Crusader Gold Read online

  “What’s going on?”

  Maurice Hiebermeyer squeezed through the doorway beside Jack. His frame was definitely on the bulky side; Hiebermeyer seemed to be in a permanent sheen of sweat, despite his baggy shorts and open shirt.

  Jack nodded in greeting. “I think Costas has finally got this thing to work.”

  Jack knew what was coming next. Hiebermeyer had flown in by helicopter the night before from the Institute of Archaeology in Alexandria, like a bird of prey pouncing on its target, hoping that Jack would be looking ahead to the next project, having found the problems of excavating in Istanbul’s harbour insurmountable. They had last spoken on the deck of Sea Venture six months ago when Hiebermeyer had mentioned another extraordinary find of ancient writing from the necropolis of mummies that had produced the Atlantis papyrus, and since then he had been bombarding IMU with phone messages and emails.

  He fumbled with a folder he was carrying. “Jack, we need to…”

  “It will have to wait.” Jack flashed a good-natured smile at the portly Egyptologist. “We’re on a knife-edge here and I have to concentrate. Sorry, Maurice. Just hang on till this is over.” He turned back to the screen and Hiebermeyer went silent.

  “Yes!”

  The screen rippled with colour, and the two men moved up behind Costas for a better view. They were looking at a video image, a floodlit grey mass with a mechanical pincer arm extending into the middle.

  “We’re now almost fifty feet below the sea floor, one hundred and sixty-eight feet absolute depth from our present position.” Costas removed the headset and leaned back as he spoke. “In a few seconds the imaging will automatically revert to sonar and the ferret should be back on line.”

  “Ferret?”

  Costas glanced apologetically at Hiebermeyer and handed over a plastic model he had been holding like a talisman, an odd cylindrical shape that bore a passing resemblance to the remote-operated vehicle they had used to explore the Neolithic village in the Black Sea. “A combination remote-operated vehicle, underwater vacuum cleaner and sub-bottom sonar,” he enthused. “It’s controlled from here via an umbilical and can burrow through sediment with pinpoint precision, sending back images as crisp as an MRI scan. At the moment it’s digging through terragenous sediment, land runoff, tons of it. We’re at the edge of the channel swept by the Bosporus, but even so there’s vast quantities of sediment, several metres per century. We need to go deep if we’re to stand any chance of finding what we want. The weight of that chain is going to bury it further still.”

  “Ah, the chain,” Hiebermeyer murmured. “Remind me.”

  Jack shifted over to a yellow Admiralty Chart of the Istanbul approaches pinned to the wall beside Costas. Their position was clearly marked at the outer edge of the estuary that cut through the city, its sinuous scimitar shape defining the promontory of Byzantium and forming one of the greatest natural harbours in the world. To the ancient Greeks this was Chrysoceras, the Golden Horn, as if a giant mythical bull had embedded itself in the Bosporus as it strained towards the Black Sea, a significance not lost on the three men with the bull imagery of Atlantis still fresh in their minds.

  Jack picked up a pencil and traced a faint line over the entrance to the estuary.

  “During the Byzantine period the Golden Horn was closed off in times of emergency by a giant boom almost a kilometre long, huge links of roughly forged iron held up on pylons and barges. It was attached here, on a tower near the extremity of the city walls where the estuary meets the Bosporus, and here, about three hundred metres away from us on the Galata shore. The chain is first recorded in the eighth century AD and had a famous role in the Great Siege of 1453, but we know of only two occasions when it may have been breached. The first was in the eleventh century, when a gang of Viking mercenaries supposedly got their longships over it. The second is more definite, in 1204, when Venetian galleys broke it with a ram. The chain was rebuilt, but a severed section may have been lost on the seabed. If we can find it, then we’ve hit the layer with the loot and we’re in business.”

  “The first link in our story.” Costas’ pun scarcely concealed his anxiety, his fingers quietly drumming the desk and his eyes flitting over the screen. The image had gone dark and the only indication that the ferret was operational was the depth gauge in the corner, cycling with agonising slowness through one-inch increments.

  “So how can you be so certain about the location?” Hiebermeyer had put his own quest on hold and was becoming absorbed in the project.

  “It’s always been contentious, but a fifteenth-century manuscript unearthed in the Topkapi archive last year gives an exact position fix between known monuments on the shoreline.”

  “I don’t like it.” Costas glanced at the wall clock and shifted uneasily in his seat.

  “If that gun was from 1453, then we’ve got at least five metres of compacted sediment to dig through before we’re anywhere near the target layer. And we’ve only got twenty minutes before Sea Venture has to shift position.”

  Jack pursed his lips in shared concern. This project was like no other they had worked on, a constant game of cat and mouse in one of the most overcrowded waterways on the planet. They had a six-hour window each day authorised by the port authorities, but even so they had to shift repeatedly to let a ferry or cargo vessel past, some with draughts so deep their screws churned up the bottom sediment. Jack had every confidence in Tom York’s ability to troubleshoot the navigation, and Sea Venture’s dynamic positioning system meant that she could reacquire precise co-ordinates with ease. But there was no protection for the excavation on the seabed, nor, more important for Costas, any guarantee that his prize creation would not become enmired forever with all the other detritus of history.

  Hiebermeyer sensed the tension and persisted with Jack. “So what’s this childhood dream of yours?”

  Jack took a deep breath, nodded and beckoned Hiebermeyer over to a computer console on the far side of the room. It was a story he had told a hundred times before, to the crew, to the press, in his repeated attempts to gain backing for the project from the IMU board of directors and the Turkish authorities, but it never failed to send a shiver of excitement up his spine.

  “The Great Siege of 1453 was one of the defining moments in history,” Jack began. “The death knell of the biggest empire the world had ever seen, the event that gave Islam a permanent foothold in Europe. But for the city of Constantinople a far more calamitous event took place two and a half centuries earlier. Desecration and rape on a colossal scale, a horrendous atrocity even by medieval standards. And the perpetrators were not infidels but Christians, Crusaders of the Holy Cross, no less.”

  “The Crusades,” Hiebermeyer said. “Of course.”

  “The time they didn’t quite make it to the Holy Land.”

  “Remember what Professor Dillen drummed into us at Cambridge,” Hiebermeyer murmured. “That the greatest crimes against Christendom have always been caused by Christians themselves.” The two men had been contemporaries as undergraduates, and when Jack had returned to complete his doctorate after a stint in the Royal Navy they had studied early Christian and Jewish history together under their famous mentor.

  “The date was 1204,” Jack continued. “Pope Innocent III had called for a fourth Crusade, yet another doomed expedition to free Jerusalem from the infidel. How the noble knights of the Crusade came to be diverted from their cause to sack the greatest treasure-house of Eastern Christianity is one of the most appalling sagas in history.”

  The small screen in front of them suddenly flashed up an image recognisable the world over, four splendidly wrought horses in gilded copper standing together in front of an ornate architectural backdrop.

  “The Horses of St. Mark’s,” Hiebermeyer said.

  “A few tourists would drop their cameras if they knew the truth about how these sculptures reached Venice.” Jack was in full stride now, his words tinged with anger. “The leaders of the Crusade needed someone to ship
the knights and their equipment across the Mediterranean to the Holy Land. And who better than the Venetians, the greatest maritime power of the day? But the Venetians had other ideas up their sleeves. The Byzantine Empire based in Constantinople had begun to encroach on territory near Venice in the Adriatic Sea, and the Venetians didn’t like it. Venetian merchants in Constantinople had been murdered. The Venetian doge Dandolo had been imprisoned and blinded by the Byzantines years before and was secretly bent on revenge. Then the Crusaders proved unable to come up with the cash for their passage after they had embarked, which virtually enslaved them to the Venetians. Add to that a claimant to the Byzantine throne among the Crusader ranks, and the stage was set. Pope Innocent III found himself unwittingly sponsoring the sack of the second city of Christendom, the focal point of the Eastern Church. Once they arrived at Constantinople, the Crusaders forgot the Holy Cross and behaved like any other marauding army of the Middle Ages, only with a ferocity and barbarism unparalleled even for that period.”

  “What happened?”

  “Imagine if an army out of control landed in London and stripped all the public statues, desecrated Westminster Abbey, emptied the British Museum, burned the British Library. All the symbols of nationhood and the treasures of empire lost in a single blood-soaked rampage. In Constantinople the holy warriors applied their much-vaunted Christian zeal to the great churches, Hagia Sofia foremost among them, looting the hallowed relics of a thousand years of Christianity. They destroyed the libraries, descendants of the ancient libraries of Alexandria and Ephesus, an incalculable loss for civilisation. They stripped the Hippodrome, the ancient racing circus that was the focus of the city, leaving only the fragments of sculptures you see there today and a few monuments too large to pillage.”

  “The Egyptian obelisk of Thutmose III,” Hiebermeyer said, nodding.

  Jack gestured at the screen. “We know that Constantinople was the inheritor of all the greatest treasures of western civilisation. Priceless artefacts that had once been in Egypt and Greece and the Near East were first brought to Rome as the empire expanded. Then, when Constantine moved the capital, many of these treasures moved with him, shipped across the Mediterranean from Rome to Constantinople. The Horses of St. Mark’s may originally have been fifth-century BC Greek creations, perhaps embellishing the famous sanctuary at Olympia. Five centuries later they’re in Rome, on top of a triumphal arch of Nero in the Forum, part of a sculptural group showing the emperor drawing a four-horse quadriga.

  The arch was destroyed by Vespasian but the image survives on Nero’s coins.

  Four centuries after that they’re here in Constantinople, perhaps in the Hippodrome beside that obelisk. And remember, Constantinople had never been sacked before 1204. The treasures that, from eyewitness accounts, were plundered by the Crusaders can only hint at what was here. Some of the loot was melted down for bullion and coin. Other treasures, like the Horses of St.

  Mark’s, were shipped back to Venice and the Crusader homelands—France, Spain, the Low Countries, England—where they may still lie secreted away in the great cathedrals and monasteries. And other objects, especially antiquities with pagan symbolism, were desecrated and hurled into the Golden Horn.” He paused. “When Peter Howe and I first heard this story we became convinced that one of the greatest troves of ancient art anywhere in the world may lie on the sea floor below us now.”

  There was a sudden commotion behind them as Costas drew his chair up to the video screen. Hiebermeyer’s eyes remained on the image of the horses and he put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “You say anything from ancient Rome could have been brought here,” he said quietly. “Last year after our little adventure on the Black Sea I was called to Rome to translate an Egyptian hieratic text found on the site of Vespasian’s Temple of Peace, near the spot where the fragments of the marble plan of the city were found. It proved to be one of a series of bronze plaques attached to the public colonnade of the precinct, each with an identical text in all of the main languages of the Roman Empire: Latin, Greek, Egyptian, Aramaic, you name it.

  They were proclamations listing Vespasian’s victories and Rome’s triumph. Their subject was the Jewish War.”

  Jack turned from watching Costas and looked Hiebermeyer full in the face, his dark eyes fathomless.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Hiebermeyer asked haltingly.

  Jack remained silent.

  “My God.” Hiebermeyer’s German accent grew more pronounced, and his voice wavered. “The Jewish treasures of the Tabernacle. Vespasian had them consigned to the Temple of Peace, never to be paraded again. They passed into legend.” His voice became a whisper. “Could they have been secretly shipped to Constantinople before Rome fell?”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Jack replied quietly.

  Hiebermeyer took off his little round glasses and mopped his forehead. “The sacred vessels of the inner sanctum. The golden table. The menorah.” The last word was a hoarse gasp. “Do you have any idea what we could be getting into?”

  “Yes,” said Jack.

  “We’re not just talking fabulous treasures here. We’re talking major present-day ramifications. The menorah is the symbol of the modern state of Israel. Any hint that we’re on to the lost treasure of the Jewish Temple and the result could be explosive. Literally.”

  “It doesn’t go beyond these four walls,” Jack said firmly.

  At that moment there was a whoop and a joyful string of expletives from the other console. Jack and Hiebermeyer quickly returned to their positions behind Costas, and the ship’s second officer appeared beside them. Jack glanced curiously at the man and then reverted to the screen. They could immediately see why Costas was jubilant. The screen had transformed into a fantastic multicoloured image, the lines and contours of the scan as sharp as a 3-D

  computer drawing. In the centre were unmistakable signs of human agency, a dark twisted mass embedded in the sediment of the sea floor. It was an immense metal link, at least a metre long, a figure-eight shape crudely welded at the waist. A second link was looped through it and extended off-screen to the right, but the loop to the left was scarred and buckled where the adjoining link had sheared off.

  “Fantastic!” Jack clapped Costas on the back. He was overjoyed, his mind already racing forward to the next stage of the search, but his eyes remained glued on the screen as the camera panned forward to the edge of the exposed metal. Wedged into the final loop was a fragmentary mass of wood, evidently ship’s timbers, a section of overlapping hull strakes with lines of regularly spaced dark protrusions where the iron rivets had been preserved for more than eight hundred years in the anaerobic ooze. Jack and Hiebermeyer both gasped as they realised what was woven through the link, a mass of white that looked like denuded branches from a tree. It was a crushed human skeleton, its arms pinned at grotesque angles through the metal, the skull distorted and barely recognisable but still covered with a rusty brown stain where there had once been a close-fitting conical helmet with a nose-guard.

  “There’s your chain, and one of its casualties,” Costas said. “Now it’s time to get out of here.”

  Costas activated a control to cast off the ferret’s umbilical just as the ship’s engines began to throb. Jack left Hiebermeyer with him and followed the Estonian officer out of the navigation room to join York on the bridge. He would broadcast the news of the discovery to the crew during the hour that Sea Venture would have off-site before the shipping lane was accessible to them again. He looked out of the window beyond the ore-carrier waiting to traverse the passage and to the low arches of the Galata Bridge, its road bustling with morning traffic and its balustrades lined with hopeful fishermen, oblivious to the true treasures that might lie beneath them. The choppy waters once plied by the pleasure barges of emperors and sultans now shone again, the result of a massive cleanup operation in the past decade. As Jack looked beyond the bridge to the radiant skyline, he felt again the allure that had draw
n him and Katya to seek out Istanbul’s deepest secrets. For all its chaos and dark history, this city had come to symbolise hope; it was the place where Jack had revived his passion for the mysteries of the past that had driven him since childhood.

  He looked down as the sparkling waters off Sea Venture’s bow erupted in turmoil from the vessel’s water jet stabilisers. He was exhilarated beyond belief that they had made a discovery that could vindicate his dream, a stepping-stone to even more sensational finds over the coming days. The chain put them right at the key moment in history, and showed they were at the outer limits of the harbour where the spoils from the Sack of Constantinople had been dumped. All they had to do now was work their way into the Golden Horn and they should hit pay dirt.

  But as usual Jack’s jubilation was tempered by anxiety. The pressure was now on. They still had a long way to go. He knew they would have to keep coming up with the goods for the authorities to continue boxing in the sea lane for them; the gun and the chain had proved him right but would also raise expectations.

  He looked again at the waters of the Golden Horn, shielding his eyes against the brilliance of the glare, and prayed fervently that it would live up to its name.

  2

  MARIA DE MONTIJO SHIFTED ALMOST IMPERCEPTIBLY on her stool and briefly shut her eyes. It had been their longest day in the cathedral precinct so far, and despite the adrenaline that had sustained her hour after hour she knew her concentration would soon begin to wane. Outside, the dull grey English afternoon was beginning to darken, and she could hear the insistent patter of rain on the windowpanes. She straightened her back, blinked hard and raised the palette with her cleaning tools to the edge of the frame. In the utter silence of the room, time seemed to stand still, and all attention was focused on the intricate pattern of ink revealed by the microlight only inches from her face. She breathed slowly and deliberately, at the end of each exhalation bringing her brush to bear with a steadiness born of years of experience. After fifteen minutes she rocked backwards and handed the palette to her assistant.