Kitabı oku: «The Alexander Cipher»
WILL ADAMS
The Alexander Cipher
For my parents
After his death in Babylon in 323 BC, the body of Alexander the Great was taken in a magnificent procession to Egypt for eventual burial in Alexandria, where it remained on display for some six hundred years.
Alexander’s mausoleum was considered a wonder of the world. Roman emperors including Julius Caesar, Augustus and Caracalla paid pilgrimages. Yet after a series of earthquakes, fires and wars, Alexandria fell into decline and the tomb was lost.
Despite numerous excavations, it has never been found.
Contents
Title Page Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Epilogue Acknowledgements COMING SOONG FROM WILL ADAMS About the Author Copyright About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
The Libyan Desert, 318 BC
There was a freshwater spring at the lowest point of the cave, like a single black nail at the tip of a twisted, charred and mutilated leg. A thick layer of lichen and other scum clotted its surface, barely disturbed in centuries except to ripple and shiver at the touch of one of the insects that lived upon it, or dimple with bubbles of gas belched from deep beneath the floor of the surrounding desert.
Suddenly the skin burst, and the head and shoulders of a man erupted from the water. His face was turned upwards and instantly he gasped huge heaves of life-giving air through his flared nostrils and gaping mouth, as though he’d stayed underwater beyond the limit of his endurance. His breaths didn’t lessen in intensity as the moments passed; rather, they grew ever more desperate, as though his heart was about to burst inside his chest. But at length he reached and passed the worst.
There was no light at all in the cave, not even a phosphorescence of water; and the man’s relief at surviving his underwater flight quickly turned to distress that he’d merely exchanged one mode of death for another. He felt around the edge of the pool until he found a low ledge. He heaved himself up, twisted round to sit upon it. Almost as an afterthought, he reached beneath his soaking tunic for his dagger; but in truth, there was little danger of pursuit. He’d had to fight and kick his way through every inch of that watery escape. He’d like to see that fat Libyan who’d aimed to stick him with his sword try to follow; for sure, he’d cork in the passage, and it wouldn’t spit him out till he’d lost some flesh.
Something whirred past his cheek. He cried out in terror and threw up his hands. The echo was curiously slow and deep for what he’d imagined to be a small cave. Something else flapped past him. It sounded like a bird, but no bird could navigate in such darkness. Perhaps a bat. He’d certainly seen colonies of them at dusk, swarming the distant orchards like midges. His hopes rose. If these were those same bats, there had to be a way out of here. He surveyed the rock walls with his hands, then began to climb the gentlest wall. He wasn’t an athletic man, and the ascent was nightmarish in the dark, though at least the walls were gaunt with holds. When he reached a place from which there was no possible advance, he retreated and found another route. Then another. Hours passed. More hours. He grew hungry and tired. One time he fell crashing to the base, crying out in terror. A broken leg would end him as surely as it would end a mule, but he cracked his head against rock instead, and blackness claimed him.
When he came to, he wasn’t sure for a blessed moment where he was, or why. When memory returned, he felt such despair that he considered returning the way he’d come. But he couldn’t face that passage again. No. Better to press on. He tried the rock wall once more. And again. And finally, on his next attempt, he reached a precarious ledge high above the cavern floor, barely wide enough for him to kneel. He crawled forwards and upwards, the rock-face to his left, nothing at all to his right, only too aware that a single mistake would plunge him to certain death. The knowledge didn’t impede him but rather added sharpness to his concentration.
The ledge closed around him so that it felt as if he was crawling inside the belly of a stone serpent. Soon the darkness wasn’t quite so pure as it had been. Then it grew almost light and he emerged shockingly into the setting sun, so dazzling after his long blindness that he had to throw up a forearm to protect his eyes.
The setting sun! A day at least had passed since Ptolemy’s ambush. He inched closer to the lip, looked down. Nothing but sheer rocks and certain death. He looked up instead. It was still steep, but it looked manageable. The sun would soon be gone. He began to climb at once, looking neither down nor up, contenting himself with progress rather than haste. Patience served him well. Several times the sandstone crumbled in his hand or beneath his foot. The last glow of daylight faded as he reached an overhanging brow. There was no going back now, so he steeled himself, then committed totally to it, hauling himself up with his fingernails and palms and elbows, scrabbling frantically with his knees and feet, scraping his skin raw on the rough rock, until finally he made it over and he rolled onto his back, staring thankfully up at the night sky.
Kelonymus had never claimed to be brave. He was a man of healing and learning, not war. Yet he still felt the silent reproach of his comrades. ‘Together in life; together in death’ – that had been their vow. When Ptolemy had finally trapped them, the others had all taken without qualm the distillation of cherry laurel leaves that Kelonymus had concocted for them, lest torture loosen their tongues. Yet he himself had balked. He’d felt a terrible rush of fear at losing all this before his time, this wonderful gift of life, this sight, this smell, this touch, this taste, the glorious ability of thought. Never again to see the high hills of home, the lush banks of its rivers, the forests of pine and silver fir! Never again to listen at the feet of the wise men in the marketplace. Never to have his mother’s arms around him, or tease his sister, or play with his two nephews! So he’d only pretended to take his poison. And then, as the others had expired around him, he’d fled into the caves.
The moon lit his descent, showing desert all around, making him realise just how alone he was. His former comrades had been shield-bearers in Alexander’s army, dauntless lords of the earth. No place had felt safer than in their company. Without them he felt weak and fragile, adrift in a land of strange gods and incomprehensible tongues. He walked down the slope, faster and faster, the fear of Pan welling in him until he broke into a run and fled headlong before stumbling in a rut and falling hard onto the compact sand.
He had a growing sense of dread as he pushed himself up, though at first he wasn’t sure why. But then strange shapes began to form in the darkness. When he realised what they were, he began to wail. He came to the first pair. Bilip, who’d carried him when his strength had failed outside Areg. Iatrocles, who’d told him wondrous tales of distant lands. Cleomenes and Herakles were next. No matter that they’d already been dead, crucifixion was the Macedonian punishment for criminals and traitors, and Ptolemy had wanted it known that was what he considered these men. Yet it wasn’t these men who’d betrayed Alexander’s dying request about where he was to be buried. It wasn’t these men who’d put personal ambition above the wishes of their king. No. These men had only sought to do what Ptolemy himself should have done, building Alexander a tomb in sight of the place of his father.
Something about the symmetry of the crosses caught Kelonymus’ eye. They were in pairs. All the way along, they were in pairs. Yet their party had been thirty-four. Himself and thirty-three others. An odd number. How could they all be in pairs? Hope fluttered weakly. Maybe someone else had got away. He began to hurry down the horrific avenue of death. Old friends either side, yes; but not his brother. Twenty-four crosses, and none his brother. Twenty-six. He prayed silently to the gods, his hopes rising all the time. Twenty-eight. Thirty. Thirty-two. And none his brother. And no more crosses. He felt, for a moment, an exquisite euphoria. But it didn’t last. Like a knife plunged between his ribs, he realised what Ptolemy had done. He cried out in anguish and rage, and he fell to his knees upon the sand.
When his anger finally cooled, Kelonymus was a different man, a man of fixed and certain purpose. He’d betrayed his oath to these men once already. He wouldn’t betray it again. Together in life; together in death. Yes. He owed them that much. Whatever it took.
ONE
I
The Ras Mohammed reefs, Sinai, Egypt
Daniel Knox was dozing happily on the bow when the girl came to stand with deliberate provocation in the way of his afternoon sun. He opened his eyes and looked up a little warily when he saw who it was, because Max had made it clear that she was Hassan al-Assyuti’s for the day, and Hassan had a proud and thoroughly warranted reputation for violence, especially against anyone who dared tread on his turf.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘So are you really a Bedouin?’ she gushed. ‘I mean, that guy Max said like you were a Bedouin, but I mean you don’t look it. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you kind of look it, I mean, your complexion and your hair and eyebrows, but …’
It was no surprise she’d caught Hassan’s eye, thought Knox, as she rambled on. He was notoriously a sucker for young blondes, and this one had a charming smile and startling turquoise eyes, as well as an attractive complexion, with its smattering of pale freckles and pinkish hints of acne, and a slender figure perfectly showcased by her lime-green and lemon-yellow bikini. ‘My father’s mother was Bedouin,’ he said, to help her out of her labyrinth. ‘That’s all.’
‘Wow! A Bedouin gran!’ She took this as an invitation to sit. ‘What was she like?’
Knox pushed himself up onto an elbow, squinting to keep out the sun. ‘She died before I was born.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ A damp, blonde lock fell onto her cheek. She swept her hair back with both hands, holding it there in a makeshift ponytail, so that her chest jutted out at him. ‘Were you brought up here, then? In the desert?’
He looked around. They were on the deck of Max Strati’s dive boat, tethered to a fixed mooring way out into the Red Sea. ‘Desert?’ he asked.
‘Tch!’ She slapped him playfully on the chest. ‘You know what I mean!’
‘I’m English,’ he said.
‘I like your tattoo.’ She traced a fingertip over the blue and gold sixteen-pointed star on his right biceps. ‘What is it?’
‘The Star of Vergina,’ answered Knox. ‘A symbol of the Argeads.’
‘The who?’
‘The old royal family of Macedonia.’
‘What? You mean like Alexander the Great?’
‘Very good.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘You a fan, then? I always heard he was just a drunken brute.’
‘Then you heard wrong.’
She smiled, pleased to be put down. ‘Go on, then. Tell me.’
Knox frowned. Where did you even start with a man like Alexander? ‘He was besieging this town called Multan,’ he told her. ‘This was towards the end of his campaigns. His men were fed up with fighting. They just wanted to go home. But Alexander wasn’t having that. He was first up the battlements. The defenders pushed away all the other assault ladders, so he was stranded up there alone. Any normal man would have leaped for safety, right? You know what Alexander did?’
‘What?’
‘He jumped down inside the walls. All on his own. It was the one sure way to make his men come after him.’ And they had too. They’d torn the citadel apart to save him, and they’d only just got to him in time. The wounds he’d taken that day had probably contributed to his eventual death, but they’d added to his legend too. ‘He used to boast that he carried scars on every part of his body; except his back.’
She laughed. ‘He sounds like a psycho.’
‘Different times,’ said Knox. ‘You know, when he captured the mother of the Persian Emperor, he put her under his personal protection. After he died, she was so upset, she starved herself to death. Not when her own son died, mind. When Alexander died. You don’t do that for a psychopath.’
‘Huh,’ she said. It was clear that she’d had enough talk of Alexander.
She rose to her knees, placed her left palm flat on the deck the far side of Knox, then reached across him for the red and white icebox. She threw off its lid, sampled each of the bottles and cans inside for cool, taking her time, her breasts swinging free within her dangling bikini-top as she did so, making the most of themselves, nipples pink as petals. Knox’s mouth felt a little dry suddenly; knowing you were being worked didn’t make it ineffective. But it reminded him forcibly of Hassan too, so he scowled and looked away.
She sat back down with a thump, an open bottle in her hand, a mischievous smile on her lips. ‘Want some?’ she asked.
‘No thanks.’
She shrugged, took a swallow. ‘So have you known Hassan long?’
‘No.’
‘But you’re a friend of his, right?’
‘I’m on the payroll, love. That’s all.’
‘But he’s kosher, right?’
‘That’s hardly the smartest way to describe a Muslim.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Knox shrugged. It was too late for her to be getting cold feet. Hassan had picked her up in a nightclub, not Sunday school. If she didn’t fancy him, she should have said no; simple as that. There was naïve and there was stupid. It wasn’t as though she didn’t know what she was doing with her body.
Max Strati appeared around the line of cabins at that moment. He walked briskly over. ‘What happens here, then?’ he asked frostily. He’d come to Sharm el-Sheikh on holiday twenty years before, had never gone home. Egypt had been good to him; he wouldn’t risk that by pissing off Hassan.
‘Just talking,’ said Knox.
‘On your own time, please, not mine,’ said Max. ‘Mr al-Assyuti wishes his guests to have a final dive.’
Knox pushed himself up. ‘I’ll get things ready.’
The girl jumped up too, clapped with false enthusiasm. ‘Great! I didn’t think we’d be going down again.’
‘You will not join us, I think, Fiona,’ Max told her flatly. ‘We have not enough tanks. You will stay here with Mr al-Assyuti.’
‘Oh.’ She looked scared, suddenly; childlike. She put her hand tentatively on Knox’s forearm. He shook her off, walked angrily towards the stern, where the wetsuits, flippers, snorkels and goggles were stored in plastic crates next to the steel rack of air tanks. A swift glance confirmed what Knox already knew; there were plenty of full tanks. He felt stress suddenly in his nape. He could feel Max’s eyes burning into his back, so he forced himself not to look round. The girl wasn’t his problem. She was old enough to look after herself. He had no connection to her; no obligation. He’d worked his balls off to establish himself in this town; he wasn’t going to throw that away just because some bratty teenager had misjudged the price of her lunch. His self-justifications did little good. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach as he squatted down by the crates and started checking equipment.
II
The MAF Nile Delta excavation, Northern Egypt ‘Hello!’ called out Gaille Bonnard. ‘Is there anyone here?’
She waited patiently for an answer, but none came. How odd. Kristos had been clear that Elena wanted help translating an ostracon, but there was no sign of her or her truck; and the magazine, where she normally worked, was closed up. She felt a rare flicker of irritation. She didn’t mind making the fifteen-minute walk from the other site; but she did mind having her time wasted. But then she noticed that the hut door was hanging ajar, which it had never been before, not while Gaille had been there at least. She knocked, pulled it open, looked within, allowing in a little sunlight. The interior walls were lined with shelves, stacked with battery lamps, hammers, mattocks, baskets, rope and other archaeological equipment. There was a dark square hole in the floor too, from which protruded the top of a wooden ladder.
She crouched, cupped her hands around her mouth, and called down, but there was no answer. She waited a few seconds, then called down again. When there was still nothing, she stood, put her hands on her hips, and brooded. Elena Koloktronis head of the Macedonian Archaeological excavation was one of those leaders who believed all her team to be incompetent, and who therefore tried to do everything herself. She was constantly running off in the middle of one task to see to another. Maybe that was what had happened here. Or maybe there’d just been a mix-up with the message. The trouble was, it was impossible with Elena to do the right thing. If you went looking for her, you should have stayed where you were. If you stayed, she was furious that you hadn’t come looking.
She crouched again, her hams and calves aching from her long day’s work, and called down a third time, beginning to feel a little alarmed. What if Elena had fallen? She turned on a battery lamp, but the shaft was deep, and the beam was lost in its darkness. There couldn’t be any harm in checking. She had no head for heights, so she took a deep breath as she put her hand on the ladder, reached one foot tentatively onto the top rung, then the other. When she felt secure, she began a cautious descent. The ladder creaked, as did the ropes that bound it to the wall. The shaft was deeper than she’d imagined, perhaps six metres. You couldn’t normally go down so far in the Delta without reaching the water table, but the site was on the crown of a hill, safe from the annual inundation of the Nile – one reason it had been occupied in ancient times. She called out again. Still silence, except for her own breathing, magnified by her narrow confines. Displaced earth trickled past. Curiosity began to get the better of apprehension. She’d heard whispers about this place, of course, though none of her colleagues dared speak openly about it.
She reached the bottom at last, her feet crunching on shards of basalt, granite and quartzite, as though old monuments and statues had been smashed into smithereens and tipped down. A narrow passage led left. She called out again, but more quietly this time, hoping there’d be no answer. Her lamp started flickering and stuttering, then went out altogether. She tapped it against the wall, and it sprang back on like a fist opening. Her feet crackled on the stone chips as she advanced.
There was a painting on the left-hand wall, its colours remarkably bright. It had evidently been cleaned, perhaps even retouched. A profiled humanoid figure dressed as a soldier but with the head and mane of a grey wolf was holding a mace in his left hand, and in his right a military standard, its base planted between his feet, a scarlet flag unfurling beside his right shoulder in front of a turquoise sky.
Ancient Egyptian gods weren’t Gaille’s speciality, but she knew enough to recognise Wepwawet, a wolf god who’d eventually merged with others into Anubis, the jackal. He’d been seen primarily as an army scout, and had often been depicted on shedsheds – the Egyptian military standard he was holding here. His name had meant ‘Opener of the Ways’, which was why the miniaturised robot designed to explore the mysterious air shafts of the Great Pyramids had been christened with a version of his name, Upuaut. To the best of Gaille’s recollection, he’d gone out of fashion during the Middle Kingdom, around sixteen hundred BC. By rights, therefore, this painting should have been over three and half thousand years old. Yet the shedshed that Wepwawet was holding told a different story. For depicted upon it were the head and shoulders of a handsome young man, a beatific look upon his face, tilted up like some Renaissance Madonna. It was hard to know for sure when you were looking at a portrait of Alexander the Great. His impact on iconography had been so profound that for centuries afterwards people had aspired to look like him. But if this wasn’t Alexander himself, it was unquestionably influenced by him, which meant it couldn’t possibly date to earlier than 332 BC. And that begged an obvious question: what on earth was he doing on a standard held by Wepwawet, over a millennium after Wepwawet had faded from view?
Gaille set this conundrum to one side and continued on her way, still murmuring Elena’s name, though only as an excuse should she encounter anyone. Her battery lamp went out again, plunging the place into complete blackness. She tapped her lamp again, and once more it sprang on. She passed another painting; as far as she could tell, identical to the first, though not yet fully cleaned. The walls began to show signs of charring, as though a great fire had once raged. She glimpsed a flash of white marble ahead, and two stone wolves lying prone yet alert. More wolves. She frowned. When the Macedonians had taken Egypt, they’d given many of the towns Greek names for administrative purposes, often basing them upon local cult-gods. If Wepwawet was the cult-god of this place, then surely this must be—
‘Gaille! Gaille!’ From far behind her, Elena was shouting. ‘Are you down there? Gaille!’
Gaille hurried back along the passage. ‘Elena?’ she called up. ‘Is that you?’
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing down there?’
‘I thought you’d fallen. I thought you might be in trouble.’
‘Get out,’ ordered Elena furiously. ‘Get out now.’
Gaille started to climb. She saved her breath until she reached the top. Then she said hurriedly: ‘Kristos told me you wanted to—’
Elena thrust her face in Gaille’s. ‘How many times have I told you this is a restricted area?’ she yelled. ‘How many times?’
‘I’m sorry, Ms Koloktronis, but—’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ Elena’s face was red; tendons stood out on her neck like a straining racehorse. ‘How dare you go down there? How dare you?’
‘I thought you’d fallen,’ repeated Gaille helplessly. ‘I thought you might need help.’
‘Don’t you dare interrupt me when I’m talking.’
‘I wasn’t—’
‘Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!’
Gaille stiffened. For a moment she considered snapping back. It had barely been three weeks ago, after all, that Elena had called her out of the blue and begged her, begged her, to take a month out from the Sorbonne’s Demotic Dictionary project to fill in for a languages assistant who’d fallen ill. But you knew instinctively in this world how well you matched up against other people, and Gaille didn’t stand a chance. The first time Elena had exploded, it had left Gaille shell-shocked. Her new colleagues had shrugged it off, telling her that Elena had been that way ever since her husband had died. She boiled like a young planet with internal rage, erupting unpredictably in gushes of indiscriminate, molten and sometimes spectacular violence. It had become almost routine now, something to be feared and placated, like the wrath of ancient gods. So Gaille stood there and took upon her chin all Elena’s scathing and brutal remarks about the poverty of her abilities, her ingratitude, the damage this incident would doubtless do her career when it got out, though she herself would, of course, do her best to protect her.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Koloktronis,’ Gaille said, when the tirade finally began to slacken. ‘Kristos said you wanted to see me.’
‘I told him to tell you I was coming over.’
‘That’s not what he told me. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Nowhere. I just checked at the bottom.’
‘Very well,’ said Elena grudgingly. ‘Then we’ll say no more about it. But don’t mention it to Qasim, or I won’t be able to protect you.’
‘No, Ms Koloktronis,’ said Gaille. Qasim, the on-site representative of the Supreme Council, was every bit as secretive about this place as Elena herself. No doubt it would be embarrassing for Elena to have to admit to him that she’d left the door unlocked and unguarded.
‘Come with me,’ said Elena, locking the steel door, then leading Gaille across to the magazine. ‘There’s an ostracon I’d like your opinion on. I’m ninety-nine point nine nine per cent sure of its translation. You can perhaps help me with the other nought point nought one per cent.’
‘Yes, Ms Koloktronis,’ said Gaille meekly. ‘Thank you.’
III
‘Are you an idiot?’ scowled Max, having followed Knox to the stern of the dive boat. ‘Do you have a death wish, or something? Didn’t I tell you to leave Hassan’s woman alone?’
‘She came to talk to me,’ answered Knox. ‘Did you want me to be rude?’
‘You were flirting with her.’
‘She was flirting with me.’
‘That’s even worse. Christ!’ He looked around, his face suffused with fear. Working for Hassan could do that to people.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Knox. ‘I’ll stay away from her.’
‘You’d better. Trust me, you get on Hassan’s wrong side, you and your mate Rick can forget about your little project, whatever the fuck it is.’
‘Keep your voice down.’
‘I’m just warning you.’ He wagged a finger, as if he had more to say, but then he turned and walked away.
Knox watched him go. He didn’t like Max; Max didn’t like him. But they had a valuable relationship. Max ran a dive school, and Knox was a good, reliable dive instructor who knew how to charm tourists into recommending him to others they met on their travels; and he worked for peanuts too. In return, Max let him use his boat and side-scan sonar for what he disparagingly referred to as his ‘little project’. Knox smiled wryly. If Max ever found out what he and Rick were after, he wouldn’t dismiss it so patronisingly.
Knox had come to Sharm nearly three years before. He’d only been here four weeks when something extraordinary had happened; and it had been prompted by the very same tattoo that had caught Fiona’s eye.
While he’d been sitting on the front one evening, enjoying a beer, a powerfully built Australian man had come up to him. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he’d asked.
‘Help yourself.’
‘I’m Rick.’
‘Daniel. But everyone calls me Knox.’
‘Yeah. So I’ve been told.’
Knox squinted at him. ‘You’ve been asking?’
‘They say you’re an archaeologist.’
‘Used to be.’
‘You gave it up to become a dive instructor?’ asked Rick sceptically.
‘It gave me up,’ explained Knox. ‘A bust-up with the establishment.’
‘Ah.’ He leaned forward. ‘Interesting tattoo.’
‘You think?’
Rick nodded. ‘If I show you something, you’ll keep it to yourself, right?’
‘Sure,’ shrugged Knox.
Rick reached into his pocket, pulled out a matchbox. Inside, embedded in cotton wool, was a fat golden teardrop about an inch long with an eyelet at the narrow end for a clasp or a chain. Specks of pink were accreted from where it had been chiselled out of coral. And, on its base, a sixteen-pointed star had been faintly inscribed.
‘I found it a couple of years back,’ said Rick. ‘I thought you might be able to tell me more about it. I mean, it’s Alexander’s symbol, right?’
‘Yes. Where d’you find it?’
‘Sure!’ snorted Rick, taking it back, replacing it jealously in its makeshift home, then back in his pocket. ‘Like I’m going to tell you that. Well? Any idea?’
‘It could be anything,’ said Knox. ‘A tassel for a robe, a drinking cup, something like that. An earring.’
‘What?’ frowned Rick. ‘Alexander wore earrings?’
‘The star doesn’t mean it belonged to him personally. Just to his household.’
‘Oh.’ The Australian looked disappointed.
Knox frowned. ‘And you found it in these reefs, yes?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘It’s odd, that’s all. Alexander never came near here. Nor did his men.’
Rick snorted. ‘And I thought you said you were an archaeologist! Even I know he came to Egypt. He went to visit that place out in the desert.’
‘The Oracle of Ammon in Siwa Oasis. Yes. But he didn’t travel via Sharm, believe me. He cut across the north coast of Sinai.’
‘Oh. And that was his only visit, was it?’
‘Yes, except for …’ And Knox’s heart suddenly started pounding crazily inside his chest as a wild idea occurred to him. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he muttered.
‘What?’ asked Rick excitedly, reading his face.
‘No. No. It couldn’t be.’
‘What? Tell me.’
Knox shook his head decisively. ‘No. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘Come on, mate. You’ve got to tell me now.’
‘Only if you tell me where you found it.’
Rick squinted shrewdly at him. ‘You reckon there’s more? That’s what you’re thinking, yeah?’
‘Not exactly. But it’s possible.’
Rick hesitated. ‘And you’re a diver, yeah?’
‘Yes.’
‘I could do with a buddy. The place isn’t easy on my own. If I tell you, we’ll go look together, yeah?’
‘Sure.’
‘OK. Then spill.’
‘Fine. But you’ve got to remember, this is pure speculation. The chances of this being what I think it is—’
‘I get the point. Now spill.’
‘Long version or short?’
Rick shrugged. ‘I’ve got nowhere I need to be.’
‘I’ll have to give you some background first. Alexander came to Egypt only once during his life, like I said, and then for just a few months. Across north Sinai to the Nile Delta, then south to Memphis, the old capital, just south of Cairo, where he was crowned. After that it was north again to found Alexandria, westwards along the coast to Paraetonium, modern Marsa Matruh, then due south through the desert to Siwa. He and his party got lost, apparently. According to one account, they’d have died of thirst except that two talking snakes guided them to the Oasis.’
‘Those talking snakes. Always there when you need them.’
‘Aristobulus tells a more plausible story, that they followed a pair of crows. Spend any time in the desert, you’re pretty much certain to see some brown-necked ravens. They’re about the only birds you will see in many places. They often travel in pairs. And they’re cheeky buggers too; if they can’t find any snakes or locusts to eat, they’ll happily scout around your camp site looking for scraps, before heading off back to the nearest oasis. So if you were to follow them …’
Rick nodded. ‘Like dolphins in the Sea of Sand.’
‘If you want to put it that way,’ agreed Knox. ‘Anyway, they got Alexander to Siwa, where he consulted the oracle, and then it was back into the desert again; but this time he headed east along the caravan trails to Bahariyya Oasis, where there’s a famous temple dedicated to him, and then back to Memphis. That was pretty much that. It was off beating up Persians again. But then, after he died, he was brought back to Egypt for burial.’
‘Ah! And you think this was from then?’
‘I think it’s possible. You’ve got to bear something in mind. This is Alexander the Great we’re talking about. He led thirty thousand Macedonians across the Hellespont to avenge Xerxes’ invasion of Greece, knowing that he’d face armies ten times larger. He hammered the Persians not once, not twice, but three times, and then he just kept on going. He fought countless battles, and he won them all, making himself the most powerful man the world has ever seen. When his best friend Hephaiston died, he sent him on his way on top of a beautifully carved wooden pyre eighty metres high; like building Sydney Opera House, then putting a match to it, just to enjoy the blaze. So you can imagine, his men would have insisted on something pretty special when Alexander himself died.’
‘I get you.’
‘A pyre was out of the question. Alexander’s body was far too precious to be burned. Apart from anything else, one of the duties of a new Macedonian king was to bury his predecessor. So whoever possessed Alexander’s body had a serious claim to kingship, especially as Alexander hadn’t left an obvious successor, and everyone was jostling for position.’
Rick nodded at Knox’s empty glass. ‘You fancy another?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘Two beers,’ shouted Rick at the barman. ‘Sorry. You were saying. People jostling for position.’
‘Yes. The throne was pretty much open. Alexander had a brother, but he was a half-wit. And his wife, Roxanne, was pregnant, but no one could be sure she’d have a son; and, anyway, Roxanne was a barbarian, and the Macedonians hadn’t conquered the known world to be ruled by a half-breed. So there was an assembly of the army in Babylon, and they came to a compromise. The half-wit brother and the unborn child, if he turned out to be a boy, which he did, Alexander the Fourth, would rule together; but the various regions of the empire would be administered for them by a number of satraps all reporting to a triumvirate. You with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘One of Alexander’s generals was a man named Ptolemy. He was the one who made the claim about the talking snakes as it happens. But don’t let that fool you. He was a very shrewd, very capable man. He realised that without Alexander to hold it together, the empire was bound to fragment, and he wanted Egypt for himself. It was rich, out of the way, unlikely to get caught up in other people’s wars. So he got himself awarded the satrapy, and he bedded himself in, and eventually he became Pharaoh, founding the Ptolemaic dynasty, which ended with Cleopatra. OK?’
Their beers arrived. They clinked them in a toast. ‘Go on,’ said Rick.
‘It wasn’t easy for Ptolemy, making himself Pharaoh,’ said Knox. ‘Egyptians wouldn’t recognise just anyone. Legitimacy was very important to them. Alexander was different: a living god of unquestioned royal blood who’d driven out the hated Persians; there was no shame in being ruled by such a man. But Ptolemy was a nobody as far as the Egyptians were concerned. So one of the things he needed was a symbol of kingship.’
‘Ah,’ said Rick, wiping froth from his upper lip. ‘Alexander’s body.’
‘Ten out of ten,’ grinned Knox. ‘Ptolemy wanted Alexander’s body. But he wasn’t the only one. The head of the Macedonian triumvirate was called Perdiccas. He had ambitions of his own. He wanted to bring Alexander’s body back to Macedonia for burial alongside his father, Philip, in the royal tombs of Aigai in Northern Greece. But getting him from Babylon to Macedonia wasn’t easy. You couldn’t just load him on the first boat. He had to travel in a certain style.’
Rick nodded. ‘I’m the same way, myself.’
‘A historian called Diodorus of Sicily gave a very detailed description of all this. Alexander’s body was embalmed and laid in a coffin of beaten gold, covered by expensive, sweet-smelling spices. And a catafalque – that’s a funeral carriage to you and me – was commissioned. It was so spectacular, it took over a year to get ready. It was a golden temple on wheels, six metres long, four metres wide. Golden ionic columns twined with acanthus supported a high vaulted roof of gold scales set with jewels. A golden mast rose from the top, flashing like lightning in the sun. At each of its corners, there was a golden statue of Nike, the ancient goddess of victory, holding out a trophy. The gold cornice was embossed with ibex heads from which hung gold rings supporting a bright, multicoloured garland. The spaces between the columns were filled with a golden net, protecting the coffin from the scorching sun and the occasional rain. Its front entrance was guarded by golden lions.’
‘That’s a whole lot of gold,’ said Rick sceptically.
‘Alexander was seriously rich,’ replied Knox. ‘He had over seven thousand tons of gold and silver in his Persian treasuries alone. It took twenty thousand mules and five thousand camels just to shift it all around. You know how they used to store it?’
‘How?’
‘They used to melt it and pour it into jars and then simply smash off the earthenware.’
‘Holy shit,’ laughed Rick. ‘I could do with finding one of those.’
‘Exactly. And the generals didn’t dare stint on all this. Alexander was a god to the Macedonian troops. Skimping would have been the quickest way to lose their loyalty. Anyway, the funeral carriage was eventually completed. But it was so heavy that the builders had to invent shock-absorbing wheels and axles for it, and even then the route had to be specially prepared by a crew of road-builders, and it took sixty-four mules to draw it along.’ He paused to take another sip of his beer. ‘Sixty-four mules,’ he nodded. ‘And each of them wore a gilded crown and a gem-encrusted collar. And each of them had a golden bell hanging upon either cheek. And each of these bells would have had inside it a golden pendant tongue just exactly like the one you’ve got in your matchbox.’
‘You’re fucking with me,’ said Rick, the shock legible on his face.
‘And, more to the point,’ grinned Knox, ‘this entire catafalque, all this gold, simply vanished from history without a trace.’
TWO
I
A hotel construction site, Alexandria
Mohammed el-Dahab kept a framed photograph of his daughter, Layla, on his desk. It had been taken two years ago, just before she’d fallen sick. He’d developed the habit, while he worked, of glancing at it every few moments. Sometimes it gladdened him to see her face. Mostly, as this time, his heart sank. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, muttered a short but heartfelt prayer. He prayed for her like this perhaps thirty times each day, as well as during his formal rek’ahs. His prayers had done little good so far, but faith was like that. Without testing it was nothing.
There were incongruous noises outside; shouting, jubilant laughing. He glanced irritably through his office window. Work on the building site had come to a halt. His crew were congregating in a corner, Ahmed was dancing like a dervish at a moulid. Mohammed hurried out angrily. Allah had cursed him with the laziest crew in all Egypt. Any excuse! He scowled to put himself into the right frame of mind to deliver a proper tongue-lashing, but when he saw what had caused the commotion, he forgot all ideas of that. The mechanical digger had ripped a great gaping hole in the ground, exposing a spiral staircase that wound around a deep, black shaft, still thick with settling dust. It looked yellow, dark, old; old as the city itself.
Mohammed and his men all gazed at each other with the same thought. Who knows how long this has lain hidden? Who can guess what riches might lie at its base? Alexandria was not only one of the great cities of antiquity, it boasted a lost treasure of world renown. Was there a man among them who hadn’t dreamed of discovering the golden sarcophagus of the city’s founder, Iskandar al-Akbar, Alexander the Great himself? Young boys dug holes in public gardens; women confided in their friends the strange echoes they heard when they tapped the walls of their cellars; robbers broke into ancient cisterns and the forbidden cellars of temples and mosques. But if it was anywhere, it was here, right in the heart of the city’s ancient Royal Quarter. Mohammed was not given to idle dreams, but gazing down into this deep shaft, his gut clenched tight as a fist.
Could this be his miracle at last?
He beckoned for Fahd’s flashlight, lowered his left foot slowly onto the top step. He was a big man, Mohammed, and his heart was in his mouth as he rested his considerable weight upon the rutted stone, but it bore him without protest. He tested more steps, his back turned to the rough limestone of the outer wall. The inner wall that separated the spiral staircase from the great central shaft was built of crumbled bricks; many had fallen away, leaving a black jigsaw. Mohammed tossed a pebble through a gap, waited with held breath until it clattered four heartbeats later at the foot. The spiral closed above him and he saw that the entire staircase was carved from the rock, a sculpture rather than a construction! It gave him confidence. He continued his descent, around and around. The spiral at last straightened out, doubled back through an arched portal into a large, circular room, calf-deep in sand, rock and fallen bricks. At the centre, four sturdy pillars surrounded the open base of the central shaft. The thin, rebounded daylight was thick with chalky motes swirling slow as planets, clotting like salve on his lips, tickling his throat.
It was cool down here, gloriously quiet after the incessant building site din. Including the stairwell from which he’d just emerged, four arched doorways led off this rotunda, one for each point of the compass. Curved benches with oyster-shell hoods were recessed into limestone walls sumptuously carved with prancing gods, hissing medusas, rampant bulls, soaring birds, bursting flowers and drapes of ivy. A dark, downward-sloping corridor showed through the first doorway, humped with rubble and dust. Mohammed swallowed with distaste and premonition as he tore aside its cobweb veil. A low side-passage led off the winding corridor into a large, tall chamber, walls pocked by columns of square-mouthed openings. A catacomb. He went to the left-hand wall, lit up a dusty yellow skull, tipped the dome aside with a finger. A small, blackened coin fell from its jaw. He picked it up, examined it, set it back down. He shone his torch within. At the far end, a high heap of skulls and bones had been pushed back to make room for later occupants. He grimaced at the sight, retreated to the main corridor to continue his survey. He passed four more burial chambers before descending a flight of twelve steps, then another five before he reached the top of another flight of steps and the water table.
He returned to the rotunda. Ahmed, Husni and Fahd had come down too, were now on their hands and knees, scrabbling through the rubble. He was puzzled that they hadn’t explored further until he realised it was the only spot with natural light, and he’d taken their one torch.
‘What is this place?’ asked Ahmed. ‘What have I found?’
‘A necropolis,’ answered Mohammed flatly. ‘A city of the dead.’
Obscurely angered by their presence, he walked through a second portal into a large, tall, closed chamber lined with limestone blocks. A banqueting hall, perhaps, where mourners would have come each year to commemorate their loved ones. A short flight of steps led down through the final portal into a small forecourt. Upon a raised step, a pair of tall, blackened, studded metal doors with hexagonal handles were set into a white-marble wall. Mohammed pulled the left-hand door. It opened with a grinding screech. He squeezed through into a broad, high, empty antechamber. Plaster had fallen away in places from the walls to reveal rough limestone beneath. Two lines of Greek characters were carved into the lintel above the arched doorway in the facing wall; they meant nothing to Mohammed. He crossed a high step into a second, main chamber, of similar width and height, but twice as deep. A knee-high plinth stood in its centre, giving the strong impression that something important like a sarcophagus had once lain upon it. If so, it had long since vanished.
A dull bronze button shield was pinned to the wall beside the doorway. Ahmed tried to wrest it free.
‘Stop!’ cried Mohammed. ‘Are you mad? Will you truly risk ten years in Damanhur for an old shield and a handful of broken pots?’
‘No one knows of this but us,’ retorted Ahmed. ‘Who can tell what treasures are here? Enough for us all.’
‘This place was looted centuries ago.’
‘But not of everything,’ pointed out Fahd. ‘Tourists will pay mad prices for all kinds of ancient rubbish. My cousin has a stall near al-Gomhurriya. He knows the value of such things. If we bring him down—’
‘Listen to me,’ said Mohammed. ‘All of you listen. You’ll take nothing and you’ll tell no one.’
‘Who gave you the right to make decisions?’ demanded Fahd. ‘Ahmed found this, not you.’
‘But this project is mine, not yours. This site is mine. One word of this gets out, you’ll answer to me. Understand?’ He faced them down, one by one, until they broke and stalked away. He watched them uneasily. Trusting secrets to such men was like trusting water to a sieve; Alexandria’s slums writhed with villains who’d cut twenty throats on the mere rumour of such a prize. But he wasn’t going to back down because of that. All his life, Mohammed had striven to be good. Virtue had been a source of great pleasure to him. He’d leave a room after he’d done something particularly generous or judicious, and warmly imagine the admiring words being exchanged about him. Then Layla had fallen ill and he’d realised he didn’t give one fig what people thought of him. He cared only for making her better.
The question now was how to turn this find to that end. Looting it was impractical. For all Ahmed’s optimism, there wasn’t enough to go around; and if he tried to cut out the others, they’d sneak on him to his bosses, maybe even to the police. That would go hard with him. As site manager, he was legally bound to report this find to the Supreme Council for Antiquities. If they learned he’d kept it quiet, he’d lose his job, his licence to operate and almost certainly his liberty too. He couldn’t risk that. His salary was pitiful, but it was all that stood between Layla and the abyss.
The solution, when it finally came to him, was so simple that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it at once.
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