The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Cait sat in her room going over the photos transferred from the camera to her computer. The photo taken deep in the shaft showed the letters J. W. carved into the timber with a date, March 11, 1920, the year Kurtz launched his expedition.

She picked up her copy of “The Emerald Sceptre” and began to read. The author, a reporter for the Denver Post named Wayne Valero, opened the book by quoting a letter Prester John had written to the Byzantine emperor of Rome, Manuel, in 1177 in which the Prester bragged about his wealth and power and said he had vanquished the infidels who surrounded his kingdom. Skeptics pointed to parts of the letter that said the kingdom was home to men with horns and giants who had one eye, unicorns and gryphons, places where poison would not work, and a fountain of youth. According to the letter, no one in Prester John’s land could tell a lie.

Valero then went on to describe how one of the many agents Kurtz employed in his worldwide quest, while foraging in a Kabul antiquities shop, came across a fragment of a letter, written in Latin on vellum. The ragged edge suggested that it had been roughly torn from a scroll. Drawn on the back of the vellum were some child-like squiggles. The letter appeared to be from Prester John. This discovery had been the catalyst for Kurtz’s Prester John expedition.

The author had dogged the trail that led Kurtz to Afghanistan. His persistence paid off. He found a journalist’s dream: a reliable source in the widow of an expedition archaeologist who had died at sea on the return trip. She let the reporter see papers her husband had compiled before the expedition.

The archaeologist had submitted the vellum scrap to experts who dated it to the 12^th century. The same tests that verified its ancient origin led to another interesting discovery. The squiggles had been drawn in human blood. The archaeologist had copied down the message on a separate sheet of paper:

The mention of a special gift sent Valero back to the origin of the Prester John legend in a letter written by Otto, bishop of Freisingen, who in 1145 met with a Syrian bishop. The Syrian told him about a Christian king and priest known as Presbyter John, whose kingdom lay beyond Persia and Armenia. John belonged to a Christian sect known as Nestorians and had defeated the infidels in a number of battles. He was supposedly descended from the Magi, was rich beyond belief, and used as the emblem of his power and wealth an emerald scepter.

Valero heard an echo of Otto’s report in the Prester’s vellum letter to the Pope: What better gift to show a willingness to share power but the fabled scepter? Or did the scepter symbolize a gift even more valuable than gold and gems: an alliance to fight the Muslim infidels?

The archaeologist’s widow told Valero that one of Kurtz’s historic researchers had found a clue in an old map of caravan routes that had an X labeled Itmud. The archaeologists nicknamed the site “It’s mud” after the expedition visited the place and found a cluster of tall tower-like geological formations like those known as ‘hoo-doos’ in the southwestern United States. The researchers would have dismissed the map as a fake, except that the name Itmud meant pillar.

Intrigued by the coincidence, the researchers dug at the site and found artifacts that indicated Itmud may have been a trading post or a caravan stop. The map showed a dotted line leading across the desert to a valley vaguely shaped like a figure eight.

Cait skimmed through the next part of the book. Kurtz travels to the valley and discovers it full of water. Its shape matches the drawing on the back of the vellum signed by the Prester. He orders in dive equipment. The diver goes into the lake where the diagram indicates there should be a cave opening, but for some reason can’t find it. Kurtz sinks a mine shaft below the odd rock formation. The shaft collapses and traps the diver.

The story ended with the tragic loss of Kurtz’s archaeological crew in the sinking of one of his vessels on the return trip to the States. The rest of the book was pure speculation, with Valero postulating that Kurtz found the treasure, but it was likely lost with his ship.

Cait set the book down and reflected on what she had read, but a knock at the door pulled her thoughts back to the present. It was Amir.

“The family missed you at lunch,” he said. “Especially the little one. They sent me to make sure you are coming to dinner.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been reviewing materials and forgot about the time. Look at this.”

Amir stepped into the guest quarters, settled his long body into a chair and studied the photo on the computer screen. Cait pointed out the date of the expedition and described her theory about the mine being built because the treasure trove was not accessible from the lake.

He rubbed his beard. “Not an implausible theory, but as you discovered, the mine shaft is too dangerous to explore.”

“Even dead ends are informative. Building a mine shaft is neither easy nor cheap. It tells me that Kurtz believed that there was a treasure.”

“Do you think he found it?”

It was Cait’s turn to rub her chin. “I don’t know. But I’m determined to track it down.”

Amir gazed at Cait with amusement in his dark eyes. “It seems that Mr. Kurtz is not the only one obsessed with Prester John.”

“I prefer to think of it as a passion. Do you blame me?”

“Not at all. The Prester is a fascinating historical figure.”

“Agreed, but no one has been able to prove that John even existed. My goal now is to find the rest of the vellum. Then I might be able to backtrack to the Prester’s kingdom. Maybe I can locate his tomb! Even if I don’t, I could be on the trail of the historical and archaeological discovery of the century.”

“I will do all I can to help you, Dr. Cait. Where do you go from here?”

“Back to the beginning. Prester John.”

“We’re talking millions of square miles spread over several countries.”

“This will be a journey in time rather than distance. We know the Pope sent his physician Philip east to deliver a letter to Prester John, so I went into the Vatican data base. I went through every link I could find on Pope Alexander and Master Philip. Let me show you something I turned up in my research.”

She brought a letter with graceful handwriting onto the screen.

“What is it?”

“The Vatican archives had a fragment of a note, written from Philip in Jerusalem, dated 1177 anno domini. It was a bill which asked for papal reimbursement of expenses to Philip’s bank in Rome:

“This proved that Philip had intentions to leave Jerusalem,” Amir observed. “Who is this Thomas?”

“I wish I knew. My immediate challenge is to find Philip’s journal. I need to do more research before I go back into the field. There are sources all over the world. Libraries and archives in Rome, Vienna, Paris, London and the U.S.”

“Then you have made a decision to leave us?”

“Tomorrow, if possible.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry your visit is so short. My family is quite attached to you.”

“I like them, too. But I will return. I can never repay you for your hospitality and help”

“I’m the one who is in your debt, Dr. Cait. If Prester John hadn’t brought you here, my granddaughter would not have lived.”

Cait stared off into space. “I’m not a superstitious person, and as a historian I deal in facts, but when you study events and people over thousands of years, it’s amazing how things seem to fall into place, as if they had been pre-ordained. There have been times when Prester John seems to be calling me to find him.”

“Grandfather!”

They exchanged glances and started laughing.

“It seems that Prester John has the voice of a very impatient four-year-old girl,” Amir said.

Cait sat cross-legged on the living room floor after dinner, engaged in an intense game of patty-cake with Amir’s granddaughter. She happened to look up and noticed that the drug lord, seated in his chair, was gazing thoughtfully in her direction.

Then Amir said something in Pashto to the little girl, who responded with a pout that was vanquished with the offer of a sweet pastry. The little girl gave her grandfather a peck on the cheek, came over and planted a wet kiss on Cait’s face, and ran off into the next room. The scene was so affecting that Cait forgot for a moment that the kindly grandfather was a hardened drug lord.

She rose to her feet.

“Thank you,” she said in a breathless voice that was only partially exaggerated. “I was becoming patty-caked to exhaustion.”

“Yasmeen has more energy than a young colt.” He affixed her with his eagle-like gaze. “So, Dr. Cait, you still plan to leave tomorrow?”

“Yes, if I can prevail upon you to fly me out in the morning.”

“I’ll call the plane back from Kabul. But perhaps I can persuade you to stay another day. My granddaughter is going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss her, too. But my mind is set on my research. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to start packing.”

“Before you go to your room, I have something to show you that may be of interest.”

He patted his shirt like an absent-minded professor, pulled some four-by-five inch photographs out of his pocket and handed them over.

Cait fanned the photos out on the table top.

“This picture shows an ancient bread mold,” she said. “This looks like a baking oven. This photo shows ash from a fire. This oval piece is a stone name seal.” She looked up from the pile. “Where were these pictures taken, Amir?”

“The objects were found at some ruins not far from the village.”

He slid more pictures across the table. Cait studied the images. Most people would have seen only a maze of rectangular pits and open spaces, but in her mind’s eye, Cait saw a caravanserai.

The high walls of the caravan stop enclosed an open space that in ancient times would have been a crowded bazaar ringed by apartments to lodge weary traders, storage space for their precious goods, and stables to house camels and other beasts of burden.

“Who took these?”

“I did. I’m no photographer, as you can see by the poor quality.”

“Where are the objects now?”

“I’ve heard that the provenance of artifacts is important to an archaeologist so I left them in situ until the time the ruins can be examined professionally. I’ve warned the locals to stay away from the site.”

“Where are the ruins in relation to the lake?”

“About twenty miles to the east.”

The site was between Itmud and the Valley of the Dead. Trying to keep excitement from coloring her voice, she said, “I don’t recall you mentioning these ruins before.”

“Forgive me. You seemed to be focused on the old mine near the lake, and I didn’t want to distract you. It’s a shame that you are leaving so soon,” he said with a sigh. “Perhaps you can see the ruins on your next visit. Although to my untrained eye, there is nothing there of any importance.”

Amir did his best to wreath his weathered features in innocence, but it was impossible for him to mask the cunning that lurked behind the intelligent eyes. Cait wasn’t fooled. The Kahn was using the ruins as bait to keep her there.

“Hard to tell much about the site from these photos. It might be a trading post or caravan stop. On the other hand, it might be part of a major settlement.”

“You think that these ruins could be part of an abandoned city?”

“It’s possible. Which is the reason the site is not on the caravan stop map Kurtz found. And if that’s true, they could be an important piece of the Prester John puzzle.”

“In what way, Dr. Cait?” He leaned forward, giving her his full attention.

“This would have been a logical place for the caravan carrying the treasure to have stopped. They would have tried to keep their presence low key, but someone might have made note of their passing through. It might be something as ordinary as a bill for supplies, but it would strengthen the foundation underlying my theory.”

“Then it’s done,” Amir said. “You will visit the ruins tomorrow.”

Cait admired the way the Kahn closed the deal. Her chances of finding evidence of Prester John in one day were slim, but historical research was like plucking at a strand of yarn and unraveling the whole sweater.

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. I know how busy you are.”

“No trouble at all. I shall be away tomorrow. Some of my men will take you there.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “Any other ruins you have forgotten to tell me about?”

He spread his hands wide, palms up. “The sands are always shifting. One can never know what mystery lies beneath their surface until they reveal themselves.”

“No different than people,” Cait observed.

Amir must have known that he was the target of her wry wit, because he confirmed the accuracy of her comment by widening his lips in a mysterious smile.