by Will Adams
Augustin had rushed off first thing to inspect some newly discovered antiquity. By Christ, he wished he were down there with him.
IBRAHIM FELT DEEPLY APPREHENSIVE as he, Mohammed, and Elena ascended the spiral stairs back into daylight. He had to make a report to Nicolas Dragoumis, and he was all too aware that more than his excavation funds rested on the outcome; Mohammed’s hopes for his poor daughter did, too. He squeezed the big man’s forearm to reassure him as best he could, then walked a little way off and dialed the Dragoumis Group switchboard, gave his name and business, and was put on hold.
“Well?” demanded Nicolas, picking up.
“It’s a fine site,” said Ibrahim. “There are some wonderful—”
“You promised me a royal Macedonian tomb. Is it a royal Macedonian tomb or not?”
“I promised you something that looked like a royal tomb,” said Ibrahim. “And it does. Unfortunately, it seems to be the tomb of a shield bearer, not a king or noble.”
“A shield bearer?” sneered Nicolas. “You expect the Dragoumis Group to spend twenty thousand dollars on the tomb of a shield bearer?”
“The shield bearers were Alexander’s elite,” protested Ibrahim. “This man Akylos would have been—”
“What?” interrupted Nicolas. “What did you say his name was?”
“Akylos.”
“Akylos? You’re absolutely sure?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Is Elena there?”
“Yes.”
“Put her on. Now! I want to speak to her.”
Ibrahim shrugged and passed her his phone. She walked a little distance away and turned her back so he couldn’t overhear. She spoke for a good minute before returning his phone. “You have your money,” she said.
“I don’t understand,” said Ibrahim. “What’s so special about this man Akylos?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Mr. Dragoumis wants to be kept fully informed.”
“Of course. I’ll call him myself whenever we—”
“Not by you. By me. He asks that I be given unrestricted access.”
“No. I couldn’t possibly agree to—”
“Mr. Dragoumis insists, I’m afraid.”
“But those weren’t our terms.”
“They are now,” said Elena. “If you want his continued support . . .”
Ibrahim glanced at Mohammed, twisting his hands as he waited. “Very well,” he sighed. “I’m sure we can arrange something.” He nodded at Mohammed to let him know he’d got his money. The big man closed his eyes and sagged in relief, then walked unsteadily to his office, no doubt to make phone calls of his own.
Mansoor emerged from the stairwell and walked over to join Ibrahim. “Well?” he asked. “Do we go for it?”
“Yes.”
“Destructive or nondestructive?”
Ibrahim nodded thoughtfully. A good question. In a fortnight, if the hotel group got their way, tons of rubble would be bulldozed down the stairwell as a makeshift landfill site; its mouth would be sealed and a parking lot laid over the top, so that no one could ever get down there again. If that were to happen, then they first needed to remove everything of value, including the wall paintings and sculptures and the mosaic from the rotunda floor. It was perfectly possible, but it took time, expertise, and heavy equipment, and they’d need to start planning now. On the other hand, Alexandria was wretchedly short of historic sites, particularly early Ptolemaic ones. If they could negotiate permanent access with the hotel group, this site would make a valuable addition to the city tour, but only if these original features remained in place and were properly protected during the excavation. “Nondestructive,” said Ibrahim finally. “I’ll talk to the hotel people. Perhaps they’ll realize the value of having an antiquity on their property.”
Mansoor snorted. “And perhaps they’ll give us complimentary penthouse suites whenever we ask, out of the kindness of their hearts.”
“Yes, well, let me deal with them. But you can handle the excavation, yes?”
“It won’t be easy,” said Mansoor. “I can put Shatby on hold. There’s no great urgency with that. We can transfer the crew and the generator and the lighting. But we’ll still need more people.”
“Put the word out. You have a budget.”
“Yes, but with a large crew we’ll need ventilation; and I don’t want people removing rubble up those steps. That’s a recipe for accidents. We’ll need to put a lift above the stairwell. And Augustin will want a pump; I know he will. And it’s not just what we’ll need on site. There are fifteen hundred loculi to be emptied, which means six or seven thousand sets of human remains turning up at the museum or the university over the next fortnight. We’ll need to have trained specialists ready to receive them.” He snapped his fingers. “Our two weeks will be gone like that, you realize.”
Ibrahim smiled. Mansoor always liked to build up a problem in his mind so that his satisfaction at solving it would be all the greater. “You’d better get started, then,” he advised.
AKYLOS! Nicolas could scarcely believe it. But what was written was written. And the restoration of Macedonian greatness was written, and not just in the book of Daniel.
“What was all that about, then?” shouted Julia Melas over the roar of his Lamborghini Murciélago roadster’s engine. She was an aspiring journalist from a Canadian newspaper, interviewing him and his father for a feature on Macedonia. There was a large expatriate community in Canada—a source of both moral and financial support. And she wasn’t at all bad to look at, either. Maybe if things panned out well . . .
“We in the Dragoumis Group sponsor historical research all over the world!” he shouted back. “Truth isn’t restricted to one location, you know.” He braked to turn up into the hills, but a white truck appeared around the corner ahead, hurtling downhill faster than its age and size would suggest prudent. Nicolas was in no mood to wait, not with such a pretty girl beside him. He gave the Murciélago a squirt of acceleration and cut in front of it, and the driver braked and veered and sounded his horn impotently. Julia gave a little shriek and glanced admiringly at him. Nicolas laughed exultantly. He felt good. Things were moving at last. Life was like that: nothing for a year, two years, and then everything all at once.
“You were telling me about Aristander,” she yelled, the wind swirling her skirt up around her thighs, so that she had to press it coyly back down.
Nicolas slowed a little so they could talk in more reasonable voices. “He was Alexander’s favorite seer,” he told her. “After Alexander died, Aristander had a vision that the land which held his body would be unconquered through the ages.”
“And?”
“A man called Perdiccas, Alexander’s heir apparent, wanted to bury Alexander in the royal tombs at Aigai, alongside his father, Philip.” They crested a hill; the fertile plains of northern Greece spread out beneath them. He pulled to the side, parked, got out, and pointed Aigai out to her. “The tombs were discovered thirty years ago. They’re magnificent. You should go visit.”
“I will,” she nodded. “But this man Perdiccas—he obviously didn’t bring Alexander’s body back here.”
“No,” acknowledged Nicolas. “Another Macedonian general, Ptolemy, took it to Egypt instead.” He shook his head regretfully. “Think of it! But for that, Macedonia would have been unconquered through the ages!”
Julia frowned. “You can’t seriously mean that.”
“Why not?”
“But… it’s just a prophecy.”
Nicolas shook his head. “No. It’s a historical fact. Consider: Perdiccas was the one man with the authority to hold the entire empire together. And he tried to recover Alexander’s body from Ptolemy, but Ptolemy hid on the other side of the Nile, and Perdiccas lost hundreds of men to drowning and to the crocodiles when he tried to cross it. His own officers were so angry that they murdered him in his tent. After that, the empire was doomed. Alexander�
�s legitimate heirs were assassinated, and it became every man for himself. But, now, just imagine if Perdiccas had succeeded . . .”
“Yes?”
He put his left arm around her shoulder, pulling her to stand beside him, then sweeping his other arm around the magnificent vista, all the way down to the dazzling blue Aegean. “Look at that,” he said proudly. “Macedonia. Isn’t that a fantastic sight?”
“Yes,” she agreed.
“Perdiccas was an honorable man. He’d have protected Alexander’s son from assassination and kept his empire still together. And if Alexander the Fourth had been one tenth the man his father had been, Aristander’s prophecy would indeed have come true.”
“I thought you said Alexander’s body was taken to Egypt,” observed Julia. “And Egypt hasn’t exactly been unconquered through the ages, has it?”
Nicolas laughed. He liked a pretty girl with spirit. “No,” he acknowledged. “But look at what did happen. The Ptolemies kept the throne for as long as they respected Alexander’s remains. But then Ptolemy the Ninth melted down his golden coffin to pay his troops, and that was the end of them. And who took over from the Ptolemies?”
“Who?”
“The Caesars. They revered Alexander, you know. Julius Caesar wept because he fell so far short of Alexander. Augustus, Septimus Severus, Caracalla, and Hadrian all made pilgrimages to sacrifice at his mausoleum. He was their hero. But then there were riots, Alexander’s tomb was desecrated, and the Romans lost Egypt to the Arabs. The message is clear, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Julia frowned.
“Honor Alexander and prosper. Ignore him and perish. And in Macedonia, of all places on the earth, Alexander would most certainly have been honored. So it follows that we’d never have been conquered.”
Julia backed away from him, clearly a little disconcerted. She checked her watch and forced a smile. “Perhaps we should get moving,” she said. “Your father’s expecting me.”
“Of course,” said Nicolas. “We mustn’t keep Father waiting.” He climbed back in his roadster, started it up, savoring its throaty roar. The way he drove, it was just fifteen more minutes to his father’s house.
“WOW!” MUTTERED JULIA as it came into view.
“A recreation of the royal palace at Aigai,” said Nicolas. “Only bigger.” His father now rarely left this estate. He’d grown increasingly reclusive with the years, had largely handed over his business empire to professional managers so that he could concentrate on his true ambition.
Costis, his father’s head of security, came out to greet them. “This is Julia,” said Nicolas. “She’s here to interview my father. But I need a few minutes with him first.”
“He’s in the vaults,” replied Costis.
Nicolas nodded at Julia. “Perhaps I can take you back to town later.”
“Thanks,” she said warily. “But I’m sure I can get a taxi.”
He laughed again, enjoying her discomfort. She’d looked troubled ever since he told her about the Aristander prophecy. Westerners today! They took fright at the merest hint of the sacred. It was just as well that she hadn’t been in church last night, that he hadn’t told her about the book of Daniel—the full prophecy, that is, including the description of the man predicted to bring about Macedonian liberation.
The only way to reach the vaults was via a secure elevator. Nicolas stepped into it now; the steel doors closed smoothly. He presented his eyes to the retinal scanner; then it began its slow descent, shuddering a little under its own weight when it came to a halt. An armed guard was stationed by the vault, where his father kept all his greatest treasures. Nicolas punched in his code, and the steel door opened. He went through, still thinking about the book of Daniel, and particularly those verses that, twenty-five hundred years before, had promised his people a savior.
And in the latter time of their kingdom, when the transgressors are come to the full, a king of fierce countenance, and understanding dark sentences, shall stand up.
And his power shall be mighty, but not by his own power: and he shall destroy wonderfully, and shall prosper, and practice.
And through his policy also he shall cause craft to prosper in his hand; and he shall magnify himself in his heart, and by peace he shall destroy.
His father, as if by some kind of telepathy, was already standing in front of the glass-topped cabinet in which were displayed a few samples of the Mallawi papyri, his hands resting like a priest’s on the walnut frame as he gazed down at the yellowed reeds and the faded black writing. A feeling of intense love, awe, and pride burned in Nicolas’s chest when he beheld him. A king of fierce countenance indeed!
Dragoumis looked up and drilled his son with his emotionless black eyes. “Yes?” he asked.
“They’ve found Akylos,” Nicolas blurted, his excitement almost too much. “It’s started.”
Chapter Eight
ABLUE TRUCK CUT IN FRONT OF ELENA as she drove back south to the Delta, forcing her to slam on her brakes. She blasted her horn until the truck moved aside; then she wound down her window, shook her fist, and yelled some choice Arabic phrases at the bewildered driver. She was in a troubled mood. It was speaking to Nicolas that had done it. That, and that damned Frenchman. So smug. Between them, they’d stirred memories of her late husband, Pavlos, and Elena hated that, because it just reminded her of her loss.
She’d known of Pavlos long before she’d ever met him, had been infuriated and entertained in equal measure by the tone, anger, and wit of his articles ridiculing Macedonian nationalism. She’d been intrigued, too, by the gossip of besotted women throwing themselves at him. She was a proud and independent woman herself, and like so many of her kind, she had yearned to fall helplessly in love. They had finally met on either side of a radio debate in Thessalonike, and he had surprised her from the start. She had expected someone sharp, assertive, dressy, plausible, but Pavlos hadn’t been like that at all. Though he wasn’t exactly arrogant, she had never met a man so confident of himself. She knew from their first handshake that she was in trouble. He had an unsettling way of looking at her, then and later, as though she were completely exposed to him, as though he understood not just everything she said but all its subtext, too. He had watched her as though she were a movie, one he had seen before.
He had trodden all over her in their debate, defusing her best arguments with humor, hammering relentlessly at her weakest points. Disconcerted, she tried to press him back by citing Keramopoullos on the idiosyncratic style of Macedonian ceramics, before remembering that the words had come from Kallipolitis. She glanced up fearfully to see him grin, and for a terrible moment her scholarly reputation had been at his mercy. That moment—the moment of being at his mercy—had changed her life.
For two days after the debate, Elena had wandered her museum from room to room, hugging herself like an addict. Each time she tried to work, a craving like hunger would disturb her. She had never needed to call men, but she called Pavlos. Scared he would mock her, she introduced herself brusquely, remarked that he had raised interesting points in the debate. He thanked her. Then her nerve had failed. She held the phone against her cheek, wanting to say something clever or hurtful but not knowing what. When he asked her to have dinner with him, she could have cried.
How had it been? It had been everything. She remembered little of the detail, as though the intensity of her love had simply been too much for her memory. But she could remember the joy of it. Even now sometimes, she could experience an exquisite moment of bliss, catching sight of his double on the street, smelling his brand of cigarette in some passerby’s hand, or having some man look at her in the way Pavlos had—as that arrogant Frenchman had, certain he could take her to bed whenever he damned well chose.
Pavlos’s death had devastated Elena. Of course it had. She still hadn’t recovered from it. How could she? Grief hadn’t been as she imagined, any more than love had been. She had imagined grief as a great sea swell that lifted you into wretchedness for a
while before setting you back down again much where you’d been before. But it hadn’t been like that. Grief had changed the fabric of who she was as completely as blown carbon changes molten pig iron.
Yes, she thought, the metaphor worked: grief had turned her into steel.
THE WOMAN DROPPED THE MANILA ENVELOPE through the open rear window of Nessim’s Saab as he paused to buy a packet of cigarettes from a vendor. He drove off in a flurry of dust back to his hotel’s underground parking lot, then took it up to his room to read. It was disappointingly thin, as files went, but then, he hadn’t expected Knox to have a file at all. He flipped through the pages, the print barely legible from being photocopied too often, the photographs almost completely black.
It quickly became clear that the Security Service hadn’t really been interested in Knox at all. They had been interested in another man, a Richard Mitchell, with whom Knox had worked for several years. Mitchell, it seemed, had a big mouth; he had accused the extremely well connected head of the SCA of selling papyri on the black market. A piece of recklessness that had achieved precisely what one would expect: his isolation from the Egyptological community and the refusal of any further permissions to excavate.