The Porus Legacy

  THE

  PORUS LEGACY

  DANIEL LESTON

  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.

  * Copyright © 2014 Daniel Leston

  2nd Kindle Edition

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

  Cover design by Roosa

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  Model portraying Cleopatra

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  This book is dedicated to my niece, Terry, whose encouragement and expertise made it all possible. A special thank you to her for her work on the covers of 'The Amun Chamber' and 'The Emperor's Treasure'.

  4th Adventure of Professor David Manning

  (1st Adventure – The Amun Chamber)

  (2nd Adventure – The Genghis Tomb)

  (3rd Adventure – The Emperor's Treasure)

  THE PORUS LEGACY

  PROLOGUE

  Northern India. May 7th, 326 B.C.E.

  Conscious of the dull ache in his forearm, Ptolemy sought a period of unaccustomed privacy by slipping away from the bustling activity within Alexander’s spacious tent. Doubting his absence would even be noted, he used the opportunity to examine the condition of his wound. Thankfully, he found the sword cut continued to heal well beneath the protective smear of raw honey, showing no evidence of infection. It wasn’t always so in this strange climate. Here one must be constantly vigilant for such developments. Too often he’d seen otherwise healthy men grow feverish and die when superficial wounds were left untended. Satisfied he wouldn’t be among these, he carefully reconfigured the cloth sling to a more comfortable position and surveyed the terrain before him with a critical eye.

  His dislike of India was fast becoming visceral, for he found it to be a land of many unpleasant extremes. The unvarying heat and humidity made it unlike anyplace even remotely comparable in his experience. Though the drenching rain had ceased fully three days ago at the conclusion of the epic battle on the bank of the Hydaspes River, the smoldering stench of countless funeral pyres still layered the tropical air over the broad plain. In a normal world, this wouldn’t be so. Even now under the searing rays of the midday sun, the moisture-laden earth continued to steam in an unnatural manner, serving to further delay the process of disposing of the many thousands of corpses. As a consequence, the tainted smoke refused to dissipate, leaving a bitter taste in the throat no amount of wine could wash away. The stink of it permeated everything—and as he gazed across the sodden landscape, he acknowledged he’d probably never become accustomed to this grim aspect of war. He was skeptical anyone ever did.

  The vast majority of these tedious cremations belonged to the vanquished Indian army of King Porus, their estimated losses surpassing twenty thousand. So complete was Alexander’s victory that fewer than eight hundred of the fallen came from his own veteran Macedonians troops—and this despite the challenge of facing the horror of trained war elephants for the first time in battle. That astounding statistic alone only further secured the established legend of his military genius and invincibility.

  Not that Ptolemy needed convincing.

  At forty, he was the oldest by a full ten years of all Alexander’s inner circle of trusted friends and commanders. The only child of a minor noble named Lagus and his wife Arsinoe—a noble in her own right and a woman of considerable beauty—he’d been educated and trained as a page at the royal court of Macedonia in distant Pella. It was there he early on befriended the crown prince, Alexander, intuitively recognizing in him the potential for not just future glory, but also someone worthy of trust and loyalty. Thus it was that after Alexander’s accession to the throne, Ptolemy was appointed one of the young king’s personal bodyguards, a high honor leading to additional promotions once Macedonia’s long-planned invasion of Persia was underway.

  Despite Ptolemy’s proven abilities over the past eight years, he knew there were still those who perpetuated the old insult that perhaps Alexander had an alternative reason for maintaining their steadfast friendship—this the rumored possibility that they were in actuality half-brothers, Ptolemy being not the son of Lagos but instead the child of an affair between Arsinoe and the lecherous Phillip II. At this late date, however, the truth of the slur would forever remain unknown, for all three of the principals were now long dead. And yet, the tale persisted.

  Though none of Alexander’s inner circle ever raised this delicate subject in his presence, Ptolemy suspected it was his physical appearance that continued to promulgate such recurring speculation among those so inclined. Broad shouldered and with a deeply muscled chest, his dark hair and wide features only encouraged comparisons to the late king. To Alexander’s credit, he never once alluded to any such suspicion. As was his nature, he always judged his friends and commanders solely by merit.

  In this respect, Ptolemy had proven himself many times over.

  Since the very beginning of Alexander’s dazzling conquests, there was no major battle fought in which he’d not fully participated at the king’s side, no victory in which he’d not likewise shared. Due to his unique position, he’d even been one of the chosen companions who accompanied Alexander on his daring and historic ride deep into Egypt’s, western desert to consult with the famed Oracle at Siwah Oasis. It was there Alexander was first proclaimed no less than the spiritual son of Egypt’s supreme god, Amun-Ra, and the rightful Pharaoh of that ancient country.

  Even now—despite the passage of several eventful years—Ptolemy’s favorable memory of Egypt remained firmly fixed in his mind, the impressions he retained all profoundly pleasant. Of the many and diverse lands comprising Alexander’s now enormous empire, Ptolemy found he still maintained an undeniable empathy for that salubrious and ancient civilization along the Nile. Why this should be, he wasn’t quite certain. He only knew that if time and events ever permitted, it was a place he hoped to someday revisit.

  In fact, he often wondered if perhaps—

  The fleeting thought remained unfinished, for nearby movement caught his eye, focusing his attention elsewhere.

  Outside the great tent occupied by King Porus, two men had emerged, one of them exceeding tall by anyone’s standard. He recognized this regal figure as the defeated Indian ruler, for he’d been witness to his surrender to Alexander three days earlier. The much shorter man was doubtless an interpreter. Both now headed in Ptolemy’s direction, followed by two bearers hoisting a sizeable chest between them. In the aftermath of the Macedonian victory, Alexander was so impressed by Porus’ bravery that he’d allowed him to retain his kingdom in exchange only for a solemn pledge of allegiance to the young conqueror. As always, he was magnanimous in victory.

  Porus was now apparently prepared to formally do so.

  As the two men and bearers drew near, Ptolemy alerted everyone of the king’s imminent arrival by pulling open the tent’s thick curtains, then took his place alongside those seasoned commanders already present. After making his entrance, Porus gestured to his servants, who obediently placed the chest before Alexander and bowed their way out.

  Ptolemy paid scant attention to the lengthy salutations and translations that followed. Instead, he found his eyes continuously drawn to the unopened chest, his curiosity piqued by what it might contain. The mere fact two bearers had carried it with so little effort ruled out any possibility of it holding gold or silver. Made
of some exotic wood, the chest’s edges and sides were secured by decorative bronze castings, which by itself gave no hint of its contents.

  When Ptolemy eventually learned, the value of it astounded him.

  In the far distant future—and half a world away—he’d often pondered how it was that this pivotal point in his long life went unrecognized at the time it occurred. When he stood that day before Porus in Alexander’s tent he recalled no prescient epiphanies of where his destiny might eventually take him. It would’ve pleased him greatly if his reminiscences were different, but such wasn’t the case. No passing god had paused to whisper into his ear that within a mere three years of the that event Alexander would be dead in Babylon, his inner circle of successors struggling to carve up his empire amongst themselves. Nor did he foresee how he’d outlive all these younger men by decades to create his own royal dynasty based in Egypt, one fated to last over three centuries. Lastly, he received no premonition that the contents of Porus’ chest would ultimately belong to him alone, a treasure he’d then bequeath in an unbroken line to his many descendants.

  Yet so it all came to pass.

  The Egyptian Coastal Town of Myos Hormos, Oct. 8, 1973 C.E.

  Though it was well past midnight, the evening breeze emanating off the Red Sea scarcely reached down into the wide, steep-sided ditch where the two boys were hidden, providing no relief from the day’s lingering heat. With the absence of moonlight and the near-total darkness of the hour, their dirt-streaked faces remained slick with perspiration, perhaps resulting as much from nervous anxiety as from the hot, sandy soil of their concealment.

  At least this was the case with the smaller youngster.

  The mounting tension of his unease had grown considerably over the past two hours. Now it sat like a hard stone deep in his lean middle. No stranger to physical discomfort, this was quite different from the regular pangs of hunger he lived with on a recurring basis during his thirteen years. Instead, this particular sensation was somehow sharper, more pressing, and quite unique to the lad’s experience. And with reason. Tonight would be his first time breaking into a man’s home for the purpose of robbery.

  Seeking reassurance, he glanced over at the tall youth lying next to him. If the older boy harbored any trepidation over what they were about to do, it definitely wasn’t evident on his determined face. By itself, this gave the lad a measure of renewed confidence, for he trusted the seventeen-year-old implicitly. If he loved anyone, it was Tazir. Over three years had passed since the street-wise youth first had taken him under his wing, teaching him all the tricks and skills of surviving abject poverty. Without him, only Allah knew what would’ve been his fate, and the adolescent’s gratitude was total.

  Thus he never questioned Tazir’s judgment.

  He watched as his friend now carefully edged up higher on the bank and peeked over the edge. The plan worked out by Tazir was basically simple, in his opinion making any real danger of their being caught marginal. After studying the many possibilities with care over the past several nights, he finally settling on an isolated home located on the northern fringe of town. He’d even learned much about its sole occupant, a local well digger named Tahan Shadid. If anything, his profile fit Tazir’s criterion perfectly, for not only did the man never seem to lack for work, he also appeared to be somewhat negligent in protecting his residence.

  “Is—is it time?”

  The older boy’s response was a single nod.

  The rear of the meager, wood frame house stood twenty yards away from their hiding place, the building’s narrow, screened front facing outward to the sea where Tazir knew Shadid routinely slept. The single candle that had earlier burned there was long extinguished, meaning the man was now doubtless sound asleep.

  Climbing out of the ditch, the boys warily advanced on the sturdy back door, one that Tazir fully expected to be bolted from the inside. And it was. Prepared for this, he produced a flat screwdriver from the back pocket of his worn jeans and gave his attention to the single window. With any luck, it was seldom used, and hopefully left unsecured. Again, he wasn’t surprised—and using the tool, he worked the frame up enough to then lift and hold it for the much smaller youth to crawl into the black interior. Inside, the boy then eased back on the door’s dead bolt, allowing Tazir entry.

  All was going as planned.

  The only audible sound was a steady and rhythmic snoring emanating from the screened front—which was most encouraging. It was obvious Shadid had heard nothing untoward to disturb his sleep.

  The interior was a single large room, containing an array of old furniture of no distinction. The only exception was a low, wooden bureau, one that immediately drew Tazir’s attention. If Shadid had any serious money in the house, it was most likely kept here. What made this deduction even more plausible was the fact that its two doors were jointly secured by a single, keyed lock.

  It clearly held something of value.

  Determined to find out, Tazir dropped to one knee to better employ the tip of his screwdriver and began to jimmy the mechanism. Standing close behind him, his nervous companion watched the older boy’s patient efforts until the doors finally parted. With the exception of loose paperwork, the only thing inside was a sizeable cloth bag secured by a wound strip of leather. Tazir immediately pulled it out, encouraged by its heft as he loosened the tie. Doing so exposed multiple stacks of currency, all wrapped tightly with rubber bands.

  And there was something else, as well.

  Beneath the money was the source of the bag’s weight—and their eyes widened. For want of a better description, it appeared to be a complex chain necklace—almost certainly made of gold—and suspended from it, a single pearl the virtual size of a child’s fist!

  It was only then the boy became aware of an ominous silence, realizing he no longer heard the sound of Shadid’s snoring. Before he could warn Tazir, however, it was already too late, for the brawny man was suddenly full upon them, cursing in rage as he slammed into these two intruders.

  Worse, he was slashing wildly with a knife.

  The second pass of the blade caught Tazir on the face, slicing a line from the bridge of his nose clear to his ear—and the youth gasped in pain as a flow of blood immediately spilled across his cheek and throat. Satisfied, Shadid then unleashed his full fury on the other, attempting to pin the frantic and twisting boy to the floor. It took him several moments, but once this was achieved, he raised his knife, determined to plunge it into the youngster’s exposed chest.

  It never descended.

  The man’s fatal mistake was in assuming Tazir was so incapacitated as to no longer be a viable participant in the struggle. This error in judgment cost him his life. Despite his wound, the older youth leaped onto the man’s back before he could strike, showing no hesitation as he plunged the screwdriver as hard as he could into the man’s thick neck. Such was its length that the steel tip exited fully two inches out of the other side, the eruption of blood from a severed artery both instantaneous and considerable.

  The terrified youngster squirmed from beneath the now collapsed man as Tazir quickly grabbed up the cloth bag. Shadid’s bulging eyes were already becoming fixed, his breathing nonexistent.

  “Is he—?”

  “Dead,” confirmed Tazir as he dragged the shaking adolescent towards the door. “We’ve got to leave! Now!”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cairo, Egypt. The Present.

  At eighty-six, it was only with deep reluctance that Yasir Haleem acknowledged his many years were finally making inroads on his overall health. Longevity did indeed have drawbacks. Thankfully, not all the symptoms were readily detectable by his few remaining associates.

  However, some of these nagging realities couldn’t be hidden.

  Though believing himself as lean and disciplined as he’d always been, it now took only an occasional passing glance in one of the mirrors inside his spacious apartment to note an annoying tendency to stoop forward as he walked. Additional to this
, the length and stability of his former stride had definitely become a thing of the past. Perhaps worst of all—at least in his estimation—was a recent total dependence on prescription glasses to accomplish even the most basic of tasks, a weakness he found difficult to abide.

  Yet such were the inevitable stages of life, and this despite his tenacious instinct to somehow stave off all these natural progressions for as long as possible. It was ultimately a lost cause, to be sure, more an issue of personal pride rather than any latent concern regarding approaching mortality. As for the latter, he actually possessed none. In fact, he could honestly say the anticipation of death held no real dread for him. What he truly did fear, however, was something far more depressing and insidious—this being the grim expectation of having to face more long, tedious years of complete boredom, a dismal prospect he found quite intolerable.

  Yet perhaps—just maybe—this condition was about to change.

  He prayed so.

  If Allah wills, the next few days will tell!

  He smiled as he glanced at the circular wall clock, calculating only a few minutes remained before the arrival of Lahib, his long-time employee and trusted friend. The taped package and sealed envelope were ready for pick-up, all his meticulous arrangements set in place. Once Lahib made the necessary delivery, it then became a waiting game.

  The old man stepped over to the window, there parting the heavy brocade curtain just enough to peer down six floors to the street below. It was five minutes past noon; not unexpectedly, the familiar, blue van no longer parked in the lot a half-block to the east. As was invariably the case, its lone driver had gone elsewhere to enjoy his lunch, not realizing Haleem had long ago learned the inept fool’s routine and used it to his advantage. If anything, it was all pathetically amusing. As someone paid to keep tabs on Haleem’s daily activities, the driver’s performance over the past number of years had proven little more than a joke.