Gregg Loomis - The Julian secret

Lang stepped back, the better to play his flashlight across the lines of letters. His first impression was of precision. This inscription was not some ancient graffiti scratched into rock but the measured characters of a professional mason. Time, moisture, and other natural forces had effectively erased several letters, their former presence noted only by blank spaces.

IMPERATORIULIANACCUSAT (-) REBILLISREXUS IUDEAIUMIUBITREGI (-)UNUSDEISEPELIT

"Julian, Emperor…," he read aloud. Gurt followed the flashlight's beam with interest. "Who?"

Without looking away, Lang said, "Julian. Roman emperor in the late fourth century. In Christian writing, he's always referred to as 'Julian the Apostate.' He was the first non-Christian emperor since Constantine, the last pagan, reinstituted the persecution of the followers of Christ."

Gurt looked closer, playing her own light along the lines. "This was here cut by a Roman emperor?"

Absorbed by the antiquity of what he was reading for the second time, Lang shook his head. "Most likely at his order." He pointed to a word. " 'IUBIT,' he commands. I doubt Julian ever came here after he took the throne. Before then, he was governor of this part of Gaul. He wasn't emperor long. An inscription attributed to him is rare."

"How do we know it wasn't actually written here by the Cathars? Anyone could have, er, forged such writing. It could be a forgery. Then what?"

"Send it to Dan Rather."

"Who?"

"Never mind."

Lang frowned. Either he was misreading the Latin or something was wrong.

A light breeze hummed across the opening above while he ran his fingers along the words.

"What does it say?" Gurt asked.

"I'm not sure. I can't tell, for instance, whether this word, accusat, is missing the ending. It's chipped off. I can't tell if someone is making an accusation, made an accusation, or of whom. Likewise, the word regi. It has something to do with a palace, a feminine, first-declension noun. But without the last two or three letters, I can only guess if whatever Julian's talking about belongs to the palace, is in the palace, and so forth."

Gurt understood that the endings of nouns denoted not only the gender of the thing in question but also case-nominative, genitive, dative, or accusative. Although frequently dropped in conversation, German still had endings that indicated whether the thing possessed was being subjected to or was simply mentioned. The few remaining equivalents in English were like. the" 's" added to denote possession-that is, the dog's bone or the "s" or "es" to create the plural.

"Is Latin like German in that the whole sentence has to be read before you can put the words into the order that makes sense in English?" Gurt asked.

"No," Lang responded, too occupied to engage in a discussion of linguistics.

In German sentences containing more than a single clause, the verbs were frequently stacked at the end so that the reader had to pair them up and determine what made the most sense. This, of course, in addition to infinitives that were not only split but permanently rent asunder. A German would to the railroad station quickly go, for example.

"There's not enough light to read all of this in con text," Lang finally said, putting down his flashlight. "If you'll move your beam slowly, I'll copy down the words and then we can photograph them."

It took Lang about ten minutes to carefully transcribe the inscription, underlining letters that were too worn or chipped to positively identify. He then used the camera he had purchased the previous night to take two shots directly in front of the carving before moving to each side, letting the small flash attachment cast shadows that would make the words more legible.

He was stepping up to take close-ups when he and Gurt exchanged puzzled looks, unsure if the other heard the sound that seemed to be getting closer, the beating whup-whup of a small, non-turbine-powered helicopter. What, Lang wondered, would be so pressing in this rural community as to justify a chopper?

The answer came when the sound became stationary directly overhead. As one, both looked up to the jagged section of sky that showed through the now-open cave roof. Lang recognized the aircraft hovering like a huge insect as one of the smaller Sikorsky models available for personal transportation worldwide. From the angle at which Lang was looking, he could not see the identifying letters or numbers.

"Who…?"

Lang's question was cut short as a man, his face masked by goggles, leaned out of the open doorway of the 'copter and dropped something. For only a millisecond, the object was silhouetted against the sky, but that was long enough.

Lang shoved Gurt into one of the natural niches in the wall, shallow but better than nothing. The second he heard an impact nearby, he sprung. He had less than five seconds, considerably less if the man in the aircraft above had enough experience to count off two or three so the weapon would explode on impact. Lang saw the plastic cylinder perhaps eight or nine inches on the cave floor not a foot away. In a single motion, Lang scooped it up and underhanded it toward the opening of the cave mouth. He watched it describe a gentle parabola before he threw himself flat, ignoring the sharp edges of rock.

He never knew whether he hit the floor of the cave before the ground shook with an explosion that, even from outside the cave, sent rock fragments buzzing through the air like angry bees.

Instantly on his feet, he raced to where Gurt was shaking her head, attempting to clear her ears of the concussion. "What in…?"

He propelled her toward the opening. "Later."

No time to explain that he had instantly recognized the object launched from the overhead chopper as an "offensive" hand grenade as distinguishable from the more familiar fragmentation "pineapple" that was basically unchanged since World War Two. The grenade the unknown people overhead had chosen had the same "pin"-activated fuse with the same delay, but contained high explosives in a plastic wrapper rather than cast iron intended to shatter. The choice of such a weapon revealed a plan: to use the MklIAl offensive grenade's content to collapse the cave, burying him and Gurt alive if they were not already dead from the shrapnel-like chips of rock. Either way, they would never be found.

Her hand in his, they sprinted across the courtyard. Behind them, a muffled explosion told them the men above had no intention of giving up.

The malignant shadow of the helicopter beat them to the shaft, its patient hovering an announcement that. there was no escape. Lang glanced around. To try descending through the narrow hole would be suicidal. Even if a near miss failed to collapse the tunnel, its tight confines would make it impossible to avoid the rock shards. Between their escape route and the cave was open ground littered with the evenly carved stones that had been the wall. There was not so much as a tree or bush to provide shelter.

The helicopter's passenger leaned out again, lobbing another grenade, and Lang threw Gurt to the ground, partially covering her with his own body. The following explosion seemed to jar even his teeth, but he was thankful he was still alive. The cordite-tainted air was welcomed as he forced breath back into lungs the concussion had emptied.

Almost before the shower of dirt and rock splinters settled, Gurt pushed him aside and sprang to her feet, a sure target for the stone chips with which the next grenade would fill the air. Lang snatched at an ankle, missed, and stumbled to his feet in pursuit.

His legs refused to obey his commands, moving at a pace that seemed almost leisurely. But then, everything seemed sluggish, to take on the dreamlike quality of a film in slow motion.

As gracefully as any ballerina, Gurt spun as she drew the Glock from her belt, making it an extension of her outstretched arms to point upward. The man in the helicopter used both hands also, one to hold the grenade, the other to pull the pin. As he extended his arm to drop high explosives directly onto Gurt, two shots came, so close as to be indistinguishable.