‘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

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.

‘Excuse me. You please will help me with this?’

Knox looked up to see Roland Hinz holding up his huge black wetsuit. ‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘Forgive me. I was miles away.’

He stood behind the big German to make sure he didn’t tumble as he tried to pull it on. That wouldn’t go down well. Roland was a Stuttgart banker considering investing in Hassan’s latest Sinai venture. Today’s jag was largely in his honour. He was making the most of it too, giggly with champagne, more than a little coked, getting on everyone’s nerves. He shouldn’t, in truth, be allowed anywhere near the water, but Hassan paid well to have rules stretched. And not just rules. Getting Roland into his wetsuit was like trying to stuff a duvet into its cover; he kept plopping out in unexpected places. Roland found this intensely funny. He found everything funny. He clearly believed himself the life and soul. He tripped over his own feet and laughed hysterically as he and Knox spilled inelegantly onto the deck, looking around at the other guests as though expecting rapturous applause.

Knox helped him back up with a strained smile, then kneeled down to pull on his booties for him. He had bloated, pinkish-yellow feet with dirt caked between his toes, as though he hadn’t washed between them for years. Knox distracted himself by letting his mind drift back to that afternoon when he’d shared his wild ideas about Alexander’s catafalque with Rick. The big Australian’s initial euphoria hadn’t lasted long.

‘So this procession came through Sinai, did it?’ he’d asked.

‘No,’ said Knox. ‘Not according to any of our sources.’

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