by Brad Ricca
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About the Author
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Copyright Page
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For my brother, Chris
And I will lead the blind
in a way that they know not,
in paths that they have not known
I will guide them
I will turn the darkness before them into light,
the rough places into level ground.
These are the things I will do,
and I will not forsake them.
—Isaiah 42: 16
All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.
—T. E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom, 1926
PERSONS IN THEIR ORDER OF APPEARANCE
Sir Charles Warren: A longtime servant of the British Empire, Sir Charles made significant archaeological finds in Palestine, was appointed to a civil administration post in London, and served as a general in the Second Boer War in South Africa.
Monty Parker: The second son of the Earl of Morley, Monty served as a captain in the First Boer War with the Grenadier Guards. After a tour in India, a shadowy group called the Syndicate approached him about a secret project they wished him to lead.
Johan Millen: A Swedish engineer who was part of the Syndicate.
Ava Astor: The wife of American business magnate John Jacob Astor, Ava was a socialite and fashion icon in New York and London. She was known as “The Most Beautiful Woman in the World.”
Dr. Valter Juvelius: A Finnish poet, translator, and surveyor with a doctorate degree who was a friend of Johan Millen, Dr. Juvelius claimed to have uncovered a secret code—a cipher—in the Book of Ezekiel that revealed the location of the lost Ark of the Covenant.
Cyril Foley: An Eton and Cambridge man, Cyril was a professional cricket player who served his country during the infamous Jameson Raid in the First Boer War.
Natalie Maurice: An American tourist to the Holy Land.
Father Louis-Hugues Vincent: French by birth, Father Vincent joined the Dominican order at the École Biblique of St. Stephen’s Basilica in Jerusalem, where he studied biblical archaeology.
Bertha Vester: The leader of the American Colony in Jerusalem, a collective Christian community devoted to philanthropic and commercial concerns.
The Baron Edmond de Rothschild: The leader of the French branch of the famous Jewish banking family and collector of rare antiquities.
The Friend:???
THE KEY
And now he told me some of his strange experiences and actions from the Eastern countries he had been. I didn’t know what to think … but it’s hard to claim him a liar without a doubt. His speech was calm and orderly, like an educated man … He talked like he knew things, like they were ordinary, everyday events.
I wondered if he was hiding the main thing itself.
I can usually tell when someone is telling a story where the truth ends and the lie begins. The sound gets a new tone, the language suddenly sneaks in, just like a foot in soft clay … and the teller’s gaze wanders for a moment.
But not this! He spoke with moderation. He looked in my eyes the whole time.
I have to think he either found me boring and it was a trap for me, from start to finish, or his reports, with their descriptions, even in the most bizarre passages, were sheer truth.
He told me of his time in Jerusalem, of all places.
And a treasure that lay there.
—Heikki Kenttä, pseudonym of Dr. Valter Juvelius,
Valkoinen kameeli ja muita kertomuksia itämailta,
(The White Camel), 1916
PART ONE
THE CIPHER
One
JERUSALEM, 1867
From the valley, the mountain that rose in the half-light before them seemed to be getting closer; but sometimes, it looked as if it had only been painted there, in the background of things, by some artist’s brush. The hour was late and the sky was still blue, though the entire slope of the mountain was already cast in shadow. Like so many things around Jerusalem—the places, the people, the stories—the hill was something ancient yet real, a physical anchor to an unfathomable past that extended all the way back to the very times of God. As the sun began to slowly pass from sight, the sky and the sharp peak began to form a single dark image, its outline flecked with light.
Three sets of boots splashed in a line through the shallow pool on the ground, uncaring of where they stepped. Like the mountain, it too was swallowed in darkness. Only the contrast of stacked rocks here, a tuft of shrubbery there, gave it any definition. As the three men stopped and looked into the empty stone basin, they saw a tunnel descending downward.
They lit their candles one by one. Sergeant Birtles went first into the empty pool. He was large and strong, with a full brown beard that seemed to move with every breath like some great snoring bear. His heavy white shirt was tucked into his steel blue pants, with two broad red stripes running down the legs. Behind him was a local fellah with a large black beard, dressed in robes and a turban that had not been white for some time. As they entered the low tunnel, Birtles pulled out his brown canister and began running his measuring tape along the stone walls. He fixed it with the thumb of his leather glove as his candle flickered over the tiny printed numbers. They walked down rather easily, even as the hard edges of the stairs crumbled like bits of crusty bread.
Behind them, standing at the tunnel’s opening, was a man, though he was little more than a silhouette in a pith helmet. He followed them down and came into view, with his compass and field book clutched to his chest. He crammed his equipment under his arm and held his candle up. Captain Charles Warren looked young for his age, with dark eyes and a handsome face under close-cropped hair and a beard. His pencil held firmly in his teeth, he was sweating like a butcher, but he looked perfectly composed. There was a look in his eye not of madness, not entirely, but of a marked enthusiasm. Warren looked at his companions. The romance of the moment was not lost on any of them, but enough was enough. It was time to get on with things.
They walked slowly, with their backs almost parallel to the cool walls. As they made their way in, the strange midnight of the tunnel devoured all but the pooling circles of light from their candles. The ground had a thin crust to it. Warren pressed the toe of his boot onto it to make sure it would hold. There was a little water on the ground, but certainly nothing to be worried about. They proceeded slowly down through the tunnel. They walked, plain sailing, for about three hundred feet.
Captain Warren stopped the fellah’s torch with his hand and slowly directed it toward the left wall. There, under the wavering light, were rough marks gouged into the stone. Warren looked at Birtles, who understood his thoughts immediately. These scrapes had been made by a chisel a long time ago. Birtles pulled at his open collar. Warren could see the sweat dripping from his forehead. The deeper they got,
the more stifling it became. Warren gave the ceiling a wary look. As if the heat was not enough, the tunnel seemed to be getting smaller. Jagged crags in the walls were prodding into their backs.
They moved forward even more slowly, hunching over further. Birtles kept unrolling his never-ending tape. Soon, they were reduced to a single file. Captain Warren ran his own tape from ceiling to floor. He took his pencil from his mouth and began scratching numbers into the small notebook. The ceiling, which was sixteen feet at the great entrance, was now down to four feet, four inches. Warren then measured the width of the tunnel. He focused on the small black number on the tape. It was now a mere two feet across. Captain Warren took the candle and pushed it forward into the blackness. If this tunnel was what he thought it was, then it made sense that it did not always have to be tall enough for walking. But that was not going to make it easy. Warren looked ahead. The tunnel continued in a wavy line to the east. Birtles crouched forward first, unwinding his tape, and they moved on.
When they reached four hundred and fifty feet in, the passage was only three feet, nine inches tall. Warren again marked it into his notebook with his little pencil.
“Wait,” he said.
Warren moved to the front. He moved his candle higher in the air, but where it should have met the ceiling, it continued even higher. The tunnel seemed to be growing again. Warren stepped forward and looked upward. The low ceiling gave way to a shaft that led upward at a steep angle. He looked for a handhold or ridge, but there was none. He stretched out his arm. The candle fought against the darkness, but its power was limited. The tunnel went up, but to where? Warren looked down at his old black boots. The small stream at their feet seemed to be growing. Warren made a note of the shaft, and they continued.
Several minutes later, Birtles stopped in his tracks, bumping his head in the process. He cursed in the half darkness. Warren edged his way to the front and saw the reason: they had run into a wall. Birtles grunted. They would have to turn back. Warren could hear the fellah breathe a sigh of relief. But Warren again reached forward, and this time lowered his candle. The soft glow fell down the side of the wall to reveal more darkness. The tunnel had not stopped; it had only gotten smaller. Warren made a quick measurement: it was only two feet, six inches high. He heard another long sigh.
They dropped to all fours and moved forward, crawling in the skinny rivulet of water. Warren tried not to think of the sheer weight of rock and dirt above them, just outside the city of Jerusalem. He knew there were farms and houses up there in the village of Silwan filled with people who slept, oblivious to their night crawling.
Warren looked down. The water seemed to have risen again, now reaching their hips, but it was still only about four inches deep. In the stale air, its iciness was refreshing. Warren washed some over his face and shook it off. When he opened his eyes, he saw Birtles once again stopped, his face frozen in fear. Warren felt something brush against his arm.
There was something in the water.
Warren plunged his arm in with a splash, grabbed the slippery monster with his bare hand, and pulled it into the air.
They pushed their lights closer in. In Warren’s hands was something wet, long, and bright green.
He opened his hand.
It was a drooping stalk of cabbage.
“Hrm,” he grumbled. Warren looked down. More bits of cabbage floated by them. He looked at his wet sleeve. The waters were unquestionably higher.
Warren knew that the fountain was sometimes used by the nearby villagers as a kind of scullery. But while Warren understood the cabbage, he had no theory as to why the water was getting higher. The waters of the fountain came intermittently at best and had risen only two hours before their entrance; they had timed their approach accordingly.
“How far?” growled Warren, his eyes glowing. Birtles checked his tape, which was now up around his head.
“Eight hundred and … fifty feet.”
The Englishmen and their companion dropped to their stomachs and inched forward like woodland animals. The channel was now less than two feet high. The water was running about a foot high itself, which still gave them room to breathe, but not very much, and the water seemed to be flowing through them at a faster pace. Warren caught a look at the fellah’s face, soaked and scared. They were just heads now, floating beneath the surface of the earth.
As they advanced through the tunnel, the water began rushing by them with greater speed, splashing up even higher. Birtles’s great beard was already reduced to a black slick. Warren bit hard on his pencil. The only dry item on his person was his hat.
Warren slowly shifted his notebook and tape around and somehow maneuvered his lit candle to his mouth. They crawled another fifty feet—the ceiling was now just above one foot high. They had to twist their necks to gulp at the thin layer of air between the water and the rocky ceiling. The air was hot and tasted old and sour. Warren knew that their situation was dire indeed. If they turned to go back, the surge of water would probably drown them, pushing their bodies out, perhaps in time to meet someone coming to the fountain to do their morning wash. But if they went forward, and the water rose even two more inches, they would still drown and end up in the same place. Warren closed his eyes for a moment and tried to think, gritting his teeth. He opened his eyes. There was no choice.
“Follow me,” he said, moving forward.
At about nine hundred feet, Warren saw something dark wavering in the water beneath them.
“Stop,” he said.
Warren took off his hat and tried to shift everything again, including his candle, to his free left hand. The flame held still for moment, slanted in the air, but then plunked into the water. There was a soft hiss as the candle was carried away by the fast current. Warren took a deep breath, put his pencil back between his teeth, and plunged his head under. As he held his compass, field book, and hat only marginally above the water, Warren looked through the murkiness beneath. Blinking his eyes, he saw two passageways—one on either side—that branched off from the main tunnel. He pushed his fist forward into the tunnels, but they only went in about two feet each. Were these openings false cuttings or were they actual tunnels, stopped up with debris? Did they go farther? He stared at their gloomy openings, quivering under the water. He felt chilled and alone. Warren floated there for a moment. One of the openings seemed to have a darker aspect to it. Out of the corner of his eye, Warren thought he perhaps saw something, but he could not be sure of anything.
Warren pushed his head up, took out his pencil, and gasped at the air. He tried to take in another breath, but it stopped in his throat. His eyes opened wide. Something was wrong. He opened his mouth to shout, but no sound came out. He looked at his pencil: the tip was missing. He could feel the sharp piece of lead stuck back in his throat.
Warren tried to cough but felt only a stabbing pain. He sucked in air that went nowhere, dropping his hat, which went floating off in the stream behind him. The fellah stared at him, not sure what was happening. Warren looked at his hat, then pointed to his mouth.
His face was turning blue.
“He’s choking!” shouted Birtles.
Warren’s eyes began to bulge. He thought of that dark tunnel beneath him.
Birtles clapped him on the back and the piece of lead went flying through the air like a bullet, landing in the rushing water. Warren spat and took a gulp of water. He put his hand to his neck and swallowed, looking relieved. He looked at the sorry remains of his favorite pencil with anger. He shoved it back in his mouth. He looked at Birtles, nodded, and they continued.
They crawled in a zigzag direction through the rushing water, still running the tape, when the height of the tunnel miraculously increased to a palatial four feet, six inches, which buoyed their spirits. They finally had some room to breathe. But at over one thousand feet, the tunnel tightened again to a paltry two feet, and in another hundred feet went down to one foot, ten inches. Warren again feared a dark end in these ancient caves.
“Halt,” he said.
It was a faraway sound, but because of the echo, he could not be sure. He moved forward, then backward, then forward again. There it was.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
They were fourteen hundred feet in and had finally heard the dripping water that might signal the source of the spring. Warren moved to the front and began running his dirty hands over every surface of the rock.
There.
Warren’s fingers found a fault in the stone, and he began feeling out its edges. He pushed his ear to it. He heard a loud gurgling. He listened more intently. Somewhere in the rock, from that close, it was almost a roar.
Warren examined the area and measured it. He took out his pencil, bit at it to expose some more lead, and wrote down his findings. They had found the location of the spring. Warren nodded, and they continued, following the tunnel as it wound to the east. The ceiling rose to six feet, and they finally could stand again, slow but triumphant, their soaked joints cold and rheumy. At 1,658 feet, Birtles finally stopped his tape, and Warren wrote down the final numbers. They managed smiles as they looked upon the passage leading past another shaft. After about fifty more feet, they walked up a short set of stone steps into a large, cracked cave. They could feel the cool air of an exit.
When they finally emerged, under an ornate arch and up a long set of stairs, it was dark outside. They stood shivering for some minutes before their awaiting attendants realized they had arrived and rushed to cover them with blankets. They had been in the wet, cold cavern for nearly four hours. Now that they were back on the solid ground of Palestine proper, just a fair bit from the walls of Jerusalem, the stars were shining and a fire had been started. There were different degrees of darkness, thought Warren, but none so deep as underground.
