Clive Cussler - Spartan Gold

As was his custom, Napoleon slept five hours, rising at six A.M., well before dawn. He had breakfast, then read the overnight dispatches from his demi-brigade commanders over a pot of bitter black tea. Laurent arrived with his squad shortly before seven and they set out down the valley, following the trail Laurent had broken the day before.

The previous night’s storm had dumped little new snow but fierce winds had piled up fresh drifts—towering white walls that formed a canyon around Napoleon and his riders. The horses’ breath steamed in the air and with every step powder billowed high in the air. Napoleon gave Styrie his head, trusting the Arabian to navigate the path, while he stared, fascinated, at the drifts, their facades carved into swirls and spirals by the wind.

“A bit eerie, eh, General?” Laurent asked.

“It’s quiet,” Napoleon murmured. “I’ve never heard quiet like this before.”

“It is beautiful,” Laurent agreed. “And dangerous.”

Like a battlefield, Napoleon thought. Except for perhaps in his bed with Josephine, he felt more at home on a battlefield than anywhere else. The roar of the cannons, the crack of musket fire, the tang of black powder in the air . . . He loved all of it. And in a matter of days, he thought, once we’re out of these damned mountains . . . He smiled to himself.

Ahead, the lead rider raised a closed fist above his head, signaling a halt. Napoleon watched the man dismount and trudge forward through the thigh-deep snow, his head tilted backward as he scanned the drift walls. He disappeared around a curve in the trail.

“What’s he looking for?” Napoleon asked.

“Dawn is one of the worst times for avalanches,” Laurent replied. “Overnight the winds harden the top layer of snow into a shell, while the powder underneath remains soft. When the sun hits the shell, it starts to melt. Often the only warning we have is the sound—like God himself roaring from the heavens.”

After a few minutes the lead rider reappeared on the trail. He gave Laurent the all-clear signal, then mounted his horse and continued on.

They rode for two more hours, following the snaking course of the valley as it descended toward the foothills. Soon they entered a narrow canyon of jagged gray granite interlaced with ice. The lead rider signaled another halt and dismounted. Laurent did the same, followed by Napoleon.

Napoleon looked around. “Here?”

His major-general smiled mischievously. “Here, General.” Laurent unhooked a pair of oil lanterns from his saddle. “If you’ll follow me.”

They set off down the trail, passing the six horses ahead of them, the riders standing at attention for their general. Napoleon nodded solemnly at each soldier in turn until he reached the head of the column, where he and Laurent stopped. A few minutes passed and then a soldier—the lead rider—appeared around a rock outcropping to their left and plodded back through the snow toward them.

Laurent said, “General, you might remember Sergeant Pelletier.”

“Of course,” Napoleon replied. “I’m at your disposal, Pelletier. Lead on.”

Pelletier saluted, grabbed a coil of rope from his saddle, then stepped off the trail, following the path he’d just carved through the chest-high drifts. He led them up the slope to the base of a granite wall, where he turned parallel and walked another fifty yards before stopping at a right-angle niche in the rock.

“Lovely spot, Laurent. What am I looking at?” Napoleon asked.

Laurent nodded to Pelletier, who raised his musket high above his head and slammed the butt into the rock. Instead of the crack of wood on stone, Napoleon heard the shattering of ice. Pelletier struck four more times until a vertical gash appeared in the face. It measured two feet wide and almost six feet high.

Napoleon peered inside, but could see nothing but darkness.

“As far as we can tell,” Laurent said, “in the summer the entrance is choked with brush and vines; in the winter, snowdrifts cover it up. I suspect there’s a source of moisture somewhere inside, which accounts for the thin curtain of ice. It probably forms every night.”

“Interesting. And who found it?”

“I did, General,” replied Pelletier. “We’d stopped to rest the horses and I needed to . . . well, I had the urge to . . .”

“I understand, Sergeant, please go on.”

“Well, I suppose I wandered a bit too far, General. When I finished, I leaned against the rock to collect myself and the ice gave way behind me. I went a little ways inside and didn’t think much of it until I saw the . . . Well, I’ll let you see it for yourself, General.”

Napoleon turned to Laurent. “You’ve been inside?”

“Yes, General. Myself and Sergeant Pelletier. No one else.”

“Very well, Laurent, I will follow you.”

The cave’s entrance continued for another twenty feet, narrowing as it went until they were walking hunched over. Suddenly the tunnel opened up and Napoleon found himself standing in a cavern. Having entered ahead of him, Laurent and Pelletier stepped aside to let him through, then raised their lanterns, shining the flickering yellow light on the walls.

Measuring roughly fifty by sixty feet, the cavern was an ice palace, the walls and floor coated in it, several feet thick in some places; in others, so thin Napoleon could see a faint shadow of gray rock beneath. Glittering stalactites hung from the ceilings, so low they merged with the floor’s stalagmites to form hourglass-shaped ice sculptures. Unlike the walls and floor, the ice on the ceiling was roughened, reflecting the lantern light like a star-filled sky. From somewhere deeper in the cave came the sound of dripping water, and more distant still the faint whistling of wind.

“Magnificent,” Napoleon murmured.

“Here’s what Pelletier found just inside the entrance,” Laurent said, moving toward the wall. Napoleon walked over to where Laurent was shining his lantern on an object on the floor. It was a shield.

Roughly five feet tall, two feet wide, and shaped like a figure 8, it was made of wicker and covered in leather painted with faded red and black interlocking squares.

“It’s ancient,” Napoleon murmured.

“At least two thousand years is my guess,” Laurent said. “My history isn’t what it used to be, but I believe it’s called a gerron . It was used by Persian light infantry soldiers.”

“Mon dieu . . .”

“There’s more, General. This way.”

Winding his way through the forest of stalactite columns, Laurent led him to the rear of the cavern and another tunnel entrance, this one a rough oval four feet tall.

Behind them, Pelletier had dropped the coil of rope and was knotting one end around the base of a column under the glow of the lantern.

“Going down, are we?” Napoleon asked. “Into the pits of hell?”

“Not today, General,” Laurent answered. “Across.”

Laurent aimed his lantern into the tunnel. A few feet inside was an ice bridge, not quite two feet wide, stretching across a crevasse before disappearing into another tunnel.

“You’ve been across?” Napoleon asked.

“It’s quite sturdy. It’s rock beneath the ice. Still, you can’t be too safe.”

He secured the line first around Napoleon’s waist, then his own. Pelletier gave the knotted end a final tug and nodded to Laurent, who said, “Watch your footing, General,” then stepped into the tunnel. Napoleon waited a few moments, then followed.

They began inching their way across the crevasse. At the halfway point, Napoleon looked over the side and saw nothing but blackness, the translucent blue ice walls sloping into nowhere.