David Gibbins - The Crusader's gold

It was the final scene. A procession was leading away from the base of the temple. It was the only scene not soaked in blood, though the figures were even more garish, more extravagantly attired than before. Some were human, others supernatural. Musicians sang and beat time, with trumpets and gourd rattles. A turtle carapace split open to reveal a god, pouring liquid from a jar. Others emerged from the shell of a crab, the jaws of a serpent. Warriors and women weaved among rows of torch-holders. A jaguar ate a human heart. A company of mummers performed, writhing, snaking in and out, one dressed as a crocodile and another a crab, with giant pincers raised up high. A team of ball players with protective belts and kneepads jostled each other, one being led back towards the temple by a sacrificial priest. Above the procession were poles with human skulls skewered on them. Some were stripped bare, leering skulls like the sculptures at Chichen Itza. Others were more recent victims, with hair and flesh still on them. Yellow hair. Beards.

In front of the pageant was a space which Reksnys had left covered by a protective cloth. But leading up to it was a line of white-robed women, with sloping foreheads and tied-back red hair, adorned with mountainous headdresses and green feathers from the sacred quetzal bird springing in hoops from their backs.

It was a triumphal procession. Another image flashed through Jack’s mind, an image that seemed unbelievably far removed from the world of the Yucatan-the Arch of Titus in Rome. The procession through the Forum. The triumph of Vespasian over the Jews.

He moved a few steps to his left, Loki’s eyes following him warily. The final depiction was still partly buried under rubble, but was clear enough. It was an abstract shape like a cauldron, its rim marking the end of the processional way. It was the jaws of the underworld, gigantic, gaping, hungry for sacrifice.

Chichen Itza. The Cenote of Sacrifice.

Reksnys moved up to the cloth and put his hand on the lower corner. “I believe that is where we are now. The underworld, the end of the procession. We all know who the vanquished are. I believe the victory procession ended where we are standing now, at the entrance to this cenote below us.” He spoke bullishly, with the utter conviction of the ignorant. Jack caught Maria’s eye again. This time she shook her head. Jack looked back. He realised there was nothing in the painting to identify the setting. It could have been one of dozens of Toltec ceremonial sites. The only connection Jack had with Chichen Itza was the runestone inscription from L’Anse aux Meadows. And that was unknown to Reksnys, safely under lock and key on board Seaquest II.

“I uncovered what you are about to see a mere four days ago, just before the felag exacted its revenge on the one who had betrayed us. A happy coincidence for your colleague here.” Reksnys jerked his pistol towards Maria. “We knew your ship was in the Caribbean and guessed our paths were converging. I thought we might benefit from your expertise. It is the only reason my son did not practise his art on her as well.”

Reksnys stood with his back to the wall, then with one quick movement lifted the cloth up.

There was a stunned silence. Jack felt his jaw drop, then regained his composure. Something Maria had once said came to him, something from rabbinical lore.

Drawn by the divine finger. Drawn by a finger of fire.

It was the menorah.

Seven branches, seven shafts of yellow shining as if they were aflame, shedding lustre like beams of light. At the head of the triumphal procession, raised in front of the Well of Sacrifice.

Jack looked at Maria, who was staring at the image in a trance, as if she were gathering strength from it.

Reksnys abruptly let the cloth drop back, concealing the image, and gave a coarse laugh. “Shocked?”

“I noticed you didn’t look at it,” Jack said coldly. “Or couldn’t.”

“I despise it. I have no wish to behold this object myself. It is a means to an end.” Reksnys nodded at Loki, who pulled Maria up and pushed her across to him. Reksnys kept her at arm’s distance, prodding her with the muzzle of the Luger, a look of distaste on his face. Then he shoved the gun in the small of her back, aimed down. “I know exactly how to do it. A slow, lingering death. Plenty of experience with her type.” He jerked his head towards the rebreathers and dive bags stacked beside the hole in the floor. He looked at Jack. “You are the world-famous underwater explorer, no?” His voice was mocking, sneering. “Now you and your friend will go down into the underworld and find what I desire.”

Jack hit the water with a resounding splash, the echo resonating off the walls of the cavern. Costas had preceded him and was already carrying out an underwater recce, the arc of light from his headlamp visible off to one side. Jack quickly released the carabiner on the rope and gave it a tug. The rope began to jerk upwards, and Jack followed the glint of metal from the carabiner as it rose up the thin shaft of light to the hole in the limestone ceiling almost twenty metres above. He and Costas had silently kitted up in the ancient chamber a few minutes before, donning the equipment Reksnys had ordered them to bring from Seaquest II. Jack had refused to divulge any of his thoughts about the wall-painting, and Maria had remained obstinately silent in the corner of the chamber even after the tape had been ripped away from her mouth.

Jack was convinced that the scene with the menorah showed the Well of Sacrifice at Chichen Itza, not this place. Yet all the indications were that Reksnys was right to think that the tunnel ahead of them held some clue to Harald Hardrada’s last stand. The location of the temple above the cavern, the depiction of the jungle battle with the river running beneath it, local Maya tradition.

There had been no chance to make contact with the security team, who had been on standby since he and Costas had left in the Zodiac two hours before. Jack knew the Lynx was in the air somewhere offshore, but Ben could do nothing until Jack and Costas found some way of radioing in their co-ordinates and confirming that the situation with Maria was safe enough for an intervention. Jack had given Maria a reassuring look just before he donned his helmet, had been cool and collected as Loki had winched him down the hole. But his mind was in a tumult at the prospect of what might lie ahead, desperately running through the possibilities if they were to return empty-handed. At the moment the options were few, and they were not good.

Costas’ voice came through the intercom. “There’s an underground river running through the bottom of this chamber, about eight metres beneath you. The current’s pretty vicious. Not exactly recommended cave diving conditions.”

“Roger that,” Jack replied, floating on the surface and following the sweep of light below that marked Costas’ progress. He tested his buoyancy compensator and ran a systems check on the computer that controlled his gas supply. They were wearing semi-closed circuit rebreathers, variable mixed-gas systems that enabled them to go to greater depths than either pure oxygen or air would allow. It was a precaution, as they had no expectation that the cave system would exceed the thirty-metre maximum typical of the Yucatan cenotes.

“Remind me about this calcium carbonate stuff,” Jack said.

Costas surfaced beside him, inflating the buoyancy wings on his backpack and adjusting the intercom on his helmet. “Dissolved limestone,” he said. “During the Ice Age, everything here was above water. That’s when the stalagmites and stalactites that are now underwater formed. Then at the end of the Ice Age, the sea level rose and the caves flooded. Leave something above water in one of these caverns, and it’ll get encased in stone. Drop it in the water, and it’ll stay good as new. We’re in fresh water down to about fifteen metres, when you hit salt water.”