The Amun Chamber Read online

  THE AMUN CHAMBER

  a novel by

  Daniel Leston

  Copyright © 2010 *(2nd Kindle Edition)

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any part or in whole without written permission from the author.

  PROLOGUE

  There are those in this world who share a remarkable dream . . . one born of unbridled imagination and woven from the chimerical threads of purest fantasy. Incredible as it may seem, they actually believe it possible that hidden somewhere in the ageless expanse of modern Egypt, sheltered from the ravages of both time and man, the body of Alexander the Great still lies serene and uncorrupted in his fabulous sarcophagus of glass and gold. Robed in royal splendor and crowned with the jeweled diadem of the dazzling empire that he forged, he confronts all eternity with his glory, his honor—his mystery—still intact.

  For these few souls whose soaring imaginations cannot resist the temptation to believe Alexander’s mortal remains still exist, only awaiting discovery, there is little—nay nothing—to support this ultimate flight of fancy. It is a cruel and perfidious notion, one wholly unfaithful to the precepts of history, which dictates that such a stunning treasure from our distant past could never have survived to the present day.

  Save for the grist of dreamers, it is an impossibility.

  And yet . . .

  Alexandria, Egypt, 63 C.E.

  Even beneath the hot brilliance of the late summer sun the stone balustrade felt cold under the frail hands of Satepihu, aged High Priest of Amun-Ra; and as he stood alone atop the great temple that was home to him for nigh all of his sixty years, his dark and restless eyes shifted across the bustling city spread out below him. As always, the panoramic view was nothing less than spectacular. And though the long familiarity of it normally provided some comfort to his troubled mind, he feared he would glean no solace on this day.

  Nor anytime soon, he suspected. Not if his premonitions were correct.

  To the north, sprawling seaward on Cape Lochias, stood the vast palace-complex of the late Ptolemies, the Greek dynasty that had made Alexandria the glory of Egypt and the envy of the world. Majestic in both concept and proportions, the once-royal enclosure remained a marvel of alabaster and polychrome marble, rising dream-like against the backdrop of the blue Mediterranean. But this too was a false glimpse of his country’s past, for since the death of Queen Cleopatra a century before, it was now the iron fist of Imperial Rome that ruled Egypt from this grand edifice.

  Weary from lack of sleep, the old man’s eyes drifted across the busy waters of the Great Port, the larger of two artificial harbors created by a man-made mole extending from the heart of the city to the middle of Pharos Island. Here hundreds of merchant vessels of every size and description crowded the long wharves and loading piers, ships from every port of the Mediterranean, all being loaded or unloaded by uncounted thousands of half-naked laborers. And lying at anchor close by were many more, all awaiting their turn at the bustling docks that were Egypt’s commercial lifeline to the world.

  Further out from the city loomed the signature symbol of Alexandria’s past glory under the Ptolemies—the Great Lighthouse, itself. Leaping skyward from the terraced cliffs of Pharos Island, it remained as imposing as when first conceived almost half a millennium before. Built to stand forever, it was constructed in three magnificent architectural levels, the highest crowned with a heroic bronze statue flashing red and gold in the midday sun. Not unlike the reflection of fire, he mused—but with this observation Satepihu now felt an overwhelming sense of impending disaster, a premonition so powerful as to jolt his thin frame. Though all of his previous experiences were profoundly disturbing, they were also somewhat vague in meaning, the god’s communication unclear. But not so this time! It was as if Amun, himself, spoke straight to his soul, searing a command deep into his conscious mind! No longer was the God’s message in any doubt.

  All you see will be destroyed! All these glories scattered and lost!

  This revelation could mean but one thing! Amun’s true son must somehow survive the coming conflagration. Satepihu now fully understood the grave imperative being placed upon him—and too, his own awesome responsibility to see it fulfilled.

  Accepting his burden, the loyal High Priest turned and made his way back down the steep steps leading to the granite vault around which the temple was built. In truth, the lower chamber was the sole reason for its very existence. For close to four centuries the temple had served just one divine purpose.

  Once there, Satepihu stood alone before a huge marble platform, lifting his eyes with reverence to what it supported. It was an object of unsurpassed beauty, one that never failed to stir his heart. Again the voice spoke to him. Allow no harm to befall my son. His honor is that of his father—and must be preserved for all time.

  Overcome with emotion, Satepihu fell to his knees, his trembling hands clasped in homage as he prayed for the necessary guidance needed to accomplish this sacred mission. Amun would surely reveal the difficult path he must follow.

  Alexandria, Egypt, 11 August 1956

  Lionel DeCaylus stood rigid in the night darkness, his adrenaline pumping as he pressed the back of his sweat-drenched shirt against the alley wall. His breathing was rapid, his heart racing. After six terrible days under the desert sun he was one raw, aching sore; and now the rough-edged bricks felt like jagged shards of glass cutting into his shoulders. Yet he refused to acknowledge the pain. This discomfort was nothing in comparison to his fear of being seen, for the grim threat of still being followed terrified him.

  The alley entrance was buried in deep shadow, a momentary sanctuary. This was the single spot where he could remain hidden, yet still observe the stone bridge spanning the El Mahmudiya Canal. Anyone attempting to follow him must cross under the light of its central lamppost as he’d done only minutes before.

  But he saw nothing; no movement of any kind.

  He waited, allowing more time to slip by.

  Still nothing! He swallowed hard, unsure what to make of this. Was it possible he outwitted his stalker? The immediacy of Lionel’s fear began to recede. Oh, God, how his body ached! The running had drained him. Too, the dry burning in his eyes was fast becoming unbearable, and he risked the luxury of closing them. He never thought of himself as heroic. Cautious, yes; but hardly brave! Taking another deep breath, he edged further back into the alley—and only when the spill of light from atop the bridge was no longer visible did he turn and run with renewed confidence, the night enveloping him like a secure blanket. Though the alley was foul with the scent of rotting sewage, he knew this narrow passage well. He was back on familiar ground. And even more important, his recent streak of incredible luck appeared to be holding.

  Lionel was reed-slender and in questionable health. Nine years of digging and scratching in the Egyptian desert had taken its toll, burning his once delicate features into hard, flat planes, and melting away any trace of excess flesh from his diminutive frame. If the experience strengthened him in any way, his physical appearance gave no evidence. On the contrary, he looked at least a full decade past his real age of forty-three.

  But his present wasted condition meant little to him. During the last seven days all of his previous hardships and frustrations were suddenly irrelevant. Tonight—beneath all his surface fear and agitation—he felt exultation far greater than anything he’d ever before known. His lifelong dream was accomplished! And best of all, the
ultimate proof of his fantastic achievement was now safe, for tonight he’d placed beyond the reach of anyone who might try and take it away!

  The alley ended at the street called El Rahma, and he slid to a stop, still afraid to expose himself without reason. He surveyed the open area, seeking any possible cause for alarm. But there was nothing unusual. Dawn was five hours away, the cobbled streets empty. Now he felt certain his clandestine visit to the West Port had gone undetected! The release of tension shook him, the sudden urge to laugh out loud almost overpowering.

  He’d actually eluded them!

  Since his frantic return to Alexandria only fifteen hours before, his every instinct told him he was being watched. He felt it deep in his gut like an alien presence. Nothing could ever convince him it was mere coincidence his spotting the same bearded giant in the soiled galabia twice on the same day—and certainly not two miles apart in a city of millions! Yet now it appeared this danger was past. Tomorrow he would be safely aboard the train back to Cairo. And tonight? He smiled, thinking tonight he would celebrate. A stiff drink, for sure, plus a cleansing bath—and several hours of blessed sleep! God knew, it was all earned!

  The faded sign above the old King Edward was visible a block north, and he hurried towards it. The hotel’s dingy façade reflected its long neglect, for it was a type of Victorian structure fast disappearing from western Alexandria where foreign tourists were reluctant to seek accommodations. The district had acquired the earned reputation of being more exotic than safe. But to Lionel it represented safety, his stride lengthening with his elevated euphoria. Again smiling, he took the entrance steps two at a time.

  The lobby was empty, its sole occupant a young boy sleeping hunched over the night desk, head pillowed on folded arms. Careful not to disturb the lad’s slumber—for the fewer who knew of his movements the better—he climbed the open-sided stairs to the third floor. Upon reaching his room, he dug deep into his hip pocket to retrieve the key.

  The opportunity to use it never came. The door was jerked open from the inside at the same instant powerful hands seized him from behind. One strong arm encircled his neck and shoulders while the other clasped his wrist, jerking it high into his upper back. So great was his captor’s strength that his feet hardly touched the floor as he was hustled inside.

  Only then did the man waiting within snap on the single overhead light.

  It stunned Lionel to realize how effortlessly he was taken. The one holding him must’ve been positioned in the room opposite his own—and though he never saw a face, there was no doubt the thick arm around his throat belonged to the bearded giant in the grubby galabia. Nor did he need to be told any outcry would be his last. Shaken by what just transpired, he could only stare at the young Egyptian standing before him.

  “Please, do calm yourself, Mr. Parker,” this one said in flawless English. “Or should I say Mr. DeCaylus? I believe that is your real name, is it not?” His eyes were large and black; intense, but not without a certain curiosity. Waiting for a response, he cocked his head. “You may answer my question, sir. In fact, I really must insist.” He raised a hand in warning. “But softly, you understand . . .”

  Lionel felt the large arm ease on his windpipe. Using the opportunity to swallow, he could only stare, unsure what to say. “If—if you intend to rob me,” he finally managed, “you’ll find I—”

  “Come now, we are hardly thieves, sir.” The younger man paused, then added, “Though I must admit I did take the liberty of searching your somewhat meager belongings while you were out.” From the pocket of his suit he partly extracted the train ticket Lionel had purchased the day before and left on the table. “Were you planning on leaving Alexandria so soon?”

  Lionel opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as the man tapped the ticket back out of sight. A simple gesture—yet it sent an icy ripple down his spine. Its ominous message was clear. He was going nowhere!

  “My question to you, Mr. DeCaylus, is relatively straightforward. Do you have any other possessions we should be made aware of? Some small souvenir, perhaps, not rightfully yours?”

  “I—I don’t understand what you—”

  “Really, must we play these foolish games? Your recent activities are all known to me. Unfortunately, sir, you have . . . Now what is that quaint expression you Americans are so fond of using? Ah, yes! I fear you have poked your nose into matters that do not concern you.” He tilted his head. “A very grave mistake on your part, I’m afraid.”

  Lionel’s panic elevated yet another notch. “I have nothing!” he blurted. “I—I swear I don’t! You’ve searched my room—you know I have nothing!”

  The man studied Lionel’s pale face, appearing to consider the validity of these words. After several long moments, he pursed his lips, apparently willing to be convinced. On the table was a dirty glass, beside it the cheap bottle of whiskey Lionel had cracked ten hours before. With a resigned sigh the man poured a generous shot, pressing it into his captive’s trembling hand. Once it was gulped down, he said, “Perhaps you truly are telling me the truth. But I fear this still leaves me with a serious problem. Surely you can see this. I’m genuinely sorry, Mr. DeCaylus, but no other solution is possible.”

  Lionel’s horror was complete. He felt the arm begin to tighten like coiled steel around his neck, the thick fingers gripping the side of his head in deadly preparation. “Oh, Jesus, no!” he cried. “Please—!”

  The man glanced over Lionel’s shoulder and gave a slight nod; then turned to the room’s single window and gazed down through the thin, frayed curtains at the empty street below. That he must hear the wrenching snap of the little man’s neck was unavoidable—but watching the poor fellow’s tortured face as it happened was another matter entirely.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cornell University, Ithaca, N.Y.—The present

  The lapse into semi-darkness within Franklin Hall’s second-floor lecture room was only momentary. Following the metallic click of the slide projector, the large rectangular screen immediately filled with a brilliant image of polished gold. An audible intake of breath was instantaneous from the mixed audience of students and faculty—and Professor David Manning smiled, for the appreciative reaction to this final slide hadn’t varied once over the entire seven weeks of his American tour.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, stepping out from behind the paneled lectern, “I must confess I purposely saved this particular slide for the conclusion of today’s presentation. Lovely, isn’t it?”

  The golden image consisted of eight elongated teardrop shapes, four large ones separated by an equal number of smaller, and all radiating outward in a uniform pattern from a central circle. The artistic achievement reached by its unknown creator was beautiful to behold.

  “Now I’m sure you all recognize this close-up view of the royal Macedonian sunburst symbol taken from the largest of the two gold caskets found inside the chamber. Since this rather unique design was accepted throughout most, if not all, of the ancient Mediterranean world, it’s just additional evidence that this tomb belonged to no less than Phillip the Second, father of Alexander the Great. For myself, it’s quite inconceivable it would be present were the remains within not of a Macedonian king—and as I made note earlier, what few bone fragments that survive the cremation process were identified as those belonging to a man matching Phillip’s known age at the time of his assassination.”

  He paused, his eyes sweeping the audience.

  “Other evidence,” he continued, “only lends further support for this conclusion. Virtually all of the tomb’s artifacts can now be dated to between 345 and 330 C.E., and as you’re all aware, Phillip was the only Macedonian king to have died within this rather narrow period of time.”

  A tentative hand now rose from the second row of seats. Pleasantly enough, it belonged to the striking young woman who had been such an agreeable distraction to him over the past two hours of his presentation. Long auburn hair framed a face of perfect proportions; classic—a
lmost aloof—yet vulnerable, as well. He put her somewhere in her late twenties, and almost certainly a guest or member of the alumni. A day earlier a rather tedious faculty luncheon was held in his honor—and no way had she been introduced to him. One didn’t forget a woman with her looks.

  “Do you have a question, Miss—?”

  “DeCaylus,” she said, not standing. “Elizabeth DeCaylus.”

  Though the name startled him, the only outward sign of his genuine surprise was a quick narrowing of his eyes. DeCaylus? As in Jacob DeCaylus? It seemed unlikely she could be related. But then again, the name was far from common.

  “And your question?”

  “I’m interested in your opinion concerning the female remains inside the second casket,” she said. “It’s been over twenty-five years since the Vergina tomb was opened, yet no definitive identification has ever been offered. At least as far as I know. If, as you say, we accept through scientific examination that this is truly Phillip’s tomb, why isn’t it equally believable the other remains belong to Queen Olympia, Alexander’s mother?”

  On face, it was a logical question.

  “Well, it would be quite remarkable if they were,” he answered, “but I’m afraid that’s highly unlikely. No one I’m aware of at Thessalonika University seriously considers her a candidate. And with good cause. By long tradition, Macedonian kings were polygamous—and our best conjecture at his point is what we have are the remains of the unfortunate young girl Phillip married mere days before his assassination. Historically, Olympia’s jealousy was such that she had the girl murdered within hours of her husband’s death.” He smiled. “In my opinion, there’s just no reason to—”

  “But isn’t it true,” she interrupted, “that the condition of the bone fragments don’t allow for a reliable estimation of the woman’s age at time of death?”