The Alexander Cipher. Will Adams

‘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