Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  At the mention of sabotage Lampie’s face darkened. Peter flinched slightly – yes it was definitely a good idea not to bring up any Wallace like connections. She looked fit to strangle someone at the least provocation.

  Wally seemed to be the spokesman for the gathering. He sat in the middle flanked by his two ‘partners’, and like Lampie, wasn’t impressed when Sid’s name cropped up. “Yeah. Look, after what that weasel Sid pulled, yah can count on us, but we reckon it‘d be smart to know what’s going on.”

  Peter had to agree with that. The number of secrets surrounding this site just kept on piling up until they reached mountain-like proportions. “Sure. I have prepared a quick run through of what we’ve found out about the problems that surround our excavation. As you know, most of those difficulties revolve around our old friend Sid.”

  That statement of fact got a good reception. Peter clicked the remote and ran through a selection of images of the site showing stages of excavation. Then he switched to the ones from Sid’s secret cache. “I don’t know how or when Sid tripped over the clues to Deception Bay. Maybe some piece of wreckage or flotsam tipped him off. But from the date on this porcelain jug on eBay and these other shots, it was weeks before the official discovery.”

  Peter looked to Lampie who gave a reluctant nod of confirmation. Then he slapped his hand on the surface of the buffet giving off a sharp crack that gained instant attention. “Those details do not matter. Sid got greedy and, as we can see, he sold the piece to Karartha Enterprises, a company that deals in art and antiquities. Now according to the company register, it runs out of offices in Singapore and Surfers Paradise, and its sole director is one Abernathy Wallace who as we have seen, turned up so readily in his great white cruiser packed with armed goons.”

  Wally spoke up and waved his hand southwards. “Yeah, we saw that beauty anchored in the next inlet to the north of you, two days ago.”

  Now wasn’t that a revelation! May Ling and Sarina muttered confirmation. This shot the story of ‘fortunate happenstance’ out of the water.

  Peter began scrolling through his next selection of evidence. “I found a couple of articles on Wallace on the internet, a few praising him as a benefactor and prominent member of the Gold Coast business community. Pretty standard stuff. Then we have these ones from various overseas aid and community development organisations working in Asia, Africa and the Middle East. They raised serious questions regarding how Wallace gained his antiquities. Some suggested bribery, others claimed theft.”

  Wally and the girls appeared to perk up a little at that hint of nefarious activity, while Lampie’s jaw tightened with ominous significance. Peter was reminded of the dinner, and the conversation in French, where Wallace claimed to know her father professionally. That was an area he’d have to check out later. Moving on he came to the journal photos and he opened them in a slideshow. “Lampie, are these the shots of the journal we found in the chest?”

  His companion in escape peered at the screen, as he flicked along the list, before she finally gave a satisfied nod. Good, he sucked in a deep breath and moved onto the next contentious issue. “First, Sid never let me near these shots or the journal. I had to sneak the SD cards out of the camp, then crack Sid’s code on a hidden folder before I could get to them.”

  He surveyed his audience. No shakes of the head, excellent. So nice not to have to convince someone Sid was a rat – they already knew it! “The journal is written in Latin by the owner of the chest and I’ve translated it.”

  That gained a gasp from the Lampie section of the audience. From tense and distant she had shifted to excited. The radiance of hope fair shone out of her eyes. Peter felt a deep twinge of guilt that this wasn’t quite what she had wished for. Despite the mounting trepidation, he pushed on. “Unfortunately it proves that the site isn’t Portuguese like we’d first thought.”

  Damn! The joyous light of Lampie switched off. Peter hurried on before he lost his main recipient. “It is a lot older. It dates from a European expedition that landed here in eleven eighty three!”

  There was only a brief moment of silence then the storm of voices broke over him. How four people could create so much furore was amazing. Once calm had been reluctantly restored, Peter began to read his translation, pointing out the relevant sections. It didn’t go as well as he’d expected. The story of Father Joachim and the crusading pirates was a little difficult to credit, especially when he got to the castles and the tomb. He tried to be philosophical about it. After all, he was a Pom and didn’t have hundreds of years of cultural history tied up in Captain Cook and the Dutch. Peter persevered – it was rougher than dealing with university students and it must have been a good hour answering questions. At the end, it was hard for even this moderately receptive audience to accept. Templar crusaders in Australia? Just not possible, a fantasy! May as well say Aztecs got here and built pyramids on the east coast!

  Now was the time to pull out his four aces. Lampie was looking doubtful. As for the rest of his audience, the Kimberleys was an unusual place and they were a unique collection of people interested in the unusual. So once the possibility percolated past their cultural filters, they could be prepared to admit there was a chance. First he had to win over Lampie. She was the key and right now she was deeply unhappy. Her Portuguese dream had disappeared, strangely transformed into something darker and older. Then there was the matter of betrayal and destruction. Peter wasn’t sure how much of an impact that was going to have. Right now he really needed her to trust him so leaving the whole tangle of Wallace connections behind him, Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out the small pouches he’d filched from the site tent. “I have a few more pieces of evidence!”

  At least they were all looking at him, though in Lampie’s case, her gaze had a hostile edge to it. He dumped a set of six small, sealed, clear plastic bags on the counter. “First things first. These little objects are a brief selection of what is scattered all over the site.”

  The gathering clustered closer. They were all plainly curious, but not really sure what he’d pulled out. Lampie bent closest and moved a few around with her finger. This was good. He directed his question to her sceptical frown. “Lampie, where did these come from?”

  She gave the most elegant shrug. The shape of those tanned shoulders would set any artist weeping – it damn near cramped him. “I remember them. They showed up when you had Rob and Bluey sweep the site with metal detectors. There’s a bucket full back at the finds tent. Most of them were marked as coming from the western side of the site.”

  Peter nodded. Yes, you could certainly count on Lampie to keep track of what was where. “Thank you Lampie. Any idea what they are?”

  Her frown grew a little deeper and she shook her head. “No Pete. My area’s surveys, not bits and pieces. That’s your field, that’s why Sid called you in.”

  Bringing up Sid wasn’t quite the accreditation he was counting on, but in the circumstances it would have to do. He picked up the best preserved one and shook it out onto a handy paper napkin. It sat there – a small triangular rusted lump. He pulled out a pen and with a few deft strokes, drew what he considered to be its original shape, and then waved everyone closer. They all closed in, leaning on the counter top, puzzling out the drawing. As he could have predicted, Lampie was the first to figure it out. “Freakin’ hell, it’s an arrow!”

  “Yes, it’s an iron arrow head and they cover the site by the hundreds. According to the magnetometer readings, add those to the crossbow heads I’ve found and we have proof of a battle, earlier than the Portuguese.”

  Wally was the first off the rank. “Why should it mean that?” This wasn’t even close to his field of interest, so Peter could see he was a bit confused by the conclusion. Peter had a stack of facts ready to wheel out but decided to keep it simple and play in the technical area.

  “Well Wally, the Saracens liked bows in combat and it fits in with the skeleton and armour I found at the gate. The other factor is that
if the battle happened during the time of the age of discovery, from say fifteen hundred, then we should have found lead shot for gunpowder weapons or cannon balls scattered around. It’s a standard method of dating battlefields, sieges and wrecks after fourteen fifty, since they show up easily in any scan.”

  Their host thought about it for a minute, then nodded and shot off another question. “Yeah, but why these Saracen blokes? Wouldn’t be a bloody long way to sail?”

  That was a damn good question. He’d asked himself that one a dozen times already so he thought he had an acceptable hypothesis. “Wally during the crusades the Arabic realms were much richer than the European kingdoms, and the richest of all was the Sultanate of Egypt under Saladin. Now, while a hefty part of his wealth was based on the crops grown along the Nile, the bulk was from taxing merchants using the Red Sea trade route across to India. If the crusaders under d’Chatillon and d’Alene had captured Mecca and Aden, then destroyed Arab trade in the Spice Islands, Saladin would have been bankrupted and Egypt would have fallen to the crusaders. He had to pursue d’Alene’s fleet, or risk losing everything.”

  The commerce faculty would have loved that explanation – the economics of trade and warfare. Though he had no real proof yet, he understood the lure of gold to the medieval monarch. It was also convenient that at that time, Saladin had some very skilful relatives, who by sword, guile and diplomacy had helped expand the Auyybidd Empire until it encompassed a fair part of the Middle East. No doubt one of them was sent off to chase down the crusaders.

  Wally mulled that collection of theories over and after a minute or so gave a simple nod. Peter let out a pent up sigh. He was very pleased to see the response – Wally’s opinion would count with Lampie. So after that it was time to move onto the primary piece, while he had their interest. He pulled the last plastic bag out of his waistcoat and held it out. “We got this leather pouch from the vestments chest we excavated, is that correct Lampie?”

  The blonde site surveyor accepted the proffered ziplock bag and examined it suspiciously before granting a grudging acceptance. Peter gave a nod as she passed it back and moved over to the buffet. He pulled the pouch out of the bag and then drew his tool roll out of his inner waistcoat pocket, selected a sharp scalpel and half turning to his clustered audience, gave his last justification, as he began working. A nasty dark part of his conscious prompted him that this looked a lot like the old shell game scam. ‘Hey look folks nothing up the sleeves, now round and round they go and where’s the pea? Ten pound for the right guess, cobber!’

  “As Lampie will confirm, this pouch came from the bottom layer in the vestments chest and, as you can see, it has been unopened. Now to me it looks a lot like the style of money pouch that most people used in the Middle Ages for coins. The British Museum has dozens they excavated along the Thames.” Peter spared a glance over his shoulder to check his audience was still on the same page. Flipping hell, he felt like that American medical character on the tellie, what was his name? Oh yes, Dr House. Well so long as he didn’t acquire his abrasive personality and acerbic manner, it would be alright.

  “Coins found on a site can tell us a great deal – the status of the former owner, who their region was trading with and the relative prosperity.” Peter slid the blade down the sewn side of the pouch. Every archaeological nerve in his body was screaming at him not to do it, save the artefact! Find another way! In an ideal world he’d do just that, but this was far from being one. The sharp edge easily glided through the aged leather and the pouch opened up like a scallop shell.

  Twenty odd coins spilled out across the counter chiming in their passage. As they came to rest Peter began processing the results dividing them into piles. “At a guess these ones are Arabic dinars. The set on the left would be three gold bezants from the Byzantine Empire, pretty worn and indistinct unfortunately. And this large collection I think is Chinese or Javanese coins.” A fair distribution considering the extensive travel. Then one coin broke off from a concretion and lazily spun across the surface before Peter terminated its passage with the scalpel. He kept his hands clear and pointed the blade at the single separate specimen.

  Peter gulped. So it was true! “Ahh I know this one! This is a silver coin from Outremer, the crusader kingdom of the Holy Land. It’s called a billion denier and was struck by King Amalric the First in the eleven seventies. I’ve seen a few of these in my studies. As for the rest, if anyone wants to identify them on the internet, be my guest.”

  Peter sat down and gratefully accepted a Matsos ginger beer from Wally. All along he had hoped, but never really deeply believed until now. It had all seemed like some kind of dream, a wild fantasy that if you looked at it too closely would evaporate. He knew coins were not really conclusive proof in themselves. Coins, after all, did have a habit of turning up all over the place. But he’d stake his life, that this purse had belonged to Father Joachim, author of the journal and owner of the chest. Lampie gave him a half frown half smile and began to sort through the different coins. Peter leant back and gave her room. He’d played his bit – it was up to her now.

  Sarina and May Ling joined in and helped divide the coins into categories, then Sarina picked up one of the silver dinars and flipped it over. She asked the anticipated question. “Peter, how do we know these aren’t some kind of scam. I mean Sid’s involved.”

  He rubbed his face wearily and shook his head. “Look I know Sid’s a conniving rat. He was one years ago when I first met him and, sad to say, he hasn’t changed for the better. I had this same discussion with Lampie last night. All I can say is all the finds point towards it being authentic, no matter how bizarre or unexpected, and you have to admit for all his cunning, Sid could never pull off something this complex!”

  That started them thinking. The girls scooped up the coins and retreated, presumably to the computer, leaving him alone with Wally. The barge captain was fidgeting nervously with his half full glass. Peter watched him obliquely, maintaining an apparent fascination with the one of coins left in the leather pouch. It was green with verdigris. At a guess it was one of the small copper coins minted as change by the Outremer coastal cites, like Beirut or Tyre, telling proof for the story but no where near as dramatic as the King Amalric silver denier.

  “Pete, ahh, we really appreciate it that you rescued Lampie.”

  Peter tried not to react. That was one perspective. However if you asked Lampie, she’d flatly insist he was the one in need of succour.

  “But this is a dangerous business, mucking around with armed jokers. Wouldn’t it be better to call the police?”

  Peter had to agree with him. This wasn’t an Indiana Jones script with the cavalry just over the hill. These were dangerous and unscrupulous men. Wallace didn’t have that much muscle hanging around just for show. “You’re right Wally – it is a bit dicey. The problem is that we have no real proof that Wallace or Sid damaged the boat. No witnesses and as for what their planning,” Peter gave a shrug and continued, “all the evidence I have wouldn’t stand up in any court. It would degenerate into a ‘he said, she said’ situation and Wallace can afford much better lawyers.”

  “If that’s so why not cut your losses? We can get you back to Derby.”

  Well that was a tempting offer and one he had seriously thought about. The problem was the clues from the journal. It went against every fibre of his being to hand all that potential archaeology to a glorified fence. Back home there was a raging argument over how many of the world’s great cultural treasures had been destroyed by looters, strip mining ancient sites to provide the goods for men like Wallace. After the Gulf War mark II, the ancient remains of Babylon and Ur had been devastated by dynamite and jackhammers during the confusion. What was left after that? Not a lot. Peter was unashamedly a Pom. He was justifiably proud of his island’s history that went back thousands of years. Here in Australia, they were just beginning to painfully recognise some of what they had already lost and their history went back tens of thousands, whil
e Europeans a mere few hundred. It would be a disaster of epic proportions if these valuable finds were allowed to disappear into private collections and never enlighten the Aussies that their European connections were older than previously recorded.

  That was one consideration. Two more edged into view. Honour was one and security the other. Lampie had risked her life to get them here, leaving her vessel and her livelihood behind. Without some form of justification that was going to rankle. Nor was there much chance of Sid playing the decent employer and helping out with the insurance. The more pressing was that some time soon, either Wallace or Sid was going to realise they’d escaped with a lot more than just a RIB and their packs. They say a little knowledge was a dangerous thing. Well the photos and items’ list of a ripped site, as well as evidence of who was there edged more into the deadly. Wallace didn’t strike him as a man who left anything to chance. When he found out about their flit and figured out what had happened, he would act swiftly and it behove them to steal a march. Peter tilted his glass towards his host and gave a grimace as he shook his head. “If the situation was different Wally, heading back to Derby would have been my first choice. Now no, I think we need to find Father Joachim’s castles and the tomb of Templar Prior d’Alene.”

  “Why’s that Pete?”

  “Because Mr Abernathy Wallace, renowned antiquities dealer, believes all this to be the real deal. Otherwise he wouldn’t be wasting his time or threatened Lampie and me. What you’ve got to ask is what do you think Wallace will do when he translates the journal?”

  Wally’s eyes widened as the reality of the journal struck home. Ask yourself the same question that automatically pops up in your head. How many boat loads of Southeast Asian loot did the crusaders stash away?