Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  Lampie quirked an eyebrow at the reply. Coffee deprivation was beginning to bite hard. That answer was awfully stiff and huffy. “Okay then Mr Lecturer, tell me how, briefly?” She smiled at the issued challenge, crossed her arms and lent back against a tree. This would have been so entertaining. However she tapped her watch significantly.

  Peter looked like he’d been hit by a fish. “Oh right ho. Ahh so, as I said no fairytale castles or massive towers, or ahh...”

  “I got that Pete, the first time.”

  The Englishman lurched to a halt and glared at her. This was too easy. “To the people of Father Joachim’s time, a castle meant many different things. It could be as simple as a single wooden or stone tower or a village with a surrounding wall and a decent dwelling for the local noble. From there it scales all the way up to the massive stone castle of the Krak de Chevaliers. Sometimes it’s nothing even remotely like a castle, maybe just a natural strongpoint. If I’ve translated the good Father’s record correctly, he calls their camp at Deception Bay a Miles Castrum or a knight’s castle. As we know, all it had was a timber wall and small gate house.”

  Lampie couldn’t stop the twitching grin. Peter had slipped into full lecturer mode. She could see his wide spread gestures, as if he was about to point to a screen to highlight his comments. Feeling the tug of mischief she shot her hand in the air. “Please professor! Professor, are there any castles around here?”

  Peter covered his face with a hand and groaned out a plea for coffee, double short suicidal Italian strength. This was so much fun! “Lampie, please give it a break. I just have to glance over my shoulders and these two pinnacles would have set any crusader heart a beating. Both of them scream incipient castle – lots of stone for construction, good position, inlets for a port, more timber than they could have shaken a stick at. It’s all here!”

  Pity tugged at her to relent but only slightly. Watching Peter in the throes of coffee withdrawal was much more amusing than watching Sid stagger through a morning after. “Okay Mr Crusades Professor, if you were one of these insane Templars ready to give your all for God and Jerusalem as you reckon, where would you put a castle?”

  Peter gave her the kind of look bestowed on the feeble of mind and shook his head. “Where’s Professor Bartleby when you need him?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing really. Just musing over my old doctoral supervisor. He would have been really handy for this. He kind of lived and breathed the Crusades.” Peter gave a half hearted laugh and shook his head. Lampie gave him the kind of scrutiny reserved for British eccentrics who announced that their legs were made of glass. She have given another glance at her watch but instead resorted to the tried and true methods. She turned around and walked up the hill

  “Freckin’ hell Pete, why? What ever for? Having to drag one Pommie around here is hard enough!” Her English companion, keen not to be left behind, scurried up next to her and wiped his already sweaty brow.

  “All right, I am not a military architect, but of the two, if you wanted a quick castle, I believe I’d choose this one.” Peter swung around to the left and pointed to the conical peak of Mount Gibraltar.

  “What did the priest reckon it was called?”

  “His records are difficult to decipher. I think it’s called either Neuf Acre du Sud or Castle du Sueth du Sud. It must be one of those since I think Deception Bay was called Neuf Kerak du Sud Outré Jordan.”

  Lampie gave a short nod. Fine they had a target a good klick uphill. Let’s hope Wallace lingers over his croissants and coffee. Freakin’ hell, she hoped Peter was right. They were running out of options. Surreptitiously Lampie made a warding sign with her fingers and spat over her shoulder. She could almost hear the ghostly chuckle of grand-mère Heloise at the reversion to superstition. Then she caught Peter watching her with a quiet smile and suppressed the urge to explain. Instead she glared and growled out a command. “Okay Wilks, let’s get cracking!”

  The grinning Pom gave her a half bow and set off with what she had to assume was a jaunty step. Damn it he’d better be right, cos after today she suspected they’d run clear out of options. Just to be sure, she whispered a pray to grand-mère’s guardian spirit, purely as a precaution of course.

  Chapter 35 There’s the Castle!

  Peter clambered up the last section of broken rock and collapsed. It was damned hot, pushing thirty at a guess, and this was supposed to be winter. He unclipped the water bottle and took a sip. Despite his overwhelming urge to empty it down his throat, he took only a little. Conserving water was the key to survival. If he hadn’t realised it during the Camden Harbour Death March, then the visit to Derby should have hammered it home. The fact that the Myall Bore near the Prison Boab was considered a famous tourist site spoke of the harshness of the Dry. Up here in the Kimberleys they had two seasons – the Wet were it rained a lot every day and the Dry were it didn’t rain at all. If you could survive one extreme without drowning, then the other was a constant search for a continuous source of fresh water. Lampie had reckoned that the settlement attempt at Camden Harbour had been frustrated as much by their lack of water, as by the extreme terrain that killed all the sheep. In their brief scouring of the government camp ruins, the part which connected with him the most was both the settlers’ and crusaders’ efforts to construct the small stone walled cistern. The expedition of D’Alene had to be facing the same grim realities. Coming from Outremer, they knew that water was life. As Lampie had shown, there was plentiful fresh water from the cascades further down Prince Regent River. What had those far travelled Franks from Outremer thought of this place? Had they found it similar to the lands around Kerak and the Trans Jordan? Food wouldn’t have been a problem with the plentiful fish and even crocodiles to roast. Relations with the aboriginals obviously proved sometimes difficult which explained Father Joachim’s mission at the southern site. If only he’d had more time to work through the translation, he might have had a chance to get more of the back story.

  No matter, scholarly pursuits would have to wait until later. Right now he had to find one or more castles or what would pass for one down here. It had been three hours clambering up the slopes this morning already, always on the look out for Wallace’s men. According to current ethical thinking, he was supposed to feel remorse for those two goons who’d turned into a saltie snack. Well hot and sweaty now, or cool and safe later, distance wasn’t going to make any difference to how he felt about it. Those two weren’t firing warning shots or to wing, that didn’t happen with a submachine gun. Colour Sergeant Graeme had very firm views on what pulling the trigger of a weapon meant.

  ‘Laddies, when yea tak’ the Queen’s shilling, even such a miserable bunch o’ whey-faced quivering cut lunch kooboys as yea., it means laddies, one day yea gonna have to tak’ up the rifle and do yea best ta blow away the Queen’s enemies!” Colour Sergeant Graeme always had a very black and white view of duty and service, quite unlike the usual run of part-time territorial officers who’d quail at his rigidly snapped salute and level eyed stare.

  “Nue, when that time comes, I’ll have nun o’ that crap o’ firing ta wound, yea not a bleedin’ social worker! Trust me laddie, the fella at the other end o’ the rifle, he’s nay sufferin’ any o’ that rule o’ engagement crap, he’s aimin’ ta kill ya. An if by some strang’ chance yea not dead o’ stupidity, tis only the temporary intercession of the Good Lord. Cos when yea get back I’ll bleedin’ well do yea in!”

  Well having faced it, Peter had to admit the grim old Scot was right. Those bastards in the boat had blazed away with complete disregard to life and limb. If their performance was anything to go by, Wallace wasn’t overly fussed with their safe return. Clearly both Lampie and he were considered ‘viable targets’. He lent over the rock and peered at Lampie, a little further down the hill. She had her old rifle unslung and was scanning the terrain towards the basin. Yes, she understood the change in status. Strangely it didn’t faze him as much as he’d thought. Instead it
raised an interesting series of questions. The first was at what stage did Wallace view them as expendable? Before they left camp? Or later at Camden Harbour or when they’d got to St George Basin? The next question was more personal, at least for him. Did that animosity have anything to do with his unfortunate encounters with the venomous and carnivorous wildlife in his tent? Wallace had clearly been hanging around for a few days before he ‘officially’ arrived.

  If so, how and why, which automatically led to a nastier suspicion, was Sid involved in all of that? Peter paused at that one. Right now he loathed Sid probably more than Tony Blair did George W, for pulling him into the Gulf War Mk II. Peter had the growing feeling that Sid’s so called spontaneous flash of insight in calling his old friend, was a lot more planned and calculating that it had first appeared. That begged the question what did Sid gain? That’s were the higher planes of academia collided with the messier human emotions of greed and revenge. Shakespeare would have loved this story. It had it all – treachery, treasure, secret flight in the night, murder and a cute blond to have the groundlings panting.

  What the flipping hell was he going to do about this? Well, wallowing in self pity and questions wasn’t going to find anything! Peter pushed up from the sheltering rock and continued his search. After eight hundred years what was going to be left of a crusader fortress, even an incipient one? Unlike the archaeologist and famous Arab guerrilla leader TE Lawrence, he hadn’t specialised in Crusader fortresses for his Honours or Masters degree. Instead, he had to rely on memories of his wanderings through the fortresses of the old Outremer. Beaufort castle had been one of those off the list. Hezbollah tended to frown on too close inspection of one of their unofficial ‘sites’. On the other hand, if the Israelis found out you’d been there you would be invited in for a ‘long personal chat’.

  So how was he going to handle this? Peter knew what aged worked stone looked like and due to the state of many crumbling fortresses, how that played out over the centuries. He’d gained the impression from Father Joachim’s writings, that the construction here had been interrupted to prepare the tomb of D’Alene and work had slowed again when the Venetian Andrea Mastropiero and Sire Robert d’Vaux Moise had led the break away group down to the older site at Deception Bay.

  So given that, how long had they been building the defences? The account he’d translated hadn’t been firm on any real dates. The raiding expedition must have followed the monsoonal winds across the Indian Ocean and then down into the Spice Islands. According to the account, they’d tried to establish a base somewhere near the Flores Islands, though that part was a tad vague and it was not as if he had hours to translate or check. Anyway Father Joachim became a bit coy on the next section, claiming they left after few weeks, rather than Al Din’s pursuing Saracen fleet driving them out. After that, a captured Makassar captain had led them south to Terra Australis Outremer, promising a safe haven. If the timing could be depended upon, that gave the crusaders at least three weeks to a month to build their defences before tragedy and division brought a halt. Once more without spending weeks on the translation, Peter could only gain an impression that by the time they found the Kimberley coast, the numbers had dropped due to battle and illness. So this was where speculation and conjecture had to fill the gaps.

  Reynald d’Chatillon may have been many things – cruel, bloodthirsty, exceedingly ambitious and politically short sighted. However not one of his critics suggested that when it came to warfare, he was inept or inexperienced. In the harsh unforgiving environment of border warfare and raiding in Outremer, he was considered the most experienced and ruthless of all the Frankish lords.

  So when a man like that plans to clear the Red Sea of Saracen ships then to storm and sack Medina and Mecca, he wasn’t going to use a rowboat and six men. That must have been a considerable fleet he constructed in Aquaba, made even more formidable by the inclusion of the Militant Orders. Peter remembered reading very brief accounts of the attempt, mostly concerned with the mighty deeds of Saladin and his brother Al Din in defeating the menace, capturing the miscreants and the justifiable execution of prisoners. That being the case, Reynard would have had closer to a thousand men for his assault. Any less would have guaranteed failure. If that was the land force, then his allies, the Templars, must have had four to five hundred in several vessels to sweep the sea lanes and deal with Aden. In the long passage from there, Father Joachim recorded the loss of two ships, one in the Indian Ocean and a second near Flores.

  Thus in conclusion, four to five boatloads of crusaders say three hundred odd plus prisoners, keen as mustard to set up a raiding base in this distant land, so close to the rich trade routes of the Arabs and the foundation of Saladin’s wealth. Once the site had been decided they would have moved fast. The construction of the fortress of Vadum Jacob on the Jordan River was a good example. Less than a month saw a one hundred metre by fifty metre castle half finished, though the chroniclers say it took most of the armed forces of the kingdom to push it along so fast and guard the masons.

  How much could three hundred men build? Peter had to solve that puzzle or they’d spend weeks here looking for the all the wrong signs of fortification, and they didn’t have weeks, maybe not even days. He had to consider practicalities first. They weren’t expert engineers like the legionnaires of Imperial Rome. Nor were they unskilled peasants forced to labour by threat and lash. But men had to eat, so take out hunting or fishing parties. They needed water – that took more men. The vessels according to Lampie would soak up dozens in repairs and maintenance. Add to that guards and the coastal patrols. That also accounted for the fifty or so down at Deception Bay, leaving fifty to eighty men for construction. Peter felt satisfied with that realistic paring down. Lampie had asked a really good question this morning. If he was a crusader where would he place the defences? Suddenly he froze in mid step – he was a damned idiot! He had figured it out earlier and ignored it. They were Outremer veterans. A good defensible site was useless without water. Camden Harbour was the key. If they didn’t have a spring or a stream, they would have built a cistern first!

  That’s what he had to look for. The other crucial factor was that d’Alene’s men would have tried to construct a simple defence utilising natural features. Match the two and you had the site. Bearing this in mind, Peter began a spiral search of Mount Gibraltar, clambering over the broken rocks and ledges. He knew time was trickling away and gave each crevice a quick probe with the small trowel in his hand. This was going to be the fastest and roughest site survey he’d ever performed.

  In the end it wasn’t a betraying glint of metal or the conveniently prominent pottery shard that gave him the clue. It was the shape and texture of the hill. As he’d surmised before, the crusaders were not fools. Why build something when it was already there.

  It was the perfect spot, a broad ledge on the north western face of the mountain. If you stood with your back against the eroded northern cliff face and looked back to the northwest, towards the inlet below, you had it. Not the full stone fortress beloved of troubadours and novelists, but a sound defensible position, using the best natural features of the area. It was every easy to discern two lines no more than a foot high, running off to his left and right, forming two arms of a truncated triangle, with a base about a hundred metres fronting the forward edge of the ledge. Ten minutes more gave him the location of the cistern, a hollowed out bowl set at the lowest point of the rearward cliff face. As expected, it was full of broken rocks and the local plant life, but behind it Peter could see two carved channels that would have served to direct any rain falling on the cliff face above into the reservoir. To provide some verification, he snapped off a dozen pictures. That would help to prove he’d been here and wasn’t talking through his hat.

  Peter felt like jumping up and down and cheering, except that would be a really stupid action and draw all sorts of unwanted attention. Instead he scrambled down towards Lampie. She’d taken a position past the ledge on the southside, l
ooking over the whole basin. Understandably she had chosen a spot that gave a clear view of the surroundings while providing good cover.

  Breathless, he hopped down into the hollow on her left. “I’ve found it Lampie. It’s exactly where Father Joachim said. There’s not a lot left but a decent excavation would find all the proof needed!”

  Lampie spared him a quick glance and smile, before returning her attention to the field glasses. “Great Pete, but we don’t really have time for that. I reckon we’ve got to find the other site and then figure out how to get out of here. Do y’ know where it is?”

  That part of the mystery still had him stumped. Peter took a quick swig from the canteen and tried to work through the problem. As he sat in the shade looking over the rough map they’d printed out at Wally’s, Lampie muttered a short curse and gave him a nudge with her boot. “Don’t take too long. That second tinnie of theirs has just tied up at Wallace’s cruiser so that’d mean they’ve searched all the Prince Regent River area.”

  “Certainly Lampie. I’ll just wave a wand and magic up that tomb, shall I?” Peter clenched his teeth before that reply slipped out. They had enough trouble without more argument. He’d already got the subtext. Wallace had enough clues from the notes and the small amount translated to realise a major site was around here. He still felt really stupid for lugging that flipping Skaze laptop all the way here and at each step, it had been sending out its treacherous beeps, signalling their route and progress. It was also pretty obvious that if the site wasn’t on the south side of the basin, then it must be on the north. Wallace wasn’t a historian. He was the kind of person who disdained the practice of history. As far as he was concerned, natural forces only existed to be bent to his will. He possessed the natural arrogance of a predator, similar to the Red Wolf of Kerak. D’Chatillon would have understood that driving compulsion to conquer and pillage the overwhelming lust for dominion. If anyone around here was going to think like the opportunistic crusaders of old, it would be Wallace and worse, he’d said he’d been to the Levantine, so he had a good idea what to search for.