'Caimans are the only animals in this area with even a remote chance of defeating a rapa in a fight,' Krauss said.
'Primitive tribes do not have rifles or trip wires, so they look for other methods of keeping their feline enemies at bay.'
Beyond the moat—-completely surrounded by it—Race saw another section of low foliage, beyond which lay a small collection of thatch huts nestled underneath a stand of tall trees.
It was a village of some sort.
The short stretch of foliage lay between the village and the moat, gave the cluster of primitive huts a quaint, almost mystical look. Some torches burned on high sticks, bathing the little town in a haunting orange glow. Apart from the burning torches, however, the village appeared to be completely deserted.
A twig snapped.
Race spun, and immediately saw the pack of rapas standing on the muddy pathway about ten yards behind his group. Somehow, they had managed to get past the urine- soaked skulls and now they were standing a short distance behind Race and the others—watching, waiting.
A narrow log-bridge lay flat on the ground on the village
side of the moat. A length of rope was attached to one end of it in a manner not unlike that which had applied to the rope bridge down at the rock tower. It stretched out over the moat to Race's side, where it was tied to a stake in the ground.
Van Lewen and Doogie pulled on the rope, manoeuvred the log-bridge into position so that it now spanned the moat.
The eight of them then crossed the bridge and entered the section of low foliage surrounding the village.
Once they were all over the bridge, Van Lewen and Doogie quickly pulled it back onto the village side of the moat, so that the rapas could not follow them oven
They all came out from the foliage together, emerging onto a wide, town square-like clearing. They cast the beams of their flashlights over the thatch huts and tall trees that surrounded the bare dirt clearing.
At the northern end of the square stood a bamboo cage, its four corners comprised of four thick tree trunks. Beyond the cage—carved out of the muddy wall of the moat—was a large pit about thirty feet square and fifteen feet deep. A criss-crossing bamboo gate separated the pit from the moat itself.
In the very centre of the town square, however, stood the most arresting sight of all.
It was a shrine of some sort, a large wooden altar-like structure that had been carved out of the trunk of the widest tree in the village.
It was filled with nooks and small alcoves. Inside the alcoves Race saw a collection of relics that was nothing short of spectacular—a golden crown embedded with sapphires, silver and gold statues of Incan warriors and maidens, var ious stone idols, and one gigantic ruby that was easily the size of a man's fist.
Even in the semi-darkness, the shrine shone, its treasures glistening in the moonlight. Dense clusters of leaves hung down from the trees around it, framing it on either side like curtains in a theatre.
In the very centre of the wooden shrine—right where its heart would have been—sat the most elaborate nook of all.
It was covered by a small curtain and was quite obviously the centrepiece of the whole altar. But whatever occupied it lay hidden from view.
Nash strode directly over to it. Race knew what he was thinking. With a sharp yank, Nash pulled the curtain cover ing the nook aside.
And he saw it. Race saw it too, and gasped.
It was the idol.
The real idol.
The Spirit of the People.
The sight of it took Race's breath away. Strangely, the first thing that struck him about the idol was what an excellent job Bassario had done in replicating it—his fake idol had been a perfect reproduction. But no matter how hard he had tried, Bassario had been unable to reproduce the aura that surrounded the real idol.
It was majesty personified.
The ferocity of the rapa's head inspired terror. The glint of the purple-and-black thyrium stone inspired wonder. The whole shining idol just inspired awe.
Entranced, Nash reached out to pick it up—at exactly the same moment as a sharpened stone arrowhead appeared next to his head.
The arrow was held by a very angry-looking native who had stepped out from the curtain-like foliage to the right of the shrine. He held the arrow poised in his longbow, its drawstring stretched taut back to his ear.
Van Lewen made to raise his G-11, just as the forest all around him came alive and out of it stepped no fewer than fifty natives.
Nearly all of them brandished bows and arrows, all of them aimed squarely at Race and the others.
Van Lewen still had his gun up. Doogie didn't. He just stood rooted to the spot a few yards away, frozen.
An uneasy stand-off materialised. Van Lewen—armed with a gun that could kill twenty men in an instant— facing off against the fifty-plus natives armed with bows and arrows that were all ready to be fired.
