Papineau nodded in understanding. ‘Neptune was the Roman god of water. You think the Gift of Neptune is Caesar’s Well.’
‘I think it’s possible.’
‘Tell me more,’ he ordered. ‘Convince me.’
She smiled and accepted the challenge. ‘Realizing the importance of a freshwater source, Caesar supposedly had the pit fortified with stone. He then surrounded that well with sturdy walls that were twice as thick as those of any other building — walls that were protected by an elite garrison of Roman guards. Legend has it that for the next seven hundred years, only priests were allowed to enter the temple that housed the well. It was seen as the only way to ensure the sanctity of the water source.’
‘And after the seventh century?’
‘Unfortunately, there’s no mention of Caesar’s Well after the Persian invasion in any of the books I’ve read. Then again, there’s no official mention of the well before the Persian invasion, either. Like I said, this is just a legend. But…’
‘But what?’
‘But the Lost Throne was just a legend, and someone found that in Greece.’
Garcia stared at the map ‘So, assuming the rumors were true, and assuming that this “Donus Neptunus” does refer to your mythical well, how does that help us?’
Jasmine connected the dots. ‘Sometime around 200 AD, Emperor Septimius Severus had all evidence of Alexander’s tomb taken into custody. And I mean everything. If a book contained so much as a mention of the tomb, it was confiscated by the Roman Empire. Next he ordered that the tomb itself be sealed forever.’
‘What did he do with the evidence?’ Garcia asked.
Papineau had never heard of the sacred well, but he knew the history of Emperor Severus. ‘Some say he delivered it to the tomb before it was sealed. Some say he destroyed all the evidence in a giant fire. No one really knows for sure.’
Jasmine rose from her seat. ‘That’s just it. In the history of the world, how many things have been completely erased?’
Garcia scoffed at the question. ‘How can we possibly know that? If it was completely erased, there’d be no evidence of its existence. And, obviously, if there was no evidence of its existence, then we would not be able to determine that it had been erased.’
Papineau chuckled at the analytical thought process of their computer whiz. ‘Spoken like a true genius.’
Jasmine ignored Garcia’s logic. ‘Don’t over-think it, Hector. What I mean is this: just because Severus tried to collect every scrap of evidence that pertained to the tomb doesn’t make it possible. Do you really think anyone could accomplish something like that? Do you honestly believe he could find every trace of Alexander’s tomb in the world? Someone, somewhere had to hang on to something. A book. A drawing. A memory. Plus, if you know your history, there was one group in particular that secretly defied the emperor any chance they could — and they did it in plain sight.’
Papineau nodded. ‘The priests.’
Garcia groaned in confusion. ‘That doesn’t make sense to me. Why would Roman priests defy the Roman emperor?’
Jasmine explained. ‘In the time of Severus, Christianity had yet to be embraced by the Roman Empire. His religion had multiple gods. It would be another century before the people of the republic could openly worship the holy trinity. Until then, Christians were persecuted for their devotion to Jesus Christ. This would have put the Roman priests at great odds with the Roman emperor even as they continued to serve him. Severus believed that the very foundation of their belief system was a lie. And they, in turn, did not recognize the emperor as a member of the divine pantheon, as was the tradition of the day. Therefore, it actually makes perfect sense that the priests would defy the emperor.’
Garcia shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
She continued. ‘Severus allowed his son, Caracalla, to visit the tomb in 215 AD. That’s the last official Roman sighting on record. But according to several Christian sources, the priests followed Caracalla to the tomb and documented its location. Furthermore, if the legend about Donum Neptunus is correct, it was also the priests who maintained the well for several centuries after the acceptance of Christianity. It’s not inconceivable to think that we’re talking about the same group of people.’
‘And if we are?’ Papineau asked.
She smiled. ‘If you’re trying to hide evidence of Alexander’s tomb — evidence that could prove to be useful in your rebellion against the Empire — and you wanted to thumb your nose at the emperor at the exact same time, what better place to hide it than a heavily guarded, fortified building whose only visitors were fellow priests?’
Papineau laughed at the irony. ‘If that’s the case, the emperor’s garrison would have been unknowingly helping the priests by protecting information about the tomb. How delicious!’
‘Delicious, yes. But accurate? That remains to be seen. I won’t know anything for sure until I examine the site.’
14
Cobb could have set up their command center in any section of the city, but after spending several days in Alexandria, he decided the coastal neighborhood of San Stefano was the perfect choice. Not only is San Stefano in the center of Alexandria’s width, making it ideal for exploring the city, but it also caters to foreign travelers.
Thanks to the restaurants, hotels, and shopping centers, tourists flocked to the district like pigeons to a park. At almost any time of the day or night, men and women of every shape, size, and nationality crowded the streets. Here, no one would think twice about a gathering of three Caucasians, a Latino, an Asian, and a Frenchman.
Papineau stood on the deck of a seventy-foot, tri-level yacht that was tied into a slip just offshore. Though it didn’t have the personal flourishes of the Trésor de la Mer, it was still an impressive craft. It included four staterooms, a gourmet galley, and three spacious lounges. Its massive freshwater reservoir and two hot-water tanks offered those on board the luxury of steam showers, while the satellite and state-of-the-art communications center connected them to television signals and the World Wide Web.
It had all the amenities of a hotel, plus the ability to relocate.
It was the perfect base of operations.
McNutt was the first to join Papineau on deck. ‘What time is it?’ he asked as he groggily stretched his neck and looked out across the marina. ‘Scratch that. Let’s start with a better question: what day is it?’
He was only part joking. For him, the last seventy-two hours had been a whirlwind. No sooner had he arrived back in Fort Lauderdale from his Daytona Beach excursion than he was being told to pack for Egypt. The destination didn’t matter for McNutt — he only had jeans and T-shirts, so his luggage would be the same regardless of where they were headed — but he had hoped for some time to recuperate, not only from his night of drinking, but also from the ride itself. His motorcycle was older than he was, and the worn seat was hard on his ass. And the twelve-hour plane ride certainly didn’t help.
‘It’s Friday,’ Papineau replied as he read the morning paper. ‘And it’s eight a.m. local time. I suppose that’s zero eight hundred to you.’
McNutt yawned and reset his watch. They had lost twelve hours in transit, six hours in the time change, and another seven hours sleeping on the boat. Even with his military training, he still felt exhausted. Papineau could have told him that it was Christmas, and McNutt would have believed him. ‘We have any coffee?’