Читать книгу Island of Point Nemo - Jean-Marie Blas de Robles - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe Tigris, now invisible, to the right, the bare heights of the Gordyene Mountains to the left; between the two, the plain looked like a desert swarming with golden beetles. They were at Gaugamela, less than three years after the hundred and twelfth Olympiad. Darius had lined up some two hundred thousand foot soldiers and thirty thousand cavalry: auxiliary Indians, Bactrian troops led by their respective satraps, Scythians from Asia, an alliance of mounted archers from the Persians, Arians, Parthians, Phrataphernes, Medes, Armenians, Greek mercenaries, not to mention those from Hyrcania, Susa, and Babylon; Mazaios commanded the soldiers from Syria, Oromobates those from the shores of the Red Sea. They also boasted fifteen elephants and two hundred scythed chariots for which the King of Kings had cleared the stones from the soon-to-be battlefield.
Alexander slept.
Under his orders, the Macedonian army—forty thousand foot soldiers and only seven thousand horses—was deployed in an oblique front. The phalanx in the center was protected on its flanks by Nicanor’s hypaspists and Perdiccas’s and Meleager’s battalions, by Parmenion’s Thessalonian cavalry on its left wing, and by Philotas’s on its right. The sun, already high, made their helmets and cuirasses gleam, and their shields dazzled.
Still Alexander slept. His companions had the greatest difficulty waking him, but when he rose, he mounted Bucephalus and rejoined the right wing, at the head of the Macedonian cavalry.
Darius, at the center of his elite infantry—ten thousand Immortals, so called because whenever one died in the course of combat he was immediately replaced—gave the order to attack. He set the bulk of his cavalry on Alexander’s left flank and sent his chariots to thrust through the central phalanx. The king of Macedonia did not seem concerned. He led his cavalrymen toward the right, as if he wanted to skirt the front on that side, provoking, as in a mirror, the same shift in the opposing cavalry, but with the effect of severing it from the rest of the troops and stretching out the front. While Parmenion was subjected to the Persian assault, the phalanxes were preparing themselves for impact. When the chariots were no more than fifty meters away, this human hedge, bristly with lances, opened to form several aisles. At the same time, the trumpets sounded, and all the foot soldiers began to strike their iron shields with their swords. This incredible clamor spooked the teams of horses; some halted abruptly, causing the chariots to tumble, while others instinctively rushed down the lanes formed by the soldiers. Closing back in on them, the phalanx swallowed and digested them with jabs of its sarissas. It must be admitted, however, as Diodorus said, that some chariots, having avoided this defense, did terrible damage in the places where they landed. The cutting edges of the scythes and other metal fittings attached to their wheels were so sharp they brought death in a number of different ways—taking off some soldiers’ arms along with the shields they carried, cutting off others’ heads so suddenly that when they landed on the ground their mouths were still mid-roar. Several unfortunates were cleaved in two and died before they felt the blow.
Once Alexander calculated that he had drawn the Persian cavalry far enough, and as it was preparing to attack, he abruptly turned his horses half around, revealing the corps of slingers that his advance had concealed. Leaving these skilled warriors to pelt the Bactrian cavalry with their stones, he rushed into the breach and galloped off toward the center of the opposing army, right at the Immortals protecting Darius. An excellent opening! A line of red ink between the paragraphs of the battle! In the sandy dust raised by the combat, thousands of men are gutted in the terrible melee; swords and Macedonian javelins send blood spurting into the air, splatter the yellow robes embroidered with lavender, split hooded heads, rend wicker shields; axes and curved swords descend on the hoplites, smash crested helmets, slice, kill, mutilate unrelentingly. Caught up in a parallel fury, the men butcher one another, their disemboweled mounts gnashing their teeth. The dying continue to advance; they choke on pink foam, stumble, entangled in their own entrails. A single cry of pain seems to emanate from the mounds of the dead and wounded, whose bodies cushion their assailants’ steps. The Immortals are as resurrected as they can be, they are not renewing themselves fast enough to scatter the Macedonian wave. And suddenly, behold, they are disbanding, the Persian center is broken, Darius is fleeing. It is at this moment, as Alexander sees his opponent’s motley chariot disappearing in the dust, that a messenger reaches him: on the left flank, Parmenion and his Thessalonian cavalry are faltering before the Persians; without reinforcements they will not last long.
It was at this moment that Miss Sherrington chose to shake her master’s shoulder: “Monsieur, please, Monsieur Canterel . . .”
Martial Canterel was stretched out on a bed that had been imported at great cost from an opium den in Hong Kong. The battlefield was spread out across the floor, occupying almost the entirety of the parquet surface; twenty-five thousand lead soldiers, which he had spent several days positioning in order to reproduce this pivotal moment: should Alexander go after Darius, or rescue Parmenion?
“Miss Sherrington?” he said, raising glassy eyes to hers. “I’m listening.”
“You have a caller,” she said, holding out a card to him. “And, if I may, you should stop smoking that filth. It’s not good for your health.”
“It’s medicinal, Miss Sherrington. You can address any commentary to Dr. Ménard.”
Canterel took a look at the card and sat up immediately.
“By the Holy Candle of Arras, Holmes! Holmes is here, and you didn’t tell me! Why haven’t you sent him up?”
Miss Sherrington raised her eyes to the heavens, as if she were dealing with an imbecile.
“I’ve been trying to wake you for ten minutes . . .” And, indicating the opium kit that was lying on the bed: “I’ve brought your medication, or do you need even more?”
“Out of here, please, and spare me the sarcasm.”
Martial Canterel was forty-five. Imagine a thin face, hair slicked back and sticking up in all directions—the hair of a man who sends for his barber each morning and gives him as a model a portrait of Louis II of Bavaria at the age of eighteen—big green eyes with lashes so thick that one would have thought him naturally made-up, a nice nose, and—between a French mustache and a tuft of hairs forming a fan under his lower lip—a fleshy little mouth with a disconcerting pout. His mustache was no less bizarre: very thick beneath the nose, it rippled out horizontally, stretching to an uncommon length before rising up, and then fading into tawny whiskers. Canterel maintained it obsessively. Add to this a braided frock coat over a waistcoat of quilted silk, a white-collared shirt with a double bow tie the color of a Périgord truffle, cashmere trousers, and gray beaver boots, and you will understand that the figure whom we are examining cultivated the appearance of a dandy.
Canterel inspected his attire in the mirror. He was adjusting his collar when Holmes entered, followed by a black man whom he did not know.
“Hello, my friend!” Holmes said, stepping forward with his arms outstretched. “Just what are you playing at, Martial, having me wait at your door like some common delivery man?”
“Stop, not another step!” said Canterel, flatly.
“What’s the matter?” asked Holmes, worried, tottering on one foot.
“Look in front of you, old chap, you were about to trample Cleitus the Black’s squadron!”
“By Jove!” he said, seeing the armies of lead soldiers that covered the floor. “Have you gone mad, my dear friend? What is the meaning of this?”
He put on his spectacles and carefully squatted down for a closer look.
“Very nice, a splendid collection! I’ve never seen a set so complete . . . Alexander and his companies! The Immortals, Darius on his massive golden chariot!”
“Mine’s only gold-plated . . .”
“Regardless, Canterel, it’s absolutely extraordinary!”
Holmes stood up in order to take in the whole scene, waved his hand vaguely as he deliberated, and grimaced. “At first glance, this looks like the Battle of Issus, but there is something that doesn’t quite make sense in the left wing . . . I’d say the Granicus or . . . No! Of course, it’s Gaugamela, right as Darius is turning to run from the attack of the Macedonian center!”
“Splendid,” said the other man, “it’s quite easy to visualize the nasty position that Parmenion’s troops have found themselves in, and how Alexander could still lose the battle . . .”
“And whom do I have the honor . . .?” asked Canterel, allured by the shrewdness of this remark.
“Allow me to introduce Grimod, my butler,” said Holmes.
“Delighted,” said Canterel, eagerly shaking his hand. “Grimod?”
“Grimod de la Reynière,” continued Holmes, noticeably embarrassed. “It’s a long story, I’ll tell it to you one of these days. But I am here regarding a more important matter. Would it be possible to discuss it while not standing on one foot?”
“Forgive me,” said Canterel. “I will find us a more suitable place. Miss Sherrington,” he called, guiding them toward an adjoining room, “tea for me, and a Longmorn 72 for our guests, please.” He turned to Grimod. “I know Shylock’s tastes, but you may also have tea, if you prefer . . .”
“Not to worry, the Longmorn will be perfectly fine,” said Grimod with the smile of a connoisseur.
They took a seat in a parlor that overlooked the Atlantic through three bay windows, through which they could see nothing but the dividing line between the blue of the sky and the blue of the ocean, as if the chateau were at the back of a frigate.
“So,” said Canterel, “what brings you to Biarritz?”
Before letting Holmes respond, it would be well for us to dispel any misunderstandings about the man. Although he bore the name of the illustrious detective, John Shylock Holmes had inherited nothing from that line besides a questionable sense of humor and a strong confidence in his own expertise. Former curator of the Bodleian Library at Oxford, he worked at Christie’s in Art Restitution Services; his talents and contacts sometimes enabled him to assist Lloyd’s in negotiating certain delicate cases. Gifted with a prodigious memory, he was a man of sixty, and neither his excessive portliness nor his devotion to aged malts prevented him from traveling the world in search of rare objects. A habit that explained, without excusing, his propensity for wearing suits that he ought to have thrown out long ago. A receding hairline; a crown of curls that were too jet-black, in all honesty, to be anything but dyed; grizzled side-whiskers that descended to his chin; round, thin-rimmed glasses with smoked lenses that pinched the end of his nose; and a hint of rosacea on his cheekbones: all these features combined to give him an ever so slightly grotesque appearance.
As to the man who has been presented to us under the name of Grimod, it will suffice, for the moment, to say that he stood two heads above either of them. A tall, strapping man the color of burnished metal, whose muscles strained against the seams of his clothing without detracting from their elegance: an eggshell suit and silk shirt made by the hands of Cavanagh, the Irish tailor at 26, Champs-Élysées. It took Canterel only a glance to identify their maker. Two things were discordant, however: the deep scar that ran across half his forehead to his hairline, and the fact that he had not seen fit to take off his right glove.
“Have you read this weekend’s New Herald?” asked Holmes, pulling a notebook from his jacket pocket.
“You know very well that I never read the papers . . .”
“Anyone can change, even you. But let’s move along. That means you did not come across this astonishing bit of news. I’ll read it to you: ‘Last Monday, a hiker on a beach on the Isle of Skye, in Scotland, was surprised to discover a human foot cut off at mid-calf; mummified by the salt, this appendage was still shod in a sneaker. Two days later, thirty kilometers to the east, at the source of the loch at Glen Shiel, the sea washed up a second, quite similar foot. And, yesterday, to the south of Kyle of Lochalsh—that is, at the tip of an equilateral triangle formed by the two previous points—Mrs. Glenfidich’s dog brought his mistress a third foot, hewn off in a similar manner and also wearing the same kind of shoe. These gruesome discoveries are rare in a county where there are neither sharks nor crocodiles; moreover, the police have not had report of a single disappearance in two years.’” Holmes paused for a moment and lifted one finger, drawing Canterel’s attention to the end of the story: “‘The plot thickens: regarding what the locals are already calling the “mystery of the three feet,” it should be noted that these are three right feet of different sizes, but shod in the same type of shoe.’”
“What is the make?” Canterel demanded.
“Ananke . . .”
“I hope you haven’t come all this way just to tell me that?”
He placed a ladyfinger in a cookie-dunking device that Miss Sherrington had brought in and left near his cup, and used it to soak the cookie in his tea for several seconds.
“Ananke, you say?” he resumed, bringing the moistened cookie to his lips.
“Yes,” said Holmes. “‘Destiny,’ the Greeks’ unalterable ‘necessity’ . . .”
“Except that this make does not exist,” continued Grimod, sniffing his glass of scotch.
“However,” added Holmes, “it is the name of the jewel that was stolen this week from the heart of that same triangle, Eilean Donan Castle . . .”
“To the point, Shylock, get to the point!” exclaimed Canterel.
“The Ananke,” Holmes continued without losing his composure, “is the largest diamond ever excavated from an earthly mine: eight hundred carats once cut, appraised at over fifteen million florins! This marvel belonged to Lady MacRae, widow of Lord Duncan MacRae of Kintail, in other words a certain Madame Chauchat who should not be completely erased from your memory, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Chauchat, Clawdia Chauchat?” Canterel murmured.
“The same,” said Holmes, pulling a cigar from his waistcoat pocket. “It is she—and the insurance company that offers my services at an exorbitant price—who has recruited me to retrieve this magnificent stone.”
Canterel’s face had darkened suddenly.
“Obviously, this changes everything,” he said, massaging his temples with two fingers. “Miss Sherrington, I beg you, I am going to need some more of my medicine . . .”
