Excavation

Philip Sykes, the senior grad student, lay sprawled on a cot, a cold rag across his eyes. His irritation at being left out of the discovery still clearly rankled him. “Wrong,” he said bitingly, not moving from where he lay. “It translates, Christ protect us. Not them.” He followed his assessment with a disdainful noise.

Maggie sighed. It was no wonder Philip knew Latin so well. Just another reason to hate the dead language. He was forever a font of trivial knowledge, ready at any instance to correct the other students’ errors. But where he excelled in facts, he lagged in on-site experience-hence, the team was burdened with him now. He needed to clock dig hours before he could earn his Ph.D. After that, Maggie suspected the wanker would never leave the ivy halls of Harvard, his alma mater, where his deceased father’s chair in archaeology surely awaited him. The Ivy League was still one big boys’ club. And Philip, son of an esteemed colleague, had a key.

Stretching her shoulders, she moved closer to Sam. A yawn escaped her before she could stop it. It had been a long day topped by fervid activity: photographing the door, getting a plaster cast of the bands, charcoal etching the writing, logging and documenting everything.

Sam gave her a small smile and shifted aside the etching of the middle band. It contained only the single crucifix carved into the metallic hematite. No other writing. Sam lowered his magnifying glass on the third and final onionskin tracing. “Lots of writing on this one. But the script is much smaller and isn’t as well preserved,” he said. “I can only make out part of it.”

“Well then, what can you read?” Maggie asked, sinking into a folding chair near the table. A seed of a headache had started to grow behind her right temple.

“Give me a few minutes.” Sam cocked his head to the side as he squinted through his lens. His Stetson, usually tilted on his head, rested on the table beside him. Professor Conklin had insisted on a bit of common courtesy out here in the jungle. When inside the tents, hats had to come off, and Sam still maintained the protocol, even though his uncle was not present. Sam had been raised well, Maggie thought with a small hidden grin. She stared at the professor’s nephew. Sam’s dusky blond hair still lay plastered in place from the Stetson’s imprint.

Maggie resisted the urge to reach over and tousle his hair back to a loose mop. “So what do you think, Sam? Do you truly think the Spanish conquistadors etched these bands?”

“Who else? The conquistadors must have searched this pyramid and left their mark.” Sam raised his head, a deep frown on his face. “And if the Spanish were here, we can kiss good-bye any chance to find the tomb intact. We can only hope the conquistadors left us a few scraps to confirm Doc’s theory.”

“But according to the texts, the Spanish never discovered any cities in this region. There is no mention of the conquistadors ever reaching their thieving hands this far from Cuzco.”

Sam merely pointed to the table laden with Latin etchings. “There’s the proof. We can at least walk away with that. The conquistadors that arrived here must never have made it back to their battalions at Cuzco. The natives must have killed them before they could make it down out of the mountains. The discovery of this city died with them.”

“So maybe they didn’t get a chance to loot this tomb,” Maggie insisted.

“Perhaps…”

Maggie knew her words did little to convince anyone. She, too, knew that if the conquistadors had the time to etch the bands, then they had more than enough time to raid the temple. She didn’t know what else to say, so she simply slumped in her seat.

Sam spoke up. “Okay. This is the best I’m able to pick out of this mess. Domine sospitate something something hoc sepulcrum caelo relinquemeus. Then a few lines I couldn’t make out at all, followed by ne peturbetur at the end. That’s it.”

“And what does that mean?” Maggie asked.

Sam shrugged and gave her one of his wise-ass smiles. “Do I look like a Roman?”

“Oh my God!” Philip exclaimed, drawing Maggie and Sam’s attention. He bolted upright. The rag dropped from his face to his lap.

“What?” Sam lowered his magnifying lens.

“The last part translates, We leave this tomb to Heaven. May it never be disturbed.”

Ralph suddenly pushed through into the tent, his hands full with four mugs. “Who wants coffee?” He paused when he saw them all frozen with eyes wide. “What happened?”

Sam was the first one able to speak. “How about we break out the champagne instead? Toast a few ol’ conquistadors for protecting our investment here.”

“What?” Ralph asked, his face scrunched with confusion.

Philip spoke next, his voice edged with reserved excitement. “Mr. Isaacson, our tomb may still be intact!”

“How do you-?”

Maggie picked up one of the onionskin tracing sheets. She held it toward him. “By Jesus, you gotta love Latin.”