“To the cradle of fear,” Gabriel said.
“Yes. The cradle of fear. The place every king and sultan and emperor the world over sent to for his guardian beasts, his fearsome defenders of temples and labyrinths, of secrets great or small.”
“And how did this island come to develop this…specialty?” Gabriel said.
“How did the men of Arabia come to tame stallions? Who knows? Homer does not say. He merely tells us that they played this role for longer than man’s memory can tell.”
Gabriel pondered the story. No doubt it had its roots in some germ of truth, but how much or how little those roots resembled the distant branches that had flowered elaborately in the millennia since, there was no way to know. No doubt the early Sri Lankans had bred something, perhaps a variety of fearsome beasts, perhaps ones their visitors from far-flung lands found strange and unfamiliar, and that fact had blossomed in the telling into a reputation for breeding monsters. Or maybe, who knows, the men of Sri Lanka might have been extraordinary sculptors, ones who traveled the world overseeing the creation of monumental statues like that of the Great Sphinx at Giza, and over time their reputation for fashioning beasts of stone and clay got transmuted into a reputation for breeding their living, breathing counterparts. It was easy to imagine how that might happen.
Still…the story, true or false, unquestionably had the power to compel the imagination, to enthrall—and perhaps not just credulous youths such as Steve McQueen here. Even a worldly sort like Lajos DeGroet might find his attention seized by all this talk of holy treasure.
“Do you have any idea what the treasure is that the inscription speaks of? And who it was that was supposed to return it to Taprobane?”
“The story goes,” Tigranes said, “that the men from Taprobane made the long voyage here themselves to collect it, and left behind them the map and the inscription you see as a reminder that they’d been. Directions, if you will, that they might be found again should the need for their services once more arise. But as for what the treasure was, no one knows. Some have speculated that it was wealth that our sphinx had received in tribute, some that it might have been a religious artifact created in her honor. Some…”
“Yes?”
“Some think it refers to some part of the sphinx herself, collected at the time of her death—her heart, perhaps, or her eyes. They were thought to be the seat of her power, you see.”
“Power? What power?”
“All sphinxes were said to have the power to destroy their enemies with a glance,” Tigranes said. “By rendering them physically paralyzed with fear.”
Gabriel thought of the Great Sphinx of Egypt, called Abul-Hôl, the Father of Fear. And his Greek counterpart, called “Strangler” after her method of putting victims to death—perhaps the ancient Greeks had meant not literal, physical strangulation but the inducement of a terror so extreme its victim couldn’t breathe?
The children of the cradle of fear, bringing fear to the four corners of the world.
Gabriel felt a chill go down his spine. Was Lajos DeGroet simply after new trophies for his collection or was he searching for something considerably more sinister—more dangerous? Certainly the amount of firepower he’d flown over to Egypt had suggested something deadlier than your average relic-hunting expedition. But what could this man possibly have hoped to find in the belly of the Sphinx? Some artifact that might give him this legendary power of the sphinx, the power to terrify with a glance? And if so…to what end? To what use would a man in possession of ungodly wealth, a private army, a staggering ego and unmatched ambition put such a power? Gabriel didn’t know the answer—he just knew he was glad DeGroet hadn’t yet found what he was looking for.
But of course now—
Damn it, now he would find it. The one advantage Gabriel had had was that back in Egypt DeGroet hadn’t found the coin in the statue’s mouth. He’d only found the partial map the chamber had contained, and no clue as to where the remainder might be located. But now he knew that Gabriel was on Chios…and soon his men, in searching for the three of them, would stumble upon this temple. And then the rest of the map would be his.
They heard a sound then.
It came from outside, where the tunnel began. It was the sound of a heavy rope uncoiling and slapping against the stone wall. And then a second one.
They all looked at each other.
“Come on,” Gabriel said.
“What are you going to do?” Christos whispered.
“I don’t know,” Gabriel said. “I’ll think of something.”
They retraced their steps through the tunnel, watching the white patch in the distance grow larger as they neared it. They could see the two ropes, hanging in front of the opening, and as they watched, a figure carefully let itself down on one of them in a mountaineering harness. The figure was brightly backlit, so Gabriel couldn’t make out the person’s features; he only hoped this meant he had the benefit on his side of being hidden in relative darkness. He flattened himself against the tunnel wall and drew his Colt, empty though it was. Sometimes you played a weak hand just because all your chips were in the pot and it was the hand you had.
He cocked the pistol loudly. “Set one foot in here and you’re a dead man,” Gabriel said, his voice bristling with as much self-confidence as he could project.
“That’s a hell of a way to greet an old friend,” a familiar voice replied, somewhat unsteadily.
And then Sheba unlatched herself from the rope and stepped into the tunnel.
Gabriel rushed forward. He swept her up in his arms and lifted her off her feet, buried his face in her hair. He could feel that she was trembling. “How…how did you get here?”
“A girl could grow old waiting for you to bring her a pair of shoes.”
He unzipped the pocket of his jacket, found the pair of loafers crumpled beside Andras’ broken cell phone. He took them out. “I got you these.”
“That’s all right,” Sheba said. She took a deep breath, let it out. Her voice steadied. “I took care of myself.”
She had. She was wearing khaki pants and a ribbed white tank top under a lightweight jacket, and on her feet she had what looked like steel-toed climbing boots. Gabriel tossed the loafers aside.
“Sheba,” Gabriel said, switching back to Greek for the purpose of making introductions, “this is Christos.” The young man extended a hand, and she shook it. He seemed to be having some difficulty raising his eyes higher than the snug fabric of her tank top. “And this is Tigranes.”
“Tigranes?” she said. “That’s an interesting name. You know they say that was Homer’s name, originally, before—”
“Before his captivity, yes. I know.” Tigranes smiled. “I am surprised, however, that a young woman such as yourself, a foreigner, would know this.”
“Sheba’s a surprising young woman indeed,” Gabriel said, “and she knows practically everything.” He pulled her to one side. “I think,” he whispered in English, “you just made a friend for life.”
“Who are they?” she whispered back.
“They’re on our side. That’s all that matters.” Gabriel walked closer to the ledge, inspected the ropes. Reaching out, he tugged on each in turn. They were both solidly anchored. But thinking back to Sheba’s terror on the battlements in Hungary, he knew that climbing down the face of a cliff—even a short distance, even on a well-anchored rope—couldn’t have been easy for her.
“Where did you get the equipment?” he asked.
“Same place I picked up your trail. You’d said you were going to Avgonyma, so I followed you there—”
“Barefoot?”