THE EMERALD SCEPTER
PAUL KEMPRECOS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 by Paul Kemprecos
Previously published by Suspense Magazine
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle
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eISBN: 9781477870556
This title was previously published by Suspense Magazine; this version has been reproduced from Suspense Magazine archive files.
For Christi, of course.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First of all I would like to thank my pals in the Clive Cussler Society for their continued support and for encouraging me to write a book on my own. Here it is, gang! I’m grateful to Wayne Valero, president and founder of the CCCS, for his insightful suggestions on how to improve the pile of pages I sent him. My line editor Gabe Robinson cut away thousands of words that were cluttering up the manuscript, but the surgery vastly improved the flow of my deathless prose. A special thanks to Clive Cussler who taught me during our NUMA Files collaboration to strive for a fresh point of view and avoid writing clichés like the plague. Oops! Many thanks to John and Shannon Raab at Suspense publishing for this opportunity to bring forth my first solo effort since the NUMA Files. I especially appreciate Shannon’s enthusiasm, astute editorial and art sense, and her help in navigating my way around the new world of e-books and blog chats. And thanks to my wife Christi for constantly reminding me during those down spells that I am better than I think I am.
PRAISE FOR PAUL KEMPRECOS
“ “The Emerald Scepter” just might be the perfect speculative thriller, offering up a seasoned blend of legend and folklore mixed brilliantly with actual historical fact. James Rollins and Clive Cussler have nothing on Paul Kemprecos who has been and continues to be a master of the form and then some. This is everything a great read should be, a riveting, tried-and true tale of quests and daring-do, of great heroes and equally contemptuous villains. There’s a reason why Kemprecos is a #1 New York Times bestselling author and it’s all on display here.”
—Jon Land, bestselling author of “Pandora’s Temple”
“A brilliant mystery that combines suspense with exciting adventure. Intriguing plot twists from beginning to end shrouded under genuine history.”
—Clive Cussler, New York Times bestselling author of “Zero Hour”
“Kemprecos . . . writes sharp, readable prose.”
—Booklist
“Absorbing . . . Soc is an appealing, witty protagonist . . . and the Cape Cod locale is rendered with panache in this face-paced enjoyable yarn.”
—Publisher’s Weekly
“Former newsman Kemprecos delivers the where, why, what, when, and finally who in a whodunit strengthened by gritty dialogue and assured depictions of suspenseful dives.”
—Boston Herald
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
POSTSCRIPT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE EMERALD SCEPTER
PAUL KEMPRECOS
“Few adventures in pursuit of myth were more seductive than the quest for the mythical kingdom of Prester John.”
—Daniel J. Borstin, “The Discoverers”
“How often in his long conversations with travelers and seafarers Prince Henry must have heard that name, Prester John. The search for this long-dead, or non-existent, monarch played as important a part in the history of navigation and discovery as the quest for the philosopher’s stone in the history of chemistry.”
—Earle Bradford, “A Wind from the North; the Life of Henry the Navigator”
PROLOGUE
East of Babylon, 1179 A.D
The desert monster appeared in a glittering vortex of golden dust.
The caravan’s lead scout saw the creature first. The scout had been riding a hundred yards ahead of the mile-long column of horses, camels, merchants and religious pilgrims. His head cover was pulled down over his forehead and wrapped around the lower part of his face. He was bent over the neck of his horse, squinting through the narrow opening as he scoured the high desert for the tracks of previous caravans.
The moaning wind had ramped up to a sudden squall, creating a dancing curtain of whirling dust devils. The movement caught the scout’s eye. He lifted his head and saw an amorphous shape loom in the diffused sunlight, waving its appendages like the sails of a windmill.
The hulking form that emerged from the swirling cloud was bigger than the average-sized man. The head was silvery and flat on top. The face was a fiery orange-red. Metallic scales covered the body.
&n
bsp; As the thing staggered toward the scout, it emitted a bellow like a wounded bull.
The scout was a seasoned warrior, but the tortured wail was like nothing his ears had ever heard. The hair bristled on the back of his neck and a bird-like squawk escaped from deep in his throat.
Unnerved by the blowing dust wraiths, the horse let out a pitiful whinny and reared up in fright, pawing the air with its hooves. The scout clamped his legs onto the horse’s haunches and shouted for help.
The quartet of Persian mercenaries at the head of the caravan heard the wind-muted cry and saw the threatening figure advancing through the blowing sand. Four curved swords snicked from their leather scabbards.
With the guard sergeant taking the lead, the Persians swept past the scout. As the warriors closed in for the kill, the intruder stopped in its tracks, teetered as if being tugged in a dozen directions, took a step, stopped again and toppled over backwards.
The sergeant reined in his horse and slipped from his saddle. He cautiously approached the immobile hulk and lowered his sword. The creature lying on the sands was not a monster. It was a man. Or what was left of a man.
Jerusalem, Two Years Earlier
Master Philip was in a foul mood. The special emissary of Pope Alexander III hunched over a crude wooden table, quill pen poised above a blank sheet of parchment, a look of sheer agony on his face. He was struggling to find a diplomatic choice of words that would tell the Pope he’d sent Philip on a fool’s errand.
He had done his best to warn the Pope. Before leaving Rome he had pleaded with Alexander one last time. “I am the papal physician, not a soldier or an adventurer,” Philip had argued. “I have been trained to deal with black bile and phlegm. There are men far better suited than I to carry out your wishes.”
The Pope had rejected the impassioned plea. “There is no one I would trust more for this crucial mission, Master Philip. You have the qualities I most demand. You are my friend as well as my physician. We need help to defeat the infidels beating at our door. The fate of Christendom may hinge on your success.”
“All the more reason, Your Holiness, to find someone more qualified than I,” Philip had countered.
Alexander had said, “Have you no faith in God?”
“In God, yes. In myself, no.”
“Be not afraid.” The Pope had hung a golden cross around Philip’s neck. “I had this made to remind you that God moves in mysterious ways,” he soothed.
With the Pope’s blessing still echoing in his ears, Philip sailed from Venice across the Mediterranean to Palestine carrying a letter seeking an alliance with Prester John, the mysterious ruler of a far-off Eastern kingdom. Unfortunately, the location of Prester John’s kingdom was a mystery. Not long after arriving in Jerusalem, Philip came to a reluctant conclusion. His mission was doomed to fail.
It went beyond his personal doubts. He had talked to dozens of people about the lands to the east. Day after day he had sat in his modest Jerusalem apartment and listened with growing apprehension to their hair-raising stories of travel over vast distances through unforgiving terrain, and about their encounters with blood-thirsty natives and roving bands of robbers. The conversations had convinced Phillip that his earlier misgivings were not without foundation.
He brought the quill to the parchment and waited for God to move his pen hand. But the quavering voice he heard came not from the Deity.
“Someone is here to see you, master,” said his man servant, who stood in the doorway.
A bull-dog scowl came to Philip’s lips. “I’m busy,” he snapped.
“But Sire, I’m afraid—”
A huge hand encased in chain mail swept the servant aside like a piece of straw and a giant of a man squeezed through the doorway into the room. The stranger towered several inches over six feet. His face was hidden for the most part under a wild beard of fiery red. He filled the chamber with his bulk and unpleasant smell. A long sword hung in a scabbard diagonally across his wide chest.
The man removed a pot-shaped helmet from his neck and cradled it in his arms. Then he dropped onto one knee and pushed the mail hood back from his bowed head, revealing thick red hair that hung in uneven bangs over his forehead.
Philip felt as if he were in the presence of a creature that had sprung from a tale meant to frighten bad children.
His vocal cords seemed frozen, but he managed a loud whisper. “Who are you?”
“Thomas, son of Thomas,” the giant rumbled.
Philip’s gaze went to the red cross sewn onto the patched white tunic over the chain mail coat known as a hauberk. The symbol was the insignia of a Crusader.
He was regaining his composure. “You have taken up the Cross, I see.”
Speaking in heavily-accented Latin, Thomas said, “I would take it up again to defend the Holy Land.”
Philip was aware that Jerusalem swarmed with violent men like Thomas who had found themselves without employment after they had captured the city from the Saracens. He guessed that the knight was offering to hire out the long sword.
“I have no need of mercenaries,” Philip said, speaking in English.
The massive head slowly lifted. Cunning lurked in the hard blue eyes.
“Perhaps not, sire. But have you need of someone who can lead you to the Prester?”
So that was this brute’s game. Philip fumed at the boldness of the man. Word of his mission and his willingness to pay for information had quickly circulated in the ancient city.
“It is no secret in Jerusalem that I seek Prester John,” Philip said, making no effort to hide the annoyance in his voice.
“But none of the others who have heard of your quest can show you the way.”
“I suppose you have a map that you wish to sell,” Philip scoffed.
“No map,” Thomas said. “But I can lead you to the Prester’s kingdom with a lodestone.”
Thomas slipped a mail glove off his hand, reached under his tunic and came out with a rough-cut emerald around a half-inch across cradled in the creases of his massive palm.
Philip took the emerald from the knight’s hand and studied the green stone in a shaft of light slanting through a small window. The uncut gem was of the highest quality.
“Where did you get this little bauble?” Philip said, acting as if he were only mildly curious.
“From a Greek merchant who acquired it in the Prester’s kingdom.”
Philip passed the emerald back.
“Get off your knee, Thomas son of Thomas. Sit on that stool and try not to break it.” He turned the hour glass over on his desk. “You have until the bottom is half full.”
Thomas eased his great bulk onto the creaking stool and told Philip how he had haggled over the emerald in the Constantinople bazaar. The gem merchant was vague about the source of the stone, saying only that it was east of Babylon. Intrigued, Thomas began to frequent other bazaars. He noticed emeralds of similarly unusual beauty and started a discrete inquiry as to their origin. He found a common thread. The handful of merchants who sold the gems had all been on caravans that traveled far to the east on a trade route known to be long and extremely hazardous. He went back to the Greek.
“And this merchant simply came out and told you he had reached the Kingdom of Prester John?” Philip said, not trying to hide his skepticism.
“No, sire. I had to persuade him.”
Philip glanced at the knight’s club-like hands. Thomas obviously had formidable powers of persuasion. The Greek said his supplier told him only that the gems came from a distant eastern kingdom ruled by a Christian. A handful of traders knew the way and they keep it secret.
Philip listened long after the sand had drained from the top of the hour glass. Thomas had a simple plan. Join a caravan. Identify the emerald merchants heading east of Babylon. When they neared their destination he would persuade the merchants to show
the way to Prester John.
“We would travel together, you and I?”
Thomas nodded. “I have six loyal men who would follow me to Hell.”
“And what is the cost of this journey to Hades?”
“All expenses and a fair cut of future emerald trade.”
Philip’s hand went to the gold cross that hung from his neck. He knew it would be madness to join a group of untamed mercenaries on a dangerous journey to nowhere. On the other hand, he was desperate. The Pope would not accept an excuse.
He wrinkled his nose; he supposed he would get used to the man’s foul odor in time. “When can we leave?” he said.
“The caravan is assembling outside the city and will depart in a week.” Thomas hesitated. “I’ll need money for supplies and to buy a place in the caravan.”
Philip gave him a handful of coins from a leather purse. “Keep in mind that even the Pope’s purse has a bottom,” he warned.
Thomas handed him the emerald. “This will ensure my return.”
After Thomas left, Philip placed the emerald in a strong box. Before he closed the lid, he took out the folded letter inside and gazed at the Papal seal. Pope Alexander was right. God had answered his prayers by sending Thomas as His emissary. A faint smile crossed Philip’s lips. The Pope said that God moved in mysterious ways, but he hadn’t mentioned that the Almighty had a keen sense of humor.
Philip joined the caravan posing as a rich pilgrim traveling with his bodyguards. The arrangement aroused no suspicion. The caravans that plied the Asian trade routes were moving cities. Each with its own government, complete with bureaucrats and cooks. Private armies often accompanied merchants and traders.
Philip used Italian charm and gallons of wine to insinuate his way into this mix as the caravan plodded eastward. He identified a small group of gem traders and narrowed their number down to two close-mouthed merchants specializing in fine emeralds. Months passed. He gained the confidence of the gem merchants and every night sat with them around the campfire. He kept his ear cocked, never saying that he knew how to speak Greek. One night he overheard the two merchants hinting at their plans to slip away from the caravan.
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