The Navigator

Chapter 42

SAXON UNLOCKED THE DOOR to his rented cottage near the bay and snapped the light on. Flashing a toothy grin, he said: “Welcome to the Saxon archaeological conservation lab.”

The chairs and sofa in the musty living room had been pushed back against the walls to make space for a plastic trash barrel and two folding picnic tables set up end to end. Stacked on the tables were layers of thick paper sandwiched between top and bottom plywood sheets.

The amphora lay on the sofa in two pieces. The mottled green surface of the slim, tapering container was pitted with corrosion. The sealed top had been severed from the main part at the neck and lay a few inches from the body. Austin picked up a hacksaw from the table and examined the greenish dust caught in the teeth.

“I see that you used the finest precision instruments.”

“Home Depot, actually,” Saxon said. He looked embarrassed. “I know you’re thinking that I’m a vandal. But I’ve had extensive experience in artifact conservation under primitive conditions and I didn’t want a nosy conservator asking questions. There was a risk, but I would have gone bloody bonkers if I had to wait to find out what’s in that jug. I was very careful.”

“I might have done the same thing,” Austin said, setting the hacksaw down. “I hope you’re telling me that the patient died but the operation was a success.”

Saxon spread his arms wide. “The gods of ancient Phoenicia were smiling on me. It succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. The amphora contained a largely intact papyrus rolled up inside it.”

“It’s been under water a long time,” Zavala said. “What condition was it in?”

“Papyrus thrives best in a dry climate like the Egyptian desert, but the amphora was tightly sealed and the papyrus encapsulated in a leather case. I’m hoping for the best.”

Austin lifted the lid off the trash container. “More high-tech?”

“That’s my ultrasonic humidification chamber. The pages were too brittle to be unwound without damage and had to be humidified. I put water in the bottom of the receptacle, wrapped the roll in sheets of blotting paper, placed it inside a smaller plastic container with holes cut out of it, and clamped the lid on tight.”

“This contraption actually works?”

“In theory. We’ll have to see.” Saxon glanced toward the plywood sandwich on the tables.

“And that must be your super-duper ion dehumidifier,” Austin said.

“When the moistened roll became pliable, I sandwiched it between sheets of blotting paper and Gore-Tex, which absorbs the dampness. The weight of the plywood will flatten out the pages while the papyrus cooks.”

“Did you see any writing on the papyrus?” Austin said.

“Light can darken a papyrus, so I unrolled it with the shades drawn. I glanced at it using a flashlight. It was hard to make out much writing because of the surface stains. I’m hoping that they will have lightened with drying.”

“How soon before we can take a look at it?” Zavala said.

“It should be ready now. In theory.”

A chuckle came from deep in Austin’s throat. “Mr. Saxon is going to be a perfect fit for NUMA, Joe.”

“I agree,” Zavala said. “He’s innovative, ingenious, isn’t afraid to improvise, and is skilled in the fine art of CYA.”

“Pardon me?” Saxon said.

“That’s Spanish for Cover Your Ass,” Zavala explained.

Saxon tweaked the end of his mustache like a silent-film villain. “In that case, I’m glad you are here. If I foul things up, we can share the blame.” He switched off the pole lamps. “Gentlemen, we are about to prove that the Phoenicians reached the shores of North America centuries before Columbus was born.”

Austin slipped his fingers under the edge of the plywood. “Shall we?”

They carefully lifted the top plywood from the pile and set it aside, then removed the Gore-Tex and blotting-paper layers. The papyrus was about fifteen feet long, made up of individual sheets approximately a foot high and twenty inches wide.

The ragged-edged pages were amazingly intact. The papyrus was darkly splotched over much of the mottled brown surface. Script was visible in places, but much of the writing had blended in with the stains.

Saxon looked like a child who’d gotten a pair of socks for his birthday. “Damn! It’s covered with mold.”

His full-speed-ahead exuberance had crashed into a wall of reality. He gazed with stony eyes at the papyrus, then went over to a window and stared out at the bay. Austin wasn’t about to let Saxon come apart. He went into the kitchenette and poured three glasses of water. He came back, gave one to Zavala, another to Saxon, and raised his own.

“We haven’t toasted the man who gave his life to bring this papyrus up from Davy Jones’s locker.”

Saxon got the point. His disappointment was nothing compared to the fate of the diver who had found the wreck and salvaged it. “To Hutch, and his lovely widow,” he said to the clink of glasses. They gathered once more around the papyrus.

Austin advised Saxon to focus. “Ignore the writing for now, and tell us about the physical qualities of the papyrus.”

Saxon picked up a magnifying glass and peered through the lens.

“Papyrus was made from giant sedge plants native to the Nile region,” he explained. “These sheets are of the best quality, probably made from slices that came from the heart of the plant, pounded and shaped into strips that were cross-laminated. The ink was of excellent quality as well. The glue was starch based. They used pigment and gum, and wrote with a reed pen, which gives the writing its run-on, unbroken look.”

“Now, tell us about the script,” Austin said. “It’s definitely Phoenician?”

Saxon calmly appraised the papyrus. “No doubt about it. The Phoenician twenty-two-letter alphabet was the single greatest contribution their culture gave to the world. The word alphabet itself is a combination of the first two letters. Arabic, Hebrew, Latin, Greek, and eventually English all trace their ancestry to the Phoenicians. They wrote from right to left, continuously, because they used all consonants. Vertical strokes act as punctuation to divide sentences and words.”

“Forget what we can’t read,” Austin said. “Start by reading what you can. Even the Rosetta stone was missing some text.”

“You should have gone into motivational therapy,” Saxon said.

He picked up a spiral-bound notebook and a pen and bent over one end of the papyrus. He licked his lips, scribbled in his notebook, and went on to the next text fragment. Sometimes, he studied a single word; other times, several lines of writing. He mumbled to himself as he worked his way down the length of the papyrus.

At the end, he looked up with triumph gleaming in his eyes.

“I could kiss you, old boy!”

“I make it a habit not to kiss anyone with a mustache. Man or woman.” Austin said. “Tell us what it says, please.”

Saxon tapped the notebook. “The first fragment is written by Menelik, who describes himself as the favorite son of King Solomon. He talks about his mission.”

“Menelik is the son of Sheba as well,” Austin said.

“Don’t be surprised that she’s not mentioned. Solomon had many wives and girlfriends.” He pointed to a few lines of text. “Here he says that he is grateful for the trust. He repeats this theme a number of times, which I find extremely interesting.”

“In what way?” Austin said.

“The legends say that when Menelik was young, he and a half brother, the son of Sheba’s handmaiden, stole the Ark of the Covenant from the Temple and took it to Ethiopia to establish the Solomonic line of kings. Some say it was done with Solomon’s knowledge, and a copy built to take its place. One story has him spirit the sacred Ark off to Ethiopia. In another, he redeems himself. Plagued by guilt, he returned the Ark, and Solomon forgave him.”

“Solomon practiced motivational therapy as well,” Austin said. “Who better to trust than someone trying to make up for a past misdeed?”

“Solomon’s reputation for wisdom was well deserved. There are writing fragments on the papyrus that indicate Menelik was transporting a cargo of great value.”

“Nothing more specific?” Austin said.

“Unfortunately, no. The rest of the papyrus is basically a ship’s log. Menelik is the author, which means he must have been the captain. I found the word Scythians, repeated a couple of times. The Phoenicians often hired mercenaries to guard their ships. There is reference to a ‘GreatOcean,’ some weather observations, but the main part of the log is obscured by mold.”

“Now it’s your turn to cheer me up,” Austin said with a shake of his head.

“I think I can do that,” Saxon said. He pointed to several un-stained sections. “The roll was wrapped very tight here. The mold couldn’t get in. These lines describe a landfall. The captain talks about sailing into a long bay, almost like a small sea, where he could no longer smell the ocean.”

Austin came to attention. “The Chesapeake?”

“It’s a thought. The ship anchored near an island at the mouth of a wide river. He describes the water as more brown than blue.”

“I noticed the muddy quality of the water when we set out today,” Zavala said. “We passed an island near Aberdeen Proving Grounds.”

Austin still carried the Chesapeake Bay chart in a plastic map pouch. He unfolded the creases and spread the chart out on the floor. Borrowing a grease pencil from Saxon, he marked an X near Havre de Grace at the mouth of the Susquehanna. “We’ve got our Phoenicians cooling their heels here. What did they do with the cargo?”

“Maybe they hid it in a gold mine,” Saxon said.

“Your book suggested that Ophir was located in North America. Are you saying that this thing was hidden in King Solomon’s mine?”

“When I first started looking for Solomon’s mine, I concentrated on the area around the Chesapeake and Susquehanna,” Saxon said. “There was extensive gold mining within walking distance of Washington a hundred years before the big California Gold Rush of 1849.”

“We know that,” Austin said.

“Thelma Hutchins mentioned that her husband was aware of the gold mines,” Zavala said.

Saxon nodded. “There were more than a half dozen mines along the Potomac, from Georgetown past Great Falls, around the turn of the century. At least fifty mines operated in Maryland on both sides of the Chesapeake. The gold was found in rocks from the Piedmont Plateau, which runs from New York to South Carolina.”

“That’s a lot of territory to cover,” Austin said.

“Agreed. I started looking for evidence of Phoenician contact. I found it not in Maryland but farther north, in Pennsylvania. A cache of stones with Phoenician writing on them was discovered near the state capital at Harrisburg.”

“What sort of stones?” Austin said.

“A man named W. W. Strong collected around four hundred stones found near Mechanicsburg in the Susquehanna River valley. Dr. Strong interpreted the markings on them as Phoenician symbols. Barry Fell thinks the writing is Basque. Others say the markings are natural.”

“Hold that thought,” Austin said. He went out to the Jeep and returned with the stone he had retrieved from the wreck. Saxon’s jaw dropped to his Adam’s apple.

“Where on earth did you get that?”

“I brought it up from my dive on the shipwreck.”

“Astounding!” Saxon said. He took it from Austin, holding it as if it were made of glass, and traced the inscribed line with his finger. “This is Beth, the Phoenician symbol for house, later to evolve into the Greek B. It ties the wreck into Mechanicsburg.”

Austin drew a second X at the wreck site in the bay, and a third at the mouth of the river. He connected the Xs with a line and extended it up the river.

“The trail grows cold at Mechanicsburg,” he said.

“Not exactly. I’ve studied this area for years. Trekked a good deal of it on foot and by vehicle. If any location holds promise, it is this.” He drew a quick circle around an area north of Harrisburg. “St. Anthony’s Wilderness has always intrigued me because of the stories of a long-lost gold mine. There’s even a Gold Mine Road that runs through it. The area is rife with legends of abandoned towns and mining villages. It’s extremely rugged. It’s one of the few stretches of territory that hasn’t been developed.”

“Legends are one thing,” Austin said. “Facts are another.”

Saxon turned his attention back to the papyrus. “There’s an un-stained section here that has the only mention of a mine. The surrounding words have been blotted out by mold, except for a phrase that describes a horseshoe river turn.” Saxon’s long finger traced the river to a prominent U-shaped bend in the Susquehanna. “St. Anthony’s Wilderness is east of the bend.” He shook his head. “It’s a huge area. We could search for years without finding anything.”

Austin slipped a piece of paper from the chart pouch and placed it next to the map. A curving line on the paper matched the river bend on the map. Other squiggles denoted mountains and valleys to the east of the river. “This is a copy of a Phoenician map of Solomon’s mine. It was found with some Thomas Jefferson papers.”

“Jefferson? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“We’re hoping it will in time. What do you think of the map?”

Saxon read the Phoenician writing on the paper. “This shows exactly where the mine is in relation to the river.”

“Before we get too ecstatic, I have to point out a problem with this,” Austin said. “The Susquehanna is a mile wide and a foot deep, as the locals say. It’s studded with rapids and islands. There’s no way a ship of Tarshish could have made its way upriver.”

“But cargo could have come down,” Saxon said. “The river would have been deep enough for a boat to come down during the spring snowmelt.”

“Tricky, but possible with the right kind of boat,” Austin admitted.

“The right kind of boat was called a Susquehanna Ark,” Saxon said with a smile. “They started running them in the 1800s from Steuben County, New York, downriver to Port Deposit, Maryland. They were basically big pontoon rafts, seventy-five feet long and sixteen feet wide of beam. They came down in the spring flood tide as the snow melted, carrying produce to market. The arks would be dismantled, their lumber sold, and the crews walked home. It took eight days to float down and six to walk back. They carried millions of dollars in cargo before the railroads put them out of business.”

“A simple but brilliant concept,” Zavala said. “The Phoenicians could have used the same technique to transport gold.”

Saxon let out a hearty laugh. “Rider Haggard will be spinning in his grave. He and the rest of the world have assumed King Solomon’s mines were in Africa.”

Zavala had been looking at the maps. “I have a problem of my own. There’s a body of water covering the site pinpointed on the old map.”

Saxon’s eyes followed Zavala’s pointing finger. “So it is. That complicates matters.”

“Only a little bit,” Austin said. “I suggest we pull the Special Assignments Team together for a water-search operation tomorrow,” Austin said. “It’s a short hop to St. Anthony’s Wilderness by helicopter. We can be there first thing in the morning.”

“Splendid!” Saxon said. I’ll go over the papyrus again, and dig into my research, in case I’ve missed something.”

Austin pinched his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Solomon went through a lot of trouble to hide this relic from mankind’s eyes.”

Zavala sensed the seriousness in his colleague’s voice. “I think you’re saying we may be grabbing a tiger by the tail.”

“In a manner of speaking. Let’s say we find this object. What do we do with it?”

“I never thought of that,” Saxon said. “Religious artifacts have a way of stirring people up.”

“My point exactly,” Austin said in a flat tone that caused Saxon’s brow to crease. “Solomon might have been a lot wiser hiding this thing than we are looking for it.”