The Fourth Nail: An Historical Novel

by Paul Argentini

  “Ah! Yes! The thieves tonight knew of you not, or that with me you were. From now on it will be told Augustus, me, a ghost a guard has. Thus, the phantom of you will travel and protect me for years to come. They were not to be followed for that purpose. Many times they will tell the story.”

  “Wonderful! Now let’s get some sleep!”

  Several nights later, Augustus approached Marius and said it was time for him to slip away. “A route that leads away from the ocean we soon take. Go with the smaller caravan that is breaking off until direction it changes. The leader will give you the correct heading. Until you smell the sea go in that direction! We meet in Rome. Let us swear!”

  Marius nodded. He would let nothing deter him until he got there.

  Two weeks later, Marius went off alone from the smaller caravan on the heading he was given. He rode for days. At one point he fell asleep and woke with a start. For a moment he felt as if he had become permanently attached to the saddle. He wondered what had startled him. Then, he recognized the smell of salt water in the air. “Thank you, Augustus!” he exclaimed.

  It was late the next morning when he caught sight in the distance of the ocean. It was another three days following the shoreline before he caught sight in the distance of what he could see was a Roman galley ship. It was anchored off shore near a village where it was loading supplies.

  “Rome!” Marius declared to the captain, a round barrel of a man who drank wine from a goatskin.

  “How much you have to pay?” the captain asked looking hard into Marius’s eyes.

  “I was told no matter how much I had it would not be enough,” Marius answered. Remembering Augustus’s advice, he had sewn most of his jewels in the hem of his tunic.

  The captain laughed. “Maybe so. Maybe not so. Show me.”

  Marius held out a handful of jewelry.

  “Not enough!” the captain said and waved him off.

  “There’s more. I have a camel with saddle I can sell.”

  “Not enough!” the captain said.

  “What then?”

  “You oar!” the captain roared.

  Marius nodded. It worked for both of them. The captain could use the extra power, and Marius had to get home.

  Marius took his place at an oar sitting on his tunic to keep it safe.

  With the first command and beat to start the rowing, Marius resolved in his mind that no matter how long the trip he would not give the captain an excuse to clap him in irons and keep him a prisoner.

  Marius knew he had to be very careful about alerting anyone concerning his anxiety about getting home. He refrained from asking questions about their position. He only listened to the chatter and picked out what the men said about where they might be.

  Finally, one morning, in the long distance, Marius spotted what he thought was a rise of land on the horizon. He heard someone ask about the sighting. There was no response, only head shakings. That alerted Marius to the fact that it had a good deal of relevancy to his goal.

  All indications were the ship was not going stop. It would sail past the land.

  Waiting until the pitch black of night, Marius tied his tunic to his waist, and slipped over the side of the ship.

  He felt instinctively he had escaped the clutches of the captain.

  Now, at long last, would his dead reckoning bring him to his homeland?

  Slowly, rhythmically, he started the long swim toward the land. He remembered how badly he had cramped when he and Angelus had the long swim to shore, and knew, above all, he could not stop swimming even for a second or he would cramp up. His muscles would knot up and he would sink like a stone.

  He had to pace himself. He gently rolled from one side to the other taking a deep breath on every other stroke. Once the pattern was set, he kept his mind occupied with people and events. He tried not to think of how much longer he would have to swim, but he was very much aware he had started out when the moon was high in the sky. Now the sun was making its arc. He was parched, as thirsty as he ever had been in his life. Then, he realized he was hallucinating although he kept up the rhythm, at times keeping count as the beat on the galley ship. He saw figures before him, dancing on the water, beckoning him onwards. He saw lakes and waterfalls, and tankards of wine spilling before him. He kept the beat, left right, left right. He felt himself roll far over onto his side exerting all his effort to raise his arm straight up as a mast and let it smash against the water. Then, he rolled to the other side. Smash! He would push against the water. The salt burned his eyes and they itched. He knew he could not dare to rub them because it would break the rhythm. He knew with absolute certainty that he was one moment away from cramping up. He wouldn’t be able to swim another stroke. He would just die.

  He thought he rolled over and made a stroke but it took much too long to hear the Smash! It startled him. He recognized it as the elucidating moment before he was to die.

  He knew he wasn’t swimming. His arms were like anchors pulling him down.

  He floated downwards, the sun fading away. He was so tired. He welcomed the rest. He had no choice. He was capitulated.

  He thought he felt a bump. Was it the nose of a fish? Whatever it was he was turned face up. He could feel the rays of the sun brush his cheek. He took a deep gulp of air, rolled, and started sinking.

  The light faded, moving off in the distance.

  He felt his foot being chewed as he went into the blackness. The sensation went up to his knee, and then his buttock was being ripped. He felt the flames of the sun sear his eyeballs even though they were swollen shut. His last thought was of accepting the peacefulness that went with dying.

  24

  Andreyovich Nicholovski was waiting for Roberto and Diura at the Astana airport. He was a bear of a man with a huge raven-black beard, broad shoulders, and looked taller than his six-feet-two-inches. Below a clenched tangle of black hair, his eyes sparkled and danced like two mirrors reflecting the midnight sky on either side of a mountain of a nose. His mouth was carved into a Volga-wide smile even as he talked, his bright, big teeth flashing. The steppes of Russia formed his forehead and cheeks. He gave them both bear hugs, more bear for Diura, and asked if they needed to use the rest rooms before they started on their journey to Bishkek.

  “Wait!” Roberto said.

  “Not to worry!” Andreyovich answered. “Your Stella is genius! She wire transferred enough money to pay for trip and leave generous stipend for me! So? All is done! Food, vodka, clothing, transportation, a driver, and me! The greatest mountaineer north of Mount Everest! Yes I mention vodka?”

  Roberto started, “First of all it’s nightfall, and we’ve been traveling all day long and can use some rest. Then, I need time to talk with you to make a determination about this expedition...”

  “Talk in truck and you decide by time we reach Bishkek and get rest there. I am to go expedition scheduled for Ulugh Muztagh, fourth highest mountain in world. My time is tight. In between I make available for you because of Stella’s husband. This is an accommodation, yes? Night is best time to travel here, you listen to me.” Andreyovich said. “Stella say it is must-do journey, so, must do!” Looking from one to the other he said, “We go? I go? Which?”

  “It is a must-do trip, that’s right. Diura?” Roberto asked. “I’ve been working out in the gym to prepare for this trip. Are you up to it?”

  “Powder and powder rooms are the only way to keep things dry,” she said.

  In the truck, Roberto and Diura sat side by side. Andreyovich turned in his front seat next to the driver to face them. He waved a flask of vodka to them. Both waved it off. “So? What is this must-do, mysterious thing you pursue in the Kunlun Mountains?” he asked.

  Roberto decided that he had to make up his mind right then and there whether or not to really trust Andreyovich, and, if so, how far. False information like a lack of it could mislead him, he decided, and would play it straight. “We’re looking for a manuscript we hope exists that was written in the first
century.”

  “A-Hah!” Andreyovich exclaimed. “And you believe is to be found in Tzndrl Hermitage! Stella sent me details this was determined all while sitting in front of computer! Very clever. Yah! But shank’s mare is bottom line! I know! I have studied every abode in this region back to the cave man. Tzndrl Hermitage is not one that comes to mind. What the manuscript concerns?”

  “We hope the manuscript will lead us to a religious relic,” Roberto said. “You may have heard of the fourth nail.”

  Andreyovich scrunched his face and grabbed his beard. “Fourth nail! Accchhhhh! It sounds provocative but conjures no recognition...”

  “You’re a priest!” Diura said, “Are you being disingenuous? You must have heard of the fourth nail, if only in passing.”

  “The fourth nail?” he pulled at his beard. “The fourth nail...Ah! Clavus Quartus! Of course! Not have I heard that since my days as novitiate! The fourth nail! That is some illusory object you pursue. Is relic? Or creation? Whoever finds fourth nail becomes saint! Yes?”

  “We’re not looking for sainthood,” Roberto explained. “We have a more scientific reason to solve the mystery, and we hope to do that with your help. Stella said she seemed so sure you could take us to Tzndrl Hermitage, and now you express doubt.”

  “Your best shot is with me in this region, I guarantee,” Andreyovich said taking a swig of vodka. “It’s not like you can take taxi to Tzndrl. Here towns often carry four, five, six names. Some really exist; others are dust swirls in Taklamakan Desert. Not all is what it seems to be. A stonewall could be entrance to ascetic’s hole-in-the-wall palace. What could be in one place never existed? Time is greatest magician of illusion, and I can read workings that have been done. My work is my life. I never compromise that. What I give you is top dog best. Tell me more of Ille Clavus Quartus.”

  Over the next hour, as the truck sped and bounced along in the night, Roberto and Diura filled him in on the search for The Marius Diary. Andreyovich commented on how thin a thread they were hanging, but shrewdly did not make much of it because that thread was what was earning him a substantial fee. Silently he acknowledged he would pursue a ghost if the price were right.

  “This makes me very excited about expedition.” Andreyovich said. “To be a part of search for Clavus Quartus is big thing. We knew it only as unsubstantiated rumor, as some trick of the mind played by the early Christians. To pluck something from antiquity to bring to present takes some magic! Roberto, I would not be candid if I did not say the stakes to find these relics are high, very high. I cannot in my best imagine even guess how high.”

  “Tell us how you hope to find Hermitage Zndrl,” Roberto asked.

  “The key is Silk Road,” Andreyovich explained. “That what attracted me to Signora Stella’s inquiries. The road is my passion. Our destination is Hotan, or H’o-tien, or Khotan, but however it is spelled or called, it is one of major stopovers on Silk Road. As you know, travelers, merchants would not always make entire journey with goods, but take them so far, sell them, make profit, and go back home to plan another trip. Hotan is oasis town that became important jade center. The merchants traded goods for easier to carry jade. Stopover towns could always use another hotel, or boarding house, or hermitage as more and more travelers came.”

  “Andreyovich,” Roberto said, “I’m a bit groggy to get into the specifics of the search, but would you be kind enough to fill us in on our itinerary? How long before we reach Hotan? I assume that will be the center for our expedition.”

  “Okay! We make travel at night because here can be very bad hot during the day. Journey to Hotan take four day,” Andreyovich said.

  He went on to explain their trip would be delayed a bit when the truck slowed to a crawl to make its way through heavy smoke caused by the farmers burning the old steppe grasses. By first light they would reach the small town of Georgievka where they cross the Kyrghyz border, which normally presents no problems, political or otherwise. Then, after a short drive, they come to Bishkek, the capital of Kyrghyz. There, they would put up at a hotel, so-called. The hot water was intermittent, the creepy-crawly things were ever-present, but the sheets were clean, all of which mattered little because they would be absolutely dead tired after a whole day of travel. Sleep would come easily.

  The next day would be spent re-building reserves depleted by fatigue, jet lag, and orientation adjustment. They should feel free to tour Bishkek to get their muscles toned. They should not be tempted to sample the shasliq or plov sold by street vendors because the penalty would be Ulughbek’s Gastric Revenge. Ulughbek was a medieval ruler who lost his head in a family squabble and preserved his egotistical memory in gastrointestinal corruptions. In the meantime, Andreyovich said, he would be loading up the truck with food supplies, gear, and vodka, and finding another driver for the jeep in which they would ride. They would meet for dinner, and retire early. They would start out at dawn.

  Ahead of them would be a hard twelve-hour journey. They would travel east toward Balykcy where they would see Lake Yssyk Kul, one of the largest freshwater bodies of water on Earth. The journey would continue to the southwest crossing the western Terskey Alatau Mountains at the Dzuvanaryk River gorge. They would cross the Zetim Bel range, another part of the Tien Shan Mountains, at the Dolon high mountain pass. They will travel through Naryn and Kyzyl-Bel, two sizeable mountain towns. From there, after a couple more hours of driving through the broad mountain valley of the Karasu River, whose name meant “black water,” they would reach the Silk Road town of Tash Rabat. Its renowned prison pit was on the tourist tour. Their night, however, would be spent in the familiar yurts, circular domed tents of skins stretched over a collapsible lattice framework used by nomadic tribes. Andreyovich warned them against even just sampling the local brew made from open-air fermentation of mare’s milk because it meant double intestinal trouble. Again, a night’s sleep would be welcomed.

  The following day was to be spent driving to Kashgar, also known as Kashi, an ancient Silk Road stopover. They would start out climbing the Ak-Bejit Pass to reach the Kyrghyz outer border post. Some three hours later they could expect to run into petty officials throwing their weight around at the border of Turogart Pass. Andreyovich referred to their behavior as official chickenshit. Once past them, it would be a four-hour drive to their hotel where the water ran hot, as did the bugs. Andreyovich would hire a base camp cook and make adjustments in the vodka supply—both ways, replenishing and consuming.

  The next morning they would start on the 500-odd mile trek to Hotan. The entire day will be spent in between the border of the foothills of the Kunlun Mountains chain and the Taklamakan desert. The Taklamakan is considered one of the fiercest and hostile places on earth, Andreyovich said. It is not the spot to run out of water or vodka. The skyline will be made up mostly of the huge iced-up bulk of Kongur Tagh, and a little later in the day a clutch of peaks will indicate the mighty Kunlun has begun. At the hotel in Hotan, they will establish their base of operations to search for Tzndrl Hermitage.

  By the time they got to Hotan, Andreyovich informed Roberto and Diura he would need at least two days of solitude to make a study of the surrounding area, which pleased them no end. They thought it would take that long for their bodies not to feel as if they were bouncing and lurching about even as they stood still.

  On the afternoon of the third day in Hotan, Andreyovich marched into their room, and proclaimed, “I have plan!”

  Using interstellar communications, he had accessed his computer files in Moscow. He downloaded the information Stella had sent him on how she had made the determination of the Tzndrl Hermitage. His files included a topographical map of the area around Hotan made by the satellite orbiting the Earth. Most important, his files included the research he had collected from Tibetan high priests in lamaserys that went as far back as 200 A.D. Especially of note was that handwriting had been introduced from India, and that Andreyovich had a store of information that derived from the first century A.D. In that inf
ormation was recordings of all lamaserys, religious dwellings, ascetic retreats, cave confines throughout all Tibet, including the northern reaches of the Kunlun range. Using individual actual, possible, and theoretical site locations, Andreyovich put each overlay onto the topographical map and pinpointed them. The most promising was what was a small lamasery within 400 miles of Hotan. At the turn of the first century its name was something like “Dztsl,” and had evolved through the centuries to Tzndrl.

  Roberto and Diura simultaneously jumped up from the table at the news. They had spoken earlier of the incredible stroke of luck they had when Stella put them in touch with Andreyovich, whom they both instantly, simultaneously nicknamed “Stolli.” Without his scholarly knowledge, the search for the fourth nail would have been dead in the water. Not only did he have the right information; he knew how to use it to advantage. How many heartbeats they wondered were they now away from learning whether or not Marius had left a written record?

  “Have a vodka—a small one—before I also tell you,” Andreyovich said. “Is possible Dztsl or Tzndrl no longer is there. My research show where was, not where is. Yes, if I could go back to research to learn all current active lamaserys, or, as said in Rome, ‘ermitaggio.’”

  “What you’re saying,” Roberto said, “is that we could get to the site of the lamasery that was there in 100 A.D., let’s say, but it could have been wiped away in the meantime?”

  “Or that that the structure may be there, but no longer active?” Diura asked.

  “Or, could be buried under forty feet of ice,” Andreyovich said. “Approach cautiously and pray rashly.”

  “Do you mind if we review that data, Andreyovich,” Roberto said. “You know, the carpet layer’s mantra: measure twice, cut once!”

  “Is good! Research once, drink twice!” Andreyovich said.

  Roberto went into his pensive mood as he paced. After a few moments, he stopped directly in front of Andreyovich and said, “How many other sites match our three requirements? To the limit of your best research and information: One—Did it exist in the first century A.D.? Two—Was it a structured environment capable of housing enough people to have it considered a viable lamasery? Three—Was it accessible and/or receptive to strangers?”