Riptide

Chapter 53

Neidelman stood motionless at the base of the Water Pit. Above his head, the lift hummed as it carried Streeter and Hatch up the array until they were lost from view in the forest of struts.

Neidelman did not hear the lift recede. He glanced at Magnusen, face pressed again to the hole in the iron plate, her breathing rapid and shallow. Without a word, he eased her aside—she moved sluggishly, as if exhausted or half asleep—grasped his lifeline, hooked it to the ladder, and lowered himself through the hole.

He landed next to the sword casket, knocking loose a dozen rattling streams of precious metal. He stood there, gazing at the casket, blind to the dazzling wealth that filled the chamber. Then he knelt, almost reverently, his eyes caressing its every detail.

It was about five feet long and two feet wide, the sides made of engraved lead chased with silver, the corners and edges decorated with elaborate gold work. The entire casket was strapped to the iron floor of the treasure crypt by four crossed bands of iron: a strangely crude cage to hold such a magnificent prisoner.

He looked more closely. The casket was supported by claw legs of pure gold. Each leg was formed as an eagle talon gripping an orb: obviously of Baroque origin and added much later. Indeed, it seemed the entire casket was an amalgam of styles, dating from the thirteenth century to the early Spanish Baroque. Evidently the lead casket had been added to over the ages, each decoration more sumptuous than the last.

Neidelman reached out and touched the fine metalwork, surprised to find it almost warm. He slipped his hand inside the iron cage and traced the workmanship with a slender fingertip. Over the years, no day passed in which he hadn't imagined this moment. He had often pictured what it would be like to see this casket, to touch it, to open it—and, in the fullness of time, draw out its contents.

Countless hours had been spent musing on the sword's design. Sometimes, he imagined a great Roman sword of beaten electrum, perhaps even the Sword of Damocles itself. At other times, he imagined a barbarous Saracen weapon of chased gold with a silver blade, or a Byzantine broadsword, encrusted with gems and too heavy even to lift. He had even imagined that perhaps it was the sword of Saladin, carried back by a knight from the Crusades, made of the finest Damascene steel inlaid in gold and set with diamonds from King Solomon's mines.

The possibilities, the speculations, filled him with an intense emotion, more overwhelming than anything he had known. This must be how it feels to behold the face of God, he thought.

He remembered there was not much time. Removing his hands from the silky metal of the casket, he placed them on the steel bands that surrounded it. He tugged, first gingerly, then with force. The cage that surrounded the casket was solid, immovable. Odd, he thought, that the bands went through slots in the iron floor and seemed to be attached to something below. The extraordinary security with which the casket was guarded confirmed its incalculable value.

Digging into a pocket, he drew out a penknife and gouged it into the rust that coated the nearest band. A few flakes came away, showing bright steel underneath. To free the chest, he would have to cut through the bands with the torch.

The sound of loud breathing disturbed his thoughts. He looked up to see Magnusen peering down through the opening.

Her eyes looked dark and fevered in the swinging glow of the basket lamp.

"Bring down the torch," he said. "I'm going to cut this chest loose."

In less than a minute she landed heavily beside him. Falling to her knees, the torch forgotten, she stared at the sea of riches. She picked up a fistful of gold doubloons and fat louis d'ors, letting them slide through her fingers. Then she picked up another handful, more quickly; and then another, and another. Her elbow bumped against a small wooden casket and it ruptured into powder, spilling diamonds and carnelians. Then a momentary panic overwhelmed her and she scrabbled for them, stuffing the winking gems indiscriminately into her pockets, lurching forward and breaking additional bags in her haste. At last she fell facedown into the priceless mass, arms buried in the loose gold, legs spread, softly laughing, or crying, or perhaps both.

As he reached for the acetylene cylinder, Neidelman paused to watch her for a moment, thinking it was time she winched the bucket down into the chamber and began hauling the treasure to the surface. Then his eyes fell once again on the casket and Magnusen was instantly forgotten.

He wrapped his fingers around the thick brass lock that held the box shut. It was an ugly piece of work, heavy-looking and stamped with ducal seals, some of which Neidelman recognized as dating back to the fourteenth century. The seals were unbroken. So Ockham never opened his greatest treasure, he thought. Strange.

That honor would be reserved for him.

Despite its size, the lock held the box shut loosely; using the blade of his penknife, he found he was able to lift the lid a few millimeters. He removed the knife, lowered the lid, and again inspected the metal bands that were threaded through the lock, determining the most efficient places to make his cuts.

Then he twisted the cylinder's stopcock and struck the sparker: There was a small pop, and an intense pinpoint of white appeared at the end of the nozzle. Everything seemed to be happening with glacial slowness, and for that he was grateful. Each moment, each movement, gave him exquisite pleasure. It would take some time—perhaps fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty—before he could free the casket from its bands and actually hold the sword in his hand. But he knew that he would remember every second as long as he lived.

Carefully, he brought the flame to the metal.