The Explorer's Code (25 page)

“How interesting.”

Sinclair knelt down and studied it with her. He was so close, she could feel his body heat. The scent of the sun and the rocks and the vegetation all around them mirrored the scent he wore. She enjoyed being so close to him, and listening to his voice.

“At first glance it looks pretty innocuous, like a cartwheel, or some kind of design. We believe the Romans were unaware of its symbolism.”

Cordelia continued to trace the circle with her finger. The white marble was warm in the sun.

“It is astonishing that it’s still here.”

Sinclair looked pleased. He stood up, holding out his hand to pull her to her feet.

“Incredible, isn’t it? Now, I want to show you my gladiators.”

A short distance away, the ground had been subdivided into plots. He swept his arm to encompass the entire area.

“We’ve found sixty-seven gladiators so far. As you can see, they’re near the amphitheater, for ease of burial after the games.”

“It makes sense that it’s close by the amphitheater, but how can you be sure it’s a graveyard for gladiators?”

Sinclair led her along a dusty lane lined with shallow pits on both sides.

“We found two gravestones depicting gladiators, like this one here.” He pointed out the stone. There were two carved figures clearly engaged in armed combat. “But the bones also tell us a lot. The men who were buried here were all between the ages of twenty and thirty. Many of the bones show evidence of multiple healed wounds.”

“That could also be soldiers,” suggested Cordelia.

“Yes, multiple wounds could be military,” Sinclair agreed. “But the fact that they had
healed
wounds suggests they were prized individuals, treated with very elaborate medical attention. Common soldiers were allowed to die.”

“Did they all die in the arena?”

“Yes, some died during the contests, and some were slain after the combat. We found a stone relief showing gladiators being killed. According to the rules of the game, if they didn’t fight well or revealed some kind of cowardice, the crowd would yell ‘Iugula!’ which is roughly translated as ‘Lance him through!’ ”

“How horrible.”

“It was a ritualistic slaying,” said Sinclair. “The gladiator was expected to remain motionless and die ‘like a man.’ The bones actually show evidence of how they were killed. Many of the bones have nicks in the vertebrae. A sword would be rammed through the throat and down into the heart.”

“Really!”
Cordelia was horrified.

“We also see a lot of caved-in skulls. We think the wounded might have been killed with a mercy blow, hitting them in the head with a hammer.”

“Which is the most interesting gladiator you’ve found?” asked Cordelia, changing the subject away from death.

“I like this retiarius,” admitted Sinclair. “He was lightly armed, wore no helmet, and carried a net that he would throw over his opponent to tangle him up. Then he would attack with a sword.”

“I see.”

“See the three holes right here in the skull? He was killed with a trident. A trident was one of the standard weapons of gladiators. It was used as often as a sword. Marine archaeologists found a trident in the harbor that matches this wound exactly.”

Sinclair pointed out the three clear holes through the forehead section. As he did it, Cordelia felt a deep shiver, even though the warm sun was shining.

The taverna was situated high in the hills above Selçuk. It was clearly a local place, with stucco walls and rough beams. There was the faint tang of charcoal and the scent of spicy food. The two dozen or so patrons were clustered in small groups, talking. Outside on the terrace, the view was breathtaking. There were a few tables by the railing, and Sinclair moved to sit on the same side of the table as Cordelia, so they could both enjoy the view of the valley. Evening was falling, and the light was soft. The proprietor
put down complimentary glasses of raki mixed with water—a drink that looked like diluted milk. Cordelia took a sip and made a face.

“It’s an acquired taste,” said Sinclair, and tossed his off. “Try this.”

He picked up a dark olive from the dish and fed it to Cordelia. It was marinated in a spicy oil and had a dense, raisinlike texture.

Sinclair insisted she try everything. There was
ezme,
finely chopped pepper, onion, sun-dried tomatoes, and walnuts, eaten with sesame-topped bread. Then
köfte,
char-grilled spiced ground lamb.

“It’s
manti,
” he said when the next dish was placed in front of her. She dipped her fork in and sampled it. The combination of hot dumplings and cool yogurt was delicious. Sinclair poured her a glass of Yakut wine, a dry red that went well with the spicy food. They finished with honey-dipped baklava sprinkled with the light green gratings of pistachios. The dark sweet coffee had a rich aftertaste.

By the time they finished, night had nearly fallen on the valley. The sky was navy blue, and a few stars were starting to dance around a three-quarter moon. They sat in silence. He picked up her hand and held it, resting his arm on the table, not saying anything.

“Cordelia,” he began. “I want to be fair to you—”

“You’ve been more than fair,” she interrupted. “You have been wonderful to me. I feel guilty, getting you into this mess.”

He kept holding her hand, looking into her eyes.

“A couple of greedy people think they can take advantage of you. I am happy to help, but don’t think I’m being some big hero or anything.”

“Well, I am grateful to you nevertheless.”

He sighed. “I don’t want you to be grateful to me.”

“What do you want, John?” she asked. He didn’t answer. He kept holding her hand.

The ride back on the motorcycle in the dark was exhilarating. The night air brushed her skin, cool and invigorating. They climbed higher and higher, flying through the darkness. The headlamp of the bike painted their path in advance. He pulled into the dark courtyard, and when he cut the engine there was utter stillness.

“It’s a beautiful place,” she told him, handing over her helmet.

“I love it here,” he said.

He put the helmets on the bike and walked with her over to the edge of the terrace. The valley lay before them. Then he pulled her to him and crushed her in a deep embrace. His mouth found hers and she lifted her
face and kissed him back. It was long and hungry and incredibly sweet. He ran his hand down her back and pressed her against his body. She leaned into him with her whole weight. He was strong and powerful, more muscular than she had realized. When he finished kissing her, he stepped back, breaking body contact, but he still held her hand.

“Don’t, if you don’t want to,” he said.

“John, I know exactly what I am doing,” she said, and turned and walked into the house.

Cordelia woke at dawn and looked at the light coming in the window. There were no curtains, and the sun reflected a bright pattern on the stone wall on the other side of the room. She felt the delicious ache. Her lips were slightly sore, her mouth was tender from his beard stubble. She felt good and healthy and strong. Her movement caused Sinclair to open his eyes. His legs were still tangled in hers, and he moved his heavy limbs off her.

“Good morning, Delia.” His sleepy voice was incredibly sexy.

Her heart soared. Having him here beside her, saying good morning, took her breath away. How utterly wonderful to be with him like this. She was so absorbed in the moment, she didn’t respond.

“Are you
sorry
?” he asked, propping himself up on one elbow and squinting at her. His hair was falling into his eyes, and he looked very tan against the white sheets. The sheet dropped away as he moved, revealing his sculpted chest. In the daylight, his unshaven face showed his age; fine lines were just starting to crease his eyes.

“Absolutely not,” she answered, smiling.

“Good,” he said. He reached over with one arm, scooped her up, and pulled her on top of him.

Cordelia was sitting on the couch by the window with her legs curled up, leaning back against Sinclair’s chest. Kyrie was seated by the door, looking out into the courtyard, one ear tilted to listen to their voices. They were taking turns reading the journal aloud. The beautiful handwriting had turned sepia with age, fine and spidery, and reading was difficult. By reading
aloud they could look and listen for some hidden message. As Sinclair read, Cordelia looked out the window into the sunlit morning.

M
Y COLLEAGUE
R
OBERT
P
EARY’S SHIP
T
HE
R
OOSEVELT
IS DOCKED IN THE
E
AST
R
IVER, IN FINAL PREPARATION FOR AN EXPEDITION TO THE
N
ORTH
P
OLE.
H
E IS WELL FUNDED.
I
YEARN FOR SUCH PATRONS BUT HAVE HAD LITTLE SUCCESS HERE IN
A
MERICA.
H
OWEVER,
I
REMIND MYSELF THAT THE LARGESS OF THE
P
RINCE OF
M
ONACO HAS GIVEN ME MUCH, AND
I
HAVE ENJOYED MORE THAN A DOZEN VOYAGES BECAUSE OF HIS GENEROSITY.
I
WILL NOT TEMPT PROVIDENCE BY COMPLAINING, BUT THE LUXURIOUSNESS OF PEARY’S VESSEL IS ENVIABLE.
O
N BOARD IS EVERY POSSIBLE COMFORT, INCLUDING A TWO-HUNDRED-VOLUME LIBRARY.
A
S
I
STOOD ON THE QUAY,
I
NOTED HIS SLED DOGS WERE PROSTRATE ON THE DECK IN THE
J
ULY HEAT.
H
E DEPARTS TOMORROW FOR
L
ONG
I
SLAND
S
OUND AND WILL MEET WITH
P
RESIDENT
R
OOSEVELT AT HIS HOME, SAGAMORE HILL, BEFORE CONTINUING TO MORE NORTHERN REGIONS.
H
OW
I
ENVY HIM.

Sinclair handed the journal to Cordelia and she read:

N
OTHING CAN DESCRIBE THE GLORY OF THE POLAR REGION, WHICH HAS CAPTURED THE IMAGINATION OF THE
E
MPIRE.
A
LTHOUGH MY VOYAGE TO
S
PITSBERGEN IS MONTHS AWAY, IN MY MIND
I
CAN SEE THE SUN REFLECTING ON THE FROSTED SILVER OF THE ICEBERGS.
I
PICTURE THOSE TOWERING EDIFICES, THEIR WHITE BULK A HIGH CONTRAST TO THE DEEP BLUE OF THE
A
RCTIC SKY, AND THE IDENTICAL HUE IN THE WATER OF
A
DVENT
B
AY BELOW.
S
OME ARE SUFFUSED WITH A FAINT PINK GLOW, AND OTHERS ARE COLORED IN SURPRISING RAINBOWS, FROM THE MOST INTENSE LAPIS LAZULI AND MALACHITE GREEN TO THE PALEST CELADON.

Cordelia leaned her head back against John’s shoulder.

“He really loved the Arctic.”

“He certainly wrote enough about the land disputes at that time,” said Sinclair. “He must have been very aware of the importance of hanging on to that deed. Listen to this.

T
HIS LAND IN
S
PITSBERGEN IS TRULY TERRA NULLIUS.
I
T HAS, UP UNTIL THIS MOMENT, BEEN A VAST WASTELAND, CLAIMED BY NONE.
I
FIND IT IRONIC THAT TWO
A
MERICAN CAPITALISTS COULD RECOGNIZE THE VALUE OF THE LAND AND GENERATE SUCH COMPETITION FOR THE ISLAND.
N
OW OUR LITTLE MINING OPERATION HAS BROUGHT OUT THE AVARICE OF GREAT POWERS:
E
NGLAND,
S
WEDEN,
R
USSIA, AND
G
ERMANY.
N
ORWAY IS THE MOST AGGRESSIVE AND IS TRYING TO CLAIM OUR SMALL ENTERPRISE AS ITS OWN.
B
UT THERE HAS NEVER BEEN AGREEMENT AS TO WHO SHOULD EXERCISE SOVEREIGNTY OVER
S
PITSBERGEN.
N
O COUNTRY CONTROLS IT, AND WE STILL RETAIN THE DEED TO THE LAND UNTIL SOME GREATER POWER SHOULD TRY TO WREST AWAY THE FRUITS OF OUR HONEST LABOR.

“How amazing that everyone is still fighting over the same land,” said Cordelia.

They sat for a moment in silence.

“It’s possible we won’t find the deed, Cordelia,” he cautioned.

“We’ll find it,” Cordelia said, picking up the journal. “I can feel it. He loved this place too much to have let the deed be lost. I am sure he hid it.”

“Keep reading. I’ll go pick up some things for lunch,” said Sinclair. He scooped his keys out of the earthenware bowl above the sink and walked over to give her a lingering kiss. “I’ll be right back.”

Gabriel Fauré’s “Cantique de Jean Racine” filled the room with angelic choral music. She looked up after a while and surveyed the beautiful little house, suddenly aware it would take very little to make her happy if John Sinclair was with her.

She sighed to herself, and Kyrie looked over, thumping her tail on the floor. Suddenly the dog pricked up her ears and looked hard out the door. She emitted a deep growl, scanning the courtyard.

“What’s wrong, Kyrie?” asked Cordelia. She walked to the door and looked outside. There was sunshine in the courtyard, and the sound of a gentle wind. Nothing else. The terrain dropped off precipitously after the terrace, and she could see for miles: scrub brush of the arid land, olive trees, and a few ramshackle buildings down the slope. A figure far off on the adjacent hillside looked like a local farmer. That was all.

Cordelia closed the door and pulled the dog by the collar back to the couch.

“Come on, Kyrie, we need to read this journal.” The dog snuggled up to her on the couch and put her chin on Cordelia’s knee.

Twenty feet below the terrace of John Sinclair’s house, Vlad crouched behind the stone wall. He had heard the dog growl and stopped moving. He checked his Windbreaker pocket for the gun and put his hand on it as he climbed over the three-foot wall into the courtyard. He stood up and looked into the empty courtyard. The BMW motorcycle was gone. Hanging on the hook near the door was only one helmet. Sinclair had left. The girl was still here. He didn’t see the man standing behind the stone pillar at the entrance to the courtyard.

The man had been there since sunrise, so long he looked like part of the stonework. As Vlad climbed over the wall and started toward the door, he never heard the man come up from behind. He was unconscious with the first blow. Frost caught him before he fell, and dragged him out to the road. A pickup truck pulled up, and two farmers silently lifted Vlad into the back and stretched him out on the flatbed before driving away.