Terra Australis Templar (A Peter Wilks Archaeological Mystery)

by Gregory House

  “Yeah Peter, what is it?”

  “Ohh, ahh what, I mean I think I’ve found it.” Tearing his eyes away from the heaving breasts of an only slightly out of breath Lampie, he waved at the shadow in the cliff face.

  “Y’ reckon? How do you know?” Lampie gave a meaningful look at the western horizon. His gaze was automatically drawn along it. If he was any judge, they had two hours. This part of the hill was already in deep shadow. As they say the sands of time were running out.

  Peter gave a dry swallow and turned to face Lampie. “Look, this has got to be the place. Any further and they can’t work on the tomb and the castle easily. I think we have to climb and try. If I’m wrong we can hide in there until dark and sneak off.”

  Lampie stared at him for a few more moments. “You know Pete, if Wallace finds us we’ve got problems!”

  He gave a shrug. What choice did they have? “Yes I do. However if his goons get there first, the whole site will be stripped within a day and we loose anyway, because we both know that Wallace obviously doesn’t want witnesses!”

  Lampie seemed to freeze at that outburst and her eyes narrowed, regarding him as you would a specimen of rare lizard that had suddenly decided to tap-dance. “So y’ noticed that. Yer pretty smart for a Pom. Okay, okay we go up!”

  The decision may have been easy and inevitable – the doing wasn’t. The suspected site was twenty feet up. Lampie pulled out their ever handy length of rope and tied it around a pair of hefty crossed branches. Peter stood back to avoid a braining as the improvised grapple swung around in a speeding circle. Then as if she was lassoing varmints on the ‘Double D’ ranch, the projectile hurtled towards the cave mouth. He didn’t know how she did it – the grapple caught solidly first time. There went another fragment of his machismo crumbling to dust. Not that there was much left after the Death March from Camden Harbour or the crocodile incident, or the snakes in the tent. He didn’t want to think of the wombat – that was just too embarrassing.

  Lampie turned to him and gave a knowing smile. It was times like this that he hated being the only volunteer. Giving a sigh he shed his pack and tugged on the rope. No excuse, it was secure. Peter sighted on the dark cleft above. Hmm, maybe twenty to thirty feet with a few hand and foot holds – kind of easy so long as you didn’t fall.

  “Y’ waiting for an engraved invitation Pete?”

  He gave her a frowning glare in reply. If he could have thought of something biting or witty he would have said it. However rock climbing wasn’t his favourite outdoor pastime, somewhat lower down on the scale to say the least.

  The first ten feet was easy enough. The rubble at the base provided a good purchase, so he didn’t have to overly rely on the rope. After that hand holds got a bit scarce, so with his heart thumping away, Peter trusted to luck and Lampie’s skill, and scrabbled up the last section. With a clawing hand, he pulled himself up onto the rubble at the cleft’s mouth. With the sun well into the west, it was quite dark a few feet past the mouth. He clambered over the rocks and checked the improvised grapple. Lampie had pulled it off – the branches were solidly wedged between two jagged boulders. Peter felt an enormous sense of relief. That last few feet had him really nervy, expecting the rope to slip at any moment. A fall from this height onto the rocks below would have guaranteed broken bones.

  All right, now he was up. Time to test his theory. He swung around and peered into the caves gloom. It was very difficult to see anything – a rock fall at the mouth had choked the entrance. He pulled out the small torch he kept in his waist coat and flicked it on. The narrow beam probed the darkness. It was still gloomy, the cave’s shadows pressed in crowding his torch into insignificance. Peter took a cautious step forward over the broken lumps of sandstone, until the shaft of light hit the wall.

  Well Wally would be happy. This side of the cave was covered in the large images of Wandijani figures and a couple displayed the fine elegance of the Bradshaw culture. Peter slumped down onto one of the entrance rocks. Oh great, another failure and this one looked so promising! Then the edge of the falling beam picked out something by his foot, a gleam of white. He bent down to clear away the pile of rocks and dirt, and discovered a splintered bone. Well not so promising in a cave full of aboriginal art. However professional training and desperate need pushed him on. Peter pulled out his tool roll and extracted a thin metal spatula, then cleared away more of the debris.

  Despite the hammering urging to scoop it away, he patiently cleared the rest of the bone – now two lying next to each other. From a guess, it looked like the wrist bones and a few more minutes effort gave him the disarticulated hand bones and below them something else. Shaking, he pulled out a small brush and dusted off the shrouding dirt, then sat back. Peter put up a trembling hand and wiped his damp forehead. He was tempted to take a swig of water to quench his suddenly desert dry throat but no, he had to be sure. Hunching over the find, he removed the last fragments of rock.

  A voice floated up from below. “Pete, y’ all right? Anything up there?”

  Startled, he let out a nervous bark of laughter. “Ahh yes I think so…”

  Lampie called out again with a more irritated edge to her inquiry. “Well, is there anything or not? We’ve got to move on!”

  Peter moved back to the edge of the cave and leant over. “Lampie, you know we talked about that Egyptologist Howard Carter last week?’

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “Well I think... I think I know how he felt. You had better come up!” Peter collapsed on one of smaller piles of broken rock and clenched his hands together in an attempt to stop them trembling.

  It may have been a few minutes or an hour until Lampie’s hat and frowning face appeared over the ledge. Her arrival had more grace than his previous scrambling effort, though he was so distracted he didn’t even take the opportunity of a decent ogle.

  “Okay Pete, what’s going on? It wasn’t easy lugging up the rifle, my pack and yours – it had better be worth it!”

  If he hadn’t got the message that Lampie was unimpressed, then the way she dumped his pack at his feet spoke more than words. Ignoring her pointed glare, Peter waved her to follow, then knelt down beside his discovery and pointed towards it “Yeah, it’s some bones. So what Wilks – you find them in caves!”

  “Yes you do. I expect you find lots, but you don’t usually find them next to that.”

  Lampie joined him peering into the shadow under the rock. Peter snapped on his torch to aid illumination. Lampie titled her head towards him. She looked surprised but also warily concerned. “Y’ sure it’s not aboriginal?”

  “Yes certain. Your Australian natives tended not to use eleventh century western swords.”

  “How the freckin’ hell do you know that’s what it is? Could be colonial.”

  Peter smiled and shook his head. “No I don’t think so. That’s a brazil nut pommel and a straight cross guard. Just past it you can see the start of the blade. At a guess it’s a type XI according to Oakshott’s typography – very common from the eleven hundreds to the twelve hundreds. You want a crusader? This is his signature weapon.” Finding Father Joachim’s vestments chest was a shock and even after the journal of the crusader expedition, Peter still had Hitler’s Diary type lingering doubts, but this sword hilt put paid to every nagging worry or concern and gave him a new found confidence. “Shall we have a look inside?”

  Lampie was running her fingers tips over the exposed sword hilt. She stood up and dusted off her hands. “We’ve come all this way, may as well!”

  Lampie unslung her pack and pulled out the larger windy torch. Giving it a quick crank she flicked it on. The pale white light punched through the darkness like a sword, lighting up the towering Wandijani figures. Their white backgrounds made them appear like hovering ghosts. Peter had sudden inspiration to do with their spirit culture – he’d have to make a note to ask Wally next time. The blade of radiance swept across the walls revealing a very large interior space, every inch
covered in rock art.

  Peter shot out his hand and stopped the traverse. He’d caught the edge of something in the fringe of the beam. “Go right!”

  Lampie’s skin felt smooth and warm as he guided her hand past the bank of dreamtime images until he found something a lot more recent, it was the incised figure of a cross. Each arm was about two foot in length and cut into the sandstone wall some seven foot up, bisecting a Wandijani ghost figure. Pulling the light downwards, they beheld a line of carved script chiselled into the rock face:

  ‘HIC IACET PHILIPPVS DE ALENE MILITIS MILES ORDO TEMPLUM CVIVS ANIMA REQVIESCAT IN PACE AMEN’

  Peter had thought his mouth was dry before. What an understatement! It felt like he’d munched his way through half the sand in the Sahara. Father Joachim was telling the truth! That was just incredible – they’d really found the tomb! He’d kept on hoping, but as he encompassed the distances and terrain of the Kimberley, it was more like the clinging faith in a ‘lost cause’. But actually finding it – that was like witnessing an actual miracle!

  “What’s it say Pete?”

  Oh that was so easy to answer. It was carved above so many mediaeval tombs – it had become a rote phrase. “The first part says ‘Here lies Philippe d’Alene knight of the Order of the Temple. The second commits him to Christ’s mercy. May his soul rest in peace. Amen.”

  They dropped the torch’s beam further down the wall, revealing a roughed out hollow hacked into the rock. Resting within was a thick slabbed box over six foot long. It was pretty obvious what they’d found, but it gave Peter an awful lot of satisfaction to say it out aloud. “At a guess, I think we’ve found the Commander of the Templar expedition’s tomb.”

  “Y’know Pete, maybe, just maybe y’ could be right.”

  Peter pulled out his own small torch and played it around the shadowed space to the right of the tomb. There where hints of more objects. Lampie’s stronger beam followed his path highlighting boxes, bundles and heaps throughout the rest of the space. So many curious shapes it was difficult to take in at once. Peter slowly walked towards the closest collection by the tomb, sweeping his torch left and right. The crusaders had decided that the rest of their deceased should lie in the sanctified presence of their leader. There was a row of several wrapped and shrouded bodies laid out on the rough floor below D’Alene’s coffin. Peter recognized the arrangement. Just like at Deception Bay, the right hand was laid across the heart while the left extended down towards the abdomen. If nothing else did, that linked the two sites. Drawn by an irresistible urge, he stepped over the crusader mummies and stood next to the niche of D’Alene’s tomb. He had to do it – the compulsion was too much to hold off. Peter grasped the lid and heaved. The timber shifted reluctantly, groaning and screeching its complaint, but it did leave a narrow gap. He put his eye to the crack and swept the torch into the interior of the casket.

  They laid the templar knight to rest in the same manner as those below him, and from what Peter could see, D’Alene, as in the manner of high prelates. His body had been dressed in his full regalia, including padded aketon, full mail with his head resting on his helm and sword by his side. The Kimberleys climate had done a wonderful job of preserving the body, as had the several kilos of spices they’d packed into the coffin. The Templar mantle was in a surprisingly good state of preservation. Peter could see whole teams of conservators salivating over the chance to evaluate the cloth and metal, while the Osteoarchaeologists would commit murder to get to the body first. Well preserved remains plus their clothing were not that common a find. Tollund Man, who’d been sacrificed in a bog in Denmark during the early Iron Age, had been amongst the first to be found in the nineteen fifties. That discovery had caused a storm that was still raging in the academic spheres. What would this do? Peter tilted the torch a bit more. There was a rectangular lump resting on the mummy’s chest. The light showed a few dull colours and maybe some gilding – it was unclear. Peter pulled the lid back in place and tried to slow down his breathing. What could be so valuable that it had to rest in the tomb of a Templar? He had a few ideas on that, but until the real excavation, any speculation distracted from the present task. He coughed nervously. Damn this dusty air!

  Peter was so absorbed in his inspection of the casket that he’d forgotten about Lampie. A sudden gasp from behind had him spinning around in surprise. The weak light from his torch wavered over further piles of crusader gear, before his beam hit Lampie’s smiling face across the other side of the cavern. She was holding a double palm-sized bowl that set off glittering sheens of white from the studded exterior. Peter walked over for a closer look

  “What... what is this Pete? It’s so beautiful?”

  Carefully he took the bowl from her. It was shaped like half a pomegranate with four lobes. Both the interior and exterior was worked in finely engraved stylized floral patterns. On the outside those patterns swirled around five inset set pearls, laid out in a rectangular pattern. He’d seen similar, but only in the British Museum. “That Lampie, would be high-end trade goods, I suspect originally from China.”

  Lampie smiled and the light flickered over her face, setting off deeper amber glints from her hazel eyes. Peter was torn between staring at the bowl or the joy and wonder on Lampie’s face. Instead curiosity won over both “Where did this come from?”

  Lampie gave a nod towards a chest on her left. Now it was Peter’s turn. Luckily there were fewer flies here, so his open mouth didn’t attract so much interest. The wall of the cavern was lined with several chests and layers of what he assumed where the crumbled remains of wicker baskets. Age had decayed the willow or cane and the contents had spilled out in sloping ridges of porcelain. Peter nodded as another piece of the puzzle locked into place. Of course Father Joachim’s chest had Song porcelain. It was part of the trade loot. That also helped explain Sid’s non-mentioned finds that led him to the Deception Bay site. To the crusaders it was valuable but utilitarian, and they had a couple of ship loads, so what the hell if a couple broke.

  The chest that Lampie was standing next to drew his further interest. He lifted the lid and shone the torch over its contents. Now this was a scene from Pirates of the Caribbean! The beam of light was fractured and reflected from a whole chest full of silvery objects – urns, vases, bowls, candlesticks, figures. Yo ho ho, indeed! He would have gasped, but his tongue had decided to be uncooperative and just lay there salivating. A real honest to goodness treasure chest! The quick list could run to several pages, while any archaeologist would consider it a gold mine, guaranteeing tenure and a publishing contract, worth at least two books full of detailed description, careful line drawings and a back section of glossy photos. Peter made a vain attempt at dispassion. That was difficult, in fact almost impossible, so he dragged him self away to inspect the rest of the cavern.

  It was a real hodgepodge. The furthest section of the cavern was, in theory, stacked with sacks and baskets of spices. Once more age had made their containers friable and, similar to the porcelain, it now resembled a sloping mound four foot high. If you walked closer, the heady tang of pepper set one sneezing. He recalled a medieval trade book from the fourteen hundreds. Spices were a highly valuable trade commodity – a pound of pepper was worth a pound of silver. It was astounding to think how much this lot would have brought in if they’d got the loot to Akbar. It would have paid for a thousand knights for several years. The Venetian had been right. One more intriguing thought intruded. For Reynaud d’Chatillon to launch such an ambitious enterprise, he must have had some excellent information on the extent of the Muslim trading network. That caused an avalanche of other possibilities to jump up and down for attention but he quickly brought them to heel – time for the here and now.

  While Lampie was slowly working her way along the chests, he paced out the rest of the cavern. D’Alene had chosen well – this was thirty metres deep and, after the narrow mouth, several metres wide. Before his death it had been used as the expedition’s spare storehouse. A pil
e of spears and weapons indicated a temporary armoury, while the spices, porcelain and chests, the rewards of crusading zeal, indicated a strong room. If this was the venture’s valuables cache, then what had been still loaded in their vessels or casually stacked in the proto-castle? Father Joachim had been a tad shy on the exact number of vessels seized, merely mentioning smiting many ships of the heathen.

  As with every facet of this discovery, it led to more questions. The castle here and the fort site at Deception Bay had been seriously done over. That kind of assault was unlikely from the regions myriad rival Muslim kingdoms, so who did it? The loot here showed the sort of havoc a bloodthirsty squadron of piratical westerners, under Templar guidance could cause. However just sending out a fleet wouldn’t have been sufficient. Saladin needed to reestablish credibility with the Muslim princes of India and the Spice Islands. That required a more personal and thorough touch. History only suggested one candidate, his brother Al Din, conqueror and governor of Yemen. After the raid at Aden, he must have been thirsting for revenge and he had the power and prestige to pull off a pursuit as well as the skill to launch a successful assault. This was where speculation filled in the gaps for historians. It wouldn’t have served Saladin to publicize the distant crushing of the Templar fleet – that would have sent out too many signals of vulnerability, so this whole affair was given a local whitewashing – no survivors, no stories, period.