Crusader's Gold

THIRTY FOUR

The Hercules Tarentum was the greatest work of art of the greatest sculptor of the greatest leader who ever walked the earth. It was the only surviving work of that sculptor. It had been looked upon only by the privileged for untold centuries, and the cause of death and the shedding of rivers of blood, possibly the driving force for the entire sack of Constantinople. Consequently it was a spoil of war, plundered by conquerors and despaired at by the defeated. More than the Horses of St. Mark, it was unattainable.

But even these facts running through Michael Crouch’s mind did not prepare him for the utter wonder of it all. It rose colossal, like a conquering Titan, climbing toward the vault of the ceiling and causing him to crane his neck up and up. Once in ancient times it stood on the acropolis of a Greek colony, as often visited by people as the famous spectacles of today. Spotlights glittered and shimmered all around it, set in stone and brick. Seated atop a bronzed chair, even his toes began at the top of Crouch’s head. Glimmering golden shimmers gleamed from every facet, every plane of the body, limbs and head. Crouch felt his eyes dazzled by the shining lights and he couldn’t move. Not even his mind worked properly.

Hercules sat upright and strong, a key in one hand and a cup in the other. His immense size, as well as stunning the senses, served to remind the onlooker of the man, the God himself, and of all the deeds he once accomplished.

“How on earth would they ever get something this size down here?” Russo asked.

Crouch found his voice for a second. “Just remember all the construction, the tunnels built here and in Paris, and even back in Venice and Constantinople. The Hagia Sophia rebuilt again and again. St. Mark’s Basilica rebuilt. Do you really think those and dozens more restorations were purely cosmetic? No, ostensibly they were to hide something else and new additions. And it is still done that way to this very day.”

“So when you see St. Paul’s or the Washington Monument or some important cathedral covered in scaffolding don’t just think they’re tinkering with the wallpaper?” Healey put forward.

“No. Think sinister. At least, that’s what I do.”

Alicia moved forward, even her bluster momentarily subdued by the fabulous treasure. The walls to his back had been covered by carvings and tiny sculptures. She now noticed a seating area off to the right. “Unbelievable,” she muttered. “Your perception of this being a treasure of privilege was spot on. They even have their own little viewing area.”

Russo craned his neck. “No Pepsi machine?”

“Sorry. It’s probably Bring Your Own Bollinger.”

Crouch finally roused himself. From his backpack he took a digital camera and proceeded to catalogue the entire area. Both Caitlyn and Healey did the same, preserving the pictures for later and providing backups.

“So what’s next?” Caitlyn breathed. “Now that we’ve succeeded.”

“It’s time to bring this beauty to the world’s attention.” Crouch smiled at her. “We’ll use the same protocols we used for the Aztec gold. Get Rolland involved. Find us someone in authority we can trust. But first we have to map out the rest of this tunnel complex.”

Alicia backed away from the Hercules, feeling an urge to bow. The others followed slowly and they soon came back to the three-way junction.

“Let’s try the one that heads toward Piccadilly.” Crouch nodded. “That one intrigues me most.”

Alicia led the way, following a new passage that began to descend at a sharp angle. Luckily the passage was wide and cobbled, affording excellent grip. Alicia also noticed filigree on the walls, lending the route an air of sophistication. Nobody spoke as the tunnel wound down and down, the minutes passing slowly. In the end, Alicia exited under a high archway and beheld what lay on the other side.

“Fuck me,” she breathed. “I didn’t expect that.”