Classically educated, Papineau didn’t need a computer to translate the term. ‘It’s Latin. It means “The Gift of Neptune”. What do you make of it?’
She sat in the nearest chair and rubbed her eyes, still trying to work through the theory in her head. ‘There’s an ancient story that I’ve heard many times before in a wide variety of ways that mentions a sacred well in the bowels of Alexandria. According to legend, if you believe these types of things, the well was so magical that it played a major role in determining the fate of Egypt.’
‘A water well?’ Garcia asked. ‘How did it do that?’
She explained. ‘In 47 BC, Julius Caesar fought Ptolemy Theos Philopator for control of the city. There were two main battles. During the first, known as the Siege of Alexandria, Ptolemy’s men flooded Caesar’s freshwater reserves with seawater in an attempt to cause his surrender. To combat the sabotage, Caesar dug into the earth until he reached drinkable water. Caesar was then able to beat back Ptolemy’s forces and eventually defeat him during the Battle of the Nile.’
Papineau nodded in understanding. ‘Neptune was the Roman god of water. You think the Gift of Neptune is Caesar’s Well.’
‘I think it’s possible.’
‘Tell me more,’ he ordered. ‘Convince me.’
She smiled and accepted the challenge. ‘Realizing the importance of a freshwater source, Caesar supposedly had the pit fortified with stone. He then surrounded that well with sturdy walls that were twice as thick as those of any other building – walls that were protected by an elite garrison of Roman guards. Legend has it that for the next seven hundred years, only priests were allowed to enter the temple that housed the well. It was seen as the only way to ensure the sanctity of the water source.’
‘And after the seventh century?’
‘Unfortunately, there’s no mention of Caesar’s Well after the Persian invasion in any of the books I’ve read. Then again, there’s no official mention of the well before the Persian invasion, either. Like I said, this is just a legend. But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘But the Lost Throne was just a legend, and someone found that in Greece.’
Garcia stared at the map ‘So, assuming the rumors were true, and assuming that this “Donus Neptunus” does refer to your mythical well, how does that help us?’
Jasmine connected the dots. ‘Sometime around 200 AD, Emperor Septimius Severus had all evidence of Alexander’s tomb taken into custody. And I mean everything. If a book contained so much as a mention of the tomb, it was confiscated by the Roman Empire. Next he ordered that the tomb itself be sealed forever.’
‘What did he do with the evidence?’ Garcia asked.
Papineau had never heard of the sacred well, but he knew the history of Emperor Severus. ‘Some say he delivered it to the tomb before it was sealed. Some say he destroyed all the evidence in a giant fire. No one really knows for sure.’
Jasmine rose from her seat. ‘That’s just it. In the history of the world, how many things have been completely erased?’
Garcia scoffed at the question. ‘How can we possibly know that? If it was completely erased, there’d be no evidence of its existence. And, obviously, if there was no evidence of its existence, then we would not be able to determine that it had been erased.’
Papineau chuckled at the analytical thought process of their computer whiz. ‘Spoken like a true genius.’
Jasmine ignored Garcia’s logic. ‘Don’t over-think it, Hector. What I mean is this: just because Severus tried to collect every scrap of evidence that pertained to the tomb doesn’t make it possible. Do you really think anyone could accomplish something like that? Do you honestly believe he could find every trace of Alexander’s tomb in the world? Someone, somewhere had to hang on to something. A book. A drawing. A memory. Plus, if you know your history, there was one group in particular that secretly defied the emperor any chance they could – and they did it in plain sight.’
Papineau nodded. ‘The priests.’
Garcia groaned in confusion. ‘That doesn’t make sense to me. Why would Roman priests defy the Roman emperor?’
Jasmine explained. ‘In the time of Severus, Christianity had yet to be embraced by the Roman Empire. His religion had multiple gods. It would be another century before the people of the republic could openly worship the holy trinity. Until then, Christians were persecuted for their devotion to Jesus Christ. This would have put the Roman priests at great odds with the Roman emperor even as they continued to serve him. Severus believed that the very foundation of their belief system was a lie. And they, in turn, did not recognize the emperor as a member of the divine pantheon, as was the tradition of the day. Therefore, it actually makes perfect sense that the priests would defy the emperor.’
Garcia shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
She continued. ‘Severus allowed his son, Caracalla, to visit the tomb in 215 AD. That’s the last official Roman sighting on record. But according to several Christian sources, the priests followed Caracalla to the tomb and documented its location. Furthermore, if the legend about Donum Neptunus is correct, it was also the priests who maintained the well for several centuries after the acceptance of Christianity. It’s not inconceivable to think that we’re talking about the same group of people.’
‘And if we are?’ Papineau asked.
She smiled. ‘If you’re trying to hide evidence of Alexander’s tomb – evidence that could prove to be useful in your rebellion against the Empire – and you wanted to thumb your nose at the emperor at the exact same time, what better place to hide it than a heavily guarded, fortified building whose only visitors were fellow priests?’
Papineau laughed at the irony. ‘If that’s the case, the emperor’s garrison would have been unknowingly helping the priests by protecting information about the tomb. How delicious!’
‘Delicious, yes. But accurate? That remains to be seen. I won’t know anything for sure until I examine the site.’
14
Friday, October 31
Alexandria, Egypt
Cobb could have set up their command center in any section of the city, but after spending several days in Alexandria, he decided the coastal neighborhood of San Stefano was the perfect choice. Not only is San Stefano in the center of Alexandria’s width, making it ideal for exploring the city, but it also caters to foreign travelers.
Thanks to the restaurants, hotels, and shopping centers, tourists flocked to the district like pigeons to a park. At almost any time of the day or night, men and women of every shape, size, and nationality crowded the streets. Here, no one would think twice about a gathering of three Caucasians, a Latino, an Asian, and a Frenchman.
Papineau stood on the deck of a seventy-foot, tri-level yacht that was tied into a slip just offshore. Though it didn’t have the personal flourishes of the Trésor de la Mer, it was still an impressive craft. It included four staterooms, a gourmet galley, and three spacious lounges. Its massive freshwater reservoir and two hot-water tanks offered those on board the luxury of steam showers, while the satellite and state-of-the-art communications center connected them to television signals and the World Wide Web.
It had all the amenities of a hotel, plus the ability to relocate.
It was the perfect base of operations.
McNutt was the first to join Papineau on deck. ‘What time is it?’ he asked as he groggily stretched his neck and looked out across the marina. ‘Scratch that. Let’s start with a better question: what day is it?’
He was only part joking. For him, the last seventy-two hours had been a whirlwind. No sooner had he arrived back in Fort Lauderdale from his Daytona Beach excursion than he was being told to pack for Egypt. The destination didn’t matter for McNutt – he only had jeans and T-shirts, so his luggage would be the same regardless of where they were headed – but he had hoped for some time to recuperate, not only from his night of drinking, but also from the ride itself. His motorcycle was older than he was, and the wor
n seat was hard on his ass. And the twelve-hour plane ride certainly didn’t help.
‘It’s Friday,’ Papineau replied as he read the morning paper. ‘And it’s eight a.m. local time. I suppose that’s zero eight hundred to you.’
McNutt yawned and reset his watch. They had lost twelve hours in transit, six hours in the time change, and another seven hours sleeping on the boat. Even with his military training, he still felt exhausted. Papineau could have told him that it was Christmas, and McNutt would have believed him. ‘We have any coffee?’
‘Right here.’ Jasmine appeared from the galley deck below carrying a tray with a pot, cream, sugar, and six mugs. She looked around, noticing the absence of half of their team. ‘Sarah and Jack aren’t back yet?’
McNutt shrugged. He was still waking up.
‘They’re still surveying the city. I expect them soon,’ Papineau said.
Of all the team members, Jasmine was the most eager to make the trip. Per Cobb’s instruction, she had spent the last forty-eight hours researching her theory about the sacred well. He wasn’t challenging her initial conclusion; he simply needed more information before he was willing to make a move. In his mind, there were still too many ‘ifs’ in her equation. In order to justify the risks of exploring the city, he needed more than rumor. He needed the foundation of the rumor.
It had taken a while, but Jasmine had found it.
Now she just needed to convince him.
McNutt grabbed a mug from the tray and poured himself a much-needed cup of coffee. ‘I’d still be asleep if it weren’t for Hector’s snoring. Seriously, they should take that dude to a hospital.’
‘Why? Do you think it’s a medical condition?’ Jasmine asked.
McNutt shook his head. ‘I meant they could use him to wake coma patients. Hell, forget the hospital. Take him to the morgue and see if he can wake the dead.’ He glanced at Papineau. ‘You couldn’t find a boat where we each had our own room?’
Papineau had taken the master suite for himself, leaving the others to determine their sleeping arrangements. Jasmine had claimed the largest of the three remaining rooms for her and Sarah, while Garcia and McNutt had taken the last double-occupancy berth in deference to Cobb. They might have been a motley crew, but he was still the leader. As such, he was given the quarters with a single bed.
The Frenchman sneered. ‘How could I be so careless – placing an ex-Marine in a double room on a luxury yacht? I should be ashamed of myself, forcing you to live in such squalor. I am sure the American military always pampered you like a king. Nothing but opulent silk tents and clarets of fine wine in the tranquil dunes of Iraq.’
‘And belly dancers. They liked to feed me grapes.’
Papineau rolled his eyes. ‘In case you have forgotten, the reason we selected this marina is to hide in plain sight. The bigger the boat, the harder that is to do. You have been on the deck for less than five minutes. Tell me, which boats stick out?’
Without turning his head, McNutt detailed what he could remember. ‘There’s a jet-black double-wide across the dock, a triple-masted sailboat at the end of the pier, and a ridiculous monstrosity with a helipad anchored just offshore. It’s gotta be one hundred and fifty feet long.’
‘All bigger than our humble vessel,’ Papineau said. ‘We are surrounded by wealth and opulence – the toys of sheiks and royalty. And their prized possessions are designed to stand out. They wouldn’t have splurged on them otherwise. Of course our goal is to blend in, so this yacht is the perfect choice.’
Cobb and Sarah suddenly appeared on deck. They had used a ladder from the dock to join the others.
‘You are correct,’ Cobb said as he grabbed a mug from the serving tray. ‘But I don’t think Josh noticed those particular boats because of their size.’
Papineau frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Tell him, Josh.’
‘Gladly,’ McNutt said. ‘The wax on the black hull creates a noticeable glare during the morning sun. The sails on the triple mast give me wind direction and approximate speed. And the big-boy acts as a breakwater for the waves. If he’s here, the harbor is calm. If he leaves, there will be a lot more pitch and roll.’
‘Glare? Wind direction? Pitch and roll?’ None of it made sense to Jasmine. ‘What in the world are you talking about?’
‘Shooting conditions,’ McNutt answered. ‘Glare can hide your target. Wind can cause drift. Pitch and roll can throw off your aim.’
Cobb smiled. ‘Once a sniper, always a sniper.’
Jasmine knew that she should probably be concerned about anyone whose first instinct was to gauge how to kill someone at any given moment, but she was oddly comforted by McNutt’s awareness. Even in his sleep-deprived and jet-lagged state, his first thought was to consider his obstacles in protecting the group.
Somehow she felt safer with him around.
‘So,’ McNutt said to Sarah, who was standing behind him, ‘how was your date with Simon? You’re wearing the same clothes as last night, so I’m assuming you got lucky.’
She glared at him. ‘First of all it wasn’t a date. It was a night of surveillance. And if you must know, we all got lucky.’
‘We did? Damn, I slept right through it. How was I?’
She grabbed his ear and twisted it hard. ‘Stupid, like always.’
He rubbed his ear in agony. ‘Ouch.’
Cobb clarified her statement for the others. ‘What Sarah means by “lucky” is that no one in Alexandria has noticed us. Other than a minor issue with some local thugs, we seem to be off everybody’s radar.’
‘Are you sure?’ Papineau asked.
‘As sure as we can be.’
With Dade’s help and surveillance equipment, they had spent the night monitoring the chatter throughout the city. They wanted to hear if anyone had mentioned a new boat in the marina; one carrying an odd mix of ethnicities. Fortunately, no one had noticed their arrival. If someone had, they would have moved their yacht to a different marina. The last thing they wanted while searching for treasure was attention of any kind.
Sarah looked around and noticed that Garcia was missing. ‘Where’s Hector?’
‘Sleeping,’ McNutt said, still rubbing his ear. ‘That sound you hear isn’t a passing motorboat. No, that’s the chainsaw he calls a mouth.’
‘Give him a break,’ Jasmine said. ‘He was up half the night putting together our command center. He needs his rest.’
‘So do I,’ McNutt grumbled. ‘Do you honestly think the nerd carried in that equipment by himself? Why does he get to sleep in?’
Jasmine glanced at Cobb. ‘If you want, I’ll wake him.’
Cobb shook his head. ‘Let him sleep. Besides, I want to hear from you before we do anything else. Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Yes and no,’ she replied. ‘There’s quite a bit of evidence that Caesar’s Well actually existed, but no proof that it held information about Alexander’s tomb. However, there are accounts of an ancient temple that was built during that era. Furthermore, these accounts make it clear that the temple housed clerical records, and the records were kept and guarded by Roman priests.’
Cobb needed more. ‘Go on.’
She continued. ‘I found a Greek text by Aethlius that mentions the “humble place of divinity, where Arius would go to read the words of those most devoted to the calling.” The temple was described as “an underground lair near holy water”.’
Papineau signaled for her to stop. ‘Arius?’
She nodded. ‘Arius was a Libyan scholar who led a Christian congregation in Alexandria after the Roman acceptance of Christianity. He believed in the original power of God, and that all others who came after were subordinate to God, including God’s own son. He agreed that both the father and son were divine, but he challenged the Christian priests to show evidence that Jesus and God should be held as equals. According to Aethlius, Arius met these priests and read their scripture “not in a house of worship”, but rather “ins
ide simple stone quarters near a hallowed pool”. In my opinion, he’s describing the temple that surrounded Caesar’s Well.’
Cobb said nothing in response.
He simply sat there, contemplating the information.
Jasmine pressed on, hoping to erase all doubts.
‘The Persian historian Ibn Rustah refers to the temple in the tenth century. His writings make note of a rock room, calling it “inconsequential, save for the clerics, who kept the annals of their city there”. Later, Pope Theophilus of Alexandria, who was tasked with destroying all the pagan temples, spoke of a “solitary monolith” that should be revered. He called it a “vault of knowledge” that held the city’s secrets, and said it would “bring understanding to the people of Alexandria for centuries to come”.’
It wasn’t like Jasmine to plead, but she was willing to try.
‘Jack, please trust me on this one. I feel it in my gut.’
Cobb finally smiled. ‘I do trust you. And I agree with you.’
She breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Cancel your dinner plans. We’re going in tonight.’
15
By midday, almost everyone in the group was well rested and well fed. Garcia had put in a full eight hours in his bunk, all the while breathing in deep, booming roars that didn’t seem possible for a man of his size. Sarah had managed roughly half as much sleep, but it was more than adequate for her. She felt calm and focused, ready for the evening ahead. Even McNutt, who couldn’t return to his room because of the noise, had found some peace and quiet on the foredeck. He had curled up in a lounge chair and enjoyed a morning nap while dreaming of belly dancers and grapes.
Cobb was the only one who hadn’t slept. He had closed his eyes for a while, but his brain hadn’t gotten the message. The mission was too close. In a few hours they would be entering the tunnels under Alexandria. They would have to work quickly and efficiently. He couldn’t afford to sleep; not when the time could be better spent rehashing the details of everything he knew . . . and everything he didn’t.
The Forbidden Tomb Page 9