Crescent Dawn

86

St. Julien Perlmutter had just settled into an over size leather armchair when the phone rang. His favorite reading post was custom-built, as it had to be to accommodate his nearly four-hundred-pound frame. He glanced at a nearby grandfather clock, noting it was nearly midnight. Reaching past a tall glass of port parked on a side table, he answered the phone.

“Julien, how are you?” came a familiar voice over the line.

“Well, if it isn’t the savior of Constantinople,” Perlmutter replied in a booming voice. “I’ve read with glee about your exploits in the Golden Horn, Dirk. I hope you weren’t injured in the affair?”

“No, I’m fine,” Pitt replied. “And by the way, they call it Istanbul these days.”

“Bilgewater. It was Constantinople for sixteen hundred years. Ridiculous to change it now.”

Pitt had to laugh at his old friend, who spent most of his waking hours living in the past. “I hope I didn’t catch you in bed?” he asked.

“No, not at all. I was just sitting down with a copy of Captain Cook’s papers from his first voyage to the Pacific.”

“One of these days, we’ll have to go find what’s left of the Endeavor ,” Pitt said.

“Aye, a noble mission that would be,” Perlmutter replied. “So where are you, Dirk, and why the late call?”

“We just docked at Limassol, Cyprus, and I have a mystery I could use your help with.”

The large bearded man’s eyes twinkled at hearing the words. As one of the world’s foremost marine historians, Perlmutter had a hunger for nautical enigmas that exceeded his appetite for food and drink. Having associated with Pitt for years, he knew that when his friend called he usually had something beguiling.

“Pray tell,” Perlmutter said in his deep bassoon voice.

Pitt proceeded to tell him about the Ottoman wreck and its Roman-era artifacts, then he sprang the story of the Manifest and its list of contents.

“My word, that’s an epic cargo,” Perlmutter said. “A pity that little, if any of it, would survive after two millennia under the sea.”

“Yes, the ossuary might be the best that could be hoped for.”

“You would surely stir a hornet’s nest with that,” Perlmutter said.

“If any of it still exists, it deserves to be found,” Pitt replied.

“Absolutely. Even without the cargo, an intact Roman galley would be a gem to discover. Do you have a starting point to conduct the search?”

“The purpose of my call,” Pitt said. “I’m hoping that you might know of some unidentified ancient wrecks off the southern Cyprus coast. Any data on the historic trade routes around the island would probably be helpful, too.”

Perlmutter thought for a moment. “I have a few resources on the shelf that might be of assistance. Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Julien.”

“Say, Dirk,” Perlmutter added, before hanging up. “Were you aware that Cyprus was known to produce the best wines in the Roman Empire?”

“You don’t say.”

“A glass of Commandaria, I’ve heard, tastes as it did two thousand years ago.”

“I’ll be sure and find you a bottle, Julien.”

“You’re a good man, Dirk. So long.”

Hanging up the phone, Perlmutter took a long sip of his port wine, savoring its deep, sweet flavor. Then propelling his huge frame to his feet, he stepped to a ceiling-high shelf overflowing with nautical books and began humming to himself as he rifled through the titles.

It was less than two hours later when the satellite phone on the Aegean Explorer rang with a return call from Perlmutter.

“Dirk, I’ve found just a morsel so far, but it might be a start,” the historian said.

“Every little bit helps,” Pitt replied.

“It’s a shipwreck, from the fourth century. It was discovered by sport divers back in the nineteen sixties.”

“Roman?”

“I’m not sure. The archaeological report I have is quite dated, but it indicates that some Roman weaponry was among the artifacts recovered. As you know, Cyprus was never deemed of much military importance to the Romans but rather as a trading source for copper and grain. And, of course, wine. So the existence of weapons on this wreck might be of significance.”

“Long shot or not, it sounds worth a look. Where is the wreck located?”

“She was found off of a town called Pissouri, which is near you on the southern coast. The wreck was located about a quarter mile off the public beach there. I found a later reference that the site was partially excavated in the nineties, however, and the artifacts put on display at the Limassol District Archaeological Museum.”

“That’s convenient,” Pitt said. “Does the location hold up to the Roman trading routes?”

“Actually, the merchant ships of the day sailing from Judaea would have typically followed along the Levant coast en route to Constantinople. Same goes for the Roman galleys, which would generally hug the coastline to stay in calmer waters. But our knowledge of maritime practices in those days is limited.”

“It may well be that they never intended to sail to Cyprus,” Pitt replied. “Thanks, Julien, we’ll look into the wreck.”

“I’ll keep nosing about for more. In the meantime, happy hunting.”

As Pitt hung up the phone, his two children stepped onto the bridge with small travel bags slung over their shoulders.

“Jumping ship before we start our survey?” Pitt asked.

“You’ve got a starting point?” Summer asked.

“The good Mr. Perlmutter just helped me lay out a search grid.”

“I talked Dirk into helping me attack the local archives,” she replied. “I thought I’d see if we could find some local references to the Manifest, or perhaps a history of local piracy. You don’t mind if we catch up with you in a day or two?”

“No, that sounds like a good idea. Where’s your first stop?”

Summer gave her father a blank look. “To be honest, we haven’t identified the local resources to visit. You wouldn’t have any suggestions, would you?”

Pitt couldn’t help but grin at the request while he glanced at a page of notes he had written while talking to Perlmutter.

“It just so happens,” he said with a wink, “that I know exactly where you should go.”

87

Summer and Dirk found the Limassol District archaeological Museum in a modern building east of the city center, not far from the town’s scenic municipal garden. A variety of pottery and artifacts from Cyprus’s rich history, some dating to 2000 B.C., were displayed in simple glass cases throughout the three wings of the building. Summer admired a display of terra-cotta animal figures from the Archaic Age while waiting for the museum’s curator.

“I am Giorgos Danellis. May I help you?” asked a round-faced man with a Greek accent.

Summer introduced herself and her brother. “We are interested in a fourth-century shipwreck that was discovered near Pissouri,” she explained.

“Yes, the Pissouri wreck,” Danellis replied with a nod. “The display is in room three.”

As he escorted them to the other room, he asked, “Are you with the British Museum?”

“No, we work for the National Underwater and Marine Agency,” Dirk replied.

“Oh, sorry,” the curator replied. “There was a fellow in here a few days ago inquiring about the same exhibit. I thought you might be related.”

He stepped to a large glass case that was filled with dozens of artifacts. Summer noted that most were ceramic containers, along with some deteriorated wood fragments with rusty iron fittings.

“What can you tell us about the ship?” she asked.

“She dates to the first half of the fourth century,” he said, pointing to a corroded silver coin on the lower display shelf. “This Roman denarius found on the wreck depicts Emperor Constantine with laurels, which indicates that the vessel was sunk around 330 A.D.”

“Was she a Roman galley?” Dirk asked.

“There was some speculation to that end when she was first discovered, but most experts believe she was a merchant galley. Wood samples show she was built of Lebanese pine, which would tend to support the hypothesis.” He pointed to an artist’s rendition of a high-prowed galley with twin square sails that hung on the wall.

“The archaeologists believe she was a probably a merchant transporting grain or olive oil.”

Dirk pointed to a sea-ravaged sword hilt that was tucked behind a clay pot.

“She had armament aboard?” he asked.

The curator nodded. “Allegedly, there was much more, but I’m afraid that sword remnant is all that we recovered. The archaeologists were forced to conduct a hurried excavation when it was discovered that the wreck site was being systematically plundered by thieves. I’ve heard stories that a great many weapons were removed from the site before the archaeologists arrived.”

“How do you account for all those weapons on a merchant ship?” Summer asked.

The curator looked blank. “I don’t really know. Perhaps it was part of their cargo. Or perhaps a high-ranking official was traveling aboard.”

“Or there’s another possibility,” Dirk said.

Danellis and Summer looked at him curiously.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that this vessel may have been a pirate ship. It reminds me of the account I read in Caesarea of the captured Cypriot pirate vessel that was found with Roman arms aboard.”

“Yes, that could well be the case,” the curator replied. “Some of the crew’s belongings were quite luxurious for the day,” he added, pointing to a glass plate and stylized ceramic cup.

“Mr. Danellis, are there any other known shipwrecks from that era in Cypriot waters?” Summer asked.

“No. There’s a suspected Bronze Age wreck on the north shore, but this would otherwise be the oldest wreck that I’m aware of. What exactly is your interest?”

“We’re researching a Roman galley sailing on behalf of Constantine that may have been lost in Cypriot waters. It would have sailed at about the same time as the Pissouri shipwreck.”

“I know nothing of that,” he replied, shaking his head. “But you might want to make a visit to the monastery of Stavrovouni.”

Summer gave him a skeptical look. “Why a monastery?”

“Well, aside from its beautiful location,” Danellis replied, “the monastery played host to Constantine’s mother, Helena, when she journeyed back from the Holy Land with the True Cross.”

88

The Aegean Explorer crept close to the shoreline, then abruptly wheeled about and headed out to sea at its same plodding pace. A thin insulated cable stretched taut off its stern, disappearing below the surface. Fifty meters beyond, the cable tugged at a small, cigar-shaped towfish that glided through the water a few feet above the seafloor. A pair of transducers on the towfish sent sound waves bouncing off the bottom, then recorded their timed rate of return. Processors on board the ship converted the sonar signals to a visual image, providing a simulated picture of the floor’s contours.

Seated on the ship’s bridge, Pitt studied a video monitor of the sonar images, watching an undulating, rock-strewn bottom scroll by. Standing nearby, Giordino took a break from staring over Pitt’s shoulders and gazed over at the beachfront with a pair of binoculars.

“Enjoying the scenery?” Gunn asked.

“Could be better,” Giordino replied. “Although it is enhanced by a pair of lovely young ladies seeking refuge from the sun in a sea cave.”

The beach off Pissouri was a narrow strip of sand backed by high cliffs, atop which sat its namesake village. Though popular with the British servicemen stationed at the nearby base of Akrotiri, the beach was still one of the quieter ones along the southern coast.

“It looks like we’ll soon be running out of beachfront real estate,” Giordino noted as the ship slowly worked its way east while conducting the grid survey.

“Then that can only mean that we’re getting close to the wreck,” Pitt replied optimistically.

As if responding to his prophecy, the Pissouri wreck appeared on the screen a few minutes later. Giordino and Gunn crowded around as the image unfolded on the monitor. Far from appearing like an actual ship, the site was little more than an elongated mound, with small sections of the keel and frame exposed by the shifting sands. That even that much remained of the seventeen-hundred-year-old ship was a miracle in itself.

“It certainly presents the image of an old wreck,” Gunn said.

“It’s the only wreck we’ve found off Pissouri, so it must be Perlmutter’s fourth-century ship,” Giordino said. “I’m surprised it wasn’t closer to shore, though,” he added, noting that they were nearly a half mile from the beach.

“You have to remember that the Mediterranean was a bit shallower two thousand years ago,” Gunn said.

“That would explain its position,” he replied. “Are we going to dive it up?” he asked, turning to Pitt.

Pitt shook his head. “No need to. First, it’s already been picked clean. And second, it’s not our wreck.”

“How can you be so sure?” Gunn asked.

“Summer called. She and Dirk saw the artifact exhibit at the Limassol Museum. The archaeologists who excavated her are certain it is not a Roman galley. Dirk believes it could be a secondary pirate vessel involved with the attack on the Romans. It might be worth a dive later on, but Summer indicated that it had been pretty well plundered before the archaeologists got to it.”

“So we use this as a starting point?” Gunn asked.

“It’s the best data point we’ve got,” Pitt replied with a nod. “If the pirate ship came ashore here and wrecked, we can only hope that the Roman vessel is somewhere in the neighborhood.”

Giordino took a seat near the monitor and tried to get comfortable.

“Well, let’s keep searching, then,” he remarked. “As the man said, Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

89

Summer drove east on the main coastal highway from Limassol, with Dirk relinquishing the driving duties since she had just come from England. A Crown Colony of Great Britain during the first half of the twentieth century, Cyprus still held visible reminders of its former British rule. English was spoken most everywhere, the currency in the southern Greek half of the country was denominated in pounds, and the road traffic traveled on the left-hand side.

Summer turned their rental car inland, following the well-paved highway toward Nicosia. The road began a gentle ascent as they approached the eastern extremes of the Trodoos Mountains. Traveling through mostly desolate hills, they turned off onto a narrow asphalt crossroad. The road climbed sharply, twisting its way up a small mountain. Perched dramatically atop the summit sat the monastery of Stavrovouni.

Summer parked the car in a small lot at the foot of the complex. Walking past an empty entry station, they approached a long wooden stairway to the summit. A beggar dressed in ragged clothes and a wide-brimmed hat sat nearby, his head hanging down in apparent slumber. The siblings tiptoed past, then climbed the stairs to the grounds of the monastery, which offered commanding views of the entire southeast portion of the island. Passing through an open courtyard, they approached a stern-faced monk in a woolen robe standing near the monastery entrance.

“Welcome to Stavrovouni,” he said with reserve, then gazed at Summer. “Perhaps you are not aware, but we are adherents to the Athonite Orthodoxy here. I am afraid that we do not allow women into the monastery.”

“My understanding is that you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for a woman,” she replied tartly. “Does the name Helena ring a bell?”

“I’m very sorry.”

Summer rolled her eyes at the monk, then turned to Dirk.

“I guess I’ll stay here and look at the frescoes,” she said, motioning toward the painted courtyard walls. “Enjoy your tour.”

Dirk leaned over and whispered to his sister, “If I’m not back in an hour, then it means I decided to join up.”

With his sister seething, he turned and followed the monk through an open wooden door.

“Can you tell me about Helena’s role with the monastery and the history of the site?” Dirk asked.

“In ancient times, this mountaintop housed a Greek temple. It had been long abandoned and in a state of disrepair when Saint Helena arrived in Cyprus after her pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The good saint is said to have put an end to a thirty-year drought that had been baking the land. While on Cyprus, she had a dream in which she was told to construct a church in the name of the venerable cross. Stavrovouni, in case you didn’t know, means ‘Cross Mountain.’ It was here she built the church, leaving behind the cross of the penitent thief she had brought from Jerusalem, along with a fragment of the True Cross.”

The monk led Dirk into the small church, guiding him past a large wooden iconostasis to reach the altar. On the altar stood a large wooden cross, encased in silver. A tiny gold frame set within the cross protected a smaller wooden fragment.

“The church has suffered much destruction and vandalism over the centuries,” the monk explained, “first by the Mamelukes and later by the Ottomans. I’m afraid little is left of Helena’s legacy but for this sacred piece of the True Cross,” he said, pointing to the gold-encased fragment.

“Are you aware of any other relics of Jesus that Helena may have left on Cyprus?” Dirk asked.

The monk rubbed his chin a moment. “No, none that I know of, but you should speak to Brother Andros. He’s our resident historian here. Let’s see if he is in his office.”

The monk led Dirk down a corridor to their left, which housed a number of austere guest rooms. A pair of small offices occupied the end, where Dirk could see a thin man shaking hands with a monk and then turning his way.

As they passed, Dirk said, “Ridley Bannister?”

“Why, yes,” Bannister replied, looking at Dirk with startled suspicion.

“My name is Dirk Pitt. I just read your last book about your excavations in the Holy Land. I recognized you from the dust jacket. I have to tell you, I’ve enjoyed reading about your discoveries.”

“Why, thank you,” Bannister replied, reaching out and shaking hands. A tentative look then crossed his brow. “You said your last name is Pitt? You don’t by chance have a relative named Summer?”

“Yes, she’s my sister. She’s waiting out front, as a matter of fact. Do you know her?”

“I believe we met at an archaeology conference some time ago,” he stammered. “So what brings you to Stavrovouni?” he asked, quickly changing topics.

“Summer recently found evidence that Helena may have shipped more than just the True Cross from Jerusalem and that these relics may have been lost in Cyprus. We’re hoping to find clues to the whereabouts of a Roman galley that sailed on her behalf.”

The dim corridor light masked Bannister’s sudden paleness. “A fascinating prospect,” he said. “Do you have any inkling where the relics might be?”

“We’re starting with a known shipwreck near a place called Pissouri. But as you know, two-thousand-year-old clues are hard to come by.”

“Indeed. Well, I’m afraid I must be running along. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Pitt, and good luck with your search.”

“Thank you. And be sure to say hello to Summer on your way out.”

“I will.”

Bannister, of course, had no such intentions. Walking quickly down the corridor, he reentered the church and found a side exit on the opposite wall. Stepping into the sunlight, he crept cautiously toward the courtyard until spotting Summer studying a wall fresco. Waiting until she turned her back toward him, he quietly scooted across the grounds, reaching the upper stairway without being observed.

Jogging down the stairs, he nearly tripped on the beggar at the base before making his way to his car. He drove quickly down the winding road until reaching the highway, where he pulled to the side, parking behind a cluster of carob trees. There, he sat and waited, watching the road for Dirk and Summer.

Seconds after he sped out of the monastery parking lot, another car started up. The driver wheeled alongside the base of the stairway, then stopped and waited as the mangy beggar rose to his feet and climbed into the passenger seat. Removing his hat, the beggar revealed a long scar on his right jaw.

“Quickly,” Zakkar snapped at the driver. “Don’t let him get out of our sight.”

90

Summer was standing across the courtyard when Dirk stepped out of the monastery.

“How’s things in the boys’ club?” she asked with a touch of bitterness.

“Not the frat party you might think it is.”

“Any luck?”

Dirk described what he had learned of the church’s history and the display from the True Cross.

“I met with the resident historian, but he had little to add in the way of Helena’s visit to Cyprus. The place has been ransacked so many times, there’s no archival data left. The bottom line is, nobody has any knowledge of relics beyond the True Cross.”

“Did he know anything about Helena’s fleet?”

Dirk shook his head. “As far as anybody knows, Helena arrived and left Cyprus without incident.”

“Then Plautius and his galley must have been attacked before she arrived.”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward one of the courtyard walls.

“Come look at this,” she said.

She led him to a trio of large frescoes painted on a linear section of shaded wall. The frescoes looked faded to the point of invisibility, at a quick glance. Dirk stepped closer and studied the first panel. It was a customary Madonna and Child, featuring a haloed infant Jesus held in Mary’s arms. Both figures’ wide eyes and flat dimensions indicated it was a style of art from long ago. The next panel showed a crucifixion scene, Jesus on the cross, his head hung low in agony. Somewhat unusual for the genre, Dirk noted, the two beggar thieves were illustrated hanging from neighboring crosses.

He then stepped to the third panel, where Summer stood with a pleased expression on her face. It depicted a crowned woman in profile pointing toward the upper corner of the fresco. Her finger was pointing at a towering green mountain capped by a pair of crosses. The geological features of Stavrovouni were clearly visible in the hilltop rendering.

“Helena?” Dirk said.

“It has to be,” Summer replied. “Now, look at the bottom.”

Dirk peered closely at the lower portion of the fresco, observing a section of faded blue that represented the sea. The image of three ships on the water was barely visible beneath Helena’s profile. Crude in representation, each ship was the same approximate size, and was powered by both sail and oars. With the proper perspective, Dirk could see that two of the ships appeared to be pursuing the third vessel. Studying the faded plaster, he pointed to the two chase craft.

“This one appears to be sinking by the stern,” he said, “while the other one is turning out to sea.”

“Look at the sail on the lead ship,” Summer said.

Straining his eyes, Dirk could just see a faint symbol on the ship’s sail. It appeared to be an “X” with a high-legged “P” written over its center.

“It’s the Chi-Rho monogram that was used by Constantine,” she explained. “It was the divine symbol that supposedly came to him in a dream before his victory at the Battle of Milvian Bridge. He used it on his battle standard and as an emblem of his rule.”

“Then the picture is either Helena arriving in Cyprus with an escort…” he said.

“Or it is Plautius’s galley fleeing two Cypriot pirate ships,” she said, completing his thought.

A chip in the fresco obscured the path of the galley, but the continuation of a shoreline along the bottom indicated that it was headed toward land. Slightly above the horizon was another small image, of a nude woman emerging from the sea, a pair of dolphins at her side.

“The meaning of that is lost on me,” Summer said as Dirk examined the image.

Just then, the dour monk walked by, having escorted a pair of French tourists through the church. Dirk hailed him and inquired about the frescoes.

“Yes, they are very old,” the monk said. “The archaeologists believe they date to the Byzantine Age. Some have claimed that these walls were part of the original church, but nobody knows for sure.”

“This last fresco,” Summer asked, “is it an image of Helena?”

“Yes,” the monk confirmed. “She’s arrived by sea and envisions the church here on Stavrovouni.”

“Do you know what this figure is?” she asked, pointing to the nude woman.

“That would be Aphrodite. You see, the monastery here was built on the ruins of a temple to Aphrodite. The artist must have been paying homage to the site before Helena commissioned the church to be built here.”

She thanked the monk, then watched him shuffle back to the monastery door.

“Well, we were close,” she said. “Now we know there were two pirate ships, anyway.”

“The image makes it appear that the Roman vessel was still afloat after battling the pirates. It was heading somewhere,” Dirk muttered, staring at the image until his eyes turned blurry. He finally stepped away from the panel and joined Summer in heading toward the exit.

“I guess we got all we can from here,” he said. “By the way, did you talk to Ridley Bannister?”

“Ridley who?” she asked as they descended the stairway to the parking lot.

“Ridley Bannister, the British archaeologist. He said he knew you.”

Receiving a blank look, Dirk proceeded to describe his encounter in the monastery.

“I never saw him,” she said. Then the wheels of suspicion began to turn in her head. “What does he look like?”

“Thin, medium build, sandy hair. I suppose women might find him handsome.”

Summer suddenly froze on the steps. “Did you notice if he was wearing a ring?”

Dirk thought a moment. “Yes, I think so. On his right ring finger. I noticed it when we shook hands. It was solid gold with a funny design, like something out of the Middle Ages.”

Summer’s face turned flush with anger. “That’s the guy who stole the Manifest from Julie and me at gunpoint. He said his name was Baker.”

“He’s a well-known and respected archaeologist,” Dirk said.

“Respected?” Summer hissed. “I bet he’s here searching for the galley, too.”

“One of the monks did mention he was working on a book about Helena.”

Summer was fuming by the time they reached the car. The image of Bannister taking the Manifest in the basement of Kitchener’s manor saturated her mind. She drove aggressively down the winding monastery road, her anger reflected in her driving. Entering the main highway, she never considered that the source of her wrath was in a car now following close behind.

Her temper waned as they reached the outskirts of Limassol. By the time they found the city’s commercial docks, she actually felt encouraged.

“If Bannister is here, then the galley must exist,” she said to Dirk.

“He certainly hasn’t found it yet,” he replied.

Summer nodded with satisfaction. Who knows, she thought, perhaps we’re closer than we think.

91

“Shoving off already?” Summer asked.

She stood on the Aegean Explorer ’s bridge, watching a pair of crewmen hoist in and stow the forward mooring line. It had been less than an hour since the ship had touched the dock at Limassol, and she and Dirk had climbed aboard.

Pitt stood near the helm, sipping a cup of coffee.

“We’ve got to get back around to the western side of the Akrotiri Peninsula in order to keep tabs on Rudi’s AUV,” he said.

“I thought you were surveying with the towed sonar fish?”

“We are. We actually completed our first grid off Pissouri and started a new survey grid to the west. But Rudi reconfigured the AUV for sidescan sonar duty, so we put her to work. She’s currently running a large grid to the east of Pissouri. We’ll keep pushing west with the Explorer and cover twice as much ground.”

“Makes sense,” she replied. “How much longer will the AUV stay under?”

“She’ll be down another eighteen hours before surfacing. That will allow us a good run of our own before having to pick her up.”

“Dad, I’m sorry we didn’t come up with more promising research to go on.”

“Your fresco seems to confirm the role of the Pissouri wreck as one of the pirate ships. If the galley exists, we’ve got a good chance of being in the ballpark.”

The Aegean Explorer proceeded to steam south around the stubby Akrotiri Peninsula, then turned northwest toward Pissouri some twenty miles away. The research ship’s sensors soon made contact with a pair of floating transducer buoys, which relayed data from the AUV as it glided over the seabed two hundred feet beneath the surface. While Gunn and Giordino reviewed the AUV’s results, Pitt launched the towed sonar fish off the stern of the Explorer , sharing monitoring duties with Dirk and Summer.

It was nine the next morning when Summer stepped onto the bridge with a cup of hot coffee, ready to relieve her father in front of the screen.

“Anything new at the picture show?” she asked.

“A repeat is playing, I’m afraid,” Pitt replied, standing and stretching. “The same rock and sand that’s been rolling by all night. Outside of a small sunken fishing boat that Dirk picked up, it’s been slim pickings.”

“I just checked with Al in the survey shack,” she said, slipping into Pitt’s seat. “He said they’ve got similar results with the AUV.”

“We’re nearly at the end of this grid,” Pitt said. “Shall we keep working west?”

Summer smiled at her father. “When it comes to finding a shipwreck, I know better than to question your instincts.”

“Then west it is,” he replied with a wink.

Captain Kenfield stepped over from the helm and spread out a local marine chart across the table.

“Where exactly would you like to configure the next grid?” he asked Pitt.

“We’ll just extend the current grid, running as close to shore as we can get. Let’s run another two miles west, to this point here,” he said, pointing to a small coastal promontory on the map.

“Fair enough,” Kenfield said. “I’ll run the coordinates to Petra tou Romiou, as it says on the chart, or the Rock of Aphrodite.”

Summer stiffened in her chair. “Did you say the Rock of Aphrodite?” she asked.

Kenfield nodded, then retrieved a dog-eared traveler’s guide to Cyprus shelved behind the chart table.

“I was just reading about it last night. Petra tou Romiou, or Rock of Romios, takes its name from a Byzantine folk hero who allegedly tossed huge boulders into the sea to ward off pirates. The large rock formations are still visible in the surf. However, the site is also known from ancient times as the place where Aphrodite, the patron goddess of Cyprus, emerged from the sea in a wave of foam.”

“Dad, that’s it,” Summer said, jumping from her seat. “The Aphrodite image was in the fresco. It didn’t represent the temple at Stavrovouni, where the monastery stands. It’s where the Roman galley was headed. Someone on shore, or perhaps the pirates themselves, saw the galley fleeing toward the rocks.”

“It’s roughly within sight of the Pissouri wreck site,” Kenfield noted.

“I’ll buy it,” Pitt said, smiling at his daughter’s enthusiasm. “The Rock of Aphrodite it is. Let’s go see if the goddess will show us some love.”

A short time later, they reached the end of the survey lane and pulled in the towfish. As the ship changed course to resume its search down the coast, a palpable optimism surged through the bridge. Caught up in the anticipation, no one noticed the small boat trailing a half mile behind, where Ridley Bannister followed the turquoise ship with a pair of binoculars glued to his eyes.

92

Six hours later, the goddess Aphrodite was showing the NUMA surveyors anything but love. The seabed around the Petra tou Romiou proved void of any man-made objects. Dirk had taken over the next survey shift, staring at an endless scroll of rocks and sand on the monitor, while Summer and Pitt loitered about, hoping for a strike. Giordino stepped onto the bridge, surprised to see that Summer’s enthusiasm had waned to frustration.

“The AUV’s due up in about forty-five minutes,” he said to Pitt.

“We’re only a few minutes away from finishing this lane,” Dirk noted.

“All right, break off when we cross the end point, then we’ll go pick up the big fish,” Pitt said.

“Anything at all?” Giordino asked.

“If you have a fetish for rock gardens, you’d enjoy the seafloor here,” Dirk said.

Giordino eased over to the helm and gazed out the forward window. Seeing they were near the shoreline, he picked up a pair of binoculars and scanned a pebble-strewn beach that ran west of the large rock formation.

“Any Greek goddesses lying about?” Summer asked with a hint of disdain.

“No, the gods have deserted the beach on this sunny afternoon. Even the shady sea caves are empty of spirits.”

Pitt approached him with an inquiring look on his face. “Mind if I take a peek?”

As Pitt scanned the shoreline, Dirk announced that they had reached the end of the survey lane.

“Al, can you help secure the towfish?” he asked, turning off the sonar system.

“At your service,” Giordino replied, and the two men headed for the stern.

Pitt kept his eyes glued to the shore, then turned to Kenfield.

“Captain, would you mind taking us in a little closer to shore, on a bearing of twenty degrees,” he said.

“What’s up, Dad?” Summer asked.

“Just exploring the possibility that King Al might have struck gold once more.”

As the Aegean Explorer eased into shallow water, Pitt got a better look at the shoreline. From a low, pebbly beach around Petra tou Romiou, the terrain climbed dramatically to the east, rising in high chalky cliffs several hundred feet high. The Mediterranean’s steady waves rolled into the base of the cliffs with a rumble, splashing foam high against the rocks at water’s edge. Across the lower cliff face, scattered indentations were worn into the limestone where the sea had scoured away a hole, or sea cave, as Giordino had called them. It was the caves that had caught Pitt’s attention, and he studied each one carefully. He finally focused on one in particular, a small black opening low above the water with tumbled rocks around its perimeter.

“Towfish is aboard,” Dirk announced, stepping back onto the bridge with Giordino.

Pitt put down the binoculars. “Captain, what’s the tidal stage right now?” he asked.

“We’re just past high tide,” Kenfield replied. “Tidal range is fairly minimal here, a couple of feet or so.”

Pitt nodded with a slight smile, then turned to Gunn.

“Rudi, you’ve done some ocean modeling. How much of a change in sea level would you say the Mediterranean has witnessed in the last seventeen hundred years?”

Gunn scratched his head. “The sea level today is probably two to three meters higher than it was two thousand years ago. I can give you an accurate estimate if I check the NUMA database.”

“That’s not necessary,” Pitt replied. He gazed at the sea cave once more. “I think she’d just about fit,” he muttered.

“We really need to go retrieve the AUV now,” Gunn pleaded.

“Okay, but before you go, you’ll need to drop Summer and me in the Zodiac. Dirk, too, if you want to come.”

“No thanks, Dad,” Dirk replied. “I’ve had my share of goose chasing with Summer. I’ll help with the AUV.”

“But where are we going?” Summer asked.

“Why, to that cliff,” Pitt said, pointing to the shore with a smile. “Where else are we going to find ourselves a Roman galley?”

93

As the Aegean Explorer slipped eastward to chase down the AUV, Pitt gunned the outboard on the new Zodiac and raced toward the shoreline. Summer sat on the bow, her long red hair blowing in the wind and a hopeful expression on her face, as they approached the sea cave. The low opening at water’s edge reflected little light, telling Pitt that the cave did indeed penetrate well into the cliff.

Drawing near, Pitt could see that the entrance was wide enough for the Zodiac to slip through. Though the tide was now lower, the wave action made clearing the opening a treacherous proposition. Spotting an exposed grouping of flat rocks to the right, he nudged the Zodiac alongside and waited for a wave to carry it. Summer quickly jumped out and wrapped a line around a boulder to secure the craft.

“Looks like we’re going to have to get wet,” Pitt said, grabbing a flashlight and hopping out of the Zodiac.

Summer followed him as he crept along the rocks until being forced to wade into the water near the cave’s entrance. A submerged layer of stones formed a crude ledge, which Pitt followed into the opening as a small wave rolled up to his neck. Flicking on the flashlight he held over his head, he could see the cave ran like a tunnel for at least twenty feet before expanding into the gloom beyond.

He stopped and waited as Summer navigated her way across the slippery rocks, grabbing his hand before almost falling under.

“Might be easier to swim,” she gasped.

“I see a dry ledge just up ahead,” Pitt replied, playing the light around.

Hugging the side wall, they worked their way forward, finding that the submerged ledge gradually rose until they stepped completely out of the water. Above their heads, the ceiling grew to enormous heights as the tunnel expanded into a large cavern. The water flowed through a curved channel in the shape of a large “U,” indicating that it looped back toward the sea. Pitt could see that the water didn’t appear stagnant but flowed with a mild current.

They followed the ledge a few yards farther as it led toward a large sandy rise. Pitt was surprised to see a soft, faint light bathing the interior cavern. Looking up, he could see where a few slim rays of sunlight slipped through a fissure in the cliff face.

Suddenly, Pitt felt Summer’s hand clench his arm.

“Dad!” she cried.

He saw she was staring wide-eyed ahead. Turning to look, he expected to see a flying bat or perhaps a snake on the ground. Instead, he saw the hull of an aged ship.

The vessel sat upright on a sandy ledge, appearing little damaged under the dim light. Stepping closer, Pitt could see that it was built of an ancient design. An angled prow rose in a high arch that curled back over the open deck. Dozens of small round holes dotted the sides above the waterline, which Pitt recognized as perforations for oars. There were no actual oars in sight, only a number of broken stubs that dangled from a few of the openings.

Approaching the dust-covered ship, they saw that its single mast had been shattered near the base, the thick pole now lying across the aft deck. Playing the flashlight beam across the high stern, Pitt could see the skeletal remains of a man draped over the wooden tiller.

“It’s a galley,” Pitt said with a grin. “An old one, by the looks of it. She probably snapped off her mast when she sailed through the cave entrance.”

Summer remained in silent awe. Stepping to the bow, she finally found the words to call her father.

“Dad, look at this.”

The galley’s prow was a crumpled mass of timber at the waterline. Looking closer, they could see several bent copper spikes protruding in a horizontal band on either side.

“The only real damage to the hull,” Summer noted. “They must have driven into the cliff face a few times before slipping into this grotto.”

“It appears that she may have had a ram fitted here at one time,” Pitt mused.

Using the spikes as a stepladder, he climbed up the bow, then pulled himself over the side. The sight on board nearly took his breath away. The entire deck was littered with skeletal remains clad in faded tunics or robes, a few with swords still clutched in their bony hands. A number of battle shields and spears were also scattered about, painting a grim picture of a bloody fight to the death.

“Any sign that it is Roman?” Summer asked from below.

“Of course it is.”

Summer froze at the comment. It wasn’t the cold tone in which the words were said but rather that they didn’t come from Pitt.

She turned to see the figure of Ridley Bannister approach out of the darkness, his clothes wet from the chest down. In his hands, he carried a small video camera, which he turned on, bathing the cavern in a hazy blue light.

“Well, if it isn’t the esteemed archaeologist Ridley ‘Baker’ Bannister,” Summer sneered as he stepped closer. “Did you bring your gun this time?”

“Oh, no. That was Field Marshal Kitchener’s revolver, actually. Quite empty of bullets it was, I’m chagrined to say.” He held the video camera up for her to see. “It’s nice to see you again, Miss Pitt. Now, if you’d be so kind as to step out of the way, I will proceed to document my discovery.”

“Your discovery?” she said, her blood beginning to boil. “Why, you lying pig, you didn’t find anything.”

“It’s as good as mine now. I suppose I should tell you that I’m on excellent terms with the Cyprus Director of Antiquities. I’ve already made arrangements for the exclusive film and book rights in the event of discovery, which you have kindly aided. I’ll be sure to make a note of your generous contributions.”

Bannister placed the camera to his eye and started filming the exterior of the galley.

“Is the Manifest cargo aboard, by the way?” he asked, scanning along the side of the vessel.

Focusing the camera lens on the damaged prow, he didn’t notice Summer rush at him until it was too late. Reaching out a long arm, Summer ripped the camera from his hands and tossed it into the rocks. A shattering sound ensued as the lens smashed, though the camera’s bluish external light remained glowing.

Bannister stared at the damaged camera, then slowly became enraged. Grabbing the taller woman by her shirt lapels, he began shaking her in anger. A student of judo, Summer prepared to counter his grab with a takedown when a loud staccato burst through the cave. The gunfire was still echoing when Summer felt Bannister’s fingertips slip free of her shirt. The archaeologist gave her a pained look, then slowly sagged to the ground. As he fell prone, Summer saw that his khaki pants had sprouted stains of blood in several spots.

Looking past him, Summer saw three men standing on the rise. Even in the low light, she could see that they appeared to be Arabs. The tallest of the three stood at the center, smoke rising from a compact Uzi machine pistol cradled in his arms. He slowly took a step forward, keeping the weapon aimed at Summer as his eyes scanned the galley.

“So,” Zakkar said in halting English. “You have found the treasure.”

94

Summer stood immobile as the three men moved closer. At her feet, Bannister clutched at his wounds, an uncomprehending look of shock etched in his face. Zakkar lowered his Uzi as he drew near, his attention focused on the galley.

“Gutzman will be pleased,” he said in Arabic to his nearest associate, the bearded gunman from the Dome of the Rock attack named Salaam.

“What of these two?” Salaam asked, aiming a small penlight at Summer and Bannister.

“Kill them and throw their bodies into the ocean,” Zakkar replied, rubbing a hand over the ancient ship’s hull.

Having understood the conversation, Bannister tried pulling himself across the ground, grunting in pain as he clawed his way behind Summer. Salaam ignored him as he stepped close to Summer, then raised a pistol at her head.

“Run!”

Pitt’s shout rang loudly from the deck of the galley, catching all of the Arabs by surprise. Summer watched the gunman in front of her glance toward the ship, his eyes instantly flaring in horror.

Whistling through the air at him was a pilum , the iron-tipped Roman javelin. Salaam had no chance to move before the razor-sharp spear struck him in the chest. The finely crafted weapon cut a path completely through the man’s torso, its tip exiting his back below the kidney. The stunned man spit out a mouthful of blood, then dropped to the ground stone dead.

In the moment that Salaam was struck, Summer was already calculating her options. She instantly decided she could either lunge for the gunman’s pistol, or run and dive into the water, or break for her father on the ship. The adrenaline was already surging through her veins, screaming for her brain to respond. But Summer let logic run its course before making a move. She quickly judged that the handgun would be no match for Zakkar’s Uzi. And though her heart told her to run to her father, reason dictated that the water was much closer.

Suppressing her emotional urges, she took a powerful step to her right and then leaped. The sound of gunfire was already ripping through the air when her outstretched hands broke the water’s surface and the rest of her body tumbled in after. The slope of the sandbar dropped away sharply, and she plunged into the depths without breaking her neck.

She instinctively swam down, following the slight current, which carried her away from the cave’s entrance. She was a strong swimmer to begin with, and her pumping adrenaline drove her deeper, until her hand brushed the channel floor at a depth of fifteen feet. The water was pitch-black, so she tried to use the current to guide her forward, occasionally grazing against the walls of rock.

She swam hard for a dozen strokes, driving smoothly through the water. When her air began to expire, she eased toward the surface, confident that she had put sufficient distance between herself and the gunmen to catch a quick breath. With her lungs beginning to ache, she raised a fist over her head in the scuba diver’s safe ascent pose and kicked toward the surface. She rose a dozen feet, and her upraised hand suddenly brushed against rock. An uneasy feeling crept over her as she groped along the hard surface. Slowly, she nosed her face up alongside her hand until her cheek was flush against the overhead rock, the water’s current rippling against her face.

Her pounding heart skipped a beat as she realized the water channel had turned into a submerged tunnel, and there was no air to be had.

95

Zakkar’s Uzi had opened fire the instant Summer dove into the grotto pool. His aim had been toward the galley, however, as he stitched a lead seam along the side rail a second after Pitt had ducked beneath it. Pitt quickly raced a few feet down the deck, scooping up a round wooden shield lying near his feet. Popping it up briefly, he flung the shield at Zakkar like a Frisbee, hoping to keep his attention away from Summer. Sidestepping the disk, Zakkar opened fire again, nearly catching Pitt at the rail with a short burst.

In his quick glance over the rail, Pitt had seen Summer dive for the channel and heard her splash in. The water remained quiet, and the gunmen weren’t wasting shots into the channel, giving him confidence that his daughter had swum out of harm’s way.

Bannister was proving equally adept at dodging bullets. In the confusion caused by Pitt’s spear attack, he had dragged himself behind some low rocks, concealing himself, as he drifted in and out of consciousness from his wounds. The Arabs paid him little heed anyway. They were more concerned with avenging the death of their partner.

“Get aboard by the stern,” Zakkar shouted at his accomplice, after checking on the impaled gunman. “I shall pursue from the front.”

The Arab retrieved the dead man’s penlight, then made his way to the galley’s bow, keeping a cautious eye out for Pitt on the deck above.

Pitt had seen only the three armed men enter the cavern together and hoped there were no others. He had no idea who they were, but their readiness to kill was more than apparent. He knew it meant he would have to beat them to the punch.

Under the dim light, he surveyed the galley’s main deck, spotting companionways at either end that descended to the rowing deck. Making his way to the aft companionway, he picked up a sword and another shield from the battle remnants lying about the deck. The shield felt unusually heavy, and he flipped it over to find three stubby arrows fastened to the back. They were throwing arrows, issued to Roman soldiers late in the empire. Each arrow was about a foot in length, with a heavy lead weight at its center and a bronze barbed tip at the end. Pitt tucked the shield under his arm, then climbed over the fallen mast that crossed the rear deck.

He could hear the sound of the two gunmen trying to board the ends of the ship as he moved aft toward the raised stern section. Stepping toward the centerline, he tripped over the skeletal remains of a Roman legionary and nearly fell through the open companionway to the lower deck. He cursed himself at the racket he made, but the accident gave him an idea.

Taking the sword, he jammed the tip into the deck plank so that it stood upright. He then hoisted the torso of the skeleton and wedged it atop the sword’s hilt. He quickly wrapped it in a crumbling cloak that was lying beneath the bones, then spotted a broken lance nearby. He eased the spear through the skeleton’s ribs, then concealed its base in the cloak while its business end protruded in a menacing manner. In the low light, the ancient warrior appeared almost alive.

Above him, Pitt heard a thud as the gunman climbing up the transom jumped onto the raised steering deck. Pitt quietly retreated to the fallen mast, climbing over the thick spar and hiding in its shadows. He silently unfastened the three throwing arrows from the shield, then fished through his pocket for a coin. Retrieving a quarter, he clenched it in his hand and waited.

The gunman moved cautiously, patiently scanning the main deck for movement before climbing down from the steering deck. He descended one of two ladders that were mounted on either side of the rowing-deck companionway. To Pitt’s good fortune, the gunman climbed down the ladder closest to him.

Pitt held to the shadows until he heard the man’s shoes hit the main deck. He then raised his hand and flicked his wrist, tossing the quarter high into the air. The coin landed right where Pitt aimed, near the base of the skeleton, tinkling loudly across the silent deck.

The startled gunman instantly turned toward the noise, spotting the cloaked figure holding a spear. He immediately pumped two shots from his automatic pistol into the skeleton, watching in amazement as it disintegrated into a small heap. His surprise was short-lived, for Pitt was already on his feet, flinging the first arrow from twenty feet away.

Finding the ancient weapon surprisingly well balanced, Pitt was dead-on with his first throw, striking the man near the hip. The gunman grunted in pain from the penetration of the sharp projectile, wheeling around as the second arrow whizzed past his chest. Fumbling to remove the first arrow, he looked toward Pitt, only to see a third arrow flying in his direction. Too overwhelmed to shoot, he instinctively stepped to the side to avoid the incoming barb. Only there was no deck beneath his feet.

Falling where Pitt hadn’t, he plunged down the open companionway with a gasp. The sickening crack of breaking bones echoed from the rowing deck a second later, followed by a morbid silence.

“Ali?” cried Zakkar from the bow.

But there would be no answer to his query.

96

For the second time in as many minutes, Summer faced a life-or-death choice. Should she turn back or keep going? She had no idea how far back the ceiling had become submerged. It could be five feet or fifty yards. But swimming against the current, light as it was, could make fifty yards seem like a mile. Following her instincts this time, she made a snap decision. She would keep going forward.

Kicking and stroking, she propelled herself through the tunnel, her arms and head occasionally bumping into the surrounding stone. Every other stroke, she would raise an arm above her, hoping to break the surface into a pocket of air. But every time her hand would drag against immersed stone. She felt her heart pounding harder, and fought a sudden reflex to exhale, as a creeping sense of panic began to set in. How long had she been underwater? she asked herself. A minute? Two minutes? It seemed like an eternity. But whatever the answer, she knew the more important question was how many more seconds could she hold out?

She tried kicking even harder, but it began to feel like she was swimming in slow motion as her brain labored for oxygen. Her arms and legs felt an odd burning sensation as the effects of hypoxia sapped her muscles. The black water seemed to turn even darker before her eyes, and she no longer felt the salt water stinging them. An internal voice yelled at her to remain strong, but she could feel herself slipping.

And then she saw it. A faint green glow appeared in the water ahead of her. Perhaps it was just a trick of the eyes or the first stages of blacking out, but she didn’t care. Exhaling what little air was left in her chest, she summoned every last remaining reserve of energy and kicked hard toward the light.

Her limbs now burned with fire as her ears rung in a deafening tone. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest while her lungs ached to explode. But she ignored the pain, the doubts, and the urge to let go, and kept pulling herself through the water.

The green glow gradually expanded into a warm light, bright enough to show particles and sediment in the seawater. Just overhead, a silvery gleam caught her eye, appearing like a bowlful of mercury. With her energy failing fast, she kicked upward with a final, desperate surge of strength.

Summer emerged from the water like a show dolphin at Sea World, rising high into the air before tumbling back with a splash. Gasping and panting for air, she paddled to a nearby rock and clung to its barnacled surface while her oxygen-depleted body tried to restore order. She rested for nearly five minutes before regaining the strength to move. Then, in the distance, she heard muffled gunfire, and she remembered her father.

Taking her bearings, she found she was in a semisubmerged rock outcropping a hundred yards west of the cave. She quickly spotted the NUMA Zodiac, tied to the rocks beside two other small boats. Plunging back into the water, she circled around the rocks and began swimming toward the boats.

Her arms soon felt like lead weights, and several times the surf nearly flung her onto the shoreline rocks, but she managed to reach the boats without collapsing. The Zodiac didn’t carry a radio, so she dragged herself onto the deck of the first of the two other boats, a small wooden trawler that Zakkar had appropriated. Inside its tiny, open wheelhouse, she found a marine band radio and immediately hailed the Aegean Explorer .

Dirk, Giordino, and Gunn were all on the bridge when Summer’s frantic voice burst over the radio.

“Summer, this is Explorer . Go ahead,” Gunn replied calmly.

“Rudi, we found the galley inside the cave. But three armed men showed up. I escaped, but Dad’s still in there, and they’re trying to kill him.”

“Take it easy, Summer. We’re on our way. Try to hide until we get there, and keep yourself out of danger.”

Kenfield had already turned the Explorer around and was accelerating to top speed by the time Gunn hung up the transmitter. Dirk stepped forward and looked out the bridge window.

“We’re six or seven miles away,” he lamented to Gunn. “We’ll never get there in time.”

“He’s right,” Giordino said. “Stop the boat.”

“What do you mean, stop the boat?” Gunn cried.

“Give us two minutes to launch the Bullet , and we’ll get there in a flash.”

Gunn considered the request a moment. Even to Gunn, Pitt was more than a boss, he was like a brother. If the tables were reversed, he knew exactly what Pitt would do.

“All right,” he said with reservation. “Just don’t get yourselves killed.”

Dirk and Giordino immediately bolted for the door.

“Al, I’ll meet you on deck,” Dirk told him. “I need to grab something on the way.”

“Just don’t miss the bus,” Giordino replied, then disappeared aft.

Dirk hustled down to the ship’s lower deck, which housed the crew accommodations. Sprinting to his father’s cabin, he burst in, stepping up to a small, built-in work desk. Above the desk was a shelf of books, and Dirk quickly scanned their titles. His eyes halted when he spotted a heavy, leather-bound edition of Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick . Ripping the book off the shelf, he quickly flipped the cover open for a second.

“‘To the great white beast, Ishmael,’” he muttered, then tucked the book under his arm and darted out of the cabin.

97

Pitt had nearly forgotten about Zakkar, who had finally clambered over the bow and now shouted for his partner. Met with silence, the Arab flicked on Salaam’s penlight and aimed it at the aft end of the deck. The light’s beam played upon the figure of Pitt, who stood with a shield in his hand and an upturned grin on his face.

But Pitt was already diving over the other side of the mast when Zakkar’s Uzi barked, sending a burst over his head and into the raised steering deck. Pitt didn’t wait for his accuracy to improve, quickly snaking across the deck and launching himself down the companionway as Zakkar chased after him.

The body of Ali lay barely visible in the small patch of light that reached the lower deck from above. Pitt could see that the Arab’s head was tilted at an unnatural angle, his neck having snapped in the fall. Pitt quickly knelt alongside the body, searching the surrounding deck for the gun, but it wasn’t there. Let loose during Ali’s fall, it had bounced into one of the recessed rowing stations nearby. Pitt had left his flashlight on the upper deck while throwing the pilum and had no chance of locating the gun in the pitch-blackness.

As Zakkar charged aft overhead, Pitt moved forward, groping along a center walkway that divided the rowing stations on either side of the ship. He had left all his Roman weapons above deck and now found himself defenseless in the unlit bay. His only hope was to get up the forward companionway as Zakkar descended in the stern.

But Zakkar knew he had his man on the run and didn’t hesitate dropping down the aft ladder. Pitt could hear him descending and shuffled faster, spotting a faint ray of light ahead, which he knew was the open companionway.

His feet dropping to the lower deck, Zakkar spent only a second examining the dead figure of Ali before playing the small flashlight beam across the deck. He detected a movement at the far end, then locked the light on Pitt struggling to reach the forward ladder. He immediately aimed and fired a burst ahead of him.

Pitt dove for the deck as the bullets chewed into the wood around him. Several small crates were stacked near the base of the companionway, and he quickly crawled forward, ducking behind them for cover. Zakkar stepped closer and fired again, splintering one of the crates just inches from Pitt’s head.

Unarmed, Pitt was in a hopeless situation. His only real chance was to somehow scale the ladder before Zakkar moved any closer. He again searched for a weapon, but only spotted another skeleton lying nearby. The long-expired body had belonged to another Roman legionary, as the bones were clad in an armored tunic and helmet. The dead soldier must have fallen through the companionway when he was killed in battle, Pitt surmised. Studying the armor for a moment, he suddenly reached over and plucked them off the dried bones.

By the fourth century, the Roman soldier had turned to iron for much of his protective gear. Brutally heavy, it could withstand the sharpest spears and strongest swords. And perhaps, Pitt considered, it just might resist the slugs from a 9mm Uzi submachine pistol. Pitt slipped on the heavy circular helmet, which had an enlarged back piece that swooped outward to protect the neck. He then studied the armored breastplate. Known as a cuirass , it was an iron sheet molded in the shape of a man’s chest, with matching back plate. Pitt could see it was obviously made for a man shorter than himself.

Wasting no time in trying to fit in the cuirass , he simply flung the twin plates onto his back, tying them around his throat with a leather strap. Crawling to the base of the companionway, he looked up at the deck overhead, took a deep breath, then sprang up the ladder as fast as his arms and legs could propel him.

Zakkar was still fifty feet away, running down the aisle with his penlight aimed at the ladder, when he saw Pitt spring up it. The experienced killer immediately stopped and raised his weapon. Holding the light beneath the barrel with his left hand, he took careful aim at Pitt and pulled the trigger.

The wood around Pitt exploded in a shower of splinters as the bullets sprayed into the ladder’s supporting bulkhead. He felt three hard thumps on his back that knocked him forward like the blows of a sledgehammer, but he was able to keep moving. With his arms and legs pumping, he jumped onto the open deck as a second fusillade shredded the top of the ladder where his feet had just been.

Pitt made his way to the side rail, surprised to have escaped the companionway unscathed. Still clad in his Roman armor, he prepared to jump over the side when he noticed another pilum on the deck, identical to the one he had flung at the first gunman. Deciding to take the offensive, he grabbed the spear and inched back toward the open companionway.

Zakkar had already approached the foot of the ladder and wisely flicked off the penlight. The galley was suddenly deathly silent as both men froze in their tracks. Zakkar then began slowly climbing the shredded ladder, moving quietly inch by inch. Unable to hold both the light and the gun as he climbed, he stuffed the light in his teeth, then held the Uzi up high.

Only his head had cleared the deck when he spotted Pitt moving a few feet away. The pilum left Pitt’s hand quickly, rotating in a spiral as it shot toward the Arab. But the target was too small, and Zakkar easily ducked his head, leaving the pilum to harmlessly strike the ladder frame. Zakkar stuck the Uzi out and fired at Pitt without looking before rising up the ladder as his clip ran dry.

Pitt was already at the rail and threw himself over the side as the bullets flew by wildly. But the volley had thrown off his balance, and he landed awkwardly on the sand some fifteen feet below. A burst of pain flared through his right ankle as he rose and took a step, immediately hopping onto his other foot. With a twisted ankle, the water channel suddenly appeared miles away. But much closer was the body of Salaam. It lay just a few feet away, and Pitt knew he had been armed with a pistol.

Quickly hobbling over, Pitt bent over the dead man and searched around his hands.

“Looking for this?” came a sudden taunt from the galley.

Hesitantly peering over his shoulder, Pitt saw Zakkar looking at him with the dead gunman’s pistol aimed squarely at his head.

98

Pitt didn’t know why the Arab didn’t immediately shoot him. Zakkar stood motionless for several seconds before Pitt noticed that he was looking past him. Pitt cautiously followed his gaze toward the channel, where an unusual disturbance appeared in the water.

A dull glow was visible beneath the surface, gradually growing brighter as a mass of bubbles agitated the waters above it. A glaring bank of xenon lights was the first thing to emerge from the depths, followed by an acrylic cockpit and then a long white hull. Pitt gave a grim smile toward the Bullet as it broke to the surface, then bobbed in the grotto channel.

Seated at the controls, Dirk and Giordino looked out of the cockpit in awe at the sight of the large cavern and the Roman galley parked at its center. Then they saw Pitt standing under the barrel of Zakkar’s gun, both men bathed in the submersible’s glaring lights. Looking up at the Arab, Dirk nearly choked in recognition.

“That’s the terrorist from Jerusalem,” he stammered to Giordino. “Keep the lights on him.”

Before Giordino could respond, Dirk had bolted from his seat and opened the rear hatch. In an instant, he climbed to the side ballast tank, still clutching Herman Melville’s book in his hand. The submersible was nearly ten feet from the bank as Giordino pivoted it to face the galley, but Dirk didn’t wait for him to move closer. Taking a running leap, he jumped into the channel and swam to shore, holding the book over his head.

On the galley’s deck, Zakkar surveyed the scene with agitation. He turned his pistol toward Pitt and fired a quick shot, watching him fall prone to the sand. Then he focused his attention on the submersible. Though he heard the splash of Dirk jumping into the water, he couldn’t see him emerge on shore due to the Bullet ’s blinding lights. Taking careful aim, he shot out one of them, then peppered the acrylic bubble with several shots before eliminating a second light. Then he noticed a tall figure emerge on shore with his arms stretched out in front of him.

Zakkar fired first, missing with a bullet that whizzed instead within a hair of Dirk’s left ear. Dirk kept moving, marching directly toward the Arab without flinching. A surge of emotions ran through his body, from loving thoughts of Sophie to torrid flashes of anger and vengeance. But noticeably absent was any sense of fear.

Locking Zakkar in the sights of the Colt.45 he held in his outstretched hands, he calmly squeezed the trigger. Neither the roar nor the kick from the.45 slowed his pace, and he marched closer, squeezing the trigger with each step like some robotic soldier.

Dirk’s first shot splintered the rail in front of Zakkar, and Zakkar flinched with his return volley, missing high. He didn’t get another chance to fire. The next slug from Dirk’s.45 tore into Zakkar’s shoulder, nearly taking his arm off. He spun, then fell back against the rail, where he was hit again in the side.

Slumped over the rail as the life drained out of him, Zakkar wasn’t allowed a slow death. Dirk marched closer, pumping five more shots into him, until leaving an ugly mass of red carnage streaming down the galley’s hull. He stood staring at the dead terrorist as the cavern fell silent for a moment, then he turned at the sound of splashing water behind him.

Summer had helped guide the Bullet through the sea cave’s entrance and came staggering up the submerged ledge. Reaching dry land, she ran up to Dirk, panting, “Where’s Dad?”

Dirk nodded grimly toward the prone figure in the Roman helmet and armor lying near the first dead gunman. Giordino had since run the submersible to shore and hopped out, joining Dirk and Summer in rushing over to Pitt.

The head of NUMA stirred slowly, then looked up and gave his kids a weary smile.

“Dad, are you okay?” Summer asked.

“I’m fine,” he assured. “Just got knocked a bit woozy. Help me to my feet.”

As Dirk and Summer helped him up, Giordino surveyed the armor and grinned.

“Hail, Caesar,” he said, thumping his chest with a closed fist.

“I should thank Caesar,” Pitt replied, pulling off the helmet. He held it up, showing a crease near the temple where Zakkar had grazed it with a bullet.

“That’ll ring your bell,” Giordino said.

Pitt swung the cuirass off his back and examined it. Three neat, round bullet holes had pierced the breastplate, but they had just left indentations in the back plate. Only by doubling over the armor had Pitt’s life been spared.

“There’s something to be said for Roman engineering,” he said.

Dropping the armor to the ground, he looked over at Dirk and the.45 still gripped in his hand.

“That Colt looks familiar.”

Dirk reluctantly passed the weapon to his father. “You told me once how Loren had sent you a gun in Mongolia hidden in a cutout copy of Moby-Dick . I checked your cabin on a hunch and saw it on the shelf. Hope you don’t mind.”

Pitt shook his head, then gazed at the bloody muck that was left of Zakkar.

“You did quite a number on him,” he said.

“That lowlife led the attacks at Caesarea and Jerusalem,” Dirk replied coldly, leaving unsaid the fact that Zakkar was indirectly responsible for Sophie’s death.

“It’s pretty odd that he ended up here,” Summer said.

“I suspect your British friend might know something about that,” Pitt said, pointing toward Bannister.

The archaeologist had pulled himself upright against the rocks and stared at them with a dazed look.

“I’ll go check on him,” Giordino offered. “Why don’t you guys find out what’s aboard.”

“Did you find the Manifest cargo?” Summer asked hopefully.

“I was a bit too preoccupied to find out,” Pitt replied. “Come, somebody help a feeble old man aboard.”

With Dirk and Summer’s aid, Pitt hobbled up onto the galley, then climbed down the companionway to the dark galley deck. He limped over to the stack of crates that he had earlier used for cover.

“I suggest we start here,” he said. Grabbing one of the smaller crates, he blew a layer of dust off of its side, then shined a flashlight at it. A faded red Chi-Rho symbol was visible on the wood.

“Summer, that’s your Cross of Constantine,” Dirk noted.

Summer grabbed the flashlight from her father’s hand and studied the image, nodding quietly in excitement.

The crate showed damage along its side, where a burst from Zakkar’s Uzi had riddled the edge. Pitt took the butt of his.45 and rapped it carefully against the damaged seam to open the crate. The narrow end piece easily popped off, causing the damaged front cover to fall away. A pair of well-worn leather sandals tumbled out of the open box, falling to the deck. Summer tracked the sandals with the flashlight’s beam, noting a small slip of parchment strapped to one of the shoes. Shining the light closer, she illuminated a handwritten label penned in Latin: Sandalii Christus

The translation was not lost on anyone. They were staring at the shoes of Jesus.