Once again, the passage twisted, narrowed, widened, forked. It was remarkable just how complex the internal structure of this cave system was. Gabriel was a seasoned caver and even he was having a hard time holding a mental map of the space in his head. He couldn’t help thinking some of the branches and forks must have been man-made, added solely to get would-be treasure hunters who were lucky enough to make it this far well and truly lost.
It took them more than a half hour of spelunking before they finally came to the opening of another vaulted chamber. If the first one had struck Gabriel as being the size of a large bedroom, this one seemed more like a good-sized living room.
And it was full of treasure.
“My goodness, Gabriel . . . what is all this?”
Their lights reflected off glittering, shiny, sparkling objects made of gold and silver, jewels of all types, caches of old swords and rifles, even framed paintings. Diamonds, emeralds, rubies . . . coins, gold bricks . . . fine art . . . weapons . . .
Gabriel reached out to touch an antique carbine rifle that must have been from Napoleon’s army—and stopped.
On the ground in front of it, a clothed skeleton lay horizontally, a spear skewered through its rib cage.
“Don’t touch anything,” he said, pulling his hand back. Sammi pulled hers back as well; she’d been about to pick up an elaborately filigreed gold cup.
He pointed the light directly at the skeleton. Swinging it around the rest of the room, he located several more. In all, there were half a dozen skeletons, each still wearing the tattered remnants of its clothing; these remains, from periods that must have spanned a hundred years, were the only clues to the identity of the unfortunate men who had made it this far and no farther. Every corpse had a spear stuck through it. Gabriel looked around the room and then pointed his flashlight up toward the ceiling. It was a latticework of small circular holes.
He rummaged in his sack and found the strap that had held the rope in a coil. He balled it up and tossed it across the room at one of the paintings. The buckle of the strap jostled the frame—and a spear shot out of the ceiling. It struck the stone floor directly in front of the painting and ricocheted away.
“Trap number two,” Gabriel said. “I’m guessing all this treasure is rigged.”
Gabriel continued to shine the light around the room, walking forward cautiously, taking enormous care not to touch anything. Finally they neared the room’s far wall, where another inscription had been chiseled into the stone:
Lui seul qui montre ce qui n’est pas répertorié peut avancer.
Sammi moved to his side and peered at the words. “ ‘Only he who shows what is not in the inventory may advance.’ ”
“What is not in the inventory? What inventory?”
“It doesn’t say. Just ‘what is not inventoried’ or ‘what is not catalogued.’ ”
He swung his light down, illuminating a stone shelf built into the wall beneath the inscription. Sitting on the shelf was an open, empty chest the size of a small suitcase. “We have to figure out what it means.”
Sammi read the inscription aloud again, first in French and then in English. “I think it must have something to do with the Napoleonic Code.”
“How so?” Gabriel asked.
“You said there were three traps, correct? Well, the Napoleonic Code was divided into three books. The first has to do with People, the second was about Property, and the third . . . well, the third was about Acquiring Property—sort of boring stuff for lawyers.” Gabriel was reminded of the text of the Rosetta Stone, about taxes and putting statues in temples. Sometimes the greatest discoveries in history had to do with boring stuff. “The first trap,” Sammi went on, “with the anthem . . . knowing the anthem would have been one of the tests for citizenship. It would have been covered in Book One of the Code.”
Gabriel shined his light around. “And you think all this . . .”
“Property,” Sammi said. “Book Two.”
“So what does Book Two have to say about property?” Gabriel said. “Other than ‘Don’t take it or you’ll get stabbed with a spear.’ ”
“The Code defined what was designated as a French citizen’s personal property as opposed to what was owned by the state.” Sammi looked around at all the accumulated wealth, all untouchable. “Or by the emperor.”
Gabriel thought about that. “So this is his property. We’re not allowed to take it. We have to show something that is not on his list of property to get out of here.”
“But show it to whom?” Sammi said.
Gabriel bent to examine the chest and the shelf it sat on. The two seemed to be attached in some way—at least he wasn’t able to move the chest off. And when he pressed down gently on the shelf, it had some give, almost like the balance of a scale.
“I think we have to put it in here—it’s a receptacle. Like the hopper of a machine. You put something in, and—” He tested the chest’s lid; it moved on surprisingly smooth hinges. “You put it in, close the chest, and hope you don’t get a spear in your back for your troubles. The question is what goes in the chest. Just something that’s our property and not his?”
“Not just anything,” Sammi said. “Under the Code, ‘Property’ wouldn’t refer to ordinary consumables or goods of minor note. It would have to be something of real value.”
Gabriel looked around again. “Something like what’s on display here, only ours rather than his.”
“Right. But—” Sammi took in the display of jewels and gold bars and framed paintings. “How could we possibly have anything like this? Unless you’re carrying a painting on you that I don’t know about?”
“Nope.”
“Or a gold bar . . . ?”
“I’m sure Michael’s got some back home, in a safe deposit box somewhere. But that won’t do us any good down here.”
Sammi was digging through her rucksack, trying to find anything that might work. But no amount of pitons and carabiners would do.
Gabriel thought about it. His Bulova A-11 wristwatch was worth a decent amount; his Zippo lighter, too, since it dated back to World War II. But there was a second problem, beyond the question of whether they were valuable enough—whatever he put in the chest also had to be something the two-hundred-year-old mechanism, whatever it was, would somehow be able to recognize. And he didn’t think Napoleon’s engineer could possibly have forseen wristwatches and Zippo lighters.
“Hang on,” Gabriel said. “I have an idea.”
“What?” Sammi said.
“Just stay back. If I’m wrong, I don’t want you getting hit, too.” He positioned himself directly in front of the chest. Looking up, he saw the circular openings through which spears might shoot at any moment.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to show Mr. Bonaparte some property and see what happens.”
“Gabriel, please be careful—I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Neither do I.” Slowly he stepped forward. And taking his Colt out of its holster, he set it down on the bottom of the chest.
It was a gun—and there were guns on display here. What’s more, it was an antique; the provenance was a bit murky, but the man he’d gotten it from had sworn it had once belonged to either Wyatt Earp or Bat Masterson. Now, that would have been around 1870, not 1800 . . . but at least it was the right century. He gave the pistol a last lingering look. If this worked it might be the last time he’d see it—and if it didn’t work it might be the last time he’d see anything . . .