The Sword of Moses

by Dominic Selwood

  As the black grime came away under Ava’s finger, a patch of dull yellow metal appeared.

  Ferguson let out a long low whistle. “So—this really is the Menorah, then.” He sounded stunned, as the reality began to sink in.

  “I truly believe it is,” Ava answered in a low voice, gazing at the sacred candlestick.

  As she peered at it, she could see the Magdala carving was exactly right. Even down to the base, which was not built up of square slabs to give the effect of a stepped plinth, as on the Arch of Titus. Instead, it was a plain pyramid, out of which the trunk of the candlestick grew directly.

  But it was the arms that continued to fascinate her. She pictured in her mind’s eye the drawing by Maimonides, the Jewish sage of medieval Córdoba in Spain, who had depicted the arms as sprouting straight up, like the branches on a wrapped-up Christmas tree. That image had always intrigued her. But now she could see that even he was clearly wrong, although closer than anyone else.

  She could not wait to get it cleaned up to examine it properly.

  It would answer so many questions about the early history of the Hebrews. Exactly how old was it? Were there any inscriptions on it? Was it an original Hebrew object, or had it been captured from another people and adopted? Was it all original, or a composite built over time? Where did the gold come from? Was it really melted-down possessions and jewellery as the Bible said, or did it originate from an identifiable mine? Did it show signs of foreign workmanship, like the Temple of Solomon itself, made with skill and labour from pagan Lebanon?

  “So—angled arms, then? Who’s going to tell the people who make the Israeli flag?” Ferguson joked.

  Not to mention everyone else.

  She had not even begun to think of the disputes this would cause. She had not had time to consider very much beyond keeping it safe—away from Malchus.

  And who would claim it?

  Ownership of so many of the world’s great artefacts was disputed—often for centuries. She had learnt to her frustration that museums employed armies of lawyers to build complicated arguments that took decades to sort out.

  No doubt ownership of the Menorah would be a major ongoing headache. Many groups would claim it—the Basilica di San Clemente, the Vatican, the city of Rome, Israel, one or more Templar orders—the possibilities were endless. There was potential for decades of litigation.

  “Christ.” She slapped Ferguson’s shoulder as she snapped out of her reverie. “What’s the time? We’ve got to get out of here.”

  He hurriedly looked at his watch. “You don’t want to know. Twenty minutes. We’re five minutes over.”

  “We have to move. Now.” She was already halfway across the room, standing underneath the hole in the roof up to the mithraeum above.

  “Max, we need ropes,” she yelled up at the creased face peering in.

  Heading back to where Ferguson was standing, she grabbed hold of the Menorah. “Take the other side. We’ve got to move it to the hole so we can winch it out.”

  “It’s not going anywhere if it’s solid gold,” Ferguson noted pragmatically. “Not without some help from the others.”

  Ava took a firm grip and indicated for Ferguson to do likewise. “It was supposedly carried about the desert by a nomadic people. Anyway, they weren’t that rich. It’s hollow.”

  On her nod, they gave it a shove.

  It moved.

  “Thank God for that.” The relief in Ferguson’s voice was palpable, as together they slowly slid it across the floor until it was directly under the hole punched into the roof.

  Sweating profusely, they looked up. Max was already dangling three ropes down through the hole. Grabbing the swinging ends, they quickly tied them to the main shaft and the outer branches.

  As they finished securing it, Ava gave the command, and the four men above took the strain on the ropes.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then, agonizingly slowly, the Menorah began to rise into the air.

  Ava watched with trepidation, praying the knots would hold fast. She had no desire to be on the front pages as the archaeologist who found the Menorah, then broke it.

  As the sacred candlestick disappeared out of sight, up into the body of the mithraeum, there was a short pause before a rope came down again.

  “Ladies first.” Ferguson nodded towards the rope.

  Ava grabbed hold of it, and climbed up it quickly, gripping the rope between her calves and shins, crimping it between her feet in fluid movements as her arms pulled her up.

  Ferguson followed, arriving beside Ava back in the mithraeum a few moments later.

  “Right—into the box,” he ordered, as the gasmen untied the ropes from their prize.

  Removing the lid of the large flight case, they placed the Menorah carefully into its padded interior, fitting loose foam blocks around the metal to wedge it into place.

  Once the case’s sturdy clasps were safely locked down, they swept all the dirt and shards of broken wood back down through the hole, before replacing the flagstone and manoeuvring the bas-relief of Mithras back into place.

  Whoever next came down into the mithraeum would have no idea anything had been touched.

  Heading for the stairs, Ava forced herself to slow her breathing.

  She had to remind herself that the hardest part was over.

  They were just gas engineers, exiting a building they had made safe. She had nothing to worry about. Nobody would search the cases.

  The men’s overalls were soaked with sweat patches. And so were hers. In addition, she and Ferguson looked filthy.

  Still, it was summer, and gas engineers had to get into some grubby corners. She reminded herself that passers-by would not know what she knew. They would just see a group of hot and dirty engineers. It would be nothing unusual.

  As they headed back along the narrow damp passage to the foot of the steps, Ferguson silently showed her his watch—twenty-three minutes elapsed. They were on heavily borrowed time. It was a miracle the police were not there already.

  With her heart in her mouth, she arrived at the foot of the staircase. The four gas engineers took the handles of the large flight case—two either side. She and Ferguson picked up the smaller one between them, and set off first.

  It was still dark as she swung herself onto the stairs. The electricity had remained off, so she focused on climbing the steps carefully.

  As she took the first step, she was suddenly aware something was not right.

  In fact, it was very badly wrong.

  Beams of white light were dancing over the stairs.

  Looking up, she froze at the sight of at least six powerful white torches, all shining down into the stairwell.

  What the ... ?

  The blazing white lights were blinding, and for a split second it was difficult to make out what was happening. But she was suddenly aware of one very disturbing thing.

  The lights were moving rapidly towards her.

  As her brain whirled to work out what was going on, she simultaneously realized there were other lights mixed in with the white ones. They were different, smaller—tiny beams of searing bright green, scything through the space in front of her, ending in dots dancing on the walls around her.

  Her mind was still processing this new information, when a millisecond later a voice deep inside screamed at her to move. At the same time, a sickening jolt of adrenaline ripped through her already strung-out system.

  Survival instinct took over. Barely aware of what she was doing, in one fluid movement she dropped the flight case and dived back down the stairwell.

  Ferguson had evidently reached the same conclusion and simultaneously done the same, landing beside her in a heap at the bottom of the steps just as several hot bursts of semi-automatic gunfire raked the walls of the stairwell, discharging a hail of supersonic rounds through the space where the laser sights had found her head a split-second before.

  ——————— ◆ ———————

  74
/>
  The Roman Ruins

  Basilica di San Clemente

  Via Labicana

  Rione Monti

  Rome

  The Republic of Italy

  “Something tells me that’s not the police,” Ava yelled, diving behind the large flight case holding the Menorah.

  Her mind was racing.

  Who on earth was shooting?

  “You think?” Ferguson panted, grabbing her by the overalls, pulling her to her feet and hauling her into the darkness.

  She did a double take at the sight of the four gasmen running alongside her, now carrying handguns instead of the Menorah case. The unassuming gas engineers were gone—they now moved like a unit of soldiers, hustling her and Ferguson into the darkness.

  “We’ll be easy targets here.” Ava gulped down air, trying to clear her head. “The corridor is a dead-end beyond the temple. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  She turned back towards the stairs, pointing at the rusty locked iron gate leading into the Roman insula apartment complex beyond. “We need to get into there if we’re going to stand any chance.”

  Max pointed to the two men in the lead. “Cover the stairs,” he ordered briskly, effortlessly shifting from the quiet spokesman of the group to their authoritative military commander.

  The men peeled off and moved swiftly to the base of the staircase. Crouching low either side of it, they took it in turns to fire short bursts up the stairs at the moving lights.

  The noise of the gunfire was deafening in the small space, and the air quickly filled with the scent of cordite.

  Max rapidly examined the locked gate, before pumping a round at point blank range into the chain holding it shut.

  The rusty metal links burst open, and as the chain fell to the floor with its large padlock still intact, he shoulder-barged the gate open, ushering Ava and Ferguson through into the non-public part of the ruins.

  Motioning for his men to follow, they abandoned their fire positions by the stairs and hurled themselves towards the dark alleyway,

  “The Menorah!” Ava yelled, as the men ran straight past it, casting light beams wildly around the confined space.

  They looked at her as if she was insane.

  They were right, she realized. The flight case would never fit down the narrow ancient alleyway.

  Before any of them could speak, she anticipated the objection. “Then we’ll have to get it out.” She turned and ran back down the alley towards the stairs.

  “Mais, elle est folle?” Max looked after her incredulously.

  “Yes and no.” Ferguson sped past Max. “No time to discuss her mental state. The Menorah’s what we came for.”

  Max nodded, and signalled his men to follow her.

  Passing through the gate again, Ava could see the lights still sweeping the stairs from above.

  Max moved quickly into position at the bottom of the steps. Taking cover behind the flank wall, he fired repeated bursts upwards, pinning the attackers down.

  Arriving in front of the large flight case, Ava yanked open its catches and pulled off the heavy lid. Ferguson and the gasmen were already alongside her, heaving the Menorah out from the foam padding.

  With Ava leading, they headed back into the alleyway with the Menorah slung between them.

  From the stairway, she could hear their assailants still returning Max’s fire.

  Pushing deeper down the narrow passageway into the crumbling Roman ruins, Ava could suddenly hear the thudding of boots behind them. Her heart racing, she turned to look over her shoulder, and saw a cluster of lights moving dimly at the alleyway’s entrance.

  Their attackers were no longer on the stairs. They were down on the mithraeum’s level.

  And they were catching up.

  Pounding further into the darkness, Ava reached a short flight of crumbling steps dropping down to the right—into another complex of ruined Roman buildings.

  Without hesitating, she took the stairs two at a time.

  Arriving breathlessly at the bottom, she scanned left and right.

  Her helmet lamp revealed she was in a room with walls of terracotta brick and patches of decorative tiling. Through the gloom, she could make out that it interconnected left and right to similar rooms via a pair of identical low central archways.

  In no time, the others arrived panting behind her.

  “Got any spares?” Ferguson asked Max, indicating the handgun the Frenchman was carrying.

  Max nodded to the two men nearest him, who reached into their overalls and unclipped auxiliary handguns from shoulder holsters. They handed them silently to Ava and Ferguson.

  “Do you know what you’re doing with those?” Max sounded dubious.

  “Good old Browning HP,” Ferguson answered, grasping the teak grips and settling the handgun comfortably in his hand. “You read my mind.”

  Ava did not reply. She was busy ejecting the magazine to check it had the full complement of thirteen rounds, before clicking it back into place and cocking the hammer.

  Max nodded, satisfied. He handed them each two spare clips. “How many men?”

  “Six, that I could see.” Ava flicked the thumb safety off the Browning. “Maybe more.”

  At the sound of the pursuers’ boots getting louder, Ferguson spoke rapidly. “We’ll have to separate—take them individually.”

  As he spoke, two of the men carried the Menorah through the archway to the left and into the next room, placing it out of sight behind the arch.

  Max was sweating heavily. Ava could see the concentration in his lined face as he worked out the optimum way to lure the enemy in.

  Making a rapid decision, he indicated for two of his men to follow him through the right-hand arch, and for the other one to go with Ava and Ferguson to the left.

  Three a side. It was the best they could do.

  Stepping past the Menorah and through the archway, Ava could immediately see there was another archway to her right. She headed for it, and as she looked through it, saw that ahead of her lay at least four more rooms, all connected by identical low arches.

  “One room each?” Ferguson suggested to the gasman with them.

  He nodded an acknowledgement and tucked himself behind the first archway, ready to intercept anyone who came his way.

  Ferguson and Ava moved swiftly to the next chamber.

  “You take this one,” Ava said, leaving Ferguson and heading through to the following room.

  Once in place, she saw the beams on the helmet lamps go out in the rooms ahead of her. Following suit, she reached up and flicked hers off.

  Now they were in position, all they could do was wait in the darkness to pick off anyone who tried to enter their side of the complex.

  Alone, the black was absolute. She could see nothing, leaving her ears to overcompensate, amplifying the sound of the nearby rushing water until it filled her head.

  Her heart was pounding.

  Who on earth was after them?

  It was definitely not the police. They did not take head shots with no warnings from the top of staircases in fourth-century churches.

  There was only one person she knew who was likely to be in the Basilica di San Clemente, armed, and on the attack.

  Malchus.

  Even saying the name in her head revolted her. She still had not got the image of Drewitt’s mutilated body out of her mind.

  Had he done something similar to her father’s body? Had they simply not told her?

  She shuddered.

  A flash of dim light interrupted her thoughts, followed a millisecond later by the crack of a shot. It came from the other side of the complex, where Max and the other two men were hiding.

  It sounded like small arms fire, and was quickly answered by something heavier.

  Malchus and his men had obviously turned right, and were now being engaged by Max and his team of two.

  In no time the gunfight intensified. The acrid smoke began to drift across into her room, a
nd the blackness around her was repeatedly pierced by flashes of light from the muzzle flares.

  She strained to count the signature barks of individual weapons, but could tell little except the engagement seemed to be developing into a full-on contact between the two groups.

  Up ahead, she could see Ferguson in the flashes of weak light, motioning for her to join him.

  Moving rapidly and silently, she slipped through to where he was.

  “I’m going to engage them from behind,” he whispered at her. “You stay this side with our friend here.” He pointed to the gasman in the room ahead, and moved off into the darkness.

  She slipped quickly back to her room, feeling the dirt and rubble crunching under her feet.

  There was a moment’s lull in the gunfire before it started up again.

  It was a game of cat and mouse in the dark.

  As the dim flashes of light became more frequent, the gasman in the room ahead of her indicated that he was also going to follow Ferguson into the other side. He motioned for Ava to remain where she was.

  Thinking fast, she realized that if both Ferguson and the gasman were gone, she would have to move forward two rooms to be beside the Menorah. There was no way she was going to leave it unprotected. It was the whole reason they were there. It was what they were fighting to defend.

  The sound of gunfire from the other side continued, although it seemed a little more muffled now, more distant, and she could no longer see any flashes from the muzzle flares. She guessed they were all moving further away—deeper into the complex.

  As the sound of gunfire continued, for a moment she thought it was coming from behind her.

  The incessant discharges had numbed her ears, and the rapports sounded as if they were echoing sharply off the low-ceilinged brick walls in all directions.

  She was becoming sonically disorientated.

  But as another round of shots cracked through the darkness, she was increasingly sure they were coming from behind her.

  Was that even possible?

  She supposed it would mean both sides of the complex were somehow connected, and that the men were fighting their way round in a loop.