Текст книги "Treasure"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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One of them, a blond, scarecrow type, peered through binoculars out a tinted window at Schiller's house. "He's leaving the study."

The fat man hunched over a recording machine with earphones nodded in agreement. "All talk has ceased."

The , man had a great waxed handlebar mustache, operated a laser parabolic, a sensitive microphone that received voice sounds inside a room from the vibrations on a windowPane, and then magnified them through fiber optics onto a sound channel.

"Anything interesting?" asked the skinny blond.

The fat man removed the earphones and wiped his sweating forehead. "My share from this gig will pay off my fishing boat."

"I love a marketable commodity."

"This information is worth big bucks to the right party."

"Who've you got in mind?" asked the one with the mustache.

The fat man grinned like a glutted coyote. "A wealthy, highly placed raghead who wants to make points with Akhmad Yazid."

The President rose from behind his desk and gave a brief nod as CIA Director Martin Brogan was ushered into the Oval Office for the morning intelligence briefing.

The formality of a handshake between the two men had fallen by the wayside soon after their daily meetings began. The slim, urbane Brogan didn't mind in the least. He had narrow, long-fingered violinist's hands, while the tall, two-hundred-pound President had massive paws and a bone-crushing grip.

Brogan waited until the President sat down before settling in a leather chair. Almost as if it were a ritual, the President poured a cup of coffee, ladled in a teaspoon of sugar and graciously handed a large mug to Brogan.

The President brushed a hand over his head of silver hair and fixed Brogan with a limpid pair of gray eyes. "Well, what secrets does the world hold this morning?"

Brogan shrugged and passed a leather-bound file across the desk. "At 0900 Moscow time, Soviet President Georgi Antonov balled his mistress in the backseat of his limousine on the way to the Kremlin."

"I envy his method for starting the day," the President said with a broad smile.

"He also made two calls from his car phone. One to Sergei Komilov, head of the Soviet space program, the other to his son, who works in the commercial section of the embassy in Mexico City. You'll find the transcript of the conversations on pages four and five."

The President opened the file, slipped on a pair of reading glasses and scanned the transcript, amazed, as always, at the penetration of intelligence gathering.

"And how was the rest of Georgi's day?"

"He spent most of his time on domestic affairs. you wouldn't want to be in his shoes. The outlook on the Soviet economy grows worse by the day.

His reforms in the fields and factories have gone down the toilet. The old guard in the Politburo is trying to undermine him. The military isn't happy with his program's Proposals and has gone public with its Opposition. Soviet citizens are getting more vocal as the lines get longer. With a little prodding by our operatives, graffiti knocking the government are appearing throughout the cities. Overall economic growth has flattened out at two percent. There is a strong possibility Antonov may be forced from power before next summer."

"If our deficit doesn't level off I may wind up in the same boat," the President said grimly.

Brogan made no comment. He wasn't expected to.

"What's the latest intelligence from Egypt?" the President asked, moving on.

"President Hasan is also hanging by the skin of his teeth. The air force remains loyal, but the army generals are close to throwing in with Yazid. Defense Minister Abu Hamid held a secret meeting with Yazid in Port Said. Our informants say Haniid won't swing his support without assurances of a solid power position. He does not want to be dictated to by Yazid's circle of fanatical mullahs."

"Think Yazid will give in?"

Brogan shook his head. "No, he has no intention of sharing power.

Han-lid has underestimated Yazid's ruthlessness. We've already uncovered a conspiracy to place a bomb in Haniid's private plane."

"Have you alerted Harried?"

"I'll need your authority."

"You have it," said the President. "Hamid is cagey. He may think we're pulling a ploy to keep him out of Yazid's camp."

"We can supply the names of Yazid's assassin team. Hamid can take it from there if he insists on proof."

The President leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "Can we tie Yazid to the crash of the U.N. plane carrying Hala Kamfl?"

"Circumstantial evidence at best," Brogan admitted. "We won't have any concrete conclusions until the investigators wrap up and make their report. for now, the disaster is a real puzzle. Only a few facts have been uncovered. We do know the genuine pilot was murdered; his body was found in the trunk of a car parked at Heathrow airport."

"Sounds like a maria hit."

"Almost, except the killer did a masterful job of disguising himself well enough to double as the pilot. After actually taking off the plane, he killed the flight crew by injecting them with a toxic nerve agent known as sarin, turned off course and abandoned the aircraft over Iceland."

"He must have worked with a team of highly trained professionals," the President said admiringly.

"We have reason to think he acted alone," said Brogan.

"Alone?" The President's expression turned incredulous. "This guy has to be one canny son of a bitch."

"The finesse and intricacy are trademarks of an Arab whose name is Suleiman Aziz Ammar."

"A terrorist?"

"Not in the crude sense. Animar is one of the cleverest assassins in the game. I wish he was on our side."

"Never let the liberals in Congress hear you say that," the President said wryly.

"Or the news media," Brogan added.

"Do you have a file on Ammar?"

"About a meter thick. He's what the trade used to call a master of disguise. A good, practicing Muslim who has little interest in politics, a mercenary with no known association with fanatical Islamic diehards. Ammar charges enormous fees, and gets them. A shrewd businessman. His wealth is estimated at over sixty million dollars. He seldom goes by the book. His hits are ingeniously planned and carried out. All are planned to look like accidents. None can be laid on his doorstep with certainty. Innocent victims mean nothing to him so long as his target is taken out. We suspect he is responsible for over a hundred deaths in the past ten years. His attempt, proven, to kill Hala K I would mark his first recorded failure."

The President adjusted his glasses and turned to the report on the air crash. "I must have missed something. If he meant for the plane to vanish in the ocean, why did he bother poisoning the passengers? What possible reason could he have for killing them twice?"

"There's the catch," explained Brogan. "My analysts don't think Ammar was responsible for murdering the passengers."

The President's eyes took on a look of surprise. "You've switched me on a sidetrack, Martin. What in hell are you talking about?"

"Pathologists from the FBI labs flew up to Thule and performed autopsies on the victims. They found fifty times the sarin required to kill inside the flight crew's bodies, but their tests showed the passengers died from ingesting manchineel in the flight meal."

Brogan paused to sip his coffee.

The President waited, impatiently tapping a pen against a desk calendar.

"Manchineel, or poison guava as it's called, is native to the Caribbean and gulf coast of Mexico," Brogan continued. "It comes from a tree that bears a deadly, sweet-tasting, appleshaped fruit. Carib indians used the sap to tip their arrows. any number of early shipwrecked sailors and modern tourists have died after eating the manchineel's poisonous juices."

"And your people believe an assassin of Ammar's caliber wouldn't stoop to using manchineel?"

"Something like that." Brogan nodded. "Ammar's connections would have no trouble buying or stealing sarin from a European chemical-supply company. Manchineel is something else. You can't find it on a shelf.

It also works too slowly for a quick kill. I find it doubtful Ammar would even consider using it."

"If not the Arab, then who?"

"We don't know," answered Brogan. "Certainly none of the three survivors. The only trail, and a faint one, leads to a Mexican delegate by the name of Eduardo Ybarra. He's the only other passenger besides Hala Kaniil who didn't eat the meal. "

"It says here he died in the crash." The President looked up from the briefing file. "How could he insert poison in the flight meals without being seen?"

"That was done in the kitchen of the company that caters for the airline. British investigators are checking out that lead now."

"Maybe Ybarra is innocent. Maybe for some simple reason he didn't eat."

"According to the surviving flight attendant, Hala slept through the meal, but Ybarra feigned an upset stomach."

"It's possible."

"The surviving flight attendant saw him eating a sandwich from his briefcase."

"Then he knew."

"Looks that way."

"Why did he risk coming on board if he knew everyone was going to die except him?"

"As a backup, in case the main target, or targets, probably the entire contingent of Mexicans, didn't take the poison."

The President leaned back in his chair and studied the ceiling. "Okay, Kamil is a Thorn in the side of Yazid. He pays Animar to erase her. The job is botched and the plane doesn't disappear in the middle of the Arctic Ocean as planned but comes down in Greenland. So much for mystery number one. Solid facts for a good case. We'll call it the Egyptian connection. Mystery number two, the Mexican connection, is far more cloudy. There is no obvious motive for a mass murder, and the only suspect is dead. If I were a judge I'd order the case dismissed for lack of evidence."

"I'd have to go along," said Brogan. "There has been no evidence of terrorist movements operating out of Mexico."

"You forget Topiltzin," the President said unexpectedly.

Brogan was surprised at the cold, mysterious look of pure anger that spread across the President's face.

"The agency has not forgotten Topiltzin," Brogan assured him, "or what he did to Guy Rivas. I'll have him taken out whenever you say the word."

The President suddenly sighed and sagged in his chair. "If only it was that simple. Snap my fingers and the CIA obliterates a foreign opposition leader. The risk is too great. Ken nedy found that out when he condoned the mafia's attempt to kill Castro. "

"Reagan made no objections to the attempts to get Muarnmar Qaddafi. "

"Yes," the President said wearily. "If only he had known Qaddafi would fool everyone and die of cancer!"

"No such luck with Topiltzin. Medical reports say he's as strong as a Missouri mule."

"The man is a bloody lunatic. If he takes over Mexico, we'll have a disaster on our hands."

"You played the tape made by Rivas?" Brogan asked, knowing the answer.

"Four times," the President said bitterly. "It's enough to provoke nightmares."

"And if Topiltzin topples the present government and makes good his threat by sending millions of his people flooding across our border in a mad attempt to recover the American Southwest." . . . ?" Brogan let the question hang.

The President replied in a strangely mild tone. "Then I will have no choice but to order our armed forces to treat any horde of illegal aliens as foreign invaders."

Brogan arrived back in his office at the CIA headquarters in Langley and found the Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Elmer Shaw, waiting for him.

"Sorry to foul up your busy schedule," said Shaw, "but I have some interesting news that might make your day."

"Must be important to warrant your personal visit."

"It is."

"Come in and sit down. Is the news good or bad?"

"Very good."

"Nothing else is going right lately," said Brogan solemnly. "I'll be glad to hear something decent for a change."

"Our survey ship, the Polar Explorer, has been searching for the Soviet Alfa-class submarine that went missing."

"I'm familiar with the mission," Brogan interrupted. "Well, they've found it."

Brogan's eyes widened slightly, and he rapped his desk in a rare display of pleasure. "Congratulations. The Alfa class is the finest sub in both navies. Your people have pulled off a master stroke."

"We haven't got our hands on it yet," said Shaw.

Brogan's eyes suddenly narrowed. "What about the Russians? Are they aware of the discovery?"

"We don't think so. Shortly after instruments detected the sunken sub, which, by the way, includes videotape of the wreckage, our ship pulled off the search track and assisted in the rescue operations of the downed U.N. aircraft. A heavensent smoke screen. Our best intelligence from inside the Soviet navy confirms business as usual. Nothing from the KGB

either. And our space surveillance of their North Atlantic fleet shows no indication of dramatic course changes toward the search area."

"Odd they didn't have a spy trawler shadow the Polar Explorer."

"They did," explained Shaw. "They also kept a close eye on our operations all right, monitoring our ship's course and communications by satellite. They left it alone, sitting back and hoping our more advanced underwater search technology would get lucky where theirs failed. Then they banked their expectations on the clear possibility our crew would give away the location through the tiniest of errors."

"But they didn't."

"No," answered Shaw firmly. "Ship security was airtight. Except for the captain and two NUMA underwater search experts, the entire crew was briefed to think they were on an iceberg-tracking and sea-bottom geology survey. My report on the success of the discovery was hand-carried from Greenland by the Polar Explorer's executive officer so there was no chance of communications penetration."

"Okay, wherr do we go from here?" inquired Brogan. "Obviously the Soviets would never allow another Glomar Explorer snatch. And they still have a ship patrolling the area where they lost that missile sub off the East Coast in 'eighty-six."

"We have an underwater salvage job in mind," said Shaw.

"When?"

"If we began putting together the operation now, redesigning and modifying existing submersibles and equipment, we should be ready for salvage in ten months."

"So we ignore the sub, or act like it until then?"

"Correct," replied Shaw. "In the meantime, another event has fallen into our laps that will confuse the Soviets. The Navy needs your agency's cooperation to carry it out."

"I'm listening."

"During rescue and subsequent investigation of the air crash, the NUMA people working with us in the search accidentally stumbled on what looks like an ancient Roman shipwreck buried in ice."

Brogan stared at Shaw skeptically. "In Greenland?"

Shaw nodded. "The word from experts is it's genuine."

"What can the CIA do to help the Navy with an old shipwreck?"

"A little disinformation. We'd like the Russians to think the Polar Explorer was looking for the Roman ship all along."

Brogan noted a flashing light on his intercom. "A sound concept. While the Navy prepares to grab their newest sub, we scatter bread crumbs down the wrong path."

"Something like that."

"How will you handle the Roman wreck from your end?"

"We set up an archaeological project as a cover for an onsite base of operations. The Polar Explorer will remain on station so the crew can give a hand in the excavation."

"Is the sub close by?"

"Less than ten miles away."

"any idea of her condition?"

"Some structural damage from a collision with a rise on the seafloor, but otherwise intact."

"And the Roman ship?"

"Our men on the scene claim they've found the frozen bodies of the crew in an excellent state of preservation."

Brogan rose from his desk and walked with Shaw to the door.

"Incredible," he said, fascinated. Then he grinned impishly. "I wonder if any ancient state secrets will be found too?"

Shaw grinned back. "Better a hoard of treasure."

Under the direction of the archaeologists the crew of the Polar Explorer cut their way down to the ice-locked ship, layer by layer, until the top deck was laid bare from bow stern to sternpost.

Everyone in the fjord was drawn to the site, hypnotized by curiosity.

Only Pitt and Lily were missing. They remained on board the icebreaker to study the wax tablets.

A compelling silence gripped the crowd of seamen and archaeologists, joined by the air-crash investigating team, as they stood on the edge of the excavation. They stared down at the partially cleared vessel as though it were a hidden tomb of ancient royalty.

Hoskins and Graham measured the hull, arriving at an overall length of just under twenty meters, with a beam of seven meters. The mast had broken two meters above its step and was missing. The remains of the hemp rigging snaked over the weather deck and sides as if wadded up and dropped by a giant bird. A few shredded pieces of canvas were all that remained of the once broad, square sail.

The deck planking was tested for strength and found to be as solid as the day the ship was launched from some long-forgotten Mediterranean shipyard. The artifacts strewn about the deck were photographed, tagged and carefully lifted to the surface and carried to the Polar Explorer, where they were cleaned and catalogued. Then each object was stored in the ship's ice locker to prevent decay during the voyage to a nation that was not in existence when the old merchant vessel sailed on her final voyage.

Gronquist, Hoskins and Graham did not touch the collapsed deckhouse or enter the galley. Slowly, almort tenderly, the three of them lifted one end of the cargo hatch and propped it half-open.

Gronquist stretched out on his stomach and leaned his head and shoulders into the gap until his vision ranged beneath the deck beams.

"Are they there?" Graham asked excitedly. "Are they as Pitt described them?"

Gronquist stared at the ghastly white faces, the frozen masklike expressions. It seemed to him that if he scraped away the ice and shook them, their eyes would b and they'd come alive.

He hesitated before answering. The bright daylight above gave him a clear view of the entire hold, and he glimpsed two forms huddled together in the extreme angle of the bow that Pitt had missed.

"They're just as Pitt described," he said soberly, "except for the dog and the girl."

Pitt stood in the shelter of a deck crane and watched as Giordino jockeyed the NUMA helicopter over the stern of the Polar Explorer.

Fifteen months later the landing skids touched the painted bull's-eye on the deck, the sound of the turbine's whine fell away and the rotor blades beat to a slow stop.

The right-hand cockpit door opened and a tall man wearing a green turtleneck sweater under a brown corduroy sport jacket jumped to the deck. He looked around for a moment as though getting his bearings and then spied Pitt, who threw a wave of greeting. He walked swiftly, shoulders huddled, hands shoved deeply into pockets to shield them from the cold.

Pitt stepped forward and quickly ushered the visitor through a hatch into the warmth of the ship.

"Dr. Redfem?"

"You Dirk Pitt?"

"Yes, I'm Pitt."

"I've read of your exploits."

"Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to come."

"Are you kidding?" blurted Redfem, eyes wide with enthusiasm. "I jumped at your invitation. There isn't an archaeologist in the world who wouldn't give an eyetooth to be in on this find. When can I take a look?"

"Be dark in another ten minutes. I think it will be practical if you're briefed by Doctor Gronquist, the archaeologist who supervised the excavation. He'll also show you the artifacts he's recovered off the main deck. Then at first light you set foot on the vessel and take charge of the project."

"Sounds good."

"Have any luggage?" Pitt asked.

"I traveled light. Only a briefcase and a small tote bag."

"Al Giordino will bring them down."

"The helicopter pilot?"

"Yes, Al will see that your gear is taken to your quarters. Now if you'll follow me, I'll see you get something warm in your stomach and pick your brain on an intriguing puzzle."

"After you."

Dr. Mel Redfem towered over Pitt and had to duck halfway to his navel when he passed through a hatch. His blond hair had receded to a widow's peak and he wore designer glasses in front of gray-blue eyes. His long body was still reasonably trim for a man of forty with a slight but noticeable paunch.

A former college basketball star who passed on playing for the pros to earn his doctorate in anthropology, Redfem later turned his considerable talents to underwater exploration and became one of the world's leading experts in classical marine archaeology.

"Did you have a good flight from Athens to Reykjavik?" asked Pitt.

"Slept through most of that one," answered Redfem. "It was the ride in the navy patrol plane from Iceland to the Eskimo settlement a hundred miles to the south of here that damned near turned me into an ice cube.

I hope I can borrow some cold-weather clothing. I packed for the sunny islands of Greece and didn't plan for a rush trip to the Arctic Circle."

"Commander Knight, the ship's skipper, can fix you up.

What were you working on?"

"A second-century B.C. Greek merchant ship that sank with a cargo of marble sculptures." Redfem could not contain his curiosity and began to grill Pitt– "You didn't state in your radio message what the ship was carrying."

"Except for the bodies of the crew, I found the cargo hold empty."

"Can't have it all your way," Redfemn said philosophically. "But you did say the ship was basically intact."

"Yes, that's true. if we repair a hole in the hull, restore the mast and the rigging and hang new steering oars, you could sail her into New York harbor."

"God, that's astounding. Has Dr. Gronquist been able to determine an aPProximate date on her?"

"Yes, by coins minted arOUnd A.D. 390. We even know her name. SeraPisIt was carved in Greek on the sternpost."

"A completely preserved fourth-cen Byzantine merchant ship," Redfem murmured in wonder. "This has to be the archaeological find of the century. I can't wait to lay my hands on her."

Pitt led him into the officers' wardroom, where Lily sat at a dining table copying the wording from the wax tablets onto paper. Pitt made the introductions.

"Dr. Lily Sharp, I)r. Mel Redfem."

Lily rose and extended her hand. "This is an honor, Doctor. Although my field is land science, I've been a fan of your underwater work since grad school."

"The honor is mine," said Redfem politely. "Let's cut the fancy titles and stick with first names."

"What can we get you?" asked Pitt.

"A gallon of hot chocolate and a bowl of soup should thaw me out just fine."

Pitt relayed the order to a steward.

"Well, where's this puzzle you mentioned," asked Redfem with the anxiousness of a kid leaping out of bed on Christmas Day.

Pitt stared at him and smiled. "How's your Latin, Mel?"

"Passable. I thought you said the ship was Greek."

"It is," answered Lily, "but the Captain wrote out his log on wax tablets in Latin. Six were inscribed with wording. The seventh has lines like a map. Dirk recovered them during his initial entry into the ship. I've transposed the writing into more readable form on paper so it can be run off on a copy machinne. I drew an enlarged scale of the tablet depicting a chart of some kind. So far we haven't been able to pin down a geographical location because it lacks labels."

Redfem sat down and held one of the tablets in his hand. He studied it almost reverently for several moments before setting it aside. Then he picked up Lily's pages and began to read.

The steward brought a mug of hot chocolate and a large bowl of Boston clam chowder. Redfem became so engrossed in the translation that he lost his appetite. Like a robot, he raised the cup and sipped the chocolate without taking his eyes from the handwritten pages. After nearly ten minutes, he stood up and paced the deck between the officers'

dining tables, muttering Latin phrases to himself, oblivious to his rapt audience.

Pitt and Lily sat in utter silence, careful not to interrupt his thoughts, curiously watching his reactions. Redfem stopped as if mentally placing a problem into proper perspective. He returned to the table and examined the pages again. The air fairly crackled with expectancy.

Several more minutes dragged by before Redfem finally laid the pages on the table with trembling hands. Then he stared vacantly into the distance, his eyes strangely blurred.

Redfem had been rocked right down to his toenails.

"You look like you just found the Holy Grail," said Pitt.

"What is it?" asked Lily. "What did you find?"

They could barely hear Redfem's answer. His head was down.

He said, "It's possible, just possible, your chance discovery may unlock the door to the collection of art and literary treasures the world has ever known."

"Now that you have our undivided attention," Pitt said dryly, you mind sharing your revelation?"

Redfem shook his head as if to clear it. "The story-saga is a better definition-is overwhelming. I can't quite comprehend it all."

Lily asked, "Do the tablets tell why a Graeco-Roman ship sailed far beyond her home waters?"

"Not Graeco-Roman, but Byzantine," Redfem corrected her. "When the Serapes sailed the ancient world, the seat of the Empire had been moved by Constantine the Great from Rome to the Bosporus, where the Greek city of Byzantium once stood."

"Which became Constantinople," said Pitt.

"And then Istanbul." Redfem turned to Lily. "Sorry for not giving you a direct answer. But, yes, the tablets reveal how and why the ship came here. To fully explain, we have to set the stage, beginning with 323

B.c., the year Alexander the Great died in Babylon-His empire was split up by his generals. One of them, Ptoleiny, carved out Egypt and became king. A canny guy, Ptolemy. He also managed to get his hands on Alexander's corpse, encasing it in a gold-and-crystal coffin. He later enshrined the body in an elegant mausoleum and built a magnificent city around it that surpassed Athens. In honor of his former king, Ptolemy called it Alexandria."

"What does all this have to do with the Serapes?" asked Lily.

"Please bear with me," replied Redfem gently. "Ptolemy founded a massive museum and library from scratch. The inventory became monumental. His descendants, through Cleopatra, and later successors all continued to acquire manuscripts and art objects until the museum, and especially the library, became one of the largest storehouses of art, science and literature that has ever existed. This vast collection of knowledge lasted until A.D. 391. In that year, Emperor Theodosius and the patriarch of Alexandria, Theophilos, who was a religious nut case, decided all reference to anything except newly fanned Christian principles was paganism. They masterminded the destruction of the library's contents. Statues, fabulous works of art in marble, bronze, gold and ivory, incredible paintings and tapestries, countless numbers of books inscribed on lambskin or papyrus scrolls, even Alexander's corpse: all were to be smashed into dust or burned to ashes. "

"What kind of numbers are we talking about?" Pitt asked.

"The books alone numbered in the hundreds of thousands."

Lily shook her head sadly. "What a terrible waste."

"Only Biblical and church writings were left," continued Redfem. "The entire library and museum was finally leveled after Arab and Islamic rebbels swept Egypt sometime around A.D. 646."

"The earlier masterworks that took centuries to collect were lost, gone forever," Pitt summed up.

"Lost," Redfem agreed. "So historians have thought until now. But if what I just read rings true, the cream of the collection is not gone forever. It lies hidden somewhere."

Lily was confused. "It exists to this day? Smuggled out of Alexandria by the Serapis before the burning?"

"According to the inscriptions on the tablets."

Pitt looked doubtful. "No way the Serapes sneaked off with more than a tiny fraction of the collection. It won't wash. The ship is too small.

Less than forty tons burden. The crew might have carried a few thousand scrolls and a couple of statues into the cargo hold, but nothing like the quanity you're talking about."

Redfem gave Pitt a respectful gaze. "You're,very astute. You have a good knowledge of early ships."

"Let's get back to the Serapes washing up in Greenland," Pitt urged, as Redfem picked up the appropriate pages of Lily's text and shuffled them into order.

"I won't give you a literal translation of fourth-century Latin. Too stiff and formal. Instead, I'll try and relate the text in English vernacular. The first entry is under the Julian calendar date of April

, A.D. 391. The report begins:

"I, Cuccius Rufinus, captain of the Serapes, in the em ploy of Nicias, Greek shipping merchant of the port city Of RhOdeS, have agreed to transport a cargo for Junius Venator of Alexandria. The voyage is said to be long and arduous, and Venator will not disclose our destination.

My daughter, Hypatia, sailed with me this trip and her mother will be very concerned at our lengthy separation.

But Venator is paying twenty times the usual rate, a good fortune that will greatly benefit Nicias as well as myself and the crew.

"The cargo was put on board at night under heavy guard, and quite mysteriously, as I was ordered to remain at the docks with my crew during the loading. Four sol diers under the command of the centurion Dominus Se verus have been commanded to stay on the ship and sail with us.

"I do not like the look of it, but Venator has paid me for the voyage in full, and I cannot go back on my con tract.

"An honest man," said Pitt. "Hard to believe he didn't discover the nature of his cargo."

"He comes to that later. The next few lines are a log of the voyage. He also makes mention of his ship's namesake. I'll skip to where they make their first port.

our god Serapes for providing us with a smooth and fast passage of fourteen days to Carthago Nova where we rested for five days and took on four times our normal supply of provisions. Here we joined Junius Venator's other ships. Most are over two hundred tons burden, some close to three hundred. We total sixteen with Vena tor's flagship. Our sturdy Serapes is the smallest vessel in the fleet."