‘Jakob, wake up.’

I open my eyes and lie motionless for a few seconds, staring into the darkness, trying to register where I am, and vaguely aware of a voice that has called my name.

‘Jakob. You need to get up.’

‘What? Armand?’ I say and, rolling onto my back, stare at the dark figure leaning over me. ‘Please, can’t you let me sleep a little longer?’ I protest. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

I move to roll back onto my side, desirous of catching a few more hours of sleep, but Armand shakes me by the shoulder. ‘Get up,’ he insists, a desperate edge to his voice, and drags me to my feet. ‘I know this isn’t the most ceremonious of ways to get you out of bed, but we need you on your feet. We’ve got a problem, and we need you outside – now.’

‘A problem?’ I ask, slinging my baldrics over my shoulders and wiping the sleep from my eyes as I am directed out of the tent. ‘What do you mean?’

Armand raises a finger to his lips and gestures for me to follow him into the centre of the camp. All of my companions, and the six archaeological assistants who have made Hans’s camp home for the past nine months, have assembled on the shore of the Dead Sea, staring apprehensively into the darkness of the night, their hands on their weapons.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask hesitantly, and draw my Pappenheimer halfway from its scabbard.

‘Listen,’ Armand whispers, and points to the northwest.

I crane an ear in the direction indicated, but all is deathly still; the Judean Desert smothered in the black mantle of the night. I’m curious as to what has my companions so spooked, and I’m about to tell them that they should retire for the evening and get some much needed rest, when I hear it.

A sound, so faint that it can barely be heard, drifts across the desert sands and the still waters of the Dead Sea – a terrible wailing chorus, seemingly made by thousands of tortured souls.

I stare fearfully into the darkness, wondering what horrific secret is hidden by the night. ‘What’s causing that sound?’ I breathe, fearful of the answer I will receive.

‘We don’t know. But it can’t be good,’ Armand whispers.

‘It sounds as though the gates of Hell have opened and the dead have risen,’ von Konigsmarck says, and adds some extra wood to the camp’s central fire, hoping to extend the perimeter of light.

As if von Konigsmarck’s comment has triggered some memory, Hans’s eyes flash in alarm and he takes a few hesitant steps forward. He stares hard into the night, looking out across the dark expanse of the Dead Sea. Some time passes before he looks back at us, his features drained of colour.

‘What is it?’ Captain Blodklutt asks, staring out to where Hans had been looking.

‘I fear von Konigsmarck may be correct. The gates of Hell may have indeed been opened!’