by Alton Gansky
“He’s also stuck in one of our unused labs,” Julia said. “And I’m not comfortable having them here for long. After all, I did kidnap them. I believe that’s still a felony.”
“The lab is in a secured wing. We are in no danger, and we can observe them at our leisure. Here.”
Rutherford punched another few keys with his one still-obedient hand. The color printer on the side desk came to life. It spat out several color images from the monitor.
“Take those, Alex. It’s time for another trip to California.”
Chapter 15
“THE LATE HOUR getting to you, doc?”
Perry found Curtis sitting in the oak grove office, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was pallid under the artificial light, his shoulders slumped as if holding bags of wet cement. “Maybe you should try to get a couple hours of sleep.”
“Couldn’t sleep if I tried, Perry. Not tonight. I may not sleep for a week.”
“That’s understandable,” Perry answered. “You’re walking on the greatest archeological find ever. I imagine you’re pretty excited.”
“So you’d think,” Curtis replied morosely.
Perry pulled up a camp chair and joined the doctor. “Something eating at you?”
“This is not the way to run a dig, Perry,” Curtis blurted. “We’re moving too fast, taking too many risks. Things are going to be overlooked. Archaeology is built upon bits not just blocks. Secrets are hidden in the small things. We should be sifting the dirt from the pits; we should have a team of archeologists here and graduate students too. At the very least we should have an expert in Roman archaeology.” He sighed, and his shoulders dropped another notch. “I’m going to be vilified in the literature, Perry. I’m about to become the poster boy for bad archaeology.”
“You know why we’re doing this, Professor,” Perry soothed. “The speed isn’t a choice; it’s a requirement that was foisted upon us. I agree we should be moving slowly, but there are forces against us. If there were any other way, we’d do it, but we’ve been compromised, and a man has been killed. When the whole story is known, you won’t be vilified, you’ll be honored.”
“It still gets under my skin.”
“Why do I think there’s something else percolating in your brain?” Perry asked.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Not really, but I am good at guessing games. For example, I bet what’s really eating at you is that you’ve seen five ancient Roman soldiers where no such soldier should be. Am I right?”
Curtis uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, gazing at the ground. “How can it be, Perry? It’s been known for decades that Columbus wasn’t the first man to cross the oceans. There’s some evidence that Vikings landed on the east coast nearly a thousand years ago. There is even slight evidence that Asians may have made it to the California coast long before Columbus was around. It’s all speculative and hotly debated. It’s certainly not mainstream science, but it’s nonetheless there, hovering at the fringes.”
“And now . . .”
“And now I have five foolproof, undeniable evidences that the new world was visited by first-century Romans, and a sixth one being unearthed as we speak.”
Perry looked across the pasture. Five gaping holes punctuated the terrain, marked off by yellow plastic construction tape, their gaping mouths covered with sheets of plywood. At each dig, two men shoveled the remaining mounds of dirt into heavy plastic bags, each marked with a large number painted on the side. A paper tag containing the same number and additional information was wired to the twisted top of each bag. The sixth coffin was being excavated and was due to be extracted in the next few minutes.
Curtis had overseen each removal, supervised the opening of each coffin, made prodigious notes, and then supervised the resealing. Each coffin was wrapped in thick plastic sheeting, and finally a crate was built around it. Once the last excavation was finished, the six ancient caskets would be carted under guard to a waiting truck and driven to the airport. Perry had leased a large private plane to fly the bodies to the various universities Curtis designated.
Curtis had been on the job since his arrival, with the hours filled by unexpected stressful events. He’d been pulled from his home by Perry’s call, flown across country, witnessed the uncovering of a murder victim, been grilled by the police, learned of Perry’s remarkable find, and confronted the archaeologically impossible. All in all, Perry thought, he’s holding up quite well.
“Every moment brings new questions,” Curtis said. “At first all I could ask was, ‘What’s a nice Roman like you doing in a place like this?’ Silly way to put it, I know, but it sums up the problem . . . I should say, problems. It’s just one problem layered upon another.”
“I think I know what you’re getting at,” Perry said. “How did they get here? I don’t think the Romans of that period sailed the open ocean. They weren’t true deep-water sailors.”
“They didn’t have to be,” Curtis said. “Their army owned the land, and their navy had only the Mediterranean to contend with. They extended their influence all the way to Spain, but the Atlantic was too big a barrier to cross. Besides, as far as they knew there was nothing beyond, so why bother?”
“That’s one thing that bothers me,” Perry said. “If my geography is right, even if a Roman ship sailed out of the Mediterranean, they would be in the Atlantic. That’s the wrong ocean. Could they sail from one ocean to another?”
“Long-distance sailing could be done in ancient cultures. The technology of sailing wasn’t that different from that available to fifteenth-century explorers. The later sailors had larger ships, multiple sails, and navigation skills the Romans lacked.
All in all that’s significant, but there’s nothing to say that a Roman cargo ship or warship couldn’t have endured a transatlantic trip, even by accident.
“The Norwegian anthropologist Thor Heyerdahl sailed a balsa-log raft he called Kon-Tiki from Peru to the Tutamotu Islands, east of Tahiti. He crossed 4,300 miles of open seas in just over one hundred days. On board were only five men, and the raft was basically a log and lashing construction. The boat endured harsh conditions, but it survived. He also crossed the Atlantic from North Africa to Barbados in less than sixty days. So it’s possible for a small boat to cross the oceans.
“The ancient Romans had some pretty sophisticated ships,” Curtis continued. “Most people think of their warships like a penteconter, a vessel with a square sail and room for fifty oarsmen, but there were also large merchant ships with two or three masts sporting square sails and measuring five hundred tons. Some historians are convinced that there were ships twice that size to move grain from Egypt throughout the Empire.”
“So it’s not impossible for a Roman ship to sail across the ocean,” Perry said.
“Not impossible, but highly unlikely. Why would they bother? Unlike the Vikings, Romans were not known for being great explorers.”
Perry thought for a moment then said, “People do the unusual out of need or fear. Maybe they were fleeing.”
“Because of what you expect to find below the ground?” Curtis said.
“Yes. I think they might have been driven to protect their precious cargo. Many questions remain. As you said, we’re on the wrong side of the continent. If a Roman vessel left the Mediterranean, it would be afloat in the Atlantic, not the Pacific.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, Perry.” Curtis leaned back in his chair and gazed skyward. The work lights washed out any chance to see stars, but Perry knew the archaeologist was not looking skyward; he was looking inward. “Ancient sailors usually stayed within sight of shore. Coming past the Pillars of Hercules, they could have followed the African coast south and rounded what we now call the Cape of Good Hope, then sailed up the coast in the Indian Ocean. From there they would follow the trade route to Asia.”
“A long and rough journey,” Perry said. “The seas around the southern tip of Africa are notoriously bad.”
�
��They would have needed a lot of luck and all the breaks they could get.”
“They needed more than luck; they needed Providence,” Perry added. “Still, they would have to cross the Pacific or follow the coastline north into the cold and treacherous waters around the Bering Strait and down the western edge of Alaska. Not a trip I’d want to take.”
“That’s just one possibility,” Curtis said. “It’s also possible that they were blown out to sea and forced to cross the Pacific. The truth is we just don’t know, and we may never know.”
“And that’s just part of the mystery,” Perry added. “Why come all the way to the Tehachapi Mountains? We know they made it this far regardless of the path they may have taken, but why settle here? The coast is eighty miles away by air. These guys would have to have walked that distance. Why go through that much trouble?”
“Perhaps they didn’t know where they were. If they were blown to sea by a storm then continued east, they would encounter land, but not a land they would recognize. Maybe they were confused. Maybe they weren’t welcomed by the coastal Indians. Maybe they lost their minds. I don’t know.”
“Or maybe they wanted to make sure their treasure was as safe as they could make it,” Perry said.
“Perhaps, perhaps. I don’t think anyone will ever know.”
Perry shifted his gaze across the field. Jack was standing at the last grave, Site Six as it had been dubbed, and he was motioning for them. “It looks like they have our last friend out of the ground, Doc. It’s time for you to make your inspection.”
Curtis rose and started across the field. Perry stepped to his side. “You know, Doc, once we make the needed extractions, you will be free to scour the site for years to come. The agreement we have with the property owners allows us access for quite some time.”
“That’s good to know. It may take years to piece the whole story together. We’ve only scratched the surface. For every one thing I see, fifteen new questions arise. For example, did the people take up residence here? If so, where is the evidence of their habitation? There should be rubbish pits, evidence of homes, and more. And the planks, where did they come from? Did they hew them from the surrounding trees? Somehow I don’t think so.”
“I’ll bet you a breakfast that the coffins are made from the wood of their ship,” Perry said. “I know, I know, that opens even more questions. Why tear up the boat and then cart it a hundred miles or so away from the shore?”
“It would be an insane act, but nothing would surprise me now,” Curtis said.
When they arrived at the open grave, Jack, Gleason, and Brent hovered over the dark wood box. Two other workers stood nearby. Brent stood ready to fire up the video camera. “Last one,” Jack said as he unhooked the straps that had been used to secure the casket. The moment he finished, he gave the backhoe operator the signal to move the rig back from the site.
“Let’s pop it,” Perry said. “Then we can bring the backhoe around to start on the primary dig.”
Jack took a small crowbar and slipped its thin edge between the center top board and the coffin’s vertical front surface. The square iron nails protested the intrusion but gave way easily. Jack passed the tool to Perry, who adroitly worked the other side. Together they lifted the board and gently set it to the side.
The men gazed into the coffin expecting to see what they had seen in the other five. They didn’t. There was no shield, no helmet, no cloak of iron mail, and no sword.
“Well,” said Curtis softly. “It appears I was wrong, Perry. I am still capable of surprise.”
“It’s . . .” Brent began, then realized he wasn’t taping. He raised the camera and activated the tiny halogen light. “It’s a woman.”
Perry was staring down at the small, skeletal frame that seemed far too small for the coffin. A cloth, darkened by centuries, lay across the bones. The skull was tilted to one side, resting on a thin pillow of long brown hair. He said nothing. He had expected the unusual. The whole idea, the whole project was beyond the scope of the expected, but this sight rattled him.
“I’m right . . . right?” Brent said. “I mean the hair, the skeleton is smaller, and the hands are tiny by comparison.”
“Let’s take the rest of the lid off,” Perry said eagerly. The flat metal pry bar did its work efficiently, and the planks that made up the remaining lid were placed on the ground in the order they were removed. Perry dropped to his knees and peered into the long box.
Curtis squatted by Perry. “What do you think, Doc?” Perry asked.
“I think the young man is right. The hair itself isn’t proof, but it’s a good indicator. The proof will be in the shape of the pelvis and in the DNA. Still, my first guess is that this is a woman of . . .” he trailed off as he examined the skull more closely. “Teeth are all mature and show wear. She had reached her middle years. I’d guess that she was in her mid-thirties.”
“Not very tall,” Gleason said.
“Neither were the soldiers,” Perry said. “I’d be surprised . . . more surprised if their height was comparable to ours.”
Something caught Perry’s eye: scratch marks just above the head of the corpse. “What’s this?” He leaned forward and strained his eyes, but the marks were too faint to make out. “Chalk,” Perry said. “I need some chalk.”
“We have the chalk powder we used to mark the survey grid,” Gleason said. “I’ll grab a handful.” He was gone before the sentence was finished. Two minutes later he held the white powder in a paper cup.
Perry reached into the cup and pinched the substance between his fingers. He sprinkled the powder over the scratch marks.
“Perry, we shouldn’t be contaminating . . .” Curtis began, but Perry waved him off.
Slowly, as if he could will each flake of chalk into the right place, Perry sprinkled the dust, then he leaned over, his head just an inch from the head of the dead woman, and gently blew the excess away.
“You getting this, Brent?” Perry questioned, his voice bouncing off the coffin.
“I’m on it, boss. Move your head so I can zoom in a little.”
Perry did, but his eyes remained fixed on the image before him. The white chalk had settled into the grooves contrasting with the age-darkened wood.
MARIAE MAGDALENAE
“Is that a sentence or something?” Gleason asked. “It looks like three, maybe four words. I don’t know Latin, but it doesn’t look like any Latin sentence I’ve seen.”
“Some of the letters are still unclear,” Perry said. “Let me see that cup of chalk.” Perry took the cup from Gleason and sprinkled more of the fine powder on the area. This time he rubbed gently before blowing away the excess. It achieved little.
MARIAE MAGDALENAE
“One additional letter, that’s not much help. I’m sorry, Doc,” Perry said, his eyes still fixed on the enigmatic sentence. “I’m afraid I contaminated the artifact for nothing. Have you got any ideas as to what we’re looking at?”
There was no answer.
“Dr. Curtis?”
Nothing.
Perry turned and saw Dr. Curtis sitting on the ground, his knees up and his head resting on his crossed arms. It looked like he was taking a siesta.
“You okay, Doc?” Jack asked.
Curtis lifted his head, and Perry saw that his skin was as white as the chalk he held in the cup. Perry rose from his place by the coffin, stepped to where Curtis sat, and joined him on the ground. “You know what it says, don’t you?”
Curtis nodded. “I know everything you’ve told me should have prepared me for this, but my mind wouldn’t accept it. How can any of this be? It can’t, it’s impossible. The treasure you seek is just too remarkable to believe. No scientist would accept it. I’ve been telling myself that it’s all a hoax, or a colossal misinterpretation of the facts. But this . . . this . . .”
“What’s it say, Dr. Curtis?” Perry prodded gently. “We need to know.”
“It’s Latin, and it’s not a sentence; it’s a na
me—MARIAE MAGDALENAE—Mary Magdalene.”
Chapter 16
PERRY HAD BEEN face-to-face with one of the most famous people to walk the earth, and the significance wasn’t wasted on him.
The shock of the find fired through the gathered group like multiple lightning strikes. The light banter had evaporated under the heat of witnessing the impossible. The men stood huddled around the coffin, the group immersed in silence, each man lost in the forest of his own thoughts. Only Dr. Curtis was distant. He remained seated on the grass, staring across the distance like a blind man might stare into his darkness.
The site had taken on a surrealistic feel: Yellow light rained down from the work lights high on their aluminum stands, the sound of the backhoe’s diesel engine idling nearby, the oak-scented breeze wafting through, and the lifeless remains of one of history’s best known people lying in a fragile box.
“I hate to be the stupid one of the group,” Brent said, his voice a single level above a whisper, “but I need to ask. Exactly who is Mary Magdalene? She’s mentioned in the Bible, right?”
“Yes,” Perry said. “Mary Magdalene is a key personality in the ministry of Jesus. Everything about her is unique, and she has been the source of inspiration for many; she’s also been the subject of the wildest speculation.”
“Such as?” Brent prompted.
“Such as Jesus didn’t die on the cross but lived to an old age with Mary as His wife, such as she is the author of the Gospel of John, such as she presented a threat to the pride and position of the disciples, and other nonsense.”
“If she was none of that, then what was she?” Brent asked.
“Her name is Mary, which is the Greek form of the Hebrew Miriam. The Bible refers to her as Mary Magdalene. Most likely the Magdalene refers to a town in Galilee called Magdala. The first time she’s mentioned in the Bible two things are noted: One, she was possessed of evil spirits which Jesus cast out of her; two, she provided support for Jesus’ ministry from . . . I think the passage says personal means.”
