The Oracle (Fargo Adventures #11) - Clive Cussler Page 0,1

curse you speak of?”

“It was cast as revenge from the very Priestess who helped Genseric win his conquest,” Gelimer said. “Genseric stole the scroll, hid it, ordered the Priestess’s death, then promised to destroy the scroll should anyone take up arms against the Vandals.”

Tzazon stopped in his tracks. “You expect me to believe that something that occurred well over a hundred years ago has any effect on the here and now? You forget, brother, that these so-called oracles are masters of the vague turn of phrase. You hear what you want to hear.”

“This oracle foretold Hilderic’s death if he failed to find the scroll before the festival of Saturnalia, then return it to Hippo Regius.”

“The only reason he is dead is because the Emperor Justinian would have tried to return him to the throne. It has nothing to do with prophecy and everything to do with protecting your kingdom.”

“And what of the penultimate king’s deathbed confession? How could she possibly have known that Hilderic’s last words were about the map?”

“Servants talk.”

“There was no one there except Ammatas, who thrust the knife into his belly at my orders. And he told no one but me. If I can find this scroll, and break the curse before we go to battle, I may yet save your life.”

Tzazon freed the reins of his horse, then mounted. “Very well. Show me this map.”

The two men rode back into Bulla Regia to the royal house that Gelimer had occupied after he’d deposed his cousin Hilderic from the throne. It was the same home that belonged to Genseric, after he had stolen the scroll.

And now, a century later, it was up to Gelimer to see to its return.

When they reached the royal house, a dozing groom who guarded the doorway rose to attention, taking their horses as they dismounted. The two men strode up the steps, through the great entrance, passing into the atrium, where Gelimer seized a burning torch from its sconce. The torchlight caused the mosaics on the floor to glitter like jewels beneath their feet as the brothers crossed the central hall to a marble staircase. That led down to a long mazelike corridor in the story underground, which protected the Vandal rulers from the summer heat.

At last, the brothers reached what had been Genseric’s inner sanctum, then, years later, Hilderic’s. The flickering light revealed a desk and chair of ivory and ebony. On the floor beneath it, a detailed mosaic from the old pagan mythology—Echo, behind one of two olive trees flanking the temple, pining for Narcissus, who lay at the foot of the stairs, the handsome youth gazing downward, his finger almost touching the blue and white pattern of the pool in front of the temple.

“I have searched this room, this house, a thousand times,” Gelimer said. “There is no map.”

“Perhaps it was Hilderic’s final revenge. Sending you searching for something that doesn’t exist. What exactly did he tell Ammatas?”

“That unless I faced my vanity, I would fail to see that which is right in front of me.”

Tzazon grabbed the torch from him, pointing toward the floor. “Narcissus admiring his reflection. There’s the answer to your riddle.”

Gelimer stared at the shadows cast upon the mosaic by the dancing flame. Echo was looking at Narcissus, who seemed not to know she was there. Behind him was a building, which looked very much like the Temple of Saturn. “His reflection,” Gelimer said as he repeated the sibyl’s words in his head. All that is left is shadow, and naught remains but vanity. He looked up at his brother. “Vanity. That’s the map. Narcissus is pointing directly at it.”

“A map of what?” Tzazon said, scrutinizing the pattern in the blue and white mosaic beneath Narcissus.

PROLOGUE

PART II

War has no eyes.

– SWAHILI PROVERB –

DECEMBER 15, 533 A.D.

Tricamarum (50 kilometers west of Carthage),

Kingdom of the Vandals, North Africa

Gelimer held up his hand, signaling his army to a halt, as he and his brother, Tzazon, rode on alone to the top of the hill to survey the Roman encampment in the distance. A sense of fatality overwhelmed Gelimer as he studied the enemy, fifteen thousand strong. The sun glinted off the metal scale armor of the Roman cavalry and infantry as they sat around their fires, preparing their meals. “This is fruitless,” he told Tzazon.

“Forget about the words of that witch-woman.”

The sibyl’s prophecy was all Gelimer thought about. Though he had sent men to search what was left of the now dry reflecting pool in front of the