Southwest France
Montsegur
September 1940
Only ropes and pitons hammered-into crevices had allowed the men to climb the mountain's north face. Even so, it had taken over seven hours. All five were close to exhaustion. Had they been mere sport climbers, they would have savored the water in their canteens, smoked a cigarette, and admired the view their efforts had given them.
But they were not amateurs.
A close look would have revealed that, under his Alpine hat, each man's hair was cut so close that the scalp was visible. They all wore identical short-sleeved shirts and lederhosen, which revealed tightly bunched arm and leg muscles.
Although they were dressed the same, one was clearly the leader. A tall, blond man with a scar bisecting his right cheek, he spoke in the accent of his native Austria rather than the harsher German of his companions. While four of the climbers stretched out on the rocky surface, he scanned the countryside a thousand feet below with a pair of binoculars.
He smiled when he saw a cloud of dust moving down the road at the foot of the mountain. The trucks were right on time.
The men groused good-naturedly when he coaxed, rather than ordered, them back onto weary feet. Each man shook off the small pack in which climbing equipment had been stored. It would have no further use, and each man needed to get rid of unnecessary weight. Out of the packs came long lengths of rope, the finest hemp available. Each man stepped into an open harness that fed the rope under one thigh, across the body, and over the opposite shoulder. From each pack came a light grappling hook to which the other end of the rope was secured.
As one, each man jumped into empty space and began to rappel down the sheer southern face of white rock.
About halfway down, the straight drop ended in what to the casual observer appeared to be a mound of rubble and scree. Closer inspection would have shown that the rocks were carved into squares and rectangles, many of which were still in their original position of what had been, centuries ago, the wall of a castle encircling the mouth of a huge cave.
As each man's feet touched the ground, he unclipped his harness and stood, awaiting orders. They came quickly, for there was a sense of urgency. Although they no more believed the fiction of Vichy France's independence from the German conquerors than did the rest of the world, there would be complaints if French historians and archaeologists knew what they were doing. The men fanned out, searching every square foot of ground before entering the cave. Their leader was the last to leave the sunlight, standing on the edge of the cliff and admiring the location. Perfect for defense, as evidenced by the fact that the place had withstood siege after siege by medieval France's finest armies. The occupants had surrendered only to hunger and left the protection of these walls. The castle itself had never been taken. Its location was largely forgotten, both because memory of its few surviving defenders had dimmed with the centuries and because it was inaccessible since the ancient staircase carved into the rock had disappeared with the exfoliation, the peeling off of layers of rock, caused by changing seasons over the centuries.
Before he had taken a half-dozen steps, excited shouts quickened-his pace into the cave. Inside, the inky dark was split by four flashlights concentrated on what might once have been a wooden chest, long since collapsed into a collection of splinters and rusted iron fittings. Also on the cave's floor was a clay vessel of some sort, a cylinder sealed at both ends. Pressed into the clay were a number of letters or symbols that none of the men recognized.
Another shout registered another find. Before long, a stack of earthenware jugs and plates was growing at the cave's mouth. A length of iron was so corroded with rust that it crumbled in one man's hand. Possibly the blade of a sword or the haft of a spear. The leader-warned the others to be more careful.
It was by accident that the writing was found, the most significant discovery of the day. One of the men stumbled over a rock, his light flying from his hand as he tried to break his fall The flashlight fell at an angle, illuminating previously undetected marks carved into the cave wall. The commander, standing in front of the inscription to give it scale, had several photographs taken with flash equipment.
An hour later, crates were being lowered by rope to four trucks waiting below. When the last was loaded, all but the leader rappelled down to the trucks, eager to stretch out among the big boxes and thankful they had nothing more to do today but ride. The leader remained behind for a minute or two, surveying the remains of the walls and the cave's opening, a gaping mouth in the shadows of the setting sun.
Then, as though he had made a decision, he, too, slipped into his harness and began to descend.