wealth at the sacred site, believing it would not only please whatever power had brought it to them, but that a site so sacred and cursed would protect their treasure from those who sought to steal it. Certainly much of the huge wealth of these kings was unaccounted for after their deaths. If this location exists — and if it can still be found — it would be the greatest ancient treasure hoard in history. Gold, jewels… Priceless.’
‘What happened to the map?’
‘That’s the question that has been asked by every emperor, scholar and treasure seeker for the past two and a half thousand years. In truth, no one knows. The last recorded mention of it is in the fourth century BC, when Alexander the Great died. His kingdom was divided and the Starmap lost. Some believe it was looted and taken to Persia, others that it was hidden away and ended up somewhere within the great library of Alexandria, built in Egypt in the dead king’s honour. The Romans certainly thought so. Julius Caesar burned the library down in pursuit of the Starmap, but never found it. There is even a strong school of thought that the Starmap is the Sacrament, but this text clearly states that they are separate things; two things divided that must one day be united according to this prophecy. I wonder how Oscar came by this.’
She turned to the next page and found her answer. Gabriel read it too, his old anger flaring red when he read the words written on the back of the photograph: This is what we found. This is why we were killed
They reached the end of the message and realized there must be more. Gabriel pulled the candle towards him, holding the next blank page over the flame and moving it across the heat until a drawing began to emerge showing a sprawling network of tunnels and caves that filled two pages of the diary.
‘You wanted to know what it was like inside the Citadel,’ he said. ‘Well, here’s your answer.’
Even in this crude drawing the scale and complexity of the Citadel was awe-inspiring. The map had been drawn in cross sections, showing different levels within the mountain, each getting smaller the higher up they got. On the smallest of these Gabriel saw an outline of a door with the words ‘ forbdn stair ldng to chapel of Scmnt’ written next to it. He had passed through that very door and climbed those stairs. He used it as a reference point and began tracing backwards down other tunnels he had walked, past the door leading out to the hidden garden and descending unfamiliar stairs and corridors to the lowest section of the map where, tucked away in a distant cave, a cross was marked with a skull drawn next to it, like a child’s version of a pirate treasure map.
‘There,’ he said, ‘that is where the Starmap is hidden.’
‘But what’s the significance of this?’ Anata pointed to the symbol marked next to it — XIV — the number fourteen expressed in Roman numerals.
Gabriel stared at the cross and the Roman numerals and realized with a resigned weariness what he had to do. A little under two weeks after he had miraculously escaped from the one place on earth no man but his grandfather had ever got away from, he was going to have to break into the Citadel again to try to recover what Oscar had hidden.
46
The tribute cave had already attracted quite a crowd by the time Athanasius and Brother Axel got there. Monks were gathered in nervous knots, or clearing up stacks of spilled rice and tinned food that had been knocked from the storage shelves by the earthquake, moving them away from the great wooden spindle in the centre of the room that operated the lifting gear.
‘Bring that up again!’ Axel ordered, moving through the crowd towards the brown-cloaked Ascension monks straining against the spokes on the spindle. ‘What were you thinking of, sending the platform down in answer to that bell? Is this the proper time to receive tribute?’ He turned to Athanasius. ‘See what happens when tradition is ignored? Everything starts to unravel.’
One of the brown cloaks kicked the brake into place and turned to Axel. ‘We thought someone might be sending news or assistance following the earthquake.’
‘And how do you know it was an earthquake?’ Has anyone confirmed that? What if the disturbance we felt was another bomb, designed to flush us out further?’ Axel stalked over to the wall and pointed at the small TV screen that usually displayed an image of whatever was below. It was still blank following the partial power failure. ‘You cannot see who is ringing that bell and yet you are prepared to send the platform down to them. You could be hauling anything up here.’
Athanasius stepped forward. ‘I think it’s safe to assume that what we all experienced was indeed an earthquake.’ He pointed through one of the slits cut into the outer rock of the mountain. ‘See for yourself — the city is mostly dark. Their power must have failed also. If another bomb had been aimed purely at us, I doubt it would have affected the entire city. And the tremors we felt were long, not short and sharp like an explosion. I think we all know what an explosion feels like.’
Axel stared into the dark night where the bright city usually shone. There were only a few isolated patches of light to show there was anything out there at all. He turned back to the assembled crowd, his eyes darting from face to face as if he was mentally taking names. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘send it down, but I want this room cleared of all but essential personnel before you bring it up again. And do not start the ascension until I have guards in place. Earthquake or not, I do not want to take any chances.’
The Ascension monks took the strain and released the brake. The wooden platform settled on to the suspended ropes with a sailing-ship creak and slowly sank from view.
Though the Citadel had undergone many modifications and improvements over the years, the mechanics and operation of the Ascension platform had remained mostly unchanged. Tens of thousands of years previously, when tribesmen travelled from far and wide to give tribute to the holy men of the mountain, this was how they had been received. Gifts of food or other offerings were placed on the wooden platform and hoisted up by hand into what had come to be known as the tribute cave.
It was also how fresh blood entered the mountain.
The novices were hauled up one at a time in a ceremony known as the Ascension, which took place at the summer and winter solstice. The act of a man being elevated by the efforts of the monks inside the mountain was deliberately symbolic and the reason the system had never been updated. On some days, when the low cloud cut the top off the mountain, an ascending novice would literally rise into it and disappear as if he had gone straight to heaven. It was a spectacular piece of sacred theatre and one that still drew huge crowds whenever it was performed. So famous was the ritual that people would even gather to witness the weekly delivery of supplies, eagerly snapping pictures of sacks of flour and crates of live chickens rising up into the mountain on the creaky wooden platform.
Few, however, would be witnessing the Ascension today. The old town was deserted and the tribute cave had emptied rapidly following Brother Axel’s orders. The only people remaining now were the heads of the guilds, two Ascension monks labouring at the wheel, and five red-cloaked guards who had emerged one by one from the dark and now stood by the edge of the loading bay, their hands tucked into the wide sleeves of their cassocks where their weapons were kept.
A piece of white cloth appeared on the main rope and spooled out from around the spindle, signalling that the platform was about to reach the bottom.
‘Hold steady,’ one of the Ascension monks commanded, taking the strain and slowing the wheel to ease the rope out ever more gradually until the marker drew level with a notch carved into the stone ceiling.
A hundred metres below them the platform touched down on the smooth flat surface of the offering stone. One of the brown cloaks pulled on the ratchet lever to lock the wheel in place then rested against the huge spindle and watched the summoning bell swing to a stop.
The silence in the cave was profound after the solemn clanging. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. All eyes were fixed on the ropes snaking into the darkness, twitching slightly as something was loaded on to the platform below. Then a single loud clang rang through the cave, signalling that whatever was down there was loaded and ready to rise. The brown cloaks took the strain again, kicked the brake loose and started to haul the platform up the side of the mountain. ‘It’s not too heavy,’ one of them said, heaving on the wheel with a well-practised rhythm. ‘It’ll be here in a couple of minutes.’
‘Just bring it up, slow and steady,’ Axel replied, his eyes fixed on the rectangle of night in the floor of the cave. He stepped closer to the edge, his hand reaching automatically into his sleeve.
