NationStates Jolt Archive

First section, taken from elsewhere (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=6911937&postcount=395).

Leandro Pacci was, once again, out of the office and operating at the site of the recently discovered remnants of what seemed to be an ancient city not far from Trieste on the Isla d’Galitae – the westernmost territory of the Earthbound Dominion. They had barely begun to clear away portions of an outer wall, and initial scans of the area indicated it was going to be a large dig indeed. A farmer clearing the area to expand his fields had unearthed part of the wall they were working on currently, and it had gone from there.

As he bent closer, carefully dusting away remnants of dirt with soft brushes he felt … a heavy pulse. He paused, blinking, looking around in confusion at the others working with the excitement only archaeologists such as themselves could while up to their eyebrows in dirt and grime under the hot Mediterranean sun. None seemed to have noticed it in the slightest.

The pressure remained. It seemed to press on his mind, from everywhere, yet nowhere in particular all at once. It was as if the air around him had become heavy. Something almost familiar tickled at the back of his mind … and then he felt the resonance.

Somewhere, down in the depths of the earth, far past the wall where he labored, a second pulse; almost an echo of the first. He leaned up closer against the wall, his head still feeling heavy, splaying his hands across it, then putting his ear to it as if that would assist in trying to pinpoint the source. His fingertips tingled. Pacci was struck by the feeling of shifting in the very fabric of what some termed ‘reality’. Something was happening. Not here, no, but the echoes were being felt. The patterns of things, how they simply ‘were’ vibrated with potential fluidity.

This much he recognized – it was the same mysterious force he used to ‘change’ things. To make things happen that normally would not. He had kept such things as quiet as possible since his return from the Outsets, being careful with what he had termed his awakened paradoxical talents save for the decidedly disturbing dig ( http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=278565) in the Arpean outlands.

“Pacci – you alright?”

He blinked, turning to answer the woman with the short auburn hair who was looking over at him with concern.

“Si, si … it’s nothing. Just a touch of heat. I think I’ll go get some water and lay down for just a bit. I’ll be in my tent if you need me.”

The others voiced their well-wishes as he walked off, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his brow. His head still felt heavy. And the echo that he had sensed still lingered in his mind. He was certain that even if he were turned around several times blindfolded, he could point right to it. Reaching his tent, he grabbed a bottled water from the cooler, splashed some over his face and neck, then drank slowly before laying down on his cot and staring up at the play of leafy shadows along the roof of his tent.

What was it? What happened? And what on earth is that resonance?

He half started to reach for his portcomp, to send a message back to Devras, then thought better of it. Instead, he lay there, ‘listening’ to the subtle shifts in the patterns, unconsciously forming a small stone sphere in his hand and then rolling it gently along his palm.

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The work went slow, as excavation was wont to do. Bit by bit, more of the structure and walls were revealed, bringing to light what seemed to be a large, single structure not unlike more modern cathedrals in form, though it by far pre-dated them. And while the initial blast was not repeated, the pressure in Pacci’s head remained.

As did the resonance, though it seemed to grow more faint as the days passed.

It didn’t matter where he was at any given moment. He could be off on the east wall helping clear away debris that seemed in part to be a remnant of what had once been roof materials – or what there was left of it – and he could point to the exact spot where that faint pulse emanated from. Down along the south, where they had found the remnants of a refuse heap – an ancient sort of compost pile – and still, he knew without looking the point where the resonance lay, softly calling to him.

Even in his sleep, he could hear its siren song. It would be weeks before they reached that level of excavation. Long years of experience told him this. Digs required finesse, patience, a willingness to let the site reveal itself to you as you gently stripped away the layers of earth and the weight of years with light hands and discerning eyes. And just as surely he knew he couldn’t wait that long.

Already he had been cheating, a little here, a little there, using those odd powers of manipulation where he wouldn’t be observed, and in small enough amounts that wouldn’t be noticed all at once. While others commented on what a smooth dig it was, and how easily it seemed to yield itself up to them, Pacci remained quiet, focused on his job, but moreso on the problem of how to get to … whatever it was.

Three weeks to the day from the time he had first felt that pulse, Pacci found himself awake, staring at the roof of his tent, beads if sweat trickling across his forehead, down along his temples. The pulse could hardly be felt anymore, and his level of agitation had reached a feverish point. It didn’t matter anymore, he had come to decide. He could wait no longer.

Swinging his legs over, he sat up, immediately reaching for his boots and quickly pulling them on. He laced them with shaking hands, fumbling several times before tying them off and standing, scratching at the itchiness of his grey cotton undershirt that was plastered against his perspiring skin. Not bothering to get out clean clothes of any sort, he pulled on his dusty work shirt and hat, and ducked quietly out of his tent.

The night was dark, but the waning moon offered ample light to guide his steps along the trails and well-marked sections of the dig. His heart beating rapidly in his chest in anticipation, he soon found himself at the spot along an interior section of wall where the pulse felt closest. Pressing his fingertips against it, he slowly traced along their lines, down … further down, until he was crouching low, brushing his hands along the lowest point they had cleared away.

With a bit of practiced concentration, he began shifting the rock away, manipulating it, reshaping it to his needs. Earth was what he had originally been trained with, and earth was the element he still found the most responsive to his efforts, be it rock, soil, or ore. Digging, guiding with his hands while using those strange awakened powers of the mind he had discovered, or rather had drawn out in the Outsets ( http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=275137), he gently cleared away the dirt and hard-packed earth until he reached a large stone slab set at the base of the wall. A bit more work, and he had that cleared as well.

He ran his hands along the smooth, even contours of the dark stone, then gently, ever so gently, began to reshape and mold it, slowly hollowing out the center, pushing his way through to the passage he instinctively knew would be behind it. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the little keychain flashlight he kept there for emergencies, and shined the surprisingly bright but narrow beam into the hole.

Steps. Narrow steps, leading down, as far as his light and the small hole he has made, provide. The pulse felt slightly stronger, now that the extra dirt and stone have been removed. Eagerly, he swung his legs over, and slid down feet-first into the hole, his boots coming to rest on the steps below.

The air was heavy with the weight of years, dry and stale with a faint smell of … Naphtha? Here? His footsteps sounded loud down here in the silence, away from the quiet night noises above ground. The narrow stairway continued down, winding consistently to the right. The walls and stairs started out in stonework, the bricks tightly laid together, and faded into simply carved rock about three feet straight down from the top. Another fifteen or so feet, as best he could fathom, brought him to the end of the stairs, and the beginning of a narrow hallway. Markings could be seen along the walls. No, not markings. Gouges, occasional scrapes, all old, none of them fresh, both from the stairway and here.

He followed the hallway to a thick door, timeworn and bound in what looked to be simple iron. There was no lock, and when he laid his hands on the large ring that served as a handle and tugged, the door gradually opened, grinding and groaning slightly on the hinges. The pulse, the resonance, still lay ahead, and his pulse quickened as he shined his light around the room.

Ancient crates, barrels, remnants of foodstuffs and piles of dusty detritus met his gaze, wherever he let his light fall. Many had collapsed over the years. Some were crudely marked in Latin, noting old cities or provinces, or contents – all seeming to have been foodstuffs. A storage room – no more, no less.

And still he could feel that pulse.

He carefully made his way further in, the smell of naphtha much heavier here. Picking his way carefully through the debris, he finally came to the far wall, and the oddly-shaped prominence there. On closer inspection, he found it to be a sizeable angular cistern carved directly out of and still part of, the wall. This is where the smell had come from. The liquid filled the long, shallow depository, running the length of the roughly seven foot wide wall. The stuff seeped through the wall behind, trickling down without any visible movement along timeworn pathways that sketched their way across its surface like a spider web. Some old and left dusty, and some few still imperceptibly feeding the trough.

Here his path stopped. It was close. He could still feel it, right there, just out of reach, pulsing softly like the last beatings of a dying heart. Pacci frowned, moving closer to examine the wall further, feeling for seams, searching for any hint or clue that might unlock the secret of whatever had been hidden away down here.

Of course, there was nothing to be found. The wall itself was as solid as could be, offering up no answers to his prying. With a sigh of frustration, he stared at the wall, and at the natural source of fuel, his brow creasing as he began considering alternatives.

It has to be here ...

Pacci studied the wall, staring at it as if he could see through it by force of will alone – which in a way, he could if he were to tap those odd abilities of his. Which was of course, the dilemma.

First and foremost, this was a historical dig, and the storeroom was incredibly intact and well preserved. Doing anything to change, mar or otherwise disturb it before proper cataloguing went against his very nature and years of training as an archaeologist. Second, he had no idea what was on the other side of that wall, and the slowly-leaking naphtha was more than enough to give him pause.

Perhaps, if I were just to …

Gently, he began prodding the wall again, tentatively reaching out to probe for a likely spot, muttering quietly under his breath as he worked. “Would be damnably convenient to be able to just slip through there without doing any harm. Bloody Vitner and those others …”

Unable to find a better point, he closed his eyes for a moment, and again began his careful manipulation of the rock, exploiting the awakened ability to change the usual state of entropy, shifting it to a more favorable state of being. This of course, meaning ‘slowly creating an opening where once there was none’. Patiently he reworked the stone, forming an opening three times the size of his fist that slowly bored its way through the center of the wall. Five inches. Nine inches. Fifteen inches deep, and still, solid stone. It was with surprise that he pushed past into open air a short while later, some twenty-six inches or so later, nearly as far in as he could reach.

Pacci blinked in surprise, pulling his hand back quickly and then moving to shine his small light through, trying to catch a glimpse of what might lie beyond. What stopped him was the fact that light was shining back from what should have been a dark space. Squinting slightly, letting his eyes adjust, he tried to peer through, able now to catch the acrid scent of burning naphtha.

Not much could be made out. Not from this angle at least. Glimpses of stone walls and carved rock, the flicker of warm lamplight spilling out of the hole – none of it seemed to fit for the area, or time, let alone the fact that there had been no other entrances found as yet leading down here. Who could have lit the lamps? Just how long had they been burning?

Il dio, what is this place?

With renewed fervor, Pacci began widening the hole, ignoring the tiny drops of naphtha that occasionally fell as he interrupted centuries-old seeps and tiny pathways. As more and more of the room beyond became visible, the man redoubled his efforts, sweat beading and trickling down. The pulse, whatever it was, could be felt stronger than ever. He felt it urging him on, demanding him to discover its secret. With a grunt, he clambered up into the hole and began pushing his way through.

The sight that met his eyes on the other side was not at all what he had expected.

Several lamps (http://home.mchsi.com/~ketri/wsb/links/roomsm.jpg) that were carved out of the rock surrounded the round chamber at regular intervals, seven all told, sitting atop waist-high pillars. The naphtha seep also filled narrow brass channels here that ringed the room, linking each lamp and their long, coiled wicks, built into large spirals (http://home.mchsi.com/~ketri/wsb/links/lampsm.jpg) designed for long life. Each one was currently burning at the back of the outermost ring with a warm, steady glow. A simple latticework of brass inlay ran around the room as a decorative border, a second channel above it, and accented with stylized crosses within carved stone circles completing the motif. Above the border on the walls, set centrally above each lamp, was a four-pointed star, not unlike a compass.

What drew his eye however, was what sat before the far wall in a place of honor – clearly the focal point (http://home.mchsi.com/~ketri/wsb/links/altarsm.jpg) of the room. An old weathered tapestry, depicting the crucifixion hung along the wall. Below it, on a long, low pedestal or altar of sorts lay a thin red velvet pillow, and atop this, a spear, in two halves. To the right of it, a crumpled form lay sprawled, bits of exposed bone attesting to the age of it.

Now that he was partially in the room, there was no denying the source of that strange resonance, that odd pulse. It was the fine weapon atop the altar.

Clambering the rest of the way into the room, then picking himself off and carelessly brushing himself off, Pacci slowly stepped forward towards the altar and the ancient corpse laying near it. As he drew closer, a bit of writing on the wall caught his attention. Scrawled in some thin, dark brown substance were the words “Mvlti svnt vocati, pavci vero electi - Cursum perficio”.

’Many are called but few are chosen - My journey is over’. Odd … a guardian? But for … He stoops closer to study the clothing. A ragged, full once-white camicia worn under a dark linen farsetto or doublet covered the bony frame. Over the top, a simple wool roba, thin calze covering the legs, and soft boots that would have hit around calf-height when standing. Whisps of what seemed dark reddish-brown hair peeked out from under a simple woolen cap, the entirety looking to be from somewhere in the late 1400’s. Upon closer inspection, the floor around the body was tinted in a pooling pattern with several streams running into irregularities or cracks in the floor, with the same dark brown the writing on the wall shows. Blood … this man was wounded. To the death, it seems. But how … and how in hell did he get here? And what … Looking around the room again, there was no other writing, nor any other indicator as to what this room was designed to conceal, for what is apparently a very, very long time.

His eyes drifted back to the weapon laying quietly on the altar, and his heart nearly stopped at the connections coming together in his mind. The shining steel head, connector pieces, and tapered spike end all seemed to shine softly with their own light, though he was sure this was a trick of the room’s lamps. Nor did any of the weapon show any of the usual signs of wear one might expect. The design of it seemed to point to Roman design, but it had been embellished with, of all things, Celtic motifs (http://home.mchsi.com/~ketri/wsb/links/spearsm.jpg) below the blade and at the tip, antiqued so as to better stand out – which to his mind didn’t seem to make any sense at all. Burned into the aged yet smooth, polished wood of the haft were the words “Beati possidentes”.

And this. ‘Blessed are those who possess’. A kind way of saying ‘possession is nine points of the law’, or the wit of someone bearing a truly twisted sense of humor, if this is what I think it might be, which it shouldn’t be, all things considered, but il dio, the possible answers, and …

Several slow moments passed, the only sound in the room, his own quiet breathing.

“I do not take this for myself,” he finally murmured aloud, slowly shrugging out of his work shirt. “I lay no claim to this thing now, or ever, though I move it from its resting place. Let no blessing or curse fall over me on account.” The last bit is said most fervently.

Taking his shirt, he gingerly wrapped it ‘round the spearhead and lifts that section away, turning, and gathering up the spiked end as well. He worked to cover as much of the hafts as he could, though the connector ends and a good couple feet of the hafts were left sticking out. Tying it off with his sleeves, he murmured a quiet prayer over the body of the dried corpse, then headed back for the hole he’s made, all too aware that much time has passed, knowing the camp would be stirring soon.

He hastily climbed back through the opening, the spear tucked up under one arm making progress difficult. Once out, he turned back, took out his light again, and ‘pulled’ the hole in the wall closed, though only about four inches thick. Giving his work a cursory glance, he jogged up the stairs, then out into the clean, but still muggy air. He replaced the stone that covered the entrance to the store room, wedging it tightly back into place, then spread a good measure of dirt back over, walking across it and scuffing a few times for good measure. Satisfied with his efforts, he headed directly back toward his tent, the sweat trickling down his face, creating large dark patches on his dusty undershirt.

“Ho, Pacci,” came an unexpected voice, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin. “Out a bit early, no?”

“Ah … yes, er, that is ah … I forgot a couple tools, and I was just …” he fumbles, cradling his bundle carefully as he turns to try and smile at the younger man crossing from another direction. “Not sleeping well. May nap a bit …”

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s been sleeping well of late. Best of luck with that, sir. I hear they’re bringing in some fresh ice sometime this morning – that might help,” the younger says as he passes. “Ciao – I’m off to try an early shower.”

With a sigh of relief, Pacci hurried on his way, waving to the other man as he continued on. Once reaching his tent, he pulled the ties close, in spite of the heat, then gently untied the shirt-wrapped bundle and laid the roughly four foot long sections on his cot, for a while, just staring.

I need to get this back to Devras, somehow. Or if not there, somewhere else quiet and secure where I can run some tests without too much notice. Just a matter of where and how. Aye, where and how … and then perhaps we will see if we can determine whether or not this truly is Il Lancia del Destino, or just what in God’s name this artifact is. He spent a few more moments studying the spear, the resonance still clearly emanating from it, without a doubt, though even now it seemed to wane ever so slightly. Letting out a slow breath, he gently wrapped it up in one of his blankets, quietly stowing it under the mattress of his cot.

Pacci’s hands still tingled from the sensation of holding it, even through the shirt and blanket. He knew he had to get it out of the camp, and soon … how he was going to achieve that was another matter entirely.

Pacci had chosen to take advantage of the first opportunity to get back to Devras – that being the chopper that brought in supplies. Feigning sickness, and looking in his state of relative distress convincing enough, let alone his standing as senior scientist on site, granted him all the pull he needed to hitch the ride, the spear still in two pieces, stowed with various other things including tools in his duffle bag. The likelihood of being subjected to much security this way was slim. Possible, but slim. He had known he had to take the chance.

Of course given his excuse, a doctor’s visit had been necessary, to which he found with some measure of surprise that he was indeed suffering from mild heat exhaustion. The doctor professed some concern over that seemed to be some irregularity with his heartbeat, though Pacci dismissed it as being a result of both his current state of agitation, and the heat exhaustion. With promises to follow his physician’s instructions to the letter, he left the offices as quickly as he dared, ignoring the questioning looks of him keeping his duffle bag close by throughout the examination, and held protectively close as he made for the exit.

With all due haste, he made his way to the Basilica di San Bernardi, soon finding himself in a polite yet increasingly heated discussion with the Cardinal’s secretary over his necessary entrance. Eventually the racket drew the man out anyway, and seeing Pacci in such a stir, he had calmed his aide and invited the elderly Minister in for some tea and to find out what the uproar was all about.

What Cardinal Giovanni Battista was told, and subsequently shown, exceeded all his fears and expectations by several magnitudes, and he had had to gruffly explain away the clatter and crash of his teacup on the stone floor several times before his aide would leave the matter be and agree that it could be cleaned up after the discussion was through. He had no significant concerns for privacy, this wing having been swept clean of any potential bugs, monitoring devices, etc on a daily basis, with the addition of his own set of white noise generators synchronized in each corner of his office. Still, the thought of what they had here both chilled and thrilled him beyond what words could properly describe.

The expected questions were raised, along with coming to the rather uncomfortable subject of just how Pacci had managed to get down there to begin with, and where those abilities had first manifested (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=275137) themselves, and the equally expected questions of the morality and possible devilry of it all – accompanied by a demand for firsthand demonstration that Pacci grudgingly granted. Some of the discussion was heated, some quiet, most was carried out with an air of abject astonishment and no small amount of humility – but the question always came back to this:

What to do now?

Both agreed without question that handing it over to the government would be a monumentally bad idea, though they both squirmed a bit uncomfortably at the idea of such a blatant misdirection, and as some would term it, betrayal on account, all the same. History had shown, as far as they both were concerned, that if this was what they suspected, placed in the hands of the unworthy, the overambitious, or the unfaithful, catastrophe and chaos could not be far behind. Nor did they relish the idea of the fate of their nation whom they loved as being tied to the fate of such an artifact. Nor did either of them wish to have their personal fates tied in like manner. Oddly enough, nor could they see shipping it off to the Vatican for safekeeping, knowing well enough the potential for problems there – and the fact that the Vatican already was in possession of what they claimed was the proper spear to begin with.

Nor could they think offhand of anyone else they would at this time trust entirely with it.

A dilemma to be certain. Pacci for his part insisted that the thing be kept in the Basilica for now, given how many quiet, hidden corners, niches, and secret compartments or passages or rooms existed in it, not to mention the nature of the thing being better suited to this setting than his own home. Battista was understandably concerned with this, and offered any number of reasonable reasons why some other arrangements ought to be made, until Pacci silenced them with a simple demonstration of placing a coin within the hewn rock wall of the Cardinal’s office, then retrieving it again, leaving the wall changed slightly, but no worse for wear, nor noticeably disturbed.

So it was that in the middle of the night, the two halves of the spear were ‘interred’ behind the large figure of Christ on the cross in the main nave, with all the appropriate blessings, supplications, and protective efforts the Cardinal could think of applied. Both agreed that neither would speak further of this to anyone else for now, while they both conducted research on their own, pooling their knowledge as the gathered it, praying for guidance, and trying to decide how to proceed.

Pacci as predicted, chose the scientific path, going so far as to press for information from allied states, always mixed in with requests for seemingly unrelated information as well, so as to diffuse an overabundance of interest, and the Cardinal following along the lines of the religious angles and histories, trying as well to mix his pursued studies to avoid drawing too much attention.

Unhappily for them both, the holiday season of that year brought with it the unfortunate passing (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=10076372&postcount=11) of Leandro Pacci, who was discovered in his home, the victim of an apparent heart attack. Battista did what he could both to assist with the burial arrangements, and to make heads or tails of the studies Pacci had managed to gather but not pass on since their last meeting. Worse, he was now faced with shouldering the burden of their secret alone – something that kept him up at nights from the worry. The solution he finally chose had it’s problems, but it was, he decided in the end, the only thing he could in good faith go forward with.

He excavated the spear from behind the crucifixion display, then covered up the damage to the wall with an elaborate ‘insurgents’ plot, complete with a small explosion that obliterated all traces of his own clumsy efforts, much as it pained him to desecrate such a holy place. Bribes were placed where needed to ease the investigative efforts, and the Christian spin of forgiveness and ‘putting it in God’s hands’ was applied where money would not serve to try and achieve the same. The few crackpots who came forward to claim responsibility were dead ends, and no solid leads were ever found – much to Battista’s satisfaction.

In the meantime, being the presiding priest over the burial, he used his influence and time with the deceased to secret the spear beneath the cushioning of the coffin under Pacci’s body, again with a multitude of prayers, and sanctifications for what he hoped would be the resting place of the artifact and it’s guardian for some time. All things considered, he could think of no more appropriate, nor for now, safe location to entrust the Lance to – if Lance indeed it was. He was prepared to take no chances.

The funeral itself was held in the Basilica, out of respect both for the man, and his high position in the government, and was attended by a plethora of friends, what family remained, and associates. Battista could not rest until the body was finally interred, and the final prayers delivered over it. If any commented on the circles under his eyes, or the way he seemed to visibly slump after it was all over, he would make some dismissive comment about having recently been fighting off a bout of the flu, and being worn on account.

In the time after, he resolved to continue the research the two of them had begun, to watch over the resting place of both Pacci and the spear, and to search tirelessly for those he might be able to entrust with the secret, seeing a need for a method of passing down the trust over the years. It was too great a burden for one man.

And so there, beneath the body of the man who had discovered it, the spear lay, unbeknownst to any save the Cardinal while the world continued to turn, events continued to conspire, and people continued to go about their everyday business not knowing that the spear that had once pierced the side of Christ, that some said was capable of controlling the destinies of great men, women, and nations, might well be resting quietly in their native soil.

At least, for now.