Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [67]
“It’s Teutonic,” she says. Her hand moves across the mural, two fingers coming to rest on another squiggle. She looks back, glowing. “These are Teutonic letters. Jack, they’re hiding in plain sight.”
I’ve always trusted Esperanza, and I have no reason to doubt her now. On the contrary, I’m near giddy at her discovery. Except I wonder how it could be that of the hundreds of thousands of visitors who have passed through here over the centuries—noted scholars among them—not one has discovered this. I must look more skeptical than I imagine because Espy’s glow turns to a frown.
“Whoever painted this made the letters part of the background; they’re almost indistinguishable from the rest of the painting.” She shakes her head. “We don’t need Miles. They need a linguist.”
I move to her side. While I’m familiar with several languages, each of them has gone part and parcel with my work. If I haven’t worked a dig in some country, or if a particular language is not in common use in archaeological parlance, it’s doubtful I could even offer a simple greeting in the tongue. Espy, though, devours languages with a voracious appetite. She’s the expert here.
“All right,” I say, “we have Teutonic letters. What now?”
Esperanza steps away from the wall and, hands on hips, takes in the whole of the painting. “They can’t be randomly placed. There has to be a legend somewhere.”
“But who’s to say that a legend wouldn’t exist separate from the mural?”
“Be quiet.”
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t think with you talking.”
I know when I’m licked, so I do what will move us forward: I remain silent.
Espy studies the mural for a long while, walking around to change perspective. I’m doing my own analysis, looking for something to help us locate and organize Espy’s Teutonic letters, when she steps in front of me. We’re both at the part of the picture where St. George is delivering the deathblow to the dragon, driving Ascalon through its neck. I lean over Espy’s shoulder, drawn by the lance itself. To me it looks more like a staff, a walking stick, because of the irregular notches.
It seems the thought comes to both of us at the same time.
“I need a straightedge,” Espy says, and I think it takes every fiber of her being to keep from shouting.
I understand and start hunting through the church for something that will work, but everything I see is nailed down or bolted to something. Then I remember the monk.
“I’ll be right back,” I call as I run out the door. Outside, it takes some convincing before the monk decides it’s all right for me to borrow his prayer staff. When I get back inside, there’s a tour group studying the murals, and so we have to wait until they leave before we can test our theory.
I find the first of the Teutonic letters and guesstimate the corresponding notch on the lance. When I line up the prayer staff and it runs through the letter, a rush of exultation threatens to take my knees out from under me. I have to make certain, so I perform the experiment with the second letter, with an identical result.
Success breeds urgency. We’ve done what should have been impossible within our narrow time frame, and it would anger me to have the other team walk in while we’re transposing letters. I stand ready with the staff as Esperanza pulls a notepad and pen from her jacket pocket.