Julian Noyce
Tomb of the Lost
FOR MY GRANDPARENTS
ALFRED DENNIS NOYCE
ROYAL ENGINEER
1916–1995
VERONICA ELIZABETH NOYCE
1921–2008
EPIGRAPH
FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BOLD
PROLOGUE
The man’s head moved back and forth as he lay in the bed. His lips moved, trying to form words, though no sound came out. He opened his bloodshot eyes at the feel of someone’s touch on his sweating forehead. A cool cloth gently dabbed at his face.
“Is that better my King?” a voice enquired.
Alexander ‘the great’ of Macedon opened his red eyes again and struggled to focus with blurred vision on the face peering down at him. He turned his head this way and that. There were a dozen faces there and he screwed his eyes up to see better. Faces became names as he recognised the men around him.
Craterus, Ptolemy, Seleucus, Nearchus.
They were the companions.
Beyond them a line of men filed past silently. For hours they had passed the Royal bed, believing their King to be dead, relieved to see him alive. Nothing could stop them from seeing him once more.
Earlier in the day two doorways had had to be knocked through the walls of the Royal bedchamber to allow the army access to him and as they passed one by one, not saying anything, Alexander weakly raised his head off the pillow but in his eyes they could see he recognised each and every one of them. Most of them were moved to tears, beyond words now.
The cool cloth was applied to his face once again but almost the instant it was removed new beads of sweat broke out. His body was soaked with sweat.
Alexander had become ill two weeks before.
He had held a special banquet for General Nearchus and had spent two days drinking the very strong wine. On the third day he had developed a fever and this, causing him thirst, he had drank even more. Over the weeks his fever had got progressively worse. He had spent one day playing dice, another listening to Nearchus as he retold the story of his voyage down the rivers of India and across the sea.
Today his symptoms were by far the worst. In the morning he had been hallucinating. Now his body was wracked with pain. A doctor had been called and after a thorough examination he had announced.
“I think his liver is failing.”
Craterus grabbed the doctor’s robe and bunched it in his fist.
“Help him!”
The doctor clutched at the fist but Craterus was too strong. The doctor was shaking his head.
“There is nothing I can do,” he whimpered.
Craterus drew his sword. The doctor yelped, twisting this way and that to try to free himself.
“There is nothing anyone can do. I’ve tried everything.”
“If he dies you will be next!”
Seleucus stepped forward and grabbed the sword arm.
“Python and I have been to the temple of the Gods. We have asked Serapis what is to be done. The answer came back that the King should be left where he is. He is in the hands of the Gods now. Leave the doctor alone.”
Craterus tore his eyes away from the physician struggling before him. He focused on Seleucus. Then the words sank in. He felt some of the killing lust leave him. He looked at the other Generals. They stared back. Each lost with his own thoughts. Craterus shoved the doctor away who yelped again and fled the bedroom. Craterus was trembling. He looked down at Alexander’s face.
For ten years they had been on the road together. Ten years of hardship and suffering. Ten years of glory and death. Ten years of war. They had not seen their homes, their wives, their families in a decade.
Craterus, his size and strength legendary.
He was a head taller than any other man. Was the only one of them who didn’t miss his homeland. He would follow Alexander to the ’ends of the earth.’
By now Alexander had managed to throw the covers off. Craterus felt his forehead. It was burning.
“I don’t think he has very long,” he told the others, his bottom lip quivering.
Ptolemy leaned in and whispered into Alexander’s ear.
“Sire it is time to choose your heir.”
Alexander heard and despite his delirium he managed to reach his other hand and remove his ring. His body was wracked with pain and he shuddered uncontrollably. With a supreme effort he pushed his hand up holding the ring in his fingertips.
“Sire. Who does it go to?”
Ptolemy put his ear next to Alexander’s mouth. The King rose up and spoke one word. He gave a last gasp and collapsed back onto the bed and lay still. His last breath escaped his lips slowly.
Craterus reached forward and closed the eyes. Ptolemy took the ring.
“What did he say to you? Who did he say would rule? To whom does it go?”
Ptolemy stood up tall and straight. They all stared at him.
“He said one word. Kratisto! To the strongest!”
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
It was raining as the black Mercedes nosed its way through the Friday morning traffic. Its normally proud triangular pennants on its wings sagging miserably from the soaking they were receiving. The car’s only passenger sitting quietly in the back, lost in his thoughts. The inside of the car’s windows were steamed up and he wiped an expensive leather glove backwards and forwards to clear the glass enabling him to peer out and up at the grey sky above.
The driver, nervous about carrying so important a passenger and keen to impress looked into his rear view mirror and spoke.
“ I think it will rain all day sir,” he said trying to make polite conversation.
“Uh-Huh,” the back seat passenger replied.
“I’ve never carried so important a passenger sir….”
There was a squeal of brakes as the driver realised that the traffic in front had stopped. He had to brake very hard. The man in the rear seat felt himself being thrown forward and he instinctively pushed with his legs and put out his left hand on the seat in front, his right hand reached down for the black leather briefcase that lay on the seat next to him. He pulled it to his chest and held it there.
The driver looked nervously into the rear view mirror again.
“Sorry sir.”
“It might be better if we dispense with the conversation and you concentrate on your driving.”
Though firm the words were said with kindness.
The driver swallowed hard, his heart thumping.
“ Yes sir. Thank you sir.”
The Mercedes moved off. The driver trying not to allow himself to be distracted again. He was new at his job, eager to please, and was sure that this morning was a disaster and would probably result in his demotion. He could only imagine the horrors that awaited him at the front line. He had collected the car from the motor pool earlier that morning, read his itinerary, saw who his passenger would be, saw the destination and nearly fainted. This was his chance to prove himself to be officer material.
He was still thinking about officer rank when he brought the car to a halt at the foot of the steps of his final destination. The driver jumped out and quickly ran around to the nearside of the Mercedes, clicked his heels and saluted.
The moment the car had stopped an unarmed man in an SS uniform had descended the steps and opened the door and stood stiffly to attention.
The cars occupant now stepped out into the heavy rain.
General Hans von Brockhorst, fifty years old, newly appointed second in command of North Africa under General Hans Jurgen von Arnim, conqueror of central Europe and France, pulled up the collar about his neck of his leather greatcoat against the rain. He shivered involuntarily at the cold feel of the leather against his skin. He put his hat on his head and tilted it to his favourite angle and placing the briefcase in his left hand returned the salute with his right.