The Forbidden Tomb

27

Jasmine deciphered the final images in silence, completely immersed in the message. It was a new insight that would have far-reaching implications — both for the history of Alexandria and the future of their mission.

After what seemed like an hour, Sarah couldn’t wait any longer. ‘So, what are we looking at?’

There was no reply.

‘Jasmine?’

‘Sorry,’ she said as she snapped out of her trance. ‘I just got a little caught up in everything. This is unbelievable.’

To Sarah, it was little more than rough sketches and symbols she couldn’t translate in the slightest. All she knew was that they had just determined the fate of the Library of Alexandria — something that no one had been able to do in modern history. Given that frame of reference, she was ready to believe almost anything from the last section of the pictograph. She simply needed Jasmine to explain it to her.

‘What’s unbelievable?’ she demanded.

‘These markings,’ said Jasmine as she circled her finger around three of the carvings on the wall. ‘These symbols represent the Roman Parcae — the female personification of destiny. The spindle represents Nona, the maiden. She spun the thread of life from her distaff onto her spindle. The scroll is Decima, the matron. She determined the length of each thread with her measuring rod. The shears is Morta, the crone. When the thread had reached its end, it was Morta who cut it. Together they embody the Fates. According to Roman mythology, they controlled the destiny of mankind.’

‘Believe it or not, I’m familiar with the Fates.’

‘Really?’

Sarah nodded. ‘What can I say? I’m a fan of powerful women. I could’ve sworn they had different names, though.’

‘Actually, different cultures used different names to represent similar myths. If you learned the myths in school, you probably learned the Greek version. Instead of the Parcae, they were known as the Moirai.’

‘Yes. That’s what I was thinking: the Moirai.’

‘That’s what I figured. Their names were Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, and they were mentioned in Homeric poems, in Plato’s Republic, and even Hesiod’s Theogony. Centuries later and thousands of miles away, the Norse had their own version of the Fates. They were called Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld.’

‘And how does it help us?’

‘It doesn’t. I was just showing off.’

Sarah laughed, happy to see Jasmine in her element.

‘Anyway,’ she said as she directed Sarah’s attention back to the pictograph. Starting with the Fates, she traced the path of an arrow toward the etching of an ominous cube. ‘This represents Pandora’s box. When opened, it released Moros, the spirit of doom.’

Below the cube were images of people forming a line from the city to a waiting ship at the shoreline. They were carrying a large block above their heads, and in that block lay the horned man. Their path was the very same tunnel Jasmine and Sarah were standing in.

Jasmine continued. ‘They thought the end was coming. They used this tunnel to escape the city. The boat was there to take them to safety.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Okay, back up. One: why would they think the city was doomed? And two: why go through all the effort of building this tunnel when they could have just walked across the city, not under it?’

Jasmine was ready with an answer. ‘The concept of prophecy was rife in the culture of the ancient Romans — and remember, that’s what this was, even though Alexandria was in Egypt. Not only did they believe that all events resulted from the will of the gods, but they also believed that the gods spoke their will through human mediums. These oracles were said to justify and admonish the deeds of man by conveying the gods’ approval or displeasure with their actions.’

Sarah wanted to make sure she understood things correctly. ‘You’re saying that these prophets were able to channel divine messages and relay them to the people, and that the people would in turn live their lives in accordance with the message?’

Jasmine nodded. ‘They would rigorously adhere to the words of the prophets. It would have been as if the god or goddess had spoken to them directly. So if the Fates, or Moros, or any other deity had sent a message letting them know that the city was in jeopardy, they would not have challenged it. They would have made the necessary preparations to save what they could.’

Before Jasmine could answer the second half of the previous line of questioning, Sarah added another query. ‘But the city didn’t vanish, so why didn’t the people eventually get the idea that the gods were wrong?’

Jasmine smiled. ‘No one said anything about vanishing. This only implies a belief that the city was doomed. And it was.’ She pointed to the far edge of the pictograph. Instead of a straight line, the border was drawn as a series of tall waves.

Suddenly, things made sense to Sarah as she recalled Papineau’s video presentation during their initial mission briefing. ‘The tsunami.’

‘Yes,’ Jasmine said as she touched the waves, ‘the tsunami.’

On July 21, 365 AD, a magnitude eight earthquake rocked the Greek island of Crete, triggering a tsunami that devastated Alexandria. The surging water crushed buildings, flattened districts, and killed tens of thousands of people. It was the worst disaster in the history of the city and the greatest Egyptian tragedy since the biblical plagues.

Sarah pointed at the wall. ‘And you’re saying they knew it was coming?’

‘I’m not saying it. The symbols are saying it. That’s why they left.’

‘Then why take the effort to build a tunnel? Why the elaborate evacuation?’

‘They weren’t evacuating. They were smuggling.’

‘Smuggling? Smuggling what?’

Jasmine took a few steps back and shined her light on the horned man portrayed earlier in the pictograph. She moved the beam back, focusing on the large block carried by those in the tunnel. Finally, she stepped forward again and pressed her finger against the depiction of a waiting ship.

Sarah now realized what she had missed.

The hull of the ship was emblazoned with the head of a ram.

‘I’ll be damned. They moved Alexander’s tomb.’

McNutt had lost his bearings. Running through a maze of tunnels was hard on his sense of direction. Throw in a team of sword-wielding monkey men tracking him in the darkness, and he prayed that he wasn’t running in circles.

‘Hector, where the hell am I going?’

Garcia had been monitoring his location and was able to guide him through the passageways. ‘Keep going straight for another fifty feet. When you get to the next chamber, jump down one level and go to your left.’

McNutt never broke stride. There wasn’t time. He had seen the men chasing him, and if they were as fast as they were agile, he knew he was in trouble. He ran across the tops of the narrow arches with purpose.

‘Through the tunnel straight ahead of you,’ Garcia continued. ‘Then up two levels and cross to your right. Two more chambers.’

This was followed by Cobb’s reassurance that things were about to get a whole lot better. ‘Keep moving, McNutt. I’ll be waiting.’

Jumping down to lower levels was easy; climbing up was the greater challenge. When McNutt ascended, he was blind. He needed both hands to pull himself upward. Only after reaching the higher beam could he grab his flashlight and reestablish his vision.

‘Take the tunnel to your right. You’re almost there,’ Garcia said.

McNutt burst into the empty chamber where he paused, briefly, and surveyed his surroundings. He saw the reflection of his flashlight on the pool of water below and realized that he was in the flooded cistern — the final intact chamber. From there, it was either backtrack into the swarm of assassins or press ahead toward the void.

Regrettably, he didn’t like his choices.

Even worse, there was no sign of Cobb.

‘Jack!’ McNutt shouted.

He didn’t get the reply he was hoping for.

Suddenly, the three men who had been following him charged into the cistern. They were no more than twenty feet behind him, and they were closing fast.

McNutt swore he could hear them snarling like wolverines. They were ravenous, bloodthirsty creatures, driven by the thrill of the hunt.

He bolted for the final tunnel, hoping to use their aggression against them.

They don’t know about the sinkhole.

They won’t be expecting it.

Cobb heard his name as McNutt sprinted past him in the flooded cistern, but he wasn’t able to respond. He was far too busy holding his breath.

The tip of his gun emerged from the black water like a periscope, waiting for the enemy to cross his path — literally cross his path because he was hiding next to the only bridge that connected the entrance to the cistern and the exit on the far wall.

Cobb’s lungs began to burn, but he remained hidden.

His trigger finger quivered in anticipation.

A moment later, the assassins burst into the chamber. They spotted McNutt up ahead and continued their chase, realizing that he had only one avenue of escape. They were so intent on catching him that they failed to consider the possibility of an ambush.

The mistake cost them their lives.

Cobb rose from the depths like a leviathan. With fire in his lungs and ice in his veins, he calmly zeroed in on his targets.

Three shots boomed in the cistern.

Three splashes soon followed.

Each marked a watery grave.