Chapter Twenty
NESSIM WAS IN HIS HOTEL ROOM, discussing plans with Hosni, Ratib, and Sami. There was no great zest to their conversation, however. Knox had vanished off the radar, and nothing they tried had picked him up again.
It was late afternoon when Nessim’s phone rang. It was Badr, his contact from the phone company, who had been waiting for Knox to use his cell phone. “He’s turned it on,” he said excitedly. “He’s making a call.”
“Who to?”
“No one—he’s sending pictures to an e-mail account.”
“Where?”
“Near the railway station.”
“Stay on the line,” said Nessim. “Tell me if he moves.” Hosni, Ratib, and Sami had already risen to their feet. He nodded at them. “We’ve got a trace,” he said. “Let’s go.”
art
“WELL?” SAID IBRAHIM EXCITEDLY. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Gaille nodded. She cleared her throat and began to read aloud: “I, Kelonymus, son of Hermias, brother of Akylos, builder, scribe, architect, sculptor, lover of knowledge, traveler in numerous lands, give homage to you, great gods, for allowing me to bring to this place below the earth these thirty-two shield bearers, heroes of the great victor, Alexander of Macedonia, son of Ammon. I now make good my pledge to bring together in one place the thirty-three who died carrying out the last wish of Alexander, that a tomb be built for him in sight of the place of his father. And to fulfill his wish, Akylos and these thirty-two built such a tomb and appointed it with goods fit for the son of Ammon.”
Gaille hadn’t properly registered the text until now—she’d been too busy translating it. But even as she read it out, she realized how explosive it was. She glanced up and saw on everyone’s faces the same astonishment that she knew must be on her own.
“Go on,” said Elena hungrily.
“And to fulfill his wish, they seized his body from the White Wall to take it through the red land of great dryness to the mouth of the place prepared below the earth. And near that place, Ptolemy, who is styled Savior, trapped these men so that they took their lives rather than be subjected to his torture. And so Ptolemy crucified them in vengeance and left them crucified for the carrion to feed on. Akylos and the thirty-two gave their lives to honor the wishes of Alexander, son of Ammon, in defiance of Ptolemy, son of nothing. I, Kelonymus, man of Macedonia, brother of Akylos, beseech you, great gods, to welcome these heroes into your kingdom as you welcomed Alexander.”
She looked up again to indicate that she had finished. The looks of excitement had given way to a kind of stunned disbelief. No one spoke for a good five seconds.
It was Nicolas who finally broke the silence. “Does that… ,” he began hesitantly. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
“Yes,” said Ibrahim. “I believe it does.”
art
THE MOMENT HIS PHOTOGRAPHS WERE SENT, Knox deleted the images from his cell phone, then turned it off altogether and roared away in his Jeep before Nessim had a chance to get to him. Just one more phone call, and he’d be in business. He parked near Pompey’s Pillar, bought himself a ticket, and went inside. The site was a walled enclosure of about a hectare, surrounded by high-density housing. The pillar itself occupied pride of place on the small hillock at its center, but in fact the whole enclosed area was historic as the onetime site of the famous Temple of Serapis.
Knox had always felt a great fondness for Serapis, a benign and intelligent deity who had somehow fused Egyptian, Greek, and Asian religious myths into a single theology. According to one thesis, he was a Babylonian god; in fact, when Alexander had lain dying in Babylon, a delegation of his men went to the Temple of Serapis to ask whether Alexander should be brought to the temple or left where he was. Serapis replied that it would be better for him to be left where he was. The delegation obeyed, and Alexander died shortly afterward, that being the better thing. Other scholars, however, asserted that Serapis had its roots in the Black Sea city of Sinope, while still others claimed that Serapis was Egyptian, because Apis bulls had been sacrificed for centuries and buried in huge vaults known to the Greeks as the Sarapeion, a contraction of “Osiris-Apis” or “dead Apis bull.”
Knox glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then hid himself from view behind the base of Pompey’s Pillar. He checked his watch, took two deep breaths, turned on his cell phone, and began pressing numbers.
art
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you’ve lost him?” yelled Nessim.
“He’s turned off his phone.”
Nessim punched his dashboard so hard, he scraped skin from a knuckle. “What was his last location?”
“I told you: near the railway station.”
“Stay on the line,” ordered Nessim, hurtling through the streets. “If he makes another call, I want to know at once.” It was five minutes before they reached the station. Nessim drove around for a while, but there was no sign of Knox or his Jeep. Then Badr spoke again. “He’s turned it back on. He’s making another call.”
“Where?”
“South of you,” said Badr. “He must be right next to Pompey’s Pillar.”
Nessim and his men ducked to look out the windows as they drove. Passing a side street, he glimpsed the marble pillar thrusting upward just a kilometer away. “We’re on our way,” he said. He roared down the road, cut across traffic to Sharia Yousef, then headed along a wide boulevard with a brownstone wall to his right, Pompey’s Pillar on the left. He pulled a U-turn and swerved up onto the pavement, and the four of them jumped out and hurried inside to the ticket booth. “Is this the only entrance?” he asked the woman, pushing some bills through the window.
“Yes.”
“Stay here,” he ordered Hosni, as he and the other two men went into the site. Then he asked Badr on his phone, “Is he still on the line?”
“Yes,” confirmed Badr. “You’re right on top of him.”
“Then we’ve got him!” exulted Nessim.