James Rollins - The Eye of God - A Sigma Force Novel

Spurred by the excitement in his voice, Vigor repeated Gray’s action, wiggling his way through the pinch. Near the end, a hand clamped onto his wrist and pulled him the rest of the way out, like a cork out of a bottle.

Vigor found himself standing in another cavern, atop a frozen pond. To his left, the shore of the pond rose in a sheer cliff of bedrock, maybe four meters high. Gray pointed his flashlight’s beam to a set of stairs cut into it long ago. The way appeared to lead to a ledge up top.

“C’mon,” Gray said.

They scaled with care. Gray used his ax to clear a few steps of thicker ice, until finally they reached the top.

Gray offered his arm to help Vigor to his feet, but he ignored Gray and stood up, staring at the far wall. Through a thin crust of blue ice, he saw an arched set of black doors.

Vigor gripped Gray’s arm, needing his solidity to make sure what he was seeing was real. “It’s the entrance to Genghis Khan’s tomb.”

8:48 A.M.

Gray didn’t have time to stand on ceremony or savor the discovery. Using the butt of his steel ax, he cracked and scraped at the shell of ice covering the doorway. Huge sheets fell with every strike, the door ringing with each blow, indicating it was metal. In less than a minute, he had the doorway clear.

The archway was no taller than his head.

As Gray brushed the hinges clean, Vigor touched the surface reverentially. He had his own flashlight out and shone the beam at a spot where Gray’s ax had pocked the metal door.

“It’s silver under the layer of black tarnish!” Vigor said. “Like the box holding the bone boat. But look, where the door is gouged deep, I can see splintered wood under the metal. The silver is only plated on the surface. Still . . .”

Vigor’s eyes glowed brightly.

With the crude hinges cleared, Gray swung a latch up that held the double doors closed. He offered Vigor the honor of pulling them open.

Plainly holding his breath, Vigor grasped the handle and yanked hard. With a grinding of ice crystals still in the hinges, the doors parted and opened wide.

Vigor fell back from the sight.

It wasn’t what they had been expecting.

While nearly empty, it was no less astonishing.

A circular gold chamber glowed before them. Floor, roof, walls . . . all were covered in rosy-yellow metal. Even the inner surfaces of the doors were plated with gold, not silver.

Gray allowed Vigor to step inside first, then he followed.

Everywhere the gold had been sculpted and carved by skilled artisans. Across the roof, gold ribs led to a circular ring. The walls held posts of gold. The intent of the design was obvious.

“It’s a golden yurt,” Gray said. “A Mongolian ger .”

Vigor stared back at the archway. “And when the door is closed, it forms a solid vault. We’re standing symbolically inside the third box of St. Thomas’s reliquary.”

Gray remembered the skull and book had been sealed in iron, the boat in silver, and now they were inside the final chest, one of gold.

Vigor moved to the right, as if nervous to enter any deeper. “Look at the walls.”

Affixed to each sculpted gold post were what appeared to be jeweled torch holders. Gray reached for one, only to realize it was a crown. He searched the circular space. They were all crowns.

“From the kingdoms Genghis Khan conquered,” Vigor said. “But this isn’t Genghis Khan’s tomb.”

Gray had recognized the same as soon as the doors had opened. This was no sprawling necropolis, full of the riches and treasures of the ancient world. There were no jeweled sepulchers of Genghis and his descendants. That waited still to be found, possibly back in those Mongolian mountains.

Vigor spoke in hushed tones. “These crowns were left to honor the man whose crypt this is.”

Vigor headed along the edge of the room, clearly still working up the courage to move deeper. His arm pointed to the walls between the posts, to the art depicted there. The bright surfaces had been hammered and worked into vast masterpieces. The style was clearly Chinese.

“It was typical for tombs during the Song dynasty to depict the life of the crypt’s occupant,” Vigor said. “This is no exception.”

Gray noted the first panel to the right of the door showed a stylized mountain, surmounted by three crosses. Weeping figures trailed down the hillside, while an angry sky warred above.

The next showed a man on his knees, reaching toward the wounded flank of another floating over him.

Moving through the other panels, that same man made a great, terrifying journey, fraught with symbolic dragons and other monsters out of Chinese lore—until finally he reached the shore of a great sea, fraught with huge waves, where crowds welcomed him with flags and symbols of joy and enlightenment.

“It’s the life of St. Thomas,” Vigor said, as they finished the circuit. “Here is proof that he reached China and the Yellow Sea.”

But that wasn’t the end of the saint’s story.

Vigor finally stopped at the last panel, having traversed the full circle.

The masterwork here showed a giant of a Chinese king handing the man a large cross. Over the king’s shoulder, a comet blazed in a sky full of stars and a crescent moon.

It was the gift to St. Thomas.

Vigor finally turned to face the nearly empty room. The only object preserved in this golden ger was a cairn of stones in the center, not unlike the pillars seen flanking the entrance to the shaman’s grotto.

Only this pedestal of rock supported a black box, simple and plain.

Vigor glanced to Gray, clearly asking permission.

Gray noted the yellowish pallor to the man’s skin. Not all of it was a reflection of the gold, he realized. It was jaundice.

“Go,” Gray said softly.

8:56 A.M.

Vigor crossed to the cairn, to the box it held. He moved on legs numb with awe, close to losing his balance.

Maybe it would be best to approach on my knees.

But he kept upright and reached the stone pillar. The box resting there appeared to be black iron, but it was likely some amalgam as it looked little rusted. On the surface, a Chinese character had been etched.

Two trees.

Just as Ildiko had described and copied.

With trembling fingers, he opened the lid with a small complaint from its hinges. Inside rested a second box. It looked as black as the first, but Vigor knew it was silver beneath that tarnish of age. Again a symbol had been inscribed there.

Command.

He obeyed that instruction and opened it—revealing a final chest of gold nestled within. It looked nearly pristine, shining bright, unadorned, except for the final mark found atop it.

Forbidden.

He held his breath. Using just the tips of his index fingers, he raised the final lid and pushed it back.

He said a silent prayer of thanks for this honor.

Resting inside, supported atop tiny pillars of gold, was a yellowish-brown skull. Empty sockets stared back up at him. Faintly visible, but still there, was an inscribed spiral of Jewish Aramaic.

The relic of St. Thomas.

Vigor came close to falling to his knees, but Gray must have noted him trembling. The man’s arm propped him up, kept him standing for what he must do next.

With tears in his eyes, he reached to the relic. Vigor revered St. Thomas, placing him above all the other apostles of Christ. To Vigor, the saint’s doubt made him all too human and relatable. It was an expression of the war between faith and reason. St. Thomas questioned, needed proof, a scientist of his time, a seeker of truth. Even his gospel dismissed organized religion, declaring that the path to salvation, to God, was open to anyone willing to do just that.