The sword itself lay on perfumed velvet. He reached inside and placed his hand on the hilt, his fingers sliding smoothly between the beaten gold basket and grip. The blade itself was hidden, sheathed in a magnificent gold- and gem-encrusted scabbard.
Carefully, he drew the scabbarded sword from the box. The velvet on which the sword lay dissolved instantly to a cloud of purple dust.
He raised the sword—noting its heaviness with astonishment—and brought it carefully into the light.
The scabbard and hilt were of Byzantine workmanship, fashioned of heavy gold, dating to perhaps the eighth or ninth century, an exceedingly rare, rapierlike design. The repousse and filigree were astonishingly delicate; in his vast studies, Neidelman had never seen finer.
He raised the scabbard and turned it to catch the light, feeling his heart almost stop as he did so. The face of the scabbard was thick with cabochon sapphires of a depth, color, and clarity that seemed impossible. He wondered what earthly force could bring such rich color to a gemstone.
He turned his attention to the hilt. The knuckle bow and quillion sported four astonishing rubies, each equal to the famous De Long Star, which Neidelman knew was considered the most perfect gemstone in existence. But embedded at the bottom of the pommel was a great double-star ruby that far surpassed the De Long in size, color, and symmetry. The stone, Neidelman mused as he turned the hilt in the light, had no equal on earth— none.
Decorating the ricasso, grip rings, and counterguard were a dazzling array of sapphires in a rainbow of colors—blacks, oranges, midnight blues, whites, greens, pinks, and yellows, every one a perfect double star. Once again, never had he seen such rich, deep colors. Not in his most febrile dreams had he imagined such gemstones. Each was utterly unique, each would command any price on the market. But to have them all set together in such a singular piece of Byzantine goldwork was inconceivable. Such an object had never existed in the world, nor could it exist again; it was without peer.
With an absolute clarity of mind, Neidelman could see that his vision of the sword had not been misplaced. If anything, he had underestimated its power. This was an artifact that could change the world.
Now, at last, the moment had come. The hilt and the scabbard were extraordinary: the blade itself must be beyond conception. Grasping the hilt in his right hand, and the scabbard in his left, he began to draw out the sword with exquisite slowness.
The flood of intense pleasure changed first to perplexity, then shock, then wonderment. What emerged from the scabbard was a pitted, flattened, deformed piece of metal. It was scaly and mottled, oxidized to a strange, purplish-black color, with inclusions of some white substance. He drew it to its length and held it upright, gazing at the misshapen blade—indeed, the word "blade" hardly described it at all. He wondered, remotely, what it could mean. Over the years his mind had imagined this moment a hundred, even a thousand, times. Each time, the sword had looked different.
But never had it looked like this.
He reached out and stroked the rough metal, wondering at its curious warmth. Perhaps the sword had been caught in a fire and melted, then refitted with a new hilt. But what kind of fire would do this? And what kind of metal was it? Not iron—it would have rusted orange—and not silver, which turned black when oxidized. Neither platinum nor gold oxidized at all. And it was far, far too heavy to be tin or any of the baser metals.
What metal oxidized purple?
He turned the sword again, and passed it through the air, and as he did so he recalled the Christian legend of the archangel St. Michael.
An idea formed within him.
Several times, late at night, he had dreamed the sword buried at the base of the Water Pit was, quite literally, the sword of legend: the sword of St. Michael himself, conqueror of Satan. In the dream, when he gazed upon the sword, he'd suffered a blinding conversion, like St. Paul on the road to Damascus. He had taken a curious kind of comfort in the fact that his rich imagination always faltered at this point. Nothing he could conceive was extraordinary enough to justify the veneration and dread that filled the ancient documents mentioning the sword.
But if St. Michael—the Archangel of the Sword—had fought Satan, his weapon would have been scorched and melted in the course of battle. Such a sword would be unlike any other.
As was the thing he now held in his hands.
He gazed at it anew, wonder and fear and uncertainty mingling within him. If this was such a sword—and what other explanation could there be?—then it was evidence, it was proof, of another world; of something beyond the material. The resurrection of such a sword would be a spectacular event.
Yes, yes, he nodded to himself. With such a sword, he could cleanse the world; he could sweep away the spiritual bankruptcy, give the fatal thrust to the world's decaying religions and their dying priesthoods, establish something new for a new millennium. His holding the sword was no accident; he had won it with his sweat and his blood; he had proven himself worthy of it. The sword was the proof he had been longing for his entire life: his treasure, above any other.
With trembling arm he rested the heavy weapon on the open lid of the casket. Once again he found himself astonished by the contrast between the supernatural loveliness of the hilt and the twisted ugliness of the blade. But now it had a kind of wonderful awfulness; a delicious, an almost holy kind of hideousness.
It was his now. And he had all the time in the world to consider—and perhaps, in time, comprehend—its strange and terrible beauty.
He carefully slid the blade back into its scabbard, glancing over at the casket as he did so. He would bring it to the surface, as well; the casket had its own importance, bound up inseparably with the sword's history. Looking over his shoulder, he was pleased to see that Magnusen had at last lowered the bucket into the chamber and was loading it with sacks of coins, slowly, like an automaton.
He returned his attention to the casket, and the one iron band that remained, rusted in place around one side. It was a strange way to strap down such a casket. Surely it would have been easier to bolt the straps to the floor of the treasure chamber, instead of running them underneath. What were they attached to below?
He backed up and kicked the last iron band, freeing the casket. The band broke away and shot down through the hole with amazing force, as if it had been attached to a great weight.
Suddenly there was a shudder, and the treasure chamber gave a great lurch. The right end of the floor dropping sickeningly, like an airplane plunging in violent turbulence. Rotten crates, canvas bags, and kegs tumbled from their positions along the left-hand wall, bursting upon the floor, showering gemstones, gold dust, and pearls. Stacks of gold bars leaned over heavily, then toppled in a great crash. Neidelman was thrown against the casket and he reached out for the hilt of the sword, ears ringing with Magnusen's screams, his eyes wide with astonishment.
Chapter 58
The lift's electronic motor whined as it sank into the Pit. Streeter stood in one corner, gun in hand, forcing Rankin and Bonterre close to the opposite edge.
"Lyle, you must listen," Bonterre pleaded. "Roger says there is a huge void underneath us. He saw everything on the sonar screen. The Pit and the treasure chamber are built on top of—"
"You can tell your friend Hatch about it," said Streeter. "If he's still alive."
"What have you done with him?"
Streeter raised the barrel. "I know what you were planning."
"Mon dieu, you are just as paranoid—"
"Shut up. I knew Hatch couldn't be trusted, I knew from the moment I set eyes on him. Sometimes the Captains a little naive that way. He's a good man, and he trusts people. That's why he's always needed me. I bided my time. And time proved me right. As for you, bitch, you chose the wrong side. And so did you." Streeter waved the gun in Rankin's direction.