The Alexander Cipher Page 0,78
as cries for help. But in a moment of insight he realized that some conversations were simply too difficult to broach without some kind of act to demonstrate the overwhelming strength of feeling involved. He couldn’t face Nur and Layla with this news. It was beyond him. So he picked Rafai up by the lapels of his jacket instead and slammed him against his office wall.
IT WAS A GOOD SEVEN-HOUR DRIVE from Alexandria to Siwa Oasis, where Elena and Gaille were due to begin a survey of antiquities as cover for their search for Alexander’s tomb. It was an uninspiring journey, too, first heading west along the scrubby, overbuilt Mediterranean coast, then south through flat and empty desert, with nothing to see for mile after mile but the occasional service station or herd of wild camels, until they topped a rise and the relentless emptiness was suddenly broken by glittering white salt lakes and orchards of silver-green.
They pulled into Siwa’s market square as a muezzin called the faithful to prayer, and the sun vanished behind the dark rose ruins of the old Shali Fortress. The streets here were wide, spacious, and dusty. There were few cars or trucks. People walked, cycled, or took donkey carts. After the bustle of Alexandria, Siwa seemed gloriously leisurely and content. Gaille rolled down her window and inhaled deeply. Her spirits lifted. Siwa was truly the end of the road. There was nothing beyond it but the great Sea of Sand. The oasis had no purpose but itself.
They found available places in a hotel located in a date palm orchard. Their rooms were newly painted, clean, and polished, with sparkling windows and gleaming bathrooms. Gaille took a shower and put on some fresh clothes; then Elena knocked on her door, and they set off to visit Dr. Aly Sayed, Siwa’s representative of the Supreme Council for Antiquities.
KNOX AND RICK ducked down in the front seats of the Subaru as one of the flatbed trucks left for the night, its headlights flickering over the grove of trees where they had hidden. A good day’s sleep had recharged Knox’s batteries, and his laptop’s, too. He reopened it once the flatbed had driven off, resuming his study of the Mallawi papyri, fragments of ancient letters, and other documents.
“I reckon the other one must have already left,” said Rick. “I mean, they can’t excavate in the dark.”
“Let’s give it ten minutes, just to be safe.”
Rick pulled a face but let it go. “How you getting on?” he asked.
“Not too bad.” His laptop screen was old and fuzzy. The photographs had been taken for cataloging purposes, not for decipherment. The lighting was variable, to put it kindly. Most of the papyri were completely unreadable. Yet he could still make out occasional words and even phrases, many of them in a recognizable hand, so written by a single person. Often they were vague, almost deliberately so, such as “and then the thing happened that brought me to Mallawi.” Elsewhere, the author referred again and again to “the enlightened,” “the truth bearer,” “the knowledgeable,” “the holder of the secret.” And in other places they were downright treasonous. “I don’t know who wrote this,” he told Rick, “but he wasn’t very respectful.”
“How do you mean?”
“Ptolemaic pharaohs were all called Ptolemy, so they distinguished themselves by their cult titles instead. For example, the first Ptolemy was known as Soter, the Greek word for ‘savior.’ But here he’s referred to as Sotades.”
“Sotades?”
“A scurrilous Alexandrian Greek poet and playwright. Wrote a lot of homoerotic verse, invented the palindrome, then got himself into trouble for mocking Ptolemy Two Philadelphos for marrying his sister. Speaking of which, Philadelphos actually means ‘sister lover,’ but he’s referred to here as ‘sin-lover.’ Ptolemy Euergetes, ‘the benefactor,’ is ‘the malefactor.’ Philopator, ‘the father loving,’ is ‘the lie-building.’ Epiphanes, ‘the manifest god,’ is ‘the manifest fraud.’ You get the idea?”
“Not exactly the world’s greatest satirist, was he?”
“No. But even referring to the Ptolemies like this . . .”
Rick leaned forward in his seat, squinting through his windshield into the moonlit night, impatient to get moving. “They must have left by now,” he muttered, turning on his ignition. “Let’s go in.”
“Five more minutes.”
“Okay,” grumbled Rick, turning the engine off again. He leaned across to look at the laptop. “What else are you finding?”
“Lots of place names. Tanis, Buto, Busiris, Mendes. All important Delta towns. But the place that comes up by far the most is Lycopolis.”
“Lycopolis. City of the Wolves, yeah?”
“It was the Greek