The Porus Legacy

by Daniel Leston

  This last argument didn’t much impress David.

  In his opinion, the natural inclination of police departments everywhere was usually to latch onto whatever seemed the most credible explanation at the time and run with it—particularly in high-profile cases when it was advantageous they appear on top of any potentially volatile situation. The huge population density of a nervous Bulaq more than qualified for this technique. And perhaps they were right in this instance.

  Yet some aspects still disturbed him.

  He looked at Karim.

  “What’s your opinion on this?”

  “I concur completely with Omar,” he said without hesitation. “I see no reason to believe—or even suspect—otherwise.”

  “What about the curious murder four days earlier of Abel’s man outside Haleem’s apartment? Doesn’t it bother anyone he only now got around to telling us about it?”

  Omar spoke before Karim could respond.

  “Okay, I suppose that was probably unfortunate, David, but in Haleem’s defense there was no reason to inform us, now was there? Only with the sudden events of last night did he see fit to even mention it.”

  “Ah, but there was a valid reason if you really think about it—one I’m guessing even now hasn’t yet crossed Haleem’s mind.”

  Omar frowned.

  “Which is what?” he asked.

  “If I understood him right, this man was someone Abdel regularly stationed outside Haleem’s building to monitor all Haleem’s comings and goings, correct?”

  “And?”

  “Well, maybe it’s just me, but don’t you think it rather a weird coincidence that he was killed only twenty-four hours after you, I, and Elizabeth spent time at the building?” He paused, letting the thought sink in. “Anything’s possible, of course, but I can’t help but get serious vibes from this. None of them good.”

  Omar frowned as he considered this, not appearing quite as confident as before. Getting up from his chair, he paced for a few moments; then turned and said, “So let me get this straight, my friend. What you’re suggesting is that this really might all be somehow linked to us?”

  David nodded.

  “And perhaps an alternative reason behind those murders in Bulaq. It’s worth serious consideration.”

  Omar pursed his lips.

  “Are you implying someone has learned about the pearl necklace—and the treasure chest it might represent?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility, Omar.”

  “But how could they?”

  David lifted his hands.

  “Through Haleem, perhaps. No way of knowing. At this point, I haven’t any other explanation to account for it. Then again, it may well turn out to be all just mild paranoia on my part. However, if my hypothesis is even partially correct, then I have to believe Ahmed back in Alexandria is also danger. Someone could very well be out to eliminate anyone with knowledge of a potential treasure.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “You’ll have to call him,” she said. “Whether you’re right or not, David, you can’t take the chance. Ahmed should be warned.”

  “I agree.”

  “And probably Haleem, as well,” said a pensive Omar. “Though in his case I can’t imagine how a warning should even be phrased. Seriously. Other than the necklace old Sharif bequeathed to you—which was duly passed on—we said nothing to him about a possible chest filled with more.”

  “Good point. In an odd way, maybe his ignorance on the subject is all that saved him from sharing Abdel’s fate.”

  Listening to this, an agitated Karim leaped into the discussion.

  “Please gentlemen! Do you hear yourselves? I think both of you are over-reaching. I see no hidden conspiracy here, whatsoever! Why not simply accept everything Haleem told you at face value and move forward? His reasoning behind what happened last night makes complete sense. Even the police concur on the likely motive—and as for that man being killed outside the apartment building the day after your visit, it may mean absolutely nothing. Like it or not, coincidences really do happen from time to time.”

  David humored him with a tight smile.

  “Nevertheless, I feel obliged to at least pass my concerns on to Ahmed. Which now reminds me that you two haven’t yet told me what you came up with this morning. Anything new on Tahan Shadid?”

  “A couple of minor things only,” said Omar. “Nothing that can’t wait until after your talk with Ahmed. We can go over it in detail afterward.”

  “Fair enough.”

  David again picked up the phone.

  It wasn’t yet five o’clock.

  With luck, he might catch Ahmed still in his office.

  * * * *

  It was exactly 5:30pm when Rashidi placed his desk phone back into its cradle, the only sound reaching his ears the distant buzz of the various exhibit hall doors being electronically locked and sealed for the evening. He heard—but didn’t hear—for his thoughts were fully occupied elsewhere.

  Should he be alarmed by these recent events in Cairo?

  He wasn’t entirely sure one way or the other. But the more he pondered on it, the more his apprehension grew. Since David believed there was just cause for vigilance, then perhaps this by itself was more that adequate reason for him to take serious precautions. It seemed reasonable. After all, their history together had taught him that more times than not his friend’s instincts had proven notoriously accurate.

  Was it worth his life to gamble otherwise in this instance?

  He thought not.

  Which now, however, raised yet another disturbing question in his mind. Though David hadn’t actually come out and said as much over the phone, simple logic would imply he and his small group in El Quseir were likewise in possible danger. What else could be inferred?

  His concern rose yet another notch.

  So what, if anything, was to be done?

  While mentally debating his few options, an expected knock at the door brought his senior security officer, Ammar, into the office, reporting the building was swept of visitors and now properly secured. When the silent director didn’t respond as he normally did, the younger man asked, “Excuse me, sir, but is everything all right?”

  Rashidi reached his decision in those brief moments.

  His long association with Ammar went far back to their days inside the secret Amun priesthood—and he knew there was no one more protective or loyal to his person. But could he now in good conscious put this man’s selfless allegiance to such a perilous task?

  He saw no viable alternative.

  “I just got off the phone with Professor Manning who seems to think I may be in some sort of physical danger over the next few days. I won’t go into all the details, Ammar, but I’ll be making arrangements to stay inside this facility until such a time as the situation is resolved.”

  Ammar’s expression became one of sudden concern.

  “Then I’ll also move into—”

  Rashidi cut him off with a firm shake of his head.

  “Not necessary, my friend. I’m sure I’ll be quite safe here.” He paused. “Instead—but only if you’re willing—I have an important mission for you to undertake on my behalf.”

  “Of course,” was Ammar’s instant reply. “Whatever you require.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Port of White Harbor, August 24 Of The Year 30 BCE.

  Once both men were seated outside the modest military-style tent, the congenial host was generous in pouring two cups of wine, one of which he placed into the now trembling hand of Diodorus. If the nervous scholar’s growing agitation was noticeable in the encroaching darkness, he was beyond caring. Instead, he gratefully took a deep swallow, seeking what remedial—if only momentary—relief was to be gained from the unusually potent liquid.

  “I fear it may be overly strong for your taste,” the man said with an amiable smile, “but it’s served me well over my recent travels. Despite the sun’s intense heat, I’ve fo
und your desert country can be damnable cold at night.”

  The roman then introduced himself as Lucius Calvinius, one of many hurriedly sent out days earlier throughout Egypt, each seeking to locate and hopefully intercept young Ptolemy Caesarian prior to fleeing the country. After giving his every assurance that neither Diodorus nor the young pharaoh was in any physical danger from him, Lucius produced a small, tightly rolled scroll affixed with Octavian’s personal seal.

  “Note that the wax is unbroken, meant to be placed only in your hands. Break the seal and read it. You’ll find it contains Octavian’s solemn pledge that as its bearer I’ve been fully authorized to negotiate in good faith with both you and your young master.”

  Diodorus silently did so, confirming the scroll’s contents.

  Yet he was still somewhat confused.

  “And all to what eventual purpose?” he now asked hesitantly. “You say negotiate—but negotiate what exactly?”

  “Why, for the safe return of Caesarian to his rightful place in Alexandria, of course!” The roman’s affable smile expanded. “Did you actually believe Octavian means to do the boy harm? Surely not!”

  “It did cross my mind . . .”

  “Then dismiss such notions as a complete falsehood. I assure you my lord is a most honorable man—not someone to ever go back on his given word.”

  A highly skeptical Diodorus stared at him, trying without success to read the intent behind these unequivocal statements. Though the roman’s voice projected a certain ring of truth, the darkening night sky prohibited him from seeing what possible deception lay behind his eyes. In Diodorus’ experience, this was usually the most telling indicator of hidden duplicity. If all of this was nothing more than a ruse—which he still suspected might well be—then Lucius was truly an accomplished actor.

  Nonetheless, Diodorus found himself becoming intrigued.

  Was it possible he might not have to sail off to distant India after all?

  He sipped again at his cup, pondering the implication.

  “Tell me, Lucius,” he finally asked, “should Caesarian indeed choose to return to Alexandria—and in complete safety, as you say—then what fate would await him? Since Octavian now holds Egypt in his hand, what need has he for our young pharaoh?”

  The roman tipped more wine into their cups from a leather flask.

  “It’s really quite simple if you think about it. Maintaining regional stability is always of great concern in an empire as vast as Rome’s has become. As you know, throughout the eastern territories and provinces, a system of loyal client kings has always proven beneficial to good governance. Lord Octavian feels this structure would likewise serve Egypt well after so much—how shall I say?—recent upheaval.”

  “Are you saying he intends placing Caesarian in such a position?”

  Lucius gave an affirmative nod.

  “That’s the plan, yes.”

  Diodorus saw a distinct flaw.

  “Doesn’t this presuppose that the death of his mother, Queen Cleopatra, would first have to take place? If her execution is an element in Octavian’s proposal, then the boy will never consent to return. Nor would I in good conscious ever recommend that he—”

  The roman abruptly stopped him.

  “Forgive me, Diodorus, for not informing you earlier. The fault is mine. Your queen and Mark Anthony are both dead—and have been since two days prior to my departure.”

  The scholar winced to hear it said so casually.

  “Executed?”

  “Most assuredly not! By their own hand. In the case of Anthony, it was expected he’d fall on his sword when he deemed all was lost. As for Cleopatra, however, Octavian made every effort to prevent her from following him in death. But such was not to be. She committed suicide, taking some form of poison before he could reach her. By then it was too late.”

  Appearing to sense the older man’s genuine grief, Lucius sat in silence for several moments, his eyes shifting over toward the much more elaborate tent where Caesarian and his three armed attendants still enjoyed the night air. If his thoughts contained any measurable sympathy for the boy, it wasn’t noticeable on his stern features.

  Finally, he turned back to Diodorus and again replenished their wine.

  “I obviously can’t prevent you from boarding that ship at your first opportunity,” he said, “but I feel I must at least commend you for your deep loyalty—not to mention the great personal sacrifice your doing so would entail. Such devotion quite admirable. For myself, I’d be most reluctant to needlessly leave my homeland, particularly for a destination with such a fearsome reputation as India. Among a multitude of other unpleasant things, I’m told the climate there is nothing short of appalling.”

  Diodorus raised his head, for the man’s words were now striking a distinct chord, mirroring his own private qualms about his future.

  “Why needlessly?” he asked.

  Lucius appeared somewhat surprised by the question.

  “Oh, perhaps I failed to mention. If so, again forgive me for not stating what I assumed was implicit. It goes without saying that Octavian would be most appreciative of whatever efforts were made on his behalf to convince Caesarian to do what is truly best for both himself and Egypt. I’d even go so far as to say the eventual rewards in this matter would be quite substantial.”

  Diodorus let this tempting promise sink in as he drank more of his wine.

  Was he being told the truth?

  The more he consumed, the more inclined he was to believe that the gods had come to his rescue.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Present.

  Omar only occasionally referred to his notes as he filled David and Elizabeth in on his morning’s unsatisfactory investigation of Tahan Shadid—and this with understandable reason, for what little new information he’d come up with at the police station and town hall was extremely sparse.

  “The police files on Shadid are basically nonexistent,” he explained. “I mean, I found no previous history of any criminal goings-on, whatsoever. Not even a vague hint of such activities as we’d hoped to find.”

  He shrugged before continuing.

  “The man apparently lived alone, having little or no contact with any of his immediate neighbors. As we already knew, he was a well digger by trade. A veritable model citizen, if you will. In fact, I doubt the police even knew of his existence prior to his murder.”

  David shared Omar’s obvious disappointment.

  He’d hoped for something more.

  “Lived alone, you say? Were you able to confirm his home address?”

  Omar nodded, glancing over at Karim seated on the couch.

  “I did. Curiously, it’s located not far up the coastline from Karim’s dig site. Within walking distance, I’d say. When I couldn’t reach you on your cell phone, I swung over and picked him up for a quick perusal before coming here. There’s not much to look at, admittedly, just a rather small, dilapidated house now empty and boarded up.”

  “What about neighbors? Any other buildings nearby?”

  “Not really. It’s all arid, desert country despite its close proximity to the sea. Besides, I learned from the town’s tax record office that a fair amount of surrounding property belonged to him. He apparently liked his privacy. So much so in fact that he only acquired some of the adjoining land a short time before his death.”

  David’s eyes narrowed slightly to hear this.

  “Really. When, exactly?”

  Omar took a second to refer to his notes.

  “I wrote this down somewhere. Ah, here it is. In the middle of August. The 19th, to be precise. Is this important?”

  David wasn’t sure.

  “Perhaps. Could be nothing—or it may be significant. I’ll need to do some thinking on it.”

  He checked the time. Sunset wasn’t far off, too late for what he wanted.

  “So who now owns the house and property?” he asked. “It must belong to someone. I’d like to spend a few hours tomor
row looking it over in full daylight without the current owners watching our every—”

  “Not a problem.”

  “And why’s that?”

  Omar smiled.

  “Well, that’s another thing I learned. It seems a nephew of Shadid initially inherited it, but after only a few years he chose to let it all go for unpaid taxes. He found the land useless and no one willing to rent the house. I suspect people were too superstitious—what with the violent murder that took place there. Hence its present, rundown condition. To this day the locals probably believed it haunted.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s now owned outright by the city of El Quseir. If you want, we can go poke around undisturbed to our hearts content.”

  “Excellent.”

  * * * *

  Long after Elizabeth eventually retired for the evening, David sat alone at the bungalow’s circular dining table, silently reviewing a five-page list of notations he’d earlier jotted onto a legal size pad. None of them was in any sequential order.

  Nor were they intended to be.

  It was an old system of his that he often found effective whenever the need arose, a means of forcing himself to look and think outside the proverbial box as situations warranted. The continuing puzzle of Tahan Shadid and the ancient pearl necklace more than qualified.

  The method was basically simple, one that had worked well over time.

  Whenever confronting complex problems and events—which he believed in this instance were all inextricably entwined—experience had shown that quite often the most direct route to formulating plausible solutions was to randomly jot them down as they came to mind, regardless of how out of order they might first appear. The trick—if so it could be called—was in leaving no passing thought or minuscule fact unrecorded. If this technique was properly followed, more times than not his subconscious would gradually start weaving unperceived connections that might otherwise go overlooked.