Spiral: Book One of the Spiral in Time (54 page)

Maiden Castle

July 1, 2006

Aubrey Clarke leaned heavily on his cane. His first day back at the dig and he was already exhausted from just climbing the path to Maiden Castle. He took a shallow breath, felt dizzy, and sat down in Germaine’s canvas chair. He wasn’t even supposed to be here; his doctor had insisted on a full month away from work to recover. But there was a lot at stake, starting with his and Germaine’s professional reputations.

Today had started off badly with a phone call from Nigel Mallory.

“I heard about Dr. O’Neill’s accident and since I was here, I offered my services to Robert.” Mallory’s high nasal voice was grating in the best of circumstances. But this news was the worst. Sir Robert Fletcher was Chairman of English Heritage and, apparently, a friend of Nigel Mallory. He was a visiting summer lecturer at Cambridge and Sir Robert had appointed him to oversee the dig at Maiden Castle while Aubrey recuperated. Aubrey would have to work with Mallory, but only until he was back here full time.

Of all people to send, Aubrey fumed. In the close knit international community of archaeology, Mallory was never a friend of Aubrey’s and, what’s more, he was Germaine O’Neill’s antagonistic new boss at Cal. He was the worst possible choice for this dig.

On the phone, Mallory went into some tirade about “things not being quite right at the dig. Robert sent me up there to have a look about, and frankly, I am concerned.”

Aubrey closed his eyes and tried to block the memory of that conversation. One of Conan’s Shovelbums came in and placed a pot of tea by his side. The flowery scent of Earl Grey floated in the air of the small prefab hut that now served as a secure room for the dig at Maiden Castle. Anything excavated that was considered exceptional or valuable was locked up in this room. Only two people had keys: the project manager and the director of the site. Conan was acting project manager now, at least until Germaine recovered.

“Just helping out. Keeping an eye on things for old English Heritage. I’ve been up there several times looking things over,” Mallory said cheerfully this morning. “I think the dig is contaminated. There are some things that look suspicious. For instance, that Egyptian ankh amulet. Really, Aubrey, I thought this was a
Celtic
burial!” He laughed.

Aubrey heard the sneering tone in Mallory’s voice when he said the word “Celtic”. Germaine had told him what Mallory thought of the misleading label so many people were proud of and loved.

But there
were
a few valid questions and that’s why he came here today. Aubrey winced as he recalled Mallory’s list of questionable things

“We need to have the sex of the skeleton’s bones rechecked. That enormous gold torq—it’s hard to imagine a woman carrying that weight on her neck. O’Neill must have moved the original placement of the torq. You know there is another set of bones? Not articulated but I think we should check it out. Probably a male. Bound to answer a lot of questions.”

Mallory went on, nattering about all the odd things at the site: the unusual burial chamber, the obvious La Tène craftsmanship on the engraved scabbard and sword found outside the chamber. Mallory acted as though Germaine had planted those things in the burial chamber. And his parting salvo had left Aubrey with no response.

“No one notified Sir Robert about anything. It’s part of their rules to always know what is going on. It all smacks of sensationalism, not good archaeology.”

He was right. Aubrey had been in the hospital and, as far as he could tell, neither Germaine nor Conan Ryan had told anyone at English Heritage they were going in to explore a potentially dangerous site. And look what happened. But Germaine wasn’t here to defend herself, and Conan insisted he had tried to stop her.

Mallory was a nasty piece of work. It was clear he was going to use this dig as a platform for his own agenda and a tool to undermine Germaine’s credibility.

Lord, he was tired. Aubrey rested his hand on his chest over his heart and dozed off for a minute. He caught himself with a start. This was no time to start acting like a sick old man—he had work to do.

He relit his cigar and blew a small, guilty ring of smoke. They told him to quit, but it concentrated his mind, and he was not about to give it up. He would just not tell his doctor. He leaned back in the director’s chair and gazed at the table.

All the pieces of a puzzle lay before him. The skeleton from the burial chamber—nicknamed the Warrior Queen of Mai Dun—was neatly packed in a pile of carefully labeled cardboard boxes. Each bone lay cushioned by cotton wool in its box. Except the skull. And that sat on the table, staring at him, a gaze that stretched across thousands of years.

Damn. Germaine had found it and now he was left with all these questions. He fervently wished she was here.

The burial site had been such a dramatic find that the attention of the archaeological world and the media cast a bright light on everything that happened here. First the explosion, then Germaine’s daring exploration of a magnificent burial chamber, and her near death in the chamber’s collapse. It was the kind of drama usually seen only on the Hollywood screen. Pictures of Germaine, in all her red-haired glory, had added to the media frenzy: they had billed her as the female counterpart to
Raiders of the Lost Ark!

He had a feeling it was going to get very uncomfortable in the spotlight.

Now English Heritage and the British Museum wanted to construct a replica of the burial chamber as a centerpiece of their new blockbuster exhibit next year:
Druids, Celts and Farmers
:
Britain’s Iron Age
. Every archaeologist in Britain was anxious to have some example of their own work and discoveries included in that exhibit.

Except him. He wasn’t ready yet for the scrutiny of his colleagues; there were too many unanswered questions about this find. And he had Nigel Mallory snooping around, questioning everything, legitimate or not. Aubrey looked into the skull’s hollow eyes, and wished it could talk to him like the disembodied head of some medieval saint, magically alive and conversant even after being separated from its body. Legends or not,
this
skull was not talking.

He opened the locked chest that held the most precious artifacts found in the burial chamber: the stunning jewelry, the huge gold torq, the small gold ankh. How in the hell could he explain the ankh? Where did this woman come from? Was she even Celtic? What if she was Egyptian or African or Greek? She had to be Celtic to be in English Heritage’s exhibit. He would be laughed out of Britain and accused of fraud if she was not a Celt.

So he had to make sure; their professional reputations were on the line.

Aubrey blew another smoke ring and watched it drift up to the metal ceiling. He conjured up a vision of Germaine. He could almost see her: pale cheeks, hair coming undone, making a long list of diagnostic tests of everything they needed to know. She was good at keeping things on track and brilliant at analyzing artifacts. They were good partners. And for the umpteenth time, he silently thanked her father, Jack O’Neill, for bringing her into his life. Even these many years after Jack’s death, Aubrey still missed his friend’s great mind and daring, adventuresome nature. Now he had Germaine, who was everything like Jack and more. And that could be troublesome at times—like now.

He leaned back in the chair and felt the slow, rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat. It was reassuringly not erratic or beating wildly, like the day he was taken to hospital. He got up from the chair and filled his mug with hot tea, every Englishman’s addiction. Damn his doctor for forbidding it! And no champagne either. They were trying to take all the fun out of life.

He sipped his tea and felt the welcome lift of caffeine. It was his first cup today and he immediately felt more alert.

His book bag sat in the corner. Germaine had carried it up here the day he had taken ill. He still felt weak and vaguely indecisive. Not his usual self at all.

He dragged it over and opened it up. Neatly stacked inside were Sir Mortimer Wheeler’s classic tome on Maiden Castle and two other books. Of course. His intuition had brought him right to what he needed: Bryan Sykes’s book about mitochondrial DNA. Aubrey remembered his lecture at the conference in London. Sykes claimed to be able to trace woman’s mDNA back in time to the original seven Clan Mothers, and find the age and ancient origins of long dead bones. Perhaps he could tell if the skeleton was Celtic. If there was anyone who could answer his questions, it was this man and his DNA lab up at Oxford.

Some favorite words from Aubrey’s distant cousin, Winston Churchill, popped into his thoughts:
Never worry about action, but only about inaction.

Well, old Winston knew how to take charge. He would never hang around being indecisive and wringing his hands.

Aubrey opened the door, a halo of smoke around his balding head.

“Call down to my driver for the car. I’m going up to Oxford for the day.”

Ian waited until he was sure Sir Aubrey was gone. He checked the campsite. Conan had gone off somewhere with Nigel Mallory. Mallory had made a bloody pest of himself, demanding to see everything about the dig, almost as though he thought they were concealing something. Ian carefully picked open the lock on the secure room door. He was good at this; no one would ever be able to tell. Just in case, he made sure he left no fingerprints and wiped the lock clean.

The air inside was stuffy and smelled of Sir Aubrey’s cigar. Ian flicked on the overhead light. All the finds were laid in trays and on shelves that lined the room. A special chest held the jewelry and the golden torq. Ian looked at the torq with greedy eyes. It would bring a high price on the black market, but too easy to trace back to him. A long work table stood in the middle of the room. Ian pulled out several trays. Each artifact had a numbered identifying tag. It was all there, of course, except the skeleton and skull Sir Aubrey had taken to Oxford. There was nothing that resembled a papyrus scroll.

Ian quickly scanned the carefully notated finds record book. No papyrus was mentioned.

He felt awful. His money had run out and he needed more OxyContin. Lord Dorset might give him a few pounds, but that would go fast. Maybe Conan Ryan. He had stolen something from the dig—Ian saw him.

There was a noise outside and the sound of two men talking. Conan and Mallory! Ian closed the finds book and started replacing the few items he had removed. His hands trembled, and he dropped a plastic bag. Nothing in it except a few stones that fell on the floor. He picked them up and started for the door. His foot sent one of the stones he had missed skidding across the floor. He grabbed it and stuck it in his pocket. No need to arouse suspicion. Leave everything neat, untouched. Outside, the sky had grown dark with an approaching storm. He gave a quick glance around and slipped away into the shadows.

OXFORD ANCESTORS

Oxford

The 2,500 year old skull sat on the table, casting a royal inscrutable look at Sir Aubrey and Bryan Sykes. Aubrey had just finished telling Sykes about his dilemma.