expression turned pale for a moment. Then he began to
laugh. The others didn’t know what was so funny, seeing that he was the only
one of the four who could read the engraving.

“What is it” Lindsey demanded. “What is so funny?”

The Frenchman took a step back and tried to catch his breath. “I tried
to tell you…that it was only a legend.” He barely got the words out between
laughs. “I knew there was something fishy about this cave. It was clearly
created much later than the one we found near Luxor.”

Lindsey’s eyes narrowed in the faint residual light of the beams.
“What? What are you saying, man? Make some sense, will you?”

DeGard got a hold of himself and shone his flashlight onto the
lettering again. “This says ‘Immortality is only for the righteous.’ It is
written in Latin. And I would say it was probably done around the late third to
early fourth century.”

Armenian-Turkish Border

The yellowish rock walls of Khor Virap rose up from the hill as if
they were carved from the earth itself. Sean peered through the windshield at
the almost eerie spectacle of the ancient fortress against the backdrop of
Mount Ararat. The snowcapped peaks and dramatic slopes of the mountain loomed
ominously off in the distance.

Crossing the Armenian border had been little to no trouble, which
explained why there were so many Armenians living in the major cities of
Turkey. They had apparently immigrated, looking for work.

They had veered off of the asphalt thirty minutes ago, now bouncing
along the bumpy dirt road towards the ancient citadel. In the center, the round
tower of the chapel extended up three or four stories, built of contrasting red
blocks.

The small caravan of SUVs had passed a few farms en route to the
fortress. Nothing was growing, though, due to the cold weather in that part of
the country. Sean imagined during the summer months the region exploded with
greenery from the different crops that were grown. Still, he’d never really
liked flat lands, preferring mountains and forests to anything else.

A few minutes later, the trucks stopped in front of a gate at the foot
of the hill near the monastery. Jabez had claimed that the location was a
sacred pilgrimage spot for many Armenian Christians, but during the winter
months it was almost completely empty, save for the monks who maintained it.
From the looks of, he had been right about the low tourism during the cold
season.

Jabez exited the driver’s side of the vehicle and walked casually over
to a small, wooden guard shack. A monk appeared in the doorway and spoke for a
few seconds with Jabez. The man in the brown robes then nodded his head and
floated over to the gate, unlocking it and moving it out of the way for the
vehicles to pass through.

The Arab returned to the convoy and hopped back in the SUV, shaking
off the outside cold as he did. Sean had noticed the remarkable change in
temperature just a few hours outside of Istanbul. He figured a climb in
elevation was probably the main culprit.

Jabez steered the SUV onto the winding road that led up the hill to
the fortress. “They are going to let us drive to the top. Usually, visitors are
required to park down here and walk up. Thankfully, there aren’t many people
here this time of year, so making an exception for us is not a problem.”

The narrow street only had two turns before they reached the top of
the hill where Jabez parked next to a short, stone wall. Adriana hopped out of
the vehicle and looked out across the plains, holding one hand over here
forehead. Her dark brown hair flapped in the cold breeze that swooped up from
the flatland and over the hill. The main peak of Ararat and its smaller sibling
towered over the land from the Armenian western border.

Jabez trotted back to the other truck and gave the other men some
instructions before returning to the front of the lead vehicle. One of the men
in the back of the other SUV got out and climbed into the driver’s seat of the
other vehicle.

“I told them to go over to the town and fill up the fuel tanks to save
time. They should be back by the time we finish here,” Jabez explained.

Firth grumbled about something while zipping up his coat. Sean and the
others followed Jabez up a slight rise to a wide-open gate leading into the
monastery. The trucks disappeared around the bend, heading back down the
mountain.

Sean had never seen anything quite like it. The external wall was
clearly built as a protective barrier from invasion, or possibly to keep people
in. On the inside, instead of a castle or a garrison, the small chapel stood as
a stark contrast to the facility’s original purpose and infamous history.

The long, boxy design of the chapel was accented by triangular gables,
and a twelve-sided tower jutting up in its center, topped by a dome. From a
distance, the building seemed to be more reddish in color. But up close, Sean
now saw many charcoal-hued blocks, and a few lighter ones as well. There seemed
to be no rhyme or reason for the differentiation, which added more curiosity to
the place.

Jabez acted as the tour guide as the small group neared an atrium made
from gray stone, another odd contrast to the rest of the building.

“This chapel was built in the year 642 A.D. by Nerses the Builder.” He
raised a hand as if to display the building. “It has been an Armenian Apostolic
Monastery for much of that time. The name Khor Virap means ‘deep well’ in their
traditional language. It was given that name because of the pit that Saint
Gregory was cast into.”

Sean noted that some of the construction seemed more recent than the
date their Arab friend had given. “It looks like some of this was built later
than 642.”

Jabez nodded. “The original chapel was built in that year. More was
added, as we see it now, in the mid-17
^th
century.”

“How do you know so much about this place?” Firth chimed into the
conversation with his usual, snide demeanor.

The Arab stopped just short of the entryway and spun around. A bearded
priest in dark robes and black shoes stood under the arch near the doorway,
smiling at the visitors as they approached.

“In the thousands of years since the ark’s disappearance, there have
been but a handful of people who sought to uncover its location. In between
those few travelers, it can become quite boring. So, we study.” There was a
glimmer in his eye that told Sean the man was attempting humor. Though, Firth
didn’t really appreciate it.

Sean burst out laughing for a few seconds while Adriana and Firth
watched on with rapt curiosity.

A moment later, Jabez was laughing too, and grabbed the professor on
the shoulder. “Of course I am joking, Doctor. We make it our business to learn
as much as we can about this region and surrounding areas. It is part of our
calling.”

“And here I thought you were just nomadic assassins,” Firth said
sardonically.

Jabez’s laughter ceased and his face became serious again. “We are
that when necessity requires it.” He turned around and stalked towards the
priest who had opened his arms in greeting.

Firth glanced at Sean, who shrugged off the comment. “Don’t look a
gift horse in the mouth, Professor,” he added and followed just behind their
Arab guide. “He’s helping us. And try and remember, you could be dead right now
if we hadn’t come by your house. So, try and lighten up a little.” Firth
stopped in his tracks, briefly appearing insulted.

He thought for a moment before following Adriana to the threshold of
the chapel.

Jabez introduced them all to the still-smiling priest, who now had his
hands folded behind his back. His name was Sarmen Ovesian. Jabez said that he
had been at the monastery for over twenty years. Sarmen had come to serve in
the ministry as a young man of only 16 years. He was now nearly forty and had
specks of gray in his thin, black hair. A life of service had suited him based
on the smile on his face.
 

“Welcome to Khor Virap,” he said in thickly accented English. “It is a
rare pleasure to have visitors this time of year. Please, follow me in out of
the cold.”

Sarmen led the way through the dark wooden door and into the sanctuary
of the little chapel. The expanse of the room was fairly small with only a few
rows of pews on either side of the aisle. From front to back, the sanctuary
only stretched about thirty to forty feet. Dark walls were dotted with candle
sconces, dripping with wax. The light from the tiny flames flickered against
the stone and some ancient paintings of saints, priests, and patriarchs, just
as Sean imagined it would have centuries before. The altar was a simple white
stand draped with red velvet cloth. Matching material hung from the wall behind
the altar in two places. It was much different than many of the flamboyant
cathedrals that dotted the European landscape.

After heads spun around for a moment, taking in the sanctuary, the
priest ushered them towards a door just off to the right of the altar. “Through
here is where you will find what you are looking for,” he explained.

They passed through opening into a room that was much smaller. It was
a tiny alcove, lit only by a few candles on the floor. There were a few crosses
painted in gold standing against the walls. What lay in the middle of the room,
though, was what really caught their attention. In the center of the floor, an
iron set of steps descended into the ground through a hole about three feet
wide.

Sean stared, wide-eyed at the depression. “So this is the pit,” he
said, more statement than question.

The priest nodded. “Gregory spent thirteen years of his life down in
that place, with very little food or water. Only divine power could have
sustained him for that long.”

Sarmen’s words hung in the cool, musty air. It would have been a
living nightmare to be kept prisoner in such a place. There were no sources of
natural light, just complete and utter darkness, twenty-four hours, seven days
a week. In the ancient world, there weren’t many things worse than being kept
in a dungeon. This pit, however, was one of those worse things.

Standing over the cavity, Sean gazed down into the darkness. There was
a faint shimmering light mixing with a steadier, whitish light at the bottom of
the steep steps.

“We burn candles to honor Saint Gregory,” the priest explained.
 
“There is also a light bulb to provide
better illumination. Please, you may take as long as you like to look around. I
have a few other tasks I must attend to.” He smiled and motioned for Sean to go
ahead and climb down the steps. Sarmen’s flowing robes followed him out of the
alcove and back into the sanctuary in dramatic fashion.

Sean was dubious. “He’s just going to leave us here?” he asked Jabez.

“Sarmen is a very trusting person. And he is especially sympathetic to
the brotherhood.” The Arab stepped past Sean and began climbing down the almost
ladder-like steps, disappearing beneath the floor.

Sean twitched his head to the side for a second. The answer was good
enough for him, so he followed Jabez down into the hole. The ladder-like
staircase dropped almost straight down for about twenty feet then cut off at an
angle the rest of the way down until it reached the floor. The vertical passage
also became narrower below the mouth, slimming down to a two foot wide cubed
shaft.

In the bottom of the pit, it took a few moments for everyone’s eyes to
adjust to the darkness, even with the light the solitary bulb was putting out.
In a small, arched recession cut into the wall, a painting of Saint Gregory
stood alone.

Firth examined the canvas for a few seconds. “This painting is around
four hundred years old, he declared in shock. “It should be in a museum, not
down here.”

Sean wasn’t about to get in an argument about where the artwork should
be. It belonged to the monks, and they could do with it as they pleased.
Though, he was somewhat distressed over the graffiti that lingered on the rock
above the painting’s alcove. It was a wonder the canvas had never been tampered
with.

The pit had been carelessly hewn out of the mountain in some places,
but braced with large blocks of stone and mortar in others. Whoever had done it
wasn’t concerned with aesthetics. This place was meant to be a place of torture
and death. The walls had become blackened over the years, though there were
still flecks of white here and there displaying the original color of the rock.
The hard floor was jagged and uneven with a coating of dirt over the top of it.
Sean had expected it to smell worse than it did. But the stench of the ages had
worn away. He imagined when the place had been transformed from a prison to a
sacred site, some cleaning must have occurred.

“It is hard to believe someone lived down here for thirteen years,”
Adriana commented reverently as she gazed around at the dismal setting. Her
voice hummed off the rock walls.

Jabez agreed. “It was a difficult trial, for certain. And yet, after
he was released from it, he ministered to the man who put him here. Above that,
Gregory served the king for the rest of his days. I do not know many men…” he
corrected himself for Adriana, “people who would do something like that after
being so poorly treated.”

The portrait of Saint Gregory stood quietly off to the side in its
little archway. He was adorned in priestly garments and a miter, standard for
someone in the employ of the church in those days.

Even Dr. Firth seemed to be impressed by the gravity of such a
tortured existence. He crossed his arms and rubbed his stubbled face with one
hand, wiping his nose a little as he did. “I couldn’t imagine living in this
place for a month, one year, much less thirteen.”

No one else said anything for a few moments, letting the somberness of
the room fill their hearts and minds. After a minute had passed, Sean moved
over to the wall near the little alcove where the portrait rested. A small,
stone cross sat next to it. He touched it reverently for a second then pulled
his hand back. He knew it had probably been there for a thousand years. The
gravity of historical facts like that always hit him heavily.