The Tiger Warrior (35 page)

“A cemetery?” Costas said from behind. “They look like tombstones.”

“Possibly,” Jack said. “But there’s lot of shamanistic stuff here too. It goes on for miles, where boulders have tumbled down the slopes and come to rest near the lakeshore. Katya thinks the earliest petroglyphs date from the Bronze Age, from the late second millennium BC, but nomads were carving here right through the period of the ancient Silk Route, to the later first millennium AD. As well as the nomads, traders made their way east or west among these boulders for thousands of years; stopping here after surviving that pass or before risking it. In addition to all the nomad art, there’s a chance of finding something really amazing, inscriptions made by those people—Bactrian, Sogdian, Persian, Chinese, you name it. Those traders are what give this route its place in history, yet they hardly left an imprint at all. Any discovery could be a huge revelation.”

Jack shaded his eyes and looked across the field of boulders, away from the lake and back toward the pass. The late afternoon sun was in his eyes, and it was impossible to see much, flashes of light off the weatherworn surfaces of the rock, shadows where there were gullies and ravines. It would be very easy to get lost in this place, and very easy never to be found again.

“There they are,” Costas said. “I can see Katya. Come on.” Costas looked faintly out of place in his baggy shorts, oversized Hawaiian shirt, hiking boots and wraparound aviator sunglasses, but he was surprisingly agile and leapt nimbly from rock to rock. He reached a tall man in a felt hat who stood up among the boulders and shook hands. Jack joined them and shook hands too. The man was about his own age, with blue eyes, his face etched by sun and wind in the way of steppeland people. Katya stood behind him, looking as if she also had taken on the hue of the landscape. She caught Jack’s eye and flashed him a quick smile, but her expression gave little away. She turned to the man. “Meet Altamaty,” she said. “He’s curator of the Cholpon-Ata open-air petroglyph museum. As well as his native Kyrgyz, he speaks Russian and Pashtun, but he’s only just started to learn English. He’s got diving experience with the old Soviet navy. He wants to be involved in the underwater investigations at the eastern end of the lake. I spoke to you about him, Jack.”

“Where’s the museum?” Costas asked.

Katya gestured around. “You’re standing in it. It’s probably the largest museum in the world. And the most under-resourced. It’s basically a one-man show.”

Jack looked at Katya. She was wearing faded military-surplus trousers and a khaki T-shirt, her forearms caked with dirt. Her long black hair was tied back and her face was deeply tanned, accentuating her high cheekbones. She looked more tired and weatherworn than the last time he had seen her, at the conference three months ago, but the color suited her. Jack knew that her mother had come from this area, and her face seemed at one with the tall Kyrgyz man beside her.

“I’ve already briefed our people about Altamaty,” Jack said. “As soon as the Chinook’s airworthy, Ben and Andy are flying from Bishkek straight to the old Soviet naval base at the eastern end of the lake. The Americans have already got things up and running there, and I want divers in the water as soon as possible to show what we can do. Rebecca’s going with them.”

“Your daughter is with you?” Katya said.

Jack had told Katya about Rebecca for the first time at the conference. “I was going to bring her here, but not after what happened to your uncle in the jungle. This place might be over the danger threshold. And she’ll have enough on her plate with the guys on the lake. This is her first IMU expedition, and I want it to be a good experience, especially so soon after losing her mother.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Katya said.

“The maintenance team thought the chopper would be grounded for another day. I’m hoping they’ll get there soon enough for things to be up and running before we arrive. Last time we were diving was in Egypt a week ago. I’ve never dived in a central Asian lake. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I might take a raincheck until I pass a Geiger counter over the water,” Costas said, rubbing his stubble. “Forty-odd years of Soviet submersible and torpedo testing. I know exactly how they fueled their gear. It was my master’s thesis at MIT.”

“The biggest problem is the old Soviet early warning stations on the mountaintops, which were nuclear-powered so they could be left unmanned,” Katya said. “Locals have raided them and come back with pockets full of uranium, and been dead within a week. The nightmare is that any of this stuff finds its way onto the black market. It’s why the Americans are so keen to take over cleanup of the old naval base. It’s not so much environmental concern, but the war on terrorism.”

Jack thought he saw a flash of light in the distance. He glanced up at the boulder-strewn slope behind them. It could have been a reflection off glass or metal, or just a trick of the eye. He shaded his eyes against the sun, looking hard, then turned to Katya. “Anyone else out here?”

“The odd shepherd, sometimes a hunter who disappears up there and never seems to come back.” She turned to Altamaty and spoke to him in Kyrgyz. He followed Jack’s gaze up the ridge, then spoke quickly to Katya. “Altamaty has eagle eyes,” she said. “He says he saw breath from a horse when it was cold early this morning, far up on the ridge. The hunters sometimes stay in one place for days, waiting for deer.”

“You’re sure it’s a hunter?” Jack said.

Katya eyed him. “Who else do you think it could be?”

“Are you armed?” Costas asked.

“Altamaty has his old service Makarov pistol and an SKS rifle he liberated from navy stores here when the Soviet Empire collapsed. We go hunting together. It supplements the mutton that’s the staple out here.”

“I forgot,” Costas murmured. “A palaeolinguist who knows about guns.”

Katya gestured toward a cluster of boulders about fifty meters away, where the top of a tractor was just visible above the rocks. “Come on,” she said. “The light’s perfect now, just as it was yesterday when we found it. And Altamaty’s got some stew simmering in a big pot outside the yurt. You’re in for a traditional Kyrgyz feast this evening.”

“I’m starving,” Costas said. “And I know mutton’s one of Jack’s favorites.” Jack gave him a withering look and swallowed hard. It was the one thing he had been dreading. He could stomach virtually anything, except boiled sheep. He had lived for several years as a child in New Zealand, and had once overindulged. Since then even the smell made him feel nauseous. He knew it was a matter of the utmost importance that he conquer the problem now. His manhood was at stake. He smiled at Altamaty, then followed Katya along a track between the boulders. The ground was hard, baked like brick, with only a few tufts of coarse vegetation growing around the edge of the boulders. It was as if a sea of mud and rock had slid down the mountainside and solidified in one mass, embedding the boulders. Jack saw more rocks with carved designs on them, some so eroded they were barely discernible. He stopped for a moment to peer at one, and Costas hurried past him to Katya. “I meant to say,” Costas said quietly, “I’m sorry about your uncle.”

Katya glanced at him and nodded, saying nothing. She walked ahead, and they followed her in silence through the rocks until they came to the tractor. Costas stopped dead in his tracks, like a boy who had just been given a dream present. “A four sixty-five,” he murmured reverently. “A Nuffield four sixty-five. This was why I got into engineering. I had a summer job on a farm in Canada. This was the first-ever diesel four-cylinder I disassembled.” Altamaty opened the engine cowling, and the two men peered inside. Costas glanced at Jack. “I think I can bond with this guy. I think we just found a common language.”

“No way,” Jack said. “We did not come here to disassemble a tractor.” Costas sighed, patted Altamaty regretfully on the shoulder, then followed Jack to where Katya was kneeling in front of a boulder a few meters away. They could see where it had been dragged away by the tractor, revealing another boulder that had been partly buried. Between the two was a marked-off excavation area of about four by two meters. In the center was a carefully excavated pile of smaller rocks, about a meter across and two meters long. Jack squatted down and stared at the markings on the freshly exposed boulder. It was why Katya had called him here. “Well I’ll be damned,” he murmured.

“Another rock carving,” Costas said. “It looks better preserved than the others.”

“Not just another rock carving,” Jack said. “It’s fantastic.” His mind was reeling. It was one thing hearing it on the phone from Katya, but another thing seeing it for real. He felt the power of the past as he touched it.
Letters in Latin
. “It’s the same number as in the jungle shrine, the same symbol. XV Ap. The Fifteenth Apollinaris legion.”

Costas knelt down beside Jack. “I can see it. And that Roman inscription from the cave in Uzbekistan. The one Katya’s uncle recorded.”

“It’s definitely the same sculptor,” Katya said. “I’ve photographed this and scanned it against the image from the cave. He has a distinctive way of doing his finials, ending each line by angling the chisel back and knocking out a triangular chunk of rock.”

“A citizen-soldier,” Jack murmured. “One who remembered his trade, and still practiced it with care. He was the one they called upon when they needed to make an inscription.”

“In the cave in Uzbekistan, I think it was a casual marking, ‘Licinius was here,’” Katya said. “Maybe the cave was where they really felt they had escaped from Merv, where the desert of Uzbekistan became the foothills of central Asia. From there, the Silk Route follows the ravines and mountain passes that eventually lead to this place. But this inscription here by the lake was for a different reason. You can barely make out the first line above the legion inscription, but it’s a different personal name, I think Appius. And look at those two letters at the bottom.”

“D M,” Jack said, tracing his fingers down.
“Dis Manibus
. That means given to Dis, the god of the underworld. A funerary inscription.” He glanced at the pile of rocks between the boulders. “This is a grave.”

Costas peered at the rock. “And that symbol above the inscription. It’s an eagle, isn’t it? Isn’t that what we saw in the jungle shrine?”

“It’s the same legion,” Jack murmured. “Incredible.”

“It’s exactly what I dreamed we’d find,” Katya said. “The burial place of someone who died here, or in the pass below. For some, this must have been a place for exultation, for recuperation before the next stage in the journey. For others, it would have been a place to die. There must have been many deaths among the traders, Persians, Bactrians, Sogdians, Chinese. But
Roman? It’s
astonishing.”

“Did you find anything in the grave?” Costas asked.

“It was a hasty burial, as you might expect,” she replied. “The ground’s rock-hard and there isn’t enough wood here to fuel a cremation. The body was covered with stones, maybe cut turf That inscription would only have taken an hour or so to cut, for a skilled mason.”

“A skilled mason?” Costas said. “Are you really sure about that?”

“There’s no doubt about it.” Jack traced his fingers over the symbols. “He had somehow fashioned a chisel with the right width of head, and he knew precisely where to place each blow. He knew the characteristics of this kind of rock, that it could take a glancing blow without fragmenting the surface. It’s what I said in the jungle shrine. A citizen-soldier.”

“You think this is the same guy?” Costas said.

“Let’s wait to see what else Katya has to show us.”

Katya looked at him, took a deep breath and pointed to a wooden finds crate on the ground. “The soil’s very alkaline, and any bones would have disappeared long ago. But when the tractor dislodged the boulder, it revealed this.” She drew back the cloth covering the interior of the crate.

Costas whistled. “That’s some weapon.” Inside was a magnificent socketed halberd-head, dull silver in color with patches of green where it had corroded. On one side was a vicious curved blade extending outward about ten inches, and on the other side a narrower straight blade, the shape of a cut-throat razor.

“I’ve seen one like that in the British Museum,” Jack exclaimed. “Late Warring States, early Western Han period?”

Katya nodded. “The razor-shaped blade is similar in proportions to Han-period swords, which look like Japanese samurai swords.”

“Isn’t this bronze?” Costas said. “Wouldn’t that be too early for us?”

Katya shook her head. “Not necessarily. Iron was introduced in China by the fifth century BC, but the early cast iron was brittle so bronze was still used. And this bronze has been coated with chromium, which would have made it harder, better to hold a sharp edge.”

“And a weapon like this might have been prized, passed down the generations,” Jack murmured, touching the blade. “It could have been made in the early Han period, not long after the time of the First Emperor. But it could have survived in use for two centuries or more, to the period when we think these Romans came here.”

“But what’s a prestigious Chinese weapon doing in this place?” Costas said. “A passing Imperial Chinese warrior dumps it on a Roman grave? I don’t get it.” He gazed at Katya, who stared back at him, her eyes gleaming. “Ah,” Costas said. “That’s uncannily like the look Jack gives me. It means you’ve found something else.”

Katya picked up a small plastic finds tray from beside the crate. “The halberd was in the center of the grave, as if it had been placed on the torso of the body. These two objects were where the head might have been.” There were two coins in the tray, one silver and one corroded green, a disk with a square hole in the center. Jack took the silver coin, holding it up in the fading sunlight. “It’s a silver tetradrachm of Alexander the Great!”

“And it’s uncirculated,” Katya said. “It’s like those Roman coins from south India you were telling me about, uncirculated bullion.”

Jack passed the coin to Costas. They could see the portrait on the obverse, the familiar head of Alexander wearing the mane of a lion, the classical form giving sudden reality to the idea of travelers from the ancient Graeco-Roman world coming this far east, to the very borderlands with China. Costas rotated the coin, peering at the portrait again, and a puzzled look returned to his face. “If my history’s right, Alexander the Great lived in the later fourth century BC. That’s a hundred years before the First Emperor, and three hundred years before our Romans. There must have been old Greek coins that found their way out here, used as bullion, jewelry. But they would have been worn.” He looked dubiously at the Latin inscription on the boulder, then back at the coin. “Does this mean we’re not looking at a Roman here after all, but at a soldier of Alexander the Great?”