Читать книгу The Alexander Cipher - Will Adams - Страница 5

The Libyan Desert, 318 BC

There was a freshwater spring at the lowest point of the cave, like a single black nail at the tip of a twisted, charred and mutilated leg. A thick layer of lichen and other scum clotted its surface, barely disturbed in centuries except to ripple and shiver at the touch of one of the insects that lived upon it, or dimple with bubbles of gas belched from deep beneath the floor of the surrounding desert.

Suddenly the skin burst, and the head and shoulders of a man erupted from the water. His face was turned upwards and instantly he gasped huge heaves of life-giving air through his flared nostrils and gaping mouth, as though he’d stayed underwater beyond the limit of his endurance. His breaths didn’t lessen in intensity as the moments passed; rather, they grew ever more desperate, as though his heart was about to burst inside his chest. But at length he reached and passed the worst.

There was no light at all in the cave, not even a phosphorescence of water; and the man’s relief at surviving his underwater flight quickly turned to distress that he’d merely exchanged one mode of death for another. He felt around the edge of the pool until he found a low ledge. He heaved himself up, twisted round to sit upon it. Almost as an afterthought, he reached beneath his soaking tunic for his dagger; but in truth, there was little danger of pursuit. He’d had to fight and kick his way through every inch of that watery escape. He’d like to see that fat Libyan who’d aimed to stick him with his sword try to follow; for sure, he’d cork in the passage, and it wouldn’t spit him out till he’d lost some flesh.

Something whirred past his cheek. He cried out in terror and threw up his hands. The echo was curiously slow and deep for what he’d imagined to be a small cave. Something else flapped past him. It sounded like a bird, but no bird could navigate in such darkness. Perhaps a bat. He’d certainly seen colonies of them at dusk, swarming the distant orchards like midges. His hopes rose. If these were those same bats, there had to be a way out of here. He surveyed the rock walls with his hands, then began to climb the gentlest wall. He wasn’t an athletic man, and the ascent was nightmarish in the dark, though at least the walls were gaunt with holds. When he reached a place from which there was no possible advance, he retreated and found another route. Then another. Hours passed. More hours. He grew hungry and tired. One time he fell crashing to the base, crying out in terror. A broken leg would end him as surely as it would end a mule, but he cracked his head against rock instead, and blackness claimed him.

When he came to, he wasn’t sure for a blessed moment where he was, or why. When memory returned, he felt such despair that he considered returning the way he’d come. But he couldn’t face that passage again. No. Better to press on. He tried the rock wall once more. And again. And finally, on his next attempt, he reached a precarious ledge high above the cavern floor, barely wide enough for him to kneel. He crawled forwards and upwards, the rock-face to his left, nothing at all to his right, only too aware that a single mistake would plunge him to certain death. The knowledge didn’t impede him but rather added sharpness to his concentration.

The ledge closed around him so that it felt as if he was crawling inside the belly of a stone serpent. Soon the darkness wasn’t quite so pure as it had been. Then it grew almost light and he emerged shockingly into the setting sun, so dazzling after his long blindness that he had to throw up a forearm to protect his eyes.

The setting sun! A day at least had passed since Ptolemy’s ambush. He inched closer to the lip, looked down. Nothing but sheer rocks and certain death. He looked up instead. It was still steep, but it looked manageable. The sun would soon be gone. He began to climb at once, looking neither down nor up, contenting himself with progress rather than haste. Patience served him well. Several times the sandstone crumbled in his hand or beneath his foot. The last glow of daylight faded as he reached an overhanging brow. There was no going back now, so he steeled himself, then committed totally to it, hauling himself up with his fingernails and palms and elbows, scrabbling frantically with his knees and feet, scraping his skin raw on the rough rock, until finally he made it over and he rolled onto his back, staring thankfully up at the night sky.

Kelonymus had never claimed to be brave. He was a man of healing and learning, not war. Yet he still felt the silent reproach of his comrades. ‘Together in life; together in death’ – that had been their vow. When Ptolemy had finally trapped them, the others had all taken without qualm the distillation of cherry laurel leaves that Kelonymus had concocted for them, lest torture loosen their tongues. Yet he himself had balked. He’d felt a terrible rush of fear at losing all this before his time, this wonderful gift of life, this sight, this smell, this touch, this taste, the glorious ability of thought. Never again to see the high hills of home, the lush banks of its rivers, the forests of pine and silver fir! Never again to listen at the feet of the wise men in the marketplace. Never to have his mother’s arms around him, or tease his sister, or play with his two nephews! So he’d only pretended to take his poison. And then, as the others had expired around him, he’d fled into the caves.

The moon lit his descent, showing desert all around, making him realise just how alone he was. His former comrades had been shield-bearers in Alexander’s army, dauntless lords of the earth. No place had felt safer than in their company. Without them he felt weak and fragile, adrift in a land of strange gods and incomprehensible tongues. He walked down the slope, faster and faster, the fear of Pan welling in him until he broke into a run and fled headlong before stumbling in a rut and falling hard onto the compact sand.

He had a growing sense of dread as he pushed himself up, though at first he wasn’t sure why. But then strange shapes began to form in the darkness. When he realised what they were, he began to wail. He came to the first pair. Bilip, who’d carried him when his strength had failed outside Areg. Iatrocles, who’d told him wondrous tales of distant lands. Cleomenes and Herakles were next. No matter that they’d already been dead, crucifixion was the Macedonian punishment for criminals and traitors, and Ptolemy had wanted it known that was what he considered these men. Yet it wasn’t these men who’d betrayed Alexander’s dying request about where he was to be buried. It wasn’t these men who’d put personal ambition above the wishes of their king. No. These men had only sought to do what Ptolemy himself should have done, building Alexander a tomb in sight of the place of his father.

Something about the symmetry of the crosses caught Kelonymus’ eye. They were in pairs. All the way along, they were in pairs. Yet their party had been thirty-four. Himself and thirty-three others. An odd number. How could they all be in pairs? Hope fluttered weakly. Maybe someone else had got away. He began to hurry down the horrific avenue of death. Old friends either side, yes; but not his brother. Twenty-four crosses, and none his brother. Twenty-six. He prayed silently to the gods, his hopes rising all the time. Twenty-eight. Thirty. Thirty-two. And none his brother. And no more crosses. He felt, for a moment, an exquisite euphoria. But it didn’t last. Like a knife plunged between his ribs, he realised what Ptolemy had done. He cried out in anguish and rage, and he fell to his knees upon the sand.

When his anger finally cooled, Kelonymus was a different man, a man of fixed and certain purpose. He’d betrayed his oath to these men once already. He wouldn’t betray it again. Together in life; together in death. Yes. He owed them that much. Whatever it took.