The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,113

“I could stand to get out of the sun.”

With the matter settled, they all clambered up the broken steps. Up top, the ledge was bigger than it looked from below, some sixty feet across. The rock pile filled most of it, likely from an old landslide. Directly above, the lip at the cliff edge had a huge section missing.

Gray led them to the edge of the pile. Kowalski’s crack was actually an opening between the broken rocks and the limestone wall of the cliff. A precarious boulder had jammed above it ages ago, holding this narrow way open.

Gray went first, then Kowalski ducked under the boulder, holding his breath. Once past it, he hurried into a large cavern on the far side. It was as wide as the ledge and twice as deep. Seichan already had her flashlight out and splayed its bright beam across the arch of roof and the curve of its walls, all a coarse dark brown, a little pocket worn long ago into the rock.

The others crowded in behind Kowalski.

Father Bailey scowled back at the hanging boulder. “Like passing under the Sword of Damocles.”

Mac grinned. “It’s actually called a boulder ruckle, where a rockfall creates a precarious jam of stones. Can be dangerous, but I suspect that particular pile of rocks has been there for several centuries, so it’s not likely to fall anytime soon.”

“What did you want us to see?” Gray asked, clearly dejected to reach yet another dead end.

“Over here,” Seichan said.

She stepped toward the back of the cavern. On the left side stood a row of clay pots, each standing waist-high with little dusty lids on top.

“There’s more over there,” Seichan said, pointing her beam to the other side, where another cluster of jars stood.

Mac drew closer to one, a grimace carved deep on his face. “These look like smaller versions of what I saw aboard the dhow in Greenland.”

“They’re amphorae,” Bailey said. “Greek and Roman storage pots. For wine, for olive oil.”

“Or something far worse,” Mac said, straightening.

The priest turned to Kowalski. “Didn’t you mention that Captain Hunayn, in his journal, called them Pandora’s pots?”

“That’s what Elena told me.”

Bailey looked at the others. “According to the myth, Pandora was not a real woman, but something artificially created by the god Hephaestus.”

“Like those bronze slaves of his,” Kowalski said, remembering Elena’s story of the mechanical women who served Hephaestus at his forge.

“The gods of Olympus each put curses into a pot,” Bailey said. “And gave it to Pandora to deliver to mankind. Sort of a pretty Trojan horse full of death, disease, and misery.”

“Definitely matches the description of what was in the dhow’s hold,” Mac said.

Maria frowned. “But I thought it was Pandora’s box, not Pandora’s pot.”

“No, that came about because of a mistranslation of Greek,” Bailey explained. “The original Greek word was pithos, a sealed jar for storage. But in the sixteenth century, that word got bastardized into pyxis, which means ‘box,’ and it never got corrected.”

“Box or pot,” Kowalski said. “It looks like we’re at the right place or close to it.”

“Maybe,” Gray said. “But not without checking what’s in those jars.”

“You want to open one of those damned things?” Mac asked.

Gray stepped forward. “It’s the only way we’ll know for sure.”

Mac tried to block him. “Don’t—”

Gray sidestepped him and kicked out with his leg, slamming his heel hard into one of the pots. Even with the guy’s considerable strength, the impact only rocked the pot and managed a thin crack.

“Maybe you should heed Mac’s warning,” Bailey said.

Gray ignored them both and tried again, hitting square into the crack. The pot finally shattered into halves. A black oil spilled across the floor. They all danced away as if a nest of snakes had been let loose.

A strong petroleum odor filled the cavern.

Mac pointed. “That’s the same stuff that came flowing out of the pots in Greenland.”

“But that’s all there is,” Seichan commented, the only one to draw closer.

Kowalski followed her. “She’s right. No bronze crabs, no green fiery goo.”

As a group, they all turned toward the clutch of pots on the other side of the cave. Glances were exchanged, and they all headed over there.

Except for Father Bailey, who stopped to examine a two-foot-high slab in the center of the floor. He ran his hand over a scooped section in the middle. “Like a sacrificial altar,” he mumbled.

Kowalski gladly skipped past there.

As they drew near the other set of pots, no one spoke.

A sharp click-clicking rose from Mac’s handheld Geiger counter.