The Amun Chamber Read online

  “In the power struggle that ensued after Alexander’s death, one of his ablest Generals, Ptolemy by name, claimed Egypt as his share of the fragmenting empire. Under the pretense of paying a last homage to his dead master, he rode out with an army and effectively hijacked the entire funeral cortege, diverting it down into Egypt. There he declared himself a king, installing Alexander’s mortal remains in his new capital city of Alexandria. By its mere presence inside his borders he believed the shrine would somehow bestow legitimacy to the dynasty he wished to establish.

  “And his clever ploy worked. The body was venerated in Alexandria for almost four hundred years; roughly three centuries under the many Ptolemies, followed by yet another eighty years, or so, under the rule of Imperial Rome. During all this long period, it lay undisturbed in a temple known as the Soma, honored by the city and revered by an Egyptian priesthood that firmly believed Alexander was no less than the last true son of their supreme god, Amun-Ra.”

  “And then?”

  “Well, after this, all reliable historical references to the shrine abruptly cease. Sometime in the latter half of the first century, the remains of Alexander the Great simply disappears from history. Under what exact circumstances this happened, no one knows. A complete mystery. Theories abound, of course, but it’s all pure conjecture. In point of fact, Alexandria today is so much altered from what it was in ancient times, modern historians can’t even figure out where the Soma once stood.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.

  “Please tell me you’re not going to say my grandfather thought Alexander’s body, or coffin—or whatever—was still out there somewhere?”

  A faint smile came to his lips. “More than that, actually. If I read his last letter correctly, I think he fervently believed he knew where it was.”

  “Are you serious? Surely you don’t think for a second that he—”

  “I’m only saying what he believed, Elizabeth.”

  “I’m sorry, but all of this comes across to me like some kind of wild, delusional fantasy.”

  “And perhaps it is. But who can say what’s possible and what’s not? After all, until Howard Carter found the tomb of Tutanhkamon, almost no one believed for a moment there were any intact royal tombs left in the Valley of the Kings.”

  “Howard Carter? God, you’re putting my grandfather in some rather august company, aren’t you?”

  “No, not really. Though most people don’t know, the high respect now universally bestowed on Carter came only after his amazing discovery. Prior to that, he was merely a self-taught Egyptologist with very little to recommend him beyond his passion for archaeology. Basically, it was pretty much only luck and determination that brought him international fame.”

  She considered this for a moment; then frowned, shaking her head. “Be that as it may, this still doesn’t justify lumping them together. I know almost nothing about my grandfather’s many years in Egypt, but I do know he made no serious discoveries—or finds of any kind for that matter. If he did, don’t you think his family would’ve known?”

  “Well, not necessarily. Although Lionel’s formal training was hardly the best, he was more than just a talented amateur with a year or so of field experience under his belt. According to Edith, he knew his craft very well—and if you were at all familiar with her credentials, that’s very high praise indeed.” He paused, appearing to gather his thoughts. “As to finding something significant, he clearly felt he’d done just that. In my opinion his last letter can be read no other way. Now, what it was exactly—whether it be an artifact, an ancient inscription—there’s really no way of knowing. The point being, he thought he had found something of enormous importance.”

  Elizabeth remained confused as to where all this was leading.

  “Okay,” she said, “I can appreciate what you’re saying—but only up to a point. Isn’t all of this only credible if my grandfather was sane at the time he wrote these? Let’s be honest here. We’ve both read them—and I don’t think either one of us leans strongly in that direction.”

  “A valid point,” he agreed, “and under normal rules of logic, it should be the clinching argument. However, there’s something else here that gives me pause to wonder.” He looked at her closely. “If you don’t mind my asking, do you know the date and circumstances of Lionel’s death?”

  She had an uneasy feeling, wondering where he was going with this.

  “No, not exactly,” she finally admitted. “It was in the mid-fifties, I know. An accident. He fell from a balcony, I think, or down a flight of stairs of some kind. At any rate, he died as a result of the injuries.”

  He retrieved a folded sheet of paper from his open briefcase.

  “To be exact, your grandfather died in the late night hours of August 11, 1956, when he fell down an open stairwell in a hotel in Alexandria. If you look at the postmark on Lionel’s last letter, you’ll see it was mailed on August 4, just seven days prior.”

  She looked at the envelope in her lap. Now she saw his direction. “Oh surely,” she said, “you’re not suggesting his death was anything more than mere—”

  “Coincidence? Maybe. But take a look at this.” He handed over the sheet. “This is a translation of the original police report on your grandfather’s death. One of the things it says is that Lionel was registered at the hotel under an assumed name. It sort of implies he was hiding from someone, don’t you think?”

  “There could be a dozen different reasons for—”

  “Perhaps,” he again interrupted, “but there’s one more thing. It also states that the Egyptian officer in charge of the investigation strongly suspected Lionel’s neck was already broken before the fall even took place.”

  She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “You’re saying he thought my grandfather was murdered?”

  “I’m afraid so. He just couldn’t prove it.”

  Long seconds passed in silence, and she found herself wondering just what exactly it was that this man wanted from her. It still wasn’t clear.

  To buy herself more time, she got to her feet and walked over to the kitchen cabinets. “Speaking for myself, Professor,” she said, “I think we’re both ready for something a bit stronger than coffee.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Driven on a fast rising wind, heavy rain pelted noisily at the window as Elizabeth mixed their drinks. David used the opportunity to briefly explain a few things, beginning with the rather unique relationship existing between his great-aunt and the University of Thessalonika. Listening, she occasionally nodded, asking only a few questions.

  He concluded by saying, “And when Edith eventually retired from full-time teaching, she offered to donate the bulk of her personal papers and accumulated research material to their library. Due to the remarkable body of work she achieved over her long career—not to mention her standing as one of the top, living authorities on Greek antiquities—they were, of course, thrilled to accept. Because of her advanced age, it more or less fell to me to sort through and evaluate everything. The university board thought this appropriate, my being her closest relative, and all.”

  “I assume that’s when you came across my grandfather’s letters.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And when did all this take place?”

  “Close to four months ago. Like you, my initial reaction was one of complete puzzlement. When I took them to Edith, she told me the whole story. To say the least, I found it intriguing—so much so I contacted a colleague of mine in Alexandria and had him dig out the official police report on Lionel’s death. It took some effort, but he eventually got it.”

  She returned, handing him his glass. “Just vodka and fruit juice,” she said. “I’m afraid that’s all I have in the cupboard.”

  “That’s fine.”

  She curled back up in the chair. “There are still a few things that confuse me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Why did you take such an interest in these letters? Was it strictly the s
ubject matter?”

  “Primarily, yes. And too, the timing. My focus over the past several years has been with an excavation outside Pella, the ancient Macedonian capital. There’s now no question that what we’re unearthing was the summer palace of Phillip the Second, which means that all of the beautiful mosaic floors and halls we’ve so far exposed were in all likelihood once walked on by Alexander as a youth. That’s pretty heady stuff. But unfortunately, the land abutting the site remains under private ownership. The dig had to be shut down. It may well be a year before it’s all resolved and I can re-open again.”

  “Leaving you with time on your hands?”

  “That’s the only reason I accepted this lecture tour when the university approached me.” He waited a moment, then asked, “You said something else confuses you?”

  “Yes, it’s about your great-aunt. I’m just curious, mind you, but back at the time of my grandfather’s death—knowing the contents of his last letters—didn’t she find it all even the least bit suspicious?”

  “She probably would have,” he said, “but she only learned of Lionel’s death many years later. And even then she was given very few details.”

  This appeared to satisfy Elizabeth. With no more questions forthcoming, he asked one of his own. “I don’t think I mentioned this before, but did I tell you I had a brief phone conversation with your father back in early June?”

  “No, you never said.” Her interest showed on her face. “How did you even know he existed?”

  “When Edith was in Egypt, Lionel apparently spoke more than once about his son, Jacob. As prominent and successful as your father eventually became, it wasn’t all that difficult for me to track him down. I wrote to him twice from Salonika, giving him my phone number and e-mail address, but never got a response.”

  A smile crossed her lips, her eyes twinkling. “No real surprise there,” she said, “but please go on.”

  “My first stop of the tour was Boston University, so I tried contacting him by phone within a day of my arrival. No offence, but your father wasn’t the most cordial man I’ve ever tried talking to. When I identified myself, he literally slammed his phone in my ear.”

  Her burst of laughter was spontaneous, if short-lived. “You’re probably lucky that’s all he did!”

  Caught by surprise, he asked, “What am I missing here?”

  She shook her head, still smiling. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, my father could be a perfectly charming and thoughtful man whenever it suited his purpose. You simply made the mistake of raising a very touchy subject. Believe me, it had nothing to do with you personally. What you couldn’t know was that any discussion, or even mention, of my grandfather was strictly taboo, off-limits to everyone.”

  “But surely not to you.”

  “Yes, even me,” she said, her amusement fading. “What little I know about my grandfather, I learned from other sources—and it was enough for me to understand his bitterness towards his dad. My father was only about seventeen or thereabouts when Lionel packed up and left for Egypt, and he never found it in himself to forgive this desertion of him and his mother.” She gave an audible sigh. “Making matters worse, an outbreak of influenza took my grandmother not long afterwards. At best, my father considered Lionel little more than an irresponsible wastrel, and it was probably true. Too, there were great financial problems. To pay for his travels, Lionel drew heavily on all his family holdings, almost to the point of bankruptcy. In fact, this property here on the Cape was just about the only thing of any real value that he left free and clear.”

  “This was Lionel’s house? I didn’t realize.”

  “Born and raised here. It came to my father after Lionel died, of course, but by then my father was a grown man living in Boston. This eventually became an occasional summer retreat.” She looked around. “It’s amazing that he was even able to keep it. My understanding is it took him years to clear away all of Lionel’s debts. The psychological scars were harder, I guess. They really never did go away.”

  David sipped thoughtfully at his drink, believing Elizabeth’s story explained a lot. The emotional wounds inflicted on Jacob as a young man doubtless forged his life-long drive to succeed. But at what price? Ambition alone didn’t spawn millionaires; usually great personal sacrifices had to be made along the way. Now he began to wonder if perhaps his daughter was one of them.

  “I must admit,” he said aloud, “I was surprised when Dean Andrews told me you were Jacob’s daughter.”

  “And not his granddaughter, you mean?”

  “I didn’t mean that to sound—”

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “That was purely a reflex action. It’s what everyone naturally assumed when seeing us together. My father was well into his fifties before he married. By the time I came along, he was already pretty set in his ways. And it didn’t help losing my mother when I was only three. Perhaps if she’d lived things might’ve . . .” Her voice trailed off, letting the thought go unexpressed. “Anyway, I can sympathize with what he went through. Despite all our later differences, I do know we both loved each other deeply. It’s just that we weren’t always very good at showing it.”

  His suspicions confirmed, David stood and stepped over to the stone fireplace. On the beam mantle was a framed, black and white photograph that first caught his eye while she was reading through the letters. He picked it up for closer examination, asking, “Is this a picture of Lionel?”

  “And my father, as well. Far as I know, it’s the only photograph of them together.”

  He studied it with interest.

  The occasion was a carnival of some sort. In the background was a confectionary advertising snow cones for a nickel. Of the two figures, the elder was a thin man with somewhat curly hair and sloping shoulders. Curiously, Lionel was much as David imagined him; the eyes restless, the delicate features narrow and ascetic. The classic look of an unfulfilled dreamer? Perhaps he was projecting too much. The young boy beside him, however, appeared to be cut from a different cloth entirely; stocky in build, darker complexioned, the rounded face definitely more intense. He stood facing the camera with his arms flat at his sides, his solemn expression almost challenging. And the photo hinted at something else, as well. It was a subtle thing, yet still there for anyone to see. Considering where they were, their pose seemed to be far too rigid and uncomfortable. Rather than father and son, they looked more like two strangers placed beside each other at the arbitrary whim of the photographer. If an emotional bond existed between these two, the lens had failed to capture it. Curious about this, he said, “If you don’t mind my asking, did you ever have any sense of what you’re father’s reaction was to Lionel’s death? I realize it was well before your time . . .”

  She was slow to reply.

  “When I was younger,” she said finally, “I occasionally wondered about it myself, unsure in my own mind if he secretly mourned his father’s death in a strange land. He never really indicated one way or the other. Not verbally, anyway. But I think the answer was right here all the time. I just wasn’t clever enough to see it.” Her eyes moved slowly around, taking in all the period furnishings and quaint trappings of a distant time. “I was only in my mid-teens when I spent my last summer vacation here, too young to really see this house for what it actually represented. It wasn’t until I opened it up a week or so ago that I realized how blind I’d been. I’ve never known a time when my father wasn’t extremely wealthy—rich enough to do or afford anything he damn well pleased—and yet here this place was, completely unchanged since the time of his boyhood, almost like some sort of sealed time capsule. Even more telling, wherever I looked I found evidence he’d been coming here alone on a regular basis just to keep things up.” She paused, her eyes glistening. “How sad. I only wish I’d known.”

  David had no words of comfort to fill the awkward silence. He understood at least some of what she was going through. How could he not? He recognized the symptoms from his own experience, knew all the familiar pa
tterns of guilt for what they truly were. In the numbing aftermath of losing loved ones, by far the most difficult emotion to deal with is always the lingering sense of regret and remorse one feels over lost opportunities.

  Coming here was a huge mistake, he now thought. His intrusion had served no purpose or benefit to either of them. Except for a few insights into Lionel’s background, he’d gained nothing. If Lionel ever revealed to anyone what so excited him over the last few days of his life, it almost certainly wasn’t to his son. By everything Elizabeth told him, Jacob and her grandfather were estranged from the time Lionel left Cape Cod until his death nine years later. In all likelihood, Lionel took the secret to his grave.

  He glanced at the antique clock on the mantle, noting the lateness of the hour. “I think perhaps it’s about time for me to go. I’m sorry for taking up so much of your evening. The storm’s only going to get stronger, by the sound of it, and I still have to find accommodations.”

  “Oh, God, I really should’ve asked you about that sooner. August is the height of the tourist season here on the Cape. If you haven’t booked anything by now, well chances are you’re not going to find a room anywhere. You can use the spare bedroom upstairs. Honestly, David, it’s really no trouble at all.”

  “Are you sure?” he said, pleased by her use of his first name. “If it’s going to be an inconvenience, I can always—”

  “No trouble at all,” she assured him. “In fact, you’ll be doing me a favor.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for one thing, it gives me the opportunity to cook an actual meal for two people. Something I haven’t done in ages.”

  * * *

  David awoke refreshed at first light. As he dressed it now struck him that he had no idea whether or not Elizabeth was an early riser. She never indicated one way or the other—and the last thing he wanted was to disturb her. Thus he made every attempt to be quiet as he made his way downstairs and slipped out through the screened porch.