Treasure dp-9 Read online

  Treasure

  ( Dirk Pitt - 9 )

  Clive Cussler

  TREASURE

  BY CLIVE CUSSLER

  Books by Clive Cussler

  Sahara

  Dragon

  Treasure

  Cyclops

  Deep Six

  Pacific Vortex

  Night Probe!

  Vixen 03

  Raise the Titanic!

  Iceberg

  The Mediterranean Caper

  POCKET BOOKS New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright (D 1988 by Clive Cussler Enterprises, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  for information address Simon & Schuster Inc., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-70465-6

  First Pocket Books printing November 1988

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Printed in the U.S.A.

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  Please forgive the inconvenience of converting measurements from what most Americans are used to. But in 1991 the United States finally became the last nation on earth to convert to the metric system.

  It's easy.

  1 kilometer roughly equals a little more than 1/2 Mile.

  1 meter is slightly more than a yard, about 39 inches.

  THE ALEXANDRIA LIBRARY truly existed, and if it had remained unravished by wars and religious zealots it would have given us not only the knowledge of the Egyptian, Greek and Roman empires, but those little-known civilizations that rose and fell far beyond the shores of the Mediterranean.

  In A.D. 391 Christian Emperor Theodosius ordered all books and art depicting anything remotely pagan, which included the teachings of the immortal Greek philosophers, burned and destroyed.

  Much of the collection was thought to have been secretly saved and spirited away. What became of it, or where it was hidden, remains a mystery sixteen centuries later.

  THE PRECURSORS

  July 15, A.D. 391

  A land unknown A small, flickering light danced eerily through the black of the tunneled passageway. A man dressed in a woolen tunic that dropped below his knees paused and raised an oil lamp above his head.

  The dim glow illuminated a human figure inside a gold-and-crystal casket while casting a grotesque, wavering shadow against the smoothly cut wall behind. The man in the tunic stared into the sightless eyes for a few moments, and then he lowered the lamp and turned away.

  He studied the long line of stationary forms that stood in deathlike silence, so great in number they seemed to trail off into infinity before vanishing in the darkness of the long cavern.

  Junius Venator moved on, his strap sandals scraping over the uneven floor with a bare whisper of sound. Gradually, the tunnel widened into a vast gallery. Soaring to a height of nearly thirty feet, the domed ceiling was divided by a series of arches to give it structural strength. Gutters carved in the limestone spiraled down the walls so water seepage could run into deep drainage basins. The walls were laced with cavities filled with thousands of strange-looking circular containers made of bronze. Except for the large wooden crates stacked uniformly in the center of the carved chamber, the forbidding place might have been mistaken for the catacombs beneath Rome.

  Venator peered at the copper tags attached to the crates, checking their numbers against those on a scroll he flattened on a small folding table.

  The air was dry and heavy, and sweat began to course through the layers of dust that blanketed his skin. Two hours later, satisfied everything was catalogued and in proper order, he rolled up the scroll and slid it into a sash at his waist.

  He took one final, solemn look at the objects in the gallery and exhaled a sigh of regret. He knew he would never see or touch them again.

  Tiredly, he turned, held the little lamp in front of him and retraced his steps through the tunnel.

  Venator was not a young man; he was approaching his fifty-seventh year.

  tired dragging steps reflected the weariness of a man who had no more heart for life. And yet, down deep, he felt a glow of warmth it-from an inner satisfaction. The immense project was successfully completed; the great burden lifted from his bent shoulders. All that remained for him was to survive the long voyage to Rome.

  He passed four other tunnels leading off into the hill. One had been blocked off by a great pile of rubble. Twelve slaves excavating deep inside had perished when the roof collapsed.

  They were still in there, crushed and buried where they fell.

  Venator felt little remorse. Better for them to have died quickly than suffer years of misery in the mines of the Empire on a bare subsistence diet before dropping from disease or being abandoned when they were too old to work.

  He took the far passage on the left and walked toward a pale glimmer of daylight. The entrance shaft had been hand-cut inside a small grotto and measured two-and-a-half meters in diameter-just wide enough to permit entry of the largest crates.

  Suddenly the sound of a faraway scream echoed down the shaft from the outside. A frown of concern furrowed Venator's forehead, and he increased his pace. Out of habit he squinted his eyes against the brilliance of the sun as he stepped into its light. He hesitated and studied the camp that lay a short distance away on a sloping plain. A group of Roman legionaries stood around several barbarian women. One young girl screamed again and tried to scramble away. She almost broke through the cordon of soldiers, but one of them grabbed her by her long flowing black hair. He pulled her back, and she stumbled to her knees in the coarse dirt.

  A huge, hard-bitten character spied Venator and approached. The man was a giant, standing a good full head above everyone else in camp, with great shoulders and hips joined nearly as one, and a pair of oak-beam arms ending in hands that dropped almost to his knees.

  Latinius Macer, a Gaul, was the chief overseer of the slaves. He waved a greeting and spoke in a voice that was surprisingly high-pitched.

  "Is all in readiness?" he asked.

  Venator nodded. "The tally is finished. You can seal off the entrance."

  "Consider it done."

  "What is the disturbance in camp?"

  Macer glanced at the soldiers, peering through black, cold eyes, and spat on the ground. "Stupid legionaries became restless and raided a village five leagues north of here. The massacre was senseless. At least forty barbarians were killed. Only ten were men, the rest women and children. And for no good reason. No gold, no booty worth mule dung. Returned with a few ugly women to gamble over. Little else."

  Venator's face tensed. "Were there any other survivors?"

  "I was told two of the men escaped into the brush,"

  "They will sound the alarm in other villages. I fear Severus has kicked a hornet's nest."

  "Severus!" Macer spat the word in unison with another salvo of saliva.

  "That damned centurion and his lot do nothing but steep and drink our wine supply. A pain in the buttocks to bring the lazy baggage along, in my judgment."

  "They were hired to protect us," Venator reminded him.

  "from what?" Macer demanded. "Primitive heathen who eat insects and reptiles?"

  "Gather the slaves and seal off the tunnel quickly. And make a good job of it. The barbarians must not be able to dig through after we leave."

  "Little fear of that. from what I've seen, no one around this cursed land has mastered the art of metalworking." Macer paused and pointed to the massive heap of excavated takings poised above the entrance to the shaft, precariously held in place by a giant crib of
logs. "Once that falls, you can stop worrying about your precious antiquities. No barbarian will ever get to them. Not by scratching with his bare hands."

  Reassured, Venator dismissed the overseer and strode angrily toward the tent of Domitius Severus. He passed the personal emblem of the military detachment, a silver symbol of Taurus the bull atop a lance, and brushed aside the sentry who attempted to block his passage.

  He found the centurion seated in a camp chair, contemplating a naked, unwashed barbarian woman, who sat on her haunches, uttering a chorus of strange vowel sounds. She was young, no more than fourteen. Severus was wearing a brief red tunic clasp over his left shoulder. His bare arms were ornamented with two bronze bands fastened around his biceps.

  They were the muscled arms of a soldier, trained for the sword and shield. Severus did not bother to look up at Venator's sudden appearance.

  "This is how you pass your time, Domitius?" snapped Venator, his voice coldly sarcastic. "Scorning God's will by raping a heathen child?"

  Severus slowly turned his hard gray eyes to Venator. "The day is too warm to listen to your Christian tripe. My god is more tolerant than your god."

  "True, but you worship a pagan."

  "Purely a matter of preference. Neither of us has met our gods face to face. Who is to say who is right?"

  "Christ was the son of the true God!"

  Severus gave Venator a look of exasperation. "You have invaded my privacy. State your case and leave."

  "So you can ravage this poor heathen?"

  Severus did not answer. He rose, grabbed the chanting girl by the arm and threw her roughly on his camp cot.

  "Would you care to join me, Junius? You may go first,"

  Venator stared at the centurion. A chill of fear ran through him. The Roman centurion who led an infantry unit was expected to be a hard master. This man was merciless, a savage.

  "Our mission here is finished," said Venator. "Macer and the slaves are preparing to seal off the storage cave. We can strike camp and return to the ships."

  "Eleven months tomorrow since we left Egypt. One more day to enjoy the local pleasures will not matter."

  "Our mission was not to pillage. The barbarians will seek revenge. We are few, they are many,"

  "I'll match my legionaries against any horde the barbarians can throw against us."

  "Your men have grown soft as mercenaries."

  "They haven't forgotten how to fight," Severus said with a confident smile.

  "But will they die for the honor of Rome?"

  "Why should they? Why should any of us? The great years of the Empire have come and gone. Our once glorious city on the Tiber has turned into a slum. Little Roman blood runs in our veins. Most of my men are natives of the provinces. I am a Spaniard and you are Greek, Junius, In these chaotic days who can feel an ounce of loyalty toward an emperor who rules far to the east in a city none of us have ever seen?

  No, Junius, my soldiers will fight because they are professionals and because they are paid to fight."

  "It may be the barbarians will give them no choice."

  "We'll deal with that scum when the time comes."

  "Better to avoid conflict. I say we leave before dark-"

  Venator was interrupted by a loud rumble that shook the ground. He rushed from the tent and stared at the cliff wall. The slaves had pulled the supports from under the crib, releasing a thundering avalanche that plunged over the cave opening, burying it beneath tons of massive boulders. A great dust cloud erupted and spilled into the ravine. The echoing rumble was followed by cheers from the slaves and legionnaires.

  "It's done," said Venator, his voice solemn, his face weary. "The wisdom of the ages is safe."

  Severus came and stood beside him. "A pity the same can't be said for us."

  Venator turned. "If God grants us a smooth voyage home, what have we to fear?"

  "Torture and execution," said Severus flatly. "We have defied the Emperor. Theodosius does not forgive easily. There will be no place for us to hide in the Empire. Better we find refuge in a foreign land."

  "My wife and daughter . . . they were to meet me at our family villa at Antioch."

  "The Emperor's agents have probably intercepted them by now. They are either dead or sold into slavery."

  Venator shook his head disbelievingly. "I have friends in power who will protect them until my return."

  "Friends can be threatened and bought."

  Venator's eyes widened in sudden defiance. "No sacrifice is too heavy for what we have achieved. All would be for nothing if we did not return with a record and chart of the voyage. "

  Severus was about to reply when he observed his second in command, Artofius Noricus, running up the slight grade toward the tent. The young legionary's dark face glistened in the noonday heat, and he was gesturing up at the edge of the low cliffs.

  Venator held up a hand to ward off the sun and stared upward. His mouth pressed into a tight line.

  "The barbarians, Severus. They have come to pay back the sack of their village."

  It was as if the hills swarmed with ants. Over a thousand barbarian men and women stared down at the cruel intruders of their land. They were armed with bows and arrows, shields of leather hide and spears with chipped obsidian points. Some gripped clubs of rock tied to short wooden handles. The men wore only waistcloths.

  They stood in stony silence, expressionless, savage, and as ominous as an approaching storm.

  "Another force of barbarians has massed between us and our ships!"

  Noricus shouted.

  Venator turned, his face ashen. "This is the result of your stupidity, Severus." His voice was vicious with anger. "You have killed us all."

  Then he dropped to his knees and began to pray.

  "Your divinity will not Turn the barbarians into sheep, old man,"

  Severus said sarcastically. "Only the sword can provide deliverance."

  He turned and took Noricus by the arm and began issuing commands. "Order the bugler to sound battle assembly. Tell Latinius Macer to arm the slaves. Form the men in a tight fighting square. We'll march in formation to the river."

  "Bugler!"

  Noricus threw a taut salute and ran for the center of the camp.

  The infantry unit of sixty soldiers quickly formed in a hollow square.

  The Syrian archers took their place on the flanks between the armed slaves, facing outward, while the Romans formed on front and rear.

  Screened in the center were Venator and his small staff of Egyptian and Greek aides and a three man medical unit.

  The main infantry weapons of fourth-century Rome were the gladius, a double-edged pointed sword eighty-two centimeters long, and the pilum, a two-meter throwing and thrusting spear. for protection and armor, the soldiers wore an iron helmet with hinged cheek pieces that tied under the chin with a strap and looked like a jockey cap with the brim turned backward, a cuirass made up of overlapping metal plates encircling the body and covering the shoulders, and a guard worn over the shins called a greave-Their defensive tool was an oval shield made out of laminated wood.

  Instead of rushing in to attack, the barbarians took their time and slowly encircled the column. At first they tried to draw the soldiers out of the solid lines by sending a few men up close who shouted strange words and made threatening gestures. But their heavily outnumbered foe did not panic and run as expected.

  Centurion Severus was too much a veteran to feel fear. He stepped ahead of his front line and surveyed the terrain crawling with barbarians.

  He waved derisively at them. This was not the first time he had faced overwhelming odds in a fight. Severus had volunteered for the legion when he was sixteen. He advanced from common soldier, winning several decorations for distinguished bravery in battles against the Goths along the Danube and the Franks at the Rhine. After his retirement, he had become a mercenary, hiring out to the highest bidder, in this case Junius Venator.

  Severus had unswerving confidence in his le
gionaries. The sun gilded their helmets and unsheathed swords. They were strong fighters and battle-hardened men who knew victory without ever enduring defeat.

  Most of the livestock, including his horse, had died on the grueling voyage from Egypt, so he walked at the head of the square, turning every few steps so as to keep a constant, wary eye on the enemy.

  With a roar that rose and broke like crashing surf, the barbarians rushed down the sun-baked incline and fell on the Romans. The first wave was decimated, pierced by the long throwing spears of the soldiers and the arrows from the Syrian archers. The second wave burst forward, crashed into the thin ranks, and were cut down like wheat before a scythe. The gleaming swords dulled and turned red with barbarian blood.

  Driven by a stream of salty oaths, and threatened by the scourging lash of Latinius Macer, the slaves gave a good account of themselves and stood firm.

  The formation moved forward at a crawl as the barbarians pressed from all sides, fed by continuous reserves. Great red stains fanned on the dirt of the and slope. More and more naked bodies dropped and crumpled lifeless. Those who surged from behind fought on their comrades'

  corpses, slicing bare feet on shattered weapons, throwing flesh against the terrible shafts of iron that thrust into breasts and stomachs, then falling on the death heap. At close quarters they were no match for Roman discipline.

  The battle now took a different Turn. Realizing they could make no headway against the swords and spears of the foreigners, the barbarians pulled back and regrouped. Then they began shooting flights of arrows and throwing their crude spears while their women hurled rocks.

  The Romans closed shields over their heads like large tortoise shells and stoutly maintained their march for the river and the safety of their ships. Only the Syrian archers were able to cause casualties among the barbarians. There were not enough shields to go around for the slaves, and they fought open and unprotected from the hail of missiles. They were weakened from the long, tiring voyage and the exhausting excavation of the cavern. Many fell and were left behind, their bodies immediately stripped and horribly mutilated.