The Bonaparte Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  “Gotta go, now. Love you!” Lang entered “end.”

  Rossi said something to the guard before turning to Lang, brilliant white teeth flashing in a smile. “Dr. Roth! I’m so glad you could come!”

  His English was accented more by Oxford than his Italian nationality. Placing a hand under Lang’s elbow, he gently led him past a group of Egyptians gingerly sifting through a mound of loose earth.

  “You are Joel Couch, American newspaperman, last time I see you,” Rossi gently chided. “Now you are Henry Roth, doctor of archaeology at a prestigious American university.” He studied Lang’s still-bruised face. “And you have met with an accident.”

  “You should see the other fellow.”

  “Had your e-mail not included the reference to Herculaneum and the fact you saved my life there, I would have discarded it as . . .”

  “Spam.”

  “As spam. Still, it is a mystery to me how Mr. Couch becomes Dr. Roth.”

  Lang laid an arm on Rossi’s shoulder. “Believe me, Antonio, you are better off to let it remain a mystery.”

  The archaeologist stopped in midstride, facing Lang. “You are also a mystery. But as you Americans say, I owe you one. What may I do to be of help?”

  Lang looked around, selecting the shade of one of the few trees left. Lang could only guess how hot this place would be in the summer months. It was uncomfortably warm now.

  “It’s a long story,” Lang began, experience warning against telling anyone more than they needed to know. “To make it a lot shorter, some people may be trying to locate Alexander the Great’s tomb, more specifically, his remains. Relics, as it were.”

  Rossi gave a short laugh, more bark than merriment. “They and the rest of the archaeological world! The tomb itself has been lost since the fourth century AD.” This time he chuckled. “Even your Shakespeare has Hamlet refer to tracing the ‘noble dust of Alexander.’ ”

  “Some say it has been confused with that of Saint Mark.”

  Rossi pointed to several empty crates and motioned for Lang to sit on one while he took another. “That is a long story, more of what you would call . . . supposition? Yes, more supposition than fact.” He took off his hat and fanned himself with it. “We are not even certain where Saint Mark was originally buried. Reliable accounts put his tomb near what became known as Saint Mark’s Gate.”

  Lang imitated the archaeologist, thankful for the small cooling effect. “Would that be the same as the Pepper Gate? I understand Alexander was entombed near there.”

  Rossi nodded. “Yes, hence the confusion. To add to it, the Roman historian Libanius gives a contemporaneous account of Alexander’s body being on display just before paganism was outlawed in AD 391. There are no later firsthand accounts. Saint Mark’s body surfaces at the end of the fourth century, or about the same time.”

  Lang forgot the heat for the moment. “Are you saying . . . ?”

  Rossi shook his head. “I’m an archaeologist, a scientist. I report what I find.”

  “Archaeologists also theorize, fill in the gaps.”

  “True,” the Italian conceded.

  “OK, what do you think happened to Alexander’s remains and those of Saint Mark?”

  Rossi studied the distance before replying as though inspiration might be there. “In the early centuries of Christianity, it would have been tempting,” he began, “for some official of the Alexandria church to seize the opportunity to both preserve the remains of the city’s founder, Alexander, from the more fanatical Christians and at the same time give Christians a relic to encourage the faithful. Adapting things pagan for Christian use was not unknown in the early days after paganism was made illegal. For example, a bronze idol of the Roman god Saturn was melted down to make a cross. Take a look at the ancient monuments in Rome that are adorned with crosses. Pagan temples, like the Pantheon, became Christian churches. We have the words of the Venetian merchants who supposedly stole the body of Saint Mark that it was mummified like Alexander’s, yet early Christian tradition insists Saint Mark’s body was partially cremated in the first century AD. This is only speculation on my part.”

  Lang stood, facing the area where excavation by hand was progressing in ten-foot squares demarcated by strings on short pegs. “If your ‘speculation’ ”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—“is correct, then it is Alexander who was in Saint Mark’s tomb in Venice.”

  Rossi also stood, glancing over to where the digging was going on. “Not necessarily. One of the things we learn in studying ancient clues to a question is that we must not overlook that there are often a number of possible answers to the same question.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Saint Mark’s body was buried at a place where many were interred. It was the . . . what would you say? The fashionable place for burials, Christians on top of those believing in the Greek gods, the Egyptian gods, the Roman gods. Though mummification was rare by then, it was still practiced. Even if the remains the Venetians took were not Saint Mark’s, there is no evidence they were Alexander’s, either.”

  Lang used his sleeve to wipe his forehead. “Why do I feel I’m going in circles?”

  Rossi smiled, again exhibiting perfect teeth. “Now you experience the feelings of a true archaeologist: either too many possible answers to a question or not enough.”

  “But I understood the area—the palace area, it was called—was not a burial ground.”

  “That was true when Alexander’s mausoleum was built here, if this is in fact the neighborhood. In the intervening years, though . . .” He stretched out a hand to infinity. “Who knows?”

  Cemetery of Terra Santa

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Fifteen minutes later

  Lang was watching the monotonous procedure. Diggers removed soil with small trowels, filling buckets that were carried to where he had seen sifting going on. Whenever metal struck something more solid than earth, Rossi watched while what appeared to be dental tools and toothbrushes were used to painstakingly remove clay and loose dirt. In the few minutes Lang had been an observer, two or three pieces of what looked like rock had been removed, cleaned and inspected.

  Rossi stood next to Lang, using a red bandanna to wipe a combination of sweat and grime from his face. “It is not as exciting as the History Channel, I fear.”

  “At least there aren’t any commercials.”

  “No, my friend, the commercials come before the show begins, when I go to various foundations to beg money to support the project.”

  Lang was about to reply when a young woman, her denims caked with dirt, her hair covered by a scarf, approached excitedly. She spoke in quick bursts of Italian punctuated with the erratic hand movements that are as much part of the language as the words themselves.

  Whatever she was saying, it must have been important, as Rossi didn’t take the time to translate. He gave Lang a “follow me” gesture and took quick steps in the direction she was pointing.

  Trotting to keep up, Lang came to a stop, almost colliding with Rossi’s back. Before them was a circular hole, one lined in white marble. A pair of ladders was fixed to the top and disappeared into darkness.

  “The Alabaster Tomb,” Rossi explained. “We are searching for the possible passages discovered by electromagnetic imaging.”

  “I read about it on the flight over,” Lang said. “Understand you think there may be more than the single chamber known so far.”

  Rossi gave him a look that said the archaeologist was thankful not to have to take time to explain. “As you can see, we are working inside as well as digging down to whatever the imaging shows. Come.”

  Before Lang could say anything else, the Italian was climbing down one of the ladders. Lang’s choice was to stay here or follow.

  Lang had sudden empathy for those whose jobs required descent into manholes. Sunlight lasted for about the first fifteen feet before a string of electric lights became visible, casting about as much shadow as illumination. At the
bottom, Lang noted he was standing in an inch or so of water. The proximity to the harbor meant a high water table, although from the smell, Lang guessed fresh or brackish rather than salt water. He looked upward to see a vaulted ceiling over a room perhaps ten by thirty feet, the walls smooth with fluted columns carved into them.

  A few feet away, Rossi was conferring with two people whose sex was indeterminable in the pale light. He already had on a miner’s helmet, complete with attached light. Without turning, he handed one to Lang.

  The conversation complete, Rossi motioned for Lang to follow as he led the way, flashlight in hand. “Originally it was thought this was the only chamber, hardly a tomb fit for royalty. Today we believe differently. Mind your step.”

  The warning was timely. Otherwise, Lang might have tripped over what he thought was only rubble next to a wall. A closer look showed the pile had probably been part of the wall that had been removed to reveal a corridor behind it.

  Rossi played his flashlight into the hallway. “This was sealed off, a wall erected and made to look like the rest of the main chamber, where we entered, and disguised to look like nothing more was here.”

  “Why would someone go to that much trouble?” Lang asked.

  From behind, he could see Rossi shrug, the answer obvious. “To conceal something from grave robbers, perhaps.”

  Lang’s miner’s helmet thumped against a particularly low place in the ceiling, making him thankful he had put it on. “Like what?”

  “I hope we will find out. Someone certainly has been here before us. The entrance was opened and then resealed.”

  Rossi stopped abruptly, his light shining on two more workers. There was going to be a tight squeeze to get past. “Perhaps there was more, er, loot to be had later or some other reason they did not want anyone to know they had been here.”

  Rossi was squatting, his light reflecting from something small on the floor. He looked up, asking a question in Italian.

  One of the workers, definitely a man, nodded, holding up a palm-sized digital camera.

  “We photograph every artifact in the location it was found,” Rossi explained for Lang’s benefit. “Otherwise, it is like taking a fact out of historical context.”

  Lang was looking over the archaeologist’s shoulder. “What have you got there?”

  Rossi shook his head. “Not sure. Has a small loop on the back. It looks like . . . a button?”

  “They had buttons in the ancient world?”

  Rossi was using the flashlight to illuminate the object in his palm. “Sure. Except they were usually larger than this and in fanciful shapes—seashells, animals, deities and so forth. This one is more like a modern button.” He ran a thumb across it. “Until we can get it cleaned off, we won’t really know.”

  He produced a small plastic bag from a pocket and dropped the object into it. “But this isn’t what the excitement was all about. Come on.”

  He stepped forward. “You will note there are still scraps of plaster on the walls, or rather the cement common to many Greco-Roman structures.” He paused to place the light next to the wall. “You can even see a bit of pigment still sticking to plaster. At one time, there may have been frescoes here, or at least some sort of wall paintings. One does not decorate a hallway to nowhere. A pity centuries of being under water have all but obliterated them.”

  “Underwater?”

  “The 365 AD earthquake and tsunami moved the harbor inland, raising the water table.”

  “But we’re dry now. Or almost.”

  “Pumps, my friend. We have pumps running twenty-four hours a day. Otherwise we, too, would be nearly underwater. Only the ceiling was dry when we first entered here.”

  The lights strung overhead along the passage terminated at what looked like the end of the corridor. Four or five of the workers whispered excitedly as they pressed against the wall to make way for Rossi.

  “A blank wall?” Lang asked, perplexed.

  “Perhaps,” Rossi said, running a hand along it. “But note the plaster is slightly different in color than the rest of this hallway, if that is what this is. Before the advent of electric flashlights, that would not be as visible as it is now. The texture of the plaster appears to be just that, plaster. If this is the end of the corridor, why cover it over instead of just leaving the rock? In fact, I’d guess someone resealed this.” He turned his light upward, revealing a series of black smudges. “Whoever was here before used candles or oil lamps.”

  “You mean someone before electric lights were available?” Lang asked.

  Rossi nodded. “And someone or ones who worked here long enough for the soot from the lighting device to accumulate. Perhaps while they were erecting a false end of the corridor.”

  “But I thought this passageway was underwater since the tsunami.”

  “Pumps to remove water have been available since ancient times. Someone could have pumped it nearly dry just as we have. Also, they could have braced this wall against the water pressure outside while they erected this wall.”

  “Meaning there’s something behind it?” Lang asked.

  Rossi took an ordinary rock hammer from one of the observers and tapped the wall. “Meaning I intend to find out.”

  Half an hour later, work was halted while wire was strung both for lights and for fans to remove the dust that had reduced vision to a few feet. An extra generator and pump chugged in the darkness, forcing tepid air from the surface into the excavation and the constant trickle of water out. Lang’s eyes stung and he could feel his face caked with grime mixed with sweat. Rossi and the others were dim ghosts in the gritty haze. Even though the corridor was wide enough for only one person to wield the larger sledgehammer at a time, no one was leaving. This was hardly his idea of the romance of searching for ancient worlds, but Lang could feel the tension among the workers like a close score in the last minutes of an intense football rivalry.

  There was a muffled cheer as a section of the wall crumbled, leaving a hole through which a spout of water emptied into the corridor before being sucked away by the pumps. The fans could not prevent an incoming tide of grit swirling throughout. It took two or three minutes before a murky visibility was restored. Figures moved in a penumbra of dust, resembling shadows without forms.

  A gentle tug at Lang’s elbow turned him toward a haze of swirling particles of dust, plaster and rock as he followed Rossi into the opening. A ray of light from a flashlight, distorted by reflection, stabbed upward. Lang’s eyes followed. The roof had at one time been step-pyramidal, shaped by carefully fitted stones, most of which had fallen, leaving a tangle of roots from the plants above. It had been supported by a colonnade of Ionic columns carved into rock. As visibility increased, Lang could make out what looked like a single slab of stone about four feet high in the middle of the room. Perhaps a permanent catafalque on which a sarcophagus rested?

  Even in the gritty near twilight, Lang could see his friend’s grin.

  “This is it? This is Alexander’s tomb?”

  Rossi’s smile faded. “Possibly. The construction is consistent with what we know of other Ptolemaic tombs.” He played his light around the chamber. “And the Roman historian Lucan tells us when Caesar visited Alexander’s tomb, he ‘eagerly descended,’ indicating something below ground. He also uses the phrase ‘unseemly pyramid.’ ”

  “Dedecor?”

  Rossi looked at Lang quizzically. “Yes, I believe that is the word.”

  “It also can have the connotation, ‘unnecessary’ or ‘useless.’ That would describe an underground tomb with a pyramid- shaped roof.”

  Rossi chuckled. “Mr. Couch, Dr. Roth or whoever you might be, I knew you were quick thinking. You proved that at Herculaneum. Now I discover you are also a Latin scholar. I cannot but wonder what is next.”

  Lang ignored the remark. “What will it take to identify this as the real tomb of Alexander?”

  Rossi gave the patented Italian shrug. “Months if not years. We must find things, ca
rvings, inscriptions that can either be related directly to Alexander or at least have dates compatible with the time he might have been laid to rest here. Every archaeologist who has searched in other places, or most of them, will present papers demonstrating why this cannot be it.”

  Academics, Lang thought, were even more jealous of their contemporaries’ success than lawyers.

  Something caught his eye and he swept a nearby wall with his light. “Let the games begin. That looks like a carving of some sort.”

  Rossi stepped over to it, raising a hand to brush away the dirt caked around it. “It will need cleaning, but it appears to be a battle scene. I would guess Greeks versus Persians.”

  “That sounds like Alexander to me.”

  Rossi shook his head almost sorrowfully. “Not necessarily. Many wished to, er, clothe themselves in the glory of Alexander. For example, there is the misnamed Alexander Sarcophagus found in Sidon. It was carved with the exploits of Alexander shortly before his death. For years after its discovery in 1887, it was thought it had been carved for Alexander if not actually used.”

  “And?”

  “Most likely carved for a minor puppet king, Abdalonymus, whom Alexander appointed to rule. It is the gem of the Istanbul Archaeological Museum, though.”

  “You’re saying this tomb, if that is what this is, could be carved with scenes from Alexander’s life even if the tomb was somebody else’s?”

  Rossi was still studying the carvings. “The Ptolemy dynasty legitimized itself by stressing it was Alexander’s rightful successor. They even formed Alexander cults. They were the ones who promoted him into being seen as a god. Their tombs contain more about him than themselves.”

  Lang looked perplexed.

  “You’ve seen such things in modern times. Didn’t Stalin claim to be Lenin’s rightful political heir even after disposing of such inconveniences as Trotsky?”

  “I guess I never thought of it that way. I—”

  Before he could finish, there was a dull thud from above. The whole ground, including the chamber, shook, unleashing a new avalanche of dust and dirt. Lang had an immediate vision of an explosion.