The Babylon Thing

by Peter Ackers

11

  A few hours later, Finch woke Jacky, who had fallen asleep in the withdrawing room downstairs, where he’d gone - he said - to read over information about Chauvet Pont d’Arc that he'd printed off the Internet. Finch saw that Jacky had found a notepad and had started on a letter to someone called Julian. If memory served, Finch believed Julian was Jacky’s old history tutor at Nottingham University.

  Despite the cold attitude he adopted around most people, Jacky was touched by those who strolled though his life. From old primary school friends to far-removed family members, he remembered them all. The problem was, it often took a bottle of alcohol and some time to think for his feelings to come through. He would think of the good times and would suffer guilt at the memories of the bad. During those brooding times, he would scoop up pen and paper, and a few days later someone would receive a letter from a man they often didn’t even remember, a page or two expressing guilt at the bullying, or happily recalling the games of hide-and-seek.

  Finch was no psychologist, but he had his own theories. Jacky trampled on friends and girlfriends alike because he found it hard to express his feelings. Finch recalled how hard Jacky had been hit as a child when he’d lost his brother, and could believe that the same boy, now grown, had learned that a person who kept others at a distance wasn’t wracked by so much pain when they were snatched away. Possibly. Or perhaps, as the man’s numerous ex-girlfriends claimed, he was just a cold bastard.

  Taking his own empty gin bottle from Jacky’s hand, Finch shook him awake and informed him that there was another electronic transmission awaiting attention.

  Jacky rubbed his sleepy eyes. Finch found it strange that Jacky rarely got drunk on alcohol, just sleepy. Yawning, Jacky wandered upstairs and once more sat in front of the computer.

  He pressed a button.

  He had expected Piet’s bearded face to confront him, that grin, but what appeared on the screen was far more frightening. A 3-D illustration of a lizard. It was a typical-looking tetrapod, quite small. A legend below the picture said: Hylonomus lyelli.

  The hard-drive whirred as it downloaded more information, more pictures. Jacky stared at the small sauropod as it suddenly became animated, little legs and tail waggling as it simulated a spacewalk two inches above a ruler that showed its size at 29 centimetres.

  Jacky smiled as the penny dropped. Piet. This must be the creature whose bones had been fossilised 300 million years ago and 30,000 years ago made into a necklace.

  Information was appearing all over the screen, with headings like Theropsids and Amniota. It seemed Piet was giving him a history of this little creature, which the text claimed was perhaps the forefather of all reptiles. It was all very nice of him to create this file, but useless, too. Cut to the chase, Alberto, he thought.

  A pictorial family tree materialised, and lots more information. Jacky had to scroll down to get past it. Next, a world map with an island off the east side of Canada highlighted. Below that, the same map in zoom. And again. And again. Until the little island was detailed with place names, and coloured terrain with a key. Nova Scotia.

  “Now who’s the Charles Dickens look-alike?” Jacky remarked as a new chapter in e-mail junk opened. A black and white photo, very old, of a bald, white-bearded man popped onto the screen, then a brief biography of the man, who had been called John Dawson.

  Jacky rubbed his forehead. What was all this junk? He was about to get up and leave when an animated caricature of a town crier in the bottom corner of the screen caught his attention. A speech bubble above the bell he was swinging over his head said: “Click me for the abridged tour.”

  That sounds better, Jacky thought. He spun the tracking ball on the laptop; the pointer zipped over to the bell-swinging town crier like a faithful pet returning.

  Jacky clicked a button. The words and pictures disappeared, replaced by the video feed of a man. But it was not Piet.

  It was a younger man, about forty, obviously tall even though he was sat behind a desk, handsome with his rugged, tanned skin, floppy black hair, and hairy forearms exposed beyond rolled-up expensive silk shirt sleeves.

  “Theodore Marcellus,” he said. The name didn’t sound Irish, but his deep accent was unmistakable.

  “Adam Jackson,” he replied. “But I figure you already know that.”

  He ignored Jacky’s remark. “The creature you just saw is the earliest known reptile, and the very one which evolved into the first dinosaur a hundred million years later. The map is of Nova Scotia, a part of Canada. That was where this little sauropod lived, died, was fossilised and, as the history books record, was discovered in the mid-eighteen hundreds by two men, one of whom was the man in the photo, Sir John William Dawson. In truth, Hylonomus lyelli was originally discovered over a hundred years earlier by a man called simply Patrick, and the very same man who crafted a necklace from the bones, the same necklace that was found in the cave in France. I have searched for this type of clue for years now, and suddenly it pops up, and that, Jacky Jackson, means this is your lucky day.”

  “Oh goody,” Jacky said, his voice carrying sarcasm, but his eyes showing increasing wonder and intrigue.

  12

  “I wish to hire your services, Mr Jackson,” Marcellus said. Jacky noted the sudden change from calling him Jacky to using his surname, which made everything more serious. “I shall of course send you everything you need to know about this mission should you accept, but for now if you are willing I can give you a brief overview.”

  This already didn’t sound like the kind of mission Jacky was noted for, but he nodded anyway. What was five minutes out of his life?

  “Sure. Captivate me in a single sentence.”

  “I seek the location of the burial place of Shamash Mudammiq, long ago King of Babylon.”

  “Suitably captivated. Why?”

  “The history books record that Mudammiq was killed by his successor, Nabu-Shum-Ukin, in 901bc because he embarrassed his race through defeat in battle by the Assyrians. My family’s research has revealed that this historical fact is nothing but fiction. Mudammiq was not killed; his death was faked because Nabu-Shum-Ukin had a secret mission planned for him.”

  “A secret mission,” Jacky repeated, tasting the words. “What happened to him?”

  “History tells of his death at his successor’s hands, so there is no official record of what became of Shamash Mudammiq.”

  “So what do you know?”

  “An ancestor of mine, while studying Babylonian history, came across this information. He discovered the true story of Shamash Mudammiq’s fleeing, learned details of his cargo and his helpers, and even his destination. My forefather immediately launched a hunt for this burial place, the ex-king’s tomb. He had a staff of dozens and feared a leak, so took steps to combat this eventuality.”

  “If your ancestor discovered the destination, why don’t you know it?”

  “I shall get to that.”

  “Okay. Next question: I assume, since the history books still put Mudammiq’s death at the hands of his successor, that no leak occurred?”

  “No leak occurred. If it had, that would not be the only piece of history rewritten. The answer to one of modern history’s great riddles would also have been answered.”

  Jacky’s mind spun, recalling what he had seen printed on the screen, knowing the clues were all there. “Does this involve our little lizard friend, or at least Nova Scotia, where he came from?”

  “Do you have a working fax machine?” Jacky nodded, puzzled. “Print off this form and sign it. You must do this before we speak any more. If you refuse, I bid you a good future. Goodbye.”

  Marcellus pressed a button on his computer and his image disappeared, replaced with words. Indeed, it was a form with a dotted line for Jacky’s signature. He read. It was a contract, basically. He was required to sign himself to silence in all matters concerning what he was told or given by Theodore Marcellus else be liable to prosecution.

  He didn’t hesitate t
o print off the form and sign it. Hairs were dancing on the back of his neck at the thought of what might lay ahead.

  When he closed down the word processing window that the form was on, he was confronted with the e-mail message again. Scrolling further down, he located a fax machine number. The signed form went on its way.

  He looked over the e-mail, waiting. Two minutes later town crier icon reappeared and he clicked on it eagerly. Marcellus was back, and he had Jacky’s signed oath in his hand.

  “Very clever,” Jacky remarked.

  Obviously satisfied he had what he needed, Marcellus got straight down to business. He spoke fast. “In case of a leak, Lawrence, my forefather, wanted other treasure hunters thrown off his trail. He was a respected archaeologist, but he lived in a time that knew no scruples. Enemies had spies everywhere in their eagerness to steal an idea, an invention, a discovery. Lawrence Marcellus was a great man, but he wasn’t immune to paranoia. So he envisioned and created an alternative treasure hoard, complete with traps and other safety devices. This was a secret project that used labourers from impoverished African countries, people who had no knowledge of archaeology and what their stories could mean. They were just hired hands building a pit of traps. This false tomb of treasures was then pretended to be the site that Lawrence was seeking, while secretly he went off in search for the real tomb. The man I mentioned called Patrick was left in charge of the building of this alternative treasure tomb. This how he came to be in possession of a bone necklace later found in France.”

  “Ironic, really. If this story was never leaked, it became redundant. The false tomb must still remain hidden. Nova Scotia is a prime site for archaeologists and treasure hunters, especially Oak Island, home of the famous Money Pit, which has intrigued and foiled treasure hunters for two hundred years now. I’m surprised the location of your forefather’s false treasure tomb hasn’t been discovered by chance.”

  “Oh, it has, Mr. Jackson, it has,” Marcellus said, smiling like a Cheshire Cat. “And it still foils people even today. My ancestor’s decoy will become a very publicised hoax when it is finally beaten.”

  Jacky searched his mind for information about treasure-seeking expeditions currently ongoing at Nova Scotia. Just one he could think of.

  Marcellus smiled again, perhaps reading Jacky’s mind. “The decoy was discovered by chance in 1795, just a few years after it was built. It is the very same one now called the Money Pit.”