Shattered Icon

by Bill Napier

  As we moved south, the weather became warmer and the sea grew calmer. Our skins first peeled, and then became dark brown, in the heat and glare of the sun. We made good progress in the gentle sea and found we could survive by raiding the coastal lands. From time to time we would see savages. Whenever this happened we would hasten back to our canoes and paddle away quickly. We always lived with our wits about us and our eyes wide open.

  It was on the forty-first day that we were captured by the Spanish. I was awakened by a boot kicking heavily at my ribs. We were surrounded by about half a dozen soldiers. There was a longboat and a great ship, I believe a galleon, half a mile offshore. An officer started to question me roughly in Spanish, of which I understood not a word, a fact which caused him to slap me after each question. I thought it wise to keep my ballockknife in its place.

  Marmaduke then astonished me by speaking to the officer in fluent Spanish. He drew the officer aside and spoke to him quietly for ten minutes or so. The officer's arrogance gave way to astonishment. He marched over to the relic, took it away from the other soldiers and opened the silk cloth carefully, making sure no one could see what was inside. When he approached me again, his attitude was entirely different. We were ushered onto the longboat and taken out to the deep-rolling waves and the ship. Marmaduke held the relic in his lap, and my journal was hidden next to my chest. At the time I did not know how much had survived the soakings and drenchings of the past six weeks.

  The deck of the ship was crowded with soldiers, much as was the Tiger. We were ushered down a hatch and into a small cabin, into the presence of the captain. Again, Marmaduke spoke with great fluency in Spanish, and again the initially hostile attitude of the Spaniard gave way to astonishment and then respect.

  That evening, we dined with the captain and his officers. There was a great deal of wine and hilarity and jovial conversation, much of it centred around Marmaduke. For me, not understanding a word, the joy was in the silk shirts and breeches I had been given, and the soft cushioned seat, and the hogsmeat, and the boiled rice, and the silver cutlery and goblets, and the beer, which I drank to glorious excess, and the fact of being served rather than a servant.

  And that night, lying on a glorious bunk, feeling again the rhythmic sway of a ship, listening to its hundred creaks and groans, Marmaduke, drunk with wine and excitement, talked too much.

  That the Roanoke expedition had a secret purpose I had long known. But now that purpose was made clear to me. By establishing a Protestant colony in the New World, at precisely seventy-seven degrees longitude west, Queen Elizabeth would have been able to announce a new calendar, devised by her astronomer John Dee, the prime meridian of which passed through the colony.

  This new calendar was greatly superior to the Gregorian one then being introduced by Rome. It would cycle through 33 years, pacing the life of Jesus so that a man would know he had been born in, say, the fourth year of our Lord. Easter, that most sacred of days, would follow closely the biblical prescription, and it would match the passing seasons with great precision. The prestige of Elizabeth would be enhanced amongst her Protestant neighbours, and as the advantage of the new calendar became apparent it would be adopted by more and more nations, to the humiliation of the Pope and the embarrassment of Spain, stuck with an inferior calendar.

  The colony, therefore, had to be made to fail. Marmaduke, Rowse and Kendall were the spies in its midst, assigned this task. Kendall was the poisoner, and Rowse fired the shots which killed the soldiers. Marmaduke brought with him the True Cross, which had been in his family since the Crusades. There was therefore a Catholic plot within the Protestant one, but there was even more to it than that. A relic from Christ, kissed by a monarch, confirmed that monarch's divine right to rule. The relic had been so kissed. But it had been kissed, not by Queen Elizabeth, but by Mary Queen of Scots. Buried at seventy-seven degrees west, it would confer her divine right to rule the New World in anticipation of overthrowing Elizabeth.

  That Marmaduke was a Catholic we all knew. But that he was part of a plot to overthrow Queen Elizabeth and put her cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, on the throne, took my breath away. I wonder that he told me this even in his drunken state. But the reason was soon clear. To save my life, he had had to introduce me as his assistant in the enterprise. Otherwise, as a Protestant, I could expect nothing more than the auto-da-fe. My security lay in my acquiescence, and I had to know the plot should I be questioned about it. As indeed I was, later, by Dominican monks.

  The ship is headed for Jamaica, Marmaduke told me. There we will stay until the Protestant Queen has been overthrown and the true faith has been restored to England. The Spaniards do not know the full story, he added. I have told them only that we were destroying the Protestant expedition from within. Mendoza, the architect of the plot, knows my story and will confirm my part in it by letter from Spain.

  And the True Cross? What will happen to it?

  They have been told that the thing I carry is a family heirloom. They do not know that it is part of the True Cross. Better that they never know. It will stay with me on the island.

  And so, patient reader, this old man has come to the end of his testament. As the world knows, the plot against Elizabeth failed. The Queen of Scots was executed. Walsingham's torturers extracted the names of the plotters. Marmaduke's was never mentioned in public, but that might have been a ruse to entice him back to England. He was never able to leave the island of Jamaica.

  In due course, after many adventures, I sailed to Spain. I travelled by wagon overland through France to Calais, and crossed to Dover in a fishing boat. Having by then some money, I purchased a horse and made my way back to my native Tweedsmuir.

  The valley in which I had grown up, and which had filled my young world, now seemed to me small and insignificant. Much had happened in it. My mother had died of a fever and my wretched stepfather, I am glad to say, had drunk himself to death. My beloved brother Angus was now a prosperous farmer, married to Jean, the smiddy's youngest daughter. I found that I was now an uncle. Dominie Dinwoodie, now quite white-haired, welcomed me as a long-lost son, and he and I spent many an evening exchanging stories.

  Fiona had grown into a beautiful young woman, as yet unmarried. I asked her to become my wife and to come out to Jamaica with me, where, I explained, I too was becoming a prosperous farmer, on fertile land abandoned by the Spaniards. To my joy she agreed, and we took the long trip back through France and then Spain and across the wide Atlantic Ocean. In the course of our lives we have crossed that ocean more than once to Scotland, but only to stay a short while. Our true roots are now here in Jamaica. And here we shall stay, with our three children, until we die.

  Stewardship of the True Cross was given to me by Marmaduke StClair as he lay dying, in trust for his family. And here, at last, for Marmaduke's family only to understand, is where it is hidden.

  CHAPTER 34

  I, James Ogilvie, son of William Ogilvie, shepherd and farmer of Tweedsmuir, leave this document as my final testament.

  In accordance with the instructions of my friend Marmaduke StClair I record herein the location of the True Cross of our Saviour Jesus Christ. It will serve as a reminder to his children and their children, who will be tutored in the meaning of what follows and who may pass on its hidden meaning to later generations of their family. And to ensure that the Cross remains in the hands of the StClair family and none other, I write only this:

  THE BOOKKEEPER

  THE STAR OF THE WHEELS OF TIME

  THE POLYGON

  May God grant you peace. These are my last words. James Ogilvie

  'Oh thank God.' Relief flowed out of Zola.

  Debbie, still pale-faced, was looking bewildered. I explained, 'It buys us more time, Debbie. They'll have to keep us alive until we solve Ogilvie's conundrum.'

  'But can you solve it? What does it mean?'

  I stared at Ogilvie's clues. Polygon. A young man, fond of geometry. Stars. Taught the art of celestial navigation
by one of the leading men of the age. But Wheels of time? Bookkeeper?

  I shook my head. 'I've no idea. But no way will the crazies be able to crack this. We have a definite bargaining counter.'

  Zola said, 'I doubt that, Harry. As soon as we tell them what it means, they'll get rid of us. Sorry, Debbie.'

  'I have to agree they'll bump us off. But they won't do that until they have the icon safely in their hands. Between then and now we have to find some way to escape.'

  'And get to the icon before them,' said Debbie. I looked at her in astonishment: with practically no chance of survival, she was still determined to retrieve the family heirloom.

  'Come on, Harry. Our lives depend on this.' Zola was running her fingers over Ogilvie's message, her eyes intense.

  I shook my head again.

  Debbie astonished me some more. 'Why don't you work on the code, Harry, while Zola and I think of some way out of here?'

  Zola said, 'Did you see the keyring on the dressing-room table? It said something about the Royal Yacht Club.'

  'Be realistic, Zola. You'll be shot if you go upstairs. There's a gorilla on the jetty, two looking at us from upstairs, and one more out of sight. Presumably he's round the back somewhere. Not to mention Cassandra and Hondros.'

  'You have a better idea?'

  'I can hardly walk, let alone run. I can't get away from here. I'll make it a condition of handing over the decode that the pair of you walk out the door.'

  'Be realistic, Harry. As soon as you admit to decoding the message they'll use pain to lever it out of you. If not on you, then on us. And then they'll kill all three of us anyway.'

  Zola had a point. I didn't want to think what they could do to Debbie.

  'I don't want to die,' Debbie whispered, fear in her dark eyes.

  And now Hondros was approaching. His face was grim.

  'Bookkeeper? The star of the wheels of time? The polygon? What does it mean, Blake?' His voice was trembling.

  I shrugged. The casual gesture infuriated him.

  He spread his fingers on the table, over Ogilvie's message, and his eyes bulged with anger. 'And will I be stopped at this stage? Seventeen centuries after the thieves took it from us? By some shepherd boy's fondness for puzzles? Find the meaning, Blake, and find it quickly. I will give you until midnight tonight.'

  'That's absurd—'

  'And then the velvet gloves will be put away, and we will start on your friend Debbie, and you will hear her screams while you work on the problem, and we will continue on her either until she is dead or you have given us the solution. Understood?'

  I looked at him bleakly and nodded. I understood.

  CHAPTER 35

  The bookkeeper; the star of the wheels of time; the polygon.

  At first, when I'd wandered around the Lego house, I'd sensed eyes viewing me with suspicion from all directions. But by now I had done it so often, head bowed in thought, that the gunmen were becoming blase. I wondered if I could exploit the fact in some way, but couldn't see how. I could hardly walk and the circuit soon exhausted me. There were four of them, one standing at the jetty, one at the rear gate, and two who seemed to wander at will, sometimes disappearing into the house, or leaning out over one of the upstairs balconies, or sometimes sprawling on poolside chairs. They were never without their ugly black revolvers. I couldn't see any way out.

  There was about an acre of ground around the villa, enclosed in a fence about nine feet tall. There were two cars at the side of the house, one of them the battle-scarred Toyota we had hired, the other a black Chrysler jeep: it seemed they'd had no trouble replacing the one I'd sent tumbling down the Blue Mountains. A single rough track led through a heavy wrought iron gate up a hillside and over the summit a few hundred yards away. In the early afternoon I'd seen a white cruise ship far out at sea, heading no doubt to St Lucia, Grenada and points beyond, Jamaica having been 'done' that morning. At no point was I out of sight of one or more of the guards.

  I went back into the living room and flopped on a couch, letting the cool breeze from the air conditioner flow over me. Cassandra, in dark glasses and red bikini, was reading a paperback at the poolside. Now and then she would put the book down and spread suntan lotion on her arms and legs. Hondros spent half his time on a mobile phone: it seemed he had left the task of decipherment to us. Zola and Debbie were nowhere to be seen, but then it was a big house.

  Something in the back of my mind, trying to get out. Something about Ogilvie, and stars, and calendars. I stood up, closed my eyes, tried hard to think. I needed that bargaining point.

  Who needed a bookkeeper in 17th-century Jamaica?

  Debbie came sailing through. 'There's a cold drink in the kitchen, Harry.'

  Spoken casually. I got the message. Zola was sitting on a work surface, tapping her heels on a cupboard door. There was no one around but still she spoke in a hushed voice. 'There's a fuse box outside. I think it needs an Allen key to get into it, but we might manage to open it with a nail file. If we could maybe fuse the house after dark.'

  'It won't fly. We'd need to get away either by car or boat, and for that we need keys. They're upstairs on the dressing-room table, along with Debbie's mobile phone. Can you imagine running upstairs with the key, running back down and outside, fiddling with the key for the gate, starting the car and driving out, with these armed thugs running around looking for us? Anyway, there's always at least one of them upstairs.'

  'Do you have a better idea?' Zola asked coldly.

  'Yes. I crack Ogilvie's code and use it as a bargaining counter.'

  'We've been through that, Harry. They'll torture it out of you, or put a gun to Debbie's head, or mine.'

  'It's ten past four. They're going to shoot me at midnight if we haven't cracked the code,' Debbie reminded me. She was trying for a matter-of-fact tone but desperation was edging into her voice. 'How are you getting on with that, Harry?'

  'Yes, Harry, how are you getting on with that?' Hondros was standing at the open door, a mobile phone in one hand and the inevitable gun in the other. His hairy stomach was overlapping the belt of his red swimming shorts.

  I wanted to say something defiant, throw some insult at him. Instead I said, 'I have some embryonic thoughts. Ogilvie's information is pretty minimal.'

  'Naturally. It was designed to be impenetrable to anyone outside his little family circle.' He looked down at his revolver and gave the barrel a spin. 'Share those embryonic thoughts, Blake.'

  I said, 'Where in Jamaica, in Ogilvie's day, was there a need for a bookkeeper? Jamaica in Ogilvie's day was just a trading post. Passing ships would pick up food and water. That had to be recorded, and that's where a bookkeeper would come into the equation. By the time Ogilvie reached Jamaica the Spaniards had abandoned New Seville to the north and moved their administrative capital to Spanish Town. They were using the harbour at Port Royal. Wherever the icon is buried, it has to be somewhere in that area, on the south coast. That's as far as I've got so far.'

  Hondros gave a thoughtful nod. 'Very good, Blake.' Then he pointed the gun at Debbie's head, holding it at arm's-length and squinting along the barrel.

  There was an awful stillness.

  Hondros had an expression like a hanging judge. 'But what I want is the True Cross, not embryonic thoughts. You have seven hours and fifty minutes remaining to deliver it.' Then he padded out of the kitchen in his bare feet as quietly as he had entered, leaving a trail of water. Zola wrapped her arms around Debbie. Debbie wasn't making a sound, but her shoulders were shuddering.

  'He actually bought that rubbish, Harry.' Zola was patting Debbie's back as if she was a child.

  'It's not Port Royal?' Debbie's voice was muffled. She was hiding her face in Zola's chest and her arms were around Zola's neck.

  'No chance,' I said. 'The StClair family's property was on St Ann's, on the north coast of the island. Remember what Ogilvie said? That he developed land which the Spanish had abandoned?'

  Zola was still patting. 'And
the earliest plantation on the island was Sevilla la Nueva, on the north coast. They'd abandoned it by the time of Roanoke.'

  Debbie disengaged herself from Zola's embrace. 'On the north of the island?'

  I nodded. 'Just west of Ocho Rios. And a plantation would need a bookkeeper. The starting point for the search isn't the south of the island, Debbie, it's the north. You go along with that, Zola?'

  'Absolutely what I've been thinking. Sevilla la Nueva, not Port Royal.'

  Debbie patted moisture from her eyes with her sweater. 'You're going to give the crazies a false trail?'

  'We're going to screw them up totally. We'll head off north while they head south.'

  'That means we're going to escape? Do you have a plan, Harry?'

  'That's your job.' I hated saying that, hated seeing the hope go out of her eyes. 'The star of the wheels of time,' I said to nobody.

  'Something to do with the Nothing Days?' Zola wondered. 'The Nemontemi?'

  I said, 'It's not my field, but I don't think a star was connected with them. My guess is he's talking about the big wheel, the fifty-two-year cycle.'

  'Would you people stop talking gibberish? What are these wheels of time?' Debbie demanded.

  I said, 'The Mayan and Aztec civilisations were obsessed with calendars and the passage of time. It dominated their lives for centuries—'

  Debbie interrupted impatiently. 'So what? I'm sorry but I keep thinking about torture starting at midnight and my brains getting blown out, and what are you doing about it? All you do is talk about Aztecs and wheels of time. Even I know the Aztecs came from Mexico, not Jamaica. And they didn't have wheels.'

  Zola said, 'But the Arawak natives must have come from Central America.'

  'Zola isn't getting it quite right, Debbie. The native Jamaicans were Taino, not Arawak, but who cares? Whoever jumped into canoes and paddled to Jamaica brought their culture with them, a culture which was obsessed with measuring time. It would have been irresistible for Ogilvie to use their calendars in his coded message. Calendars were what the expedition was about.'