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David Xanatos, as his linguistic team would tell you, was an eccentric man.
His affinity for Alexander the Great in particular marked him as ambitious, historically-minded (possibly gay, said Dr. Yente, who was their expert in Coptic), and more than a little bit obsessive. There was a bust of the great conqueror in Xanatos’ conference room, and last month, the linguistic team had discovered that if you pressed on the bust’s nose just so, a secret compartment opened up to reveal a futuristic little machine that dispensed apple-flavored soda from Greece.
“Isn’t that neat?” said Xanatos cheerfully when he caught his linguists studying the contraption. “I wanted the bust to trigger a bookcase to slide open, but the architect said it was too cliche.”
He slapped a stack of plastoid-protected ancient manuscripts on the table. The linguists gathered round; this plastoid was Xanatos’ own invention, designed so he and his team could handle papers from as far back as 338 CE without damaging them. Xanatos parceled out manuscripts in Persian, Arabic, Coptic, Ge’ez, Byzantine Greek, Latin, Syriac, and Hebrew, but he saved the final manuscript for himself.
With a mischievous grin, he turned that manuscript around and let them see the writing script. Eyes widened all around the conference table.
It was Ancient Greek.
“No,” breathed Yente. The Persian scholar, Dr. Homayoun, leaned forward for a closer look.
“Historia Alexandri Magni,” he read. “By God. This can’t be the original.”
“Would I settle for less?” asked Xanatos with a wink. The linguists glanced down at the protected manuscripts they’d been working on for months, all of them translations of the original Xanatos now held in his hands.
“But how?” asked Yente. “I thought it was lost.”
“Lost is a word for the work-shy and the penniless,” said Xanatos with satisfaction. He laid his manuscript down on the tabletop and leaned forward, fingers laced over his mouth. “Now, before anyone makes a sly comment about my heritage, I’d like to inform you that the only Greek words I know are παπά and Δώσε μου λεφτά. Who wants to translate?”
Dr. Abd al-Nur raised his hand, and Xanatos handed him the manuscript with a smile.
“As you translate, I’d like the rest of you to cross-reference with your translations and see what we can dig up,” he said.
Slowly, they worked their way through what all of the linguists considered a fictional account of Alexander the Great. His adventures rivaled the best of Greek mythology. His affairs were legendary (and a little headache-inducing). His journey to the fountain of youth was described in each manuscript, sometimes with hints to a real-world location, more often with none. In the past months, though the linguists didn’t know it, Xanatos had traveled to each of those locations and sampled the water both for himself and for a series of flatworms, all of whom were named Bucephalus (after Alexander’s horse) and all of whom died after 64-140 days.
That was nothing to do with the water they sampled; Xanatos, of course, refused to drink anything without chemically testing it first. Flatworms simply didn’t live very long, which made them the perfect test subjects for fountains of youth. He was now on Bucephalus VII, son of Bucephalus. As the linguists worked, Xanatos removed a glass dish from his pocket, filled with water and occupied by the fat flatworm named Bucephalus VII.
Where are we going next, little fella? he thought, tapping gently on the glass. A slow smile spread across his features. He’d downplayed his own command of Ancient Greek; in fact, he’d pursued it relentlessly at Dartmouth, addicted to the ancient legends of ambrosia and mortal men capturing Death in chains. He’d already pored over the manuscript, but he needed an expert’s opinion, and Abd al-Nur was the best money could buy.
This was not because Abd al-Nur spoke Ancient Greek better than anyone. There were plenty of actually-Greek scholars and geniuses of all nationalities who fit that bill. What made Abd al-Nur special was 1) that he came from an exceedingly wealthy family, with an inheritance that outsized Xanatos’ modest fortune; and 2) that he wanted immortality for himself. Xanatos watched Abd al-Nur from hooded eyes. If the fountain of youth existed, Xanatos may not have the resources to find it, not until his investments took off and his patents went through. But Abd al-Nur could start his own private search right away.
And all Xanatos had to do was follow him.
The manuscript had nothing new to go off, Abd al-Nur said. Xanatos feigned disappointment, shook the linguist’s hand, and thank him for trying.
And then tailed him right to the damn airport.
Cunning bastard, thought Xanatos approvingly. But he should have known he’d be followed. In fact, Xanatos had planned for three contingencies in case Abd al-Nur tried to shake him, and three more contingencies in case any of those went wrong, but in the end, none of them were necessary.
Eleven hours later, Xanatos stretched out his stiff legs and walked into the dry Cairo air. In December, it was a comfortable seventy degrees, cool enough for Xanatos to feel a little chilly in his linen shirt. He slid his sunglasses down his nose and scanned the airport, in particular the taxis lined up outside. A bus full of Israeli students chugged past Xanatos, laughter bubbling out of the open windows, and he raised his hand in greeting as they passed by. A snatch of worried Hebrew hit Xanatos’ ears, warning the other students not to drink the local water.
Next to Xanatos, an old man grunted in distaste. Xanatos turned to him, hands in pockets, with relaxed shoulders and a friendly smile.
“Not fond of your neighbors?” he asked in English.
The old man looked him up and down with a scowl. “Ever since the border opened, all they do is come here to gawk at the pyramids and look down their noses at the locals.”
Maybe they remember who built those pyramids, Xanatos thought. But he gave the old man a smarmy smile and said, “What about tourists? You like tourists?”
“Rich ones are okay,” said the old man, his eyes narrowed. “You need a ride?”
“Sure. But I need information even more. You got a taxi?”
The old man tilted his head. Xanatos approached him with a bounce in his step and pulled a photo from his shirt pocket. The linguistic team smiled out at him in black-and-white, and Xanatos traced a finger over Abd al-Nur’s face.
“I’ve seen him,” the old man acknowledged.
“You know where he was headed?” asked Xanatos.
The old man was silent, his face expressionless. With a slow grin, Xanatos said, “Listen, I’d bribe you, but I haven’t exchanged my currency yet. How about you get me to a bank and we can discuss it on the way?”
So off they went. Half an hour later, armed with LE 20 banknotes that smelled like they were fresh off the press, Xanatos’ cab driver drove him straight to a luxurious hotel on the Nile. Something inside Xanatos thrilled at the sight of it: like a royal palace composed of marble, crystal, and gold. But the elevator was attached by fraying ropes, and dirty tea towels were draped over the busboy station, reminding Xanatos uncomfortably of the old tourist-trap inns in Bar Harbor and the crusty lobsterwives who ran them. He showed Abd al-Nur’s photo to the clerk and got a map for his trouble, sketched out on a coffee-stained napkin.
“What’s this place called?” Xanatos asked, squinting at the map.
“Al-Qarafa,” said the clerk with a sharp smile.
Xanatos looked at him suspiciously. He wasn’t familiar with the word, so he pronounced it slowly, carefully. “Al-Qarafa?”
“Yes.” The clerk’s smile grew wider. “The City of the Dead.”
The sun was high when Xanatos made it to the sprawling four-mile cemetery where ornate mausoleums stood tall among common graves. Half-dried sweat itched at the back of his neck as he ducked into one of the open tombs, dodging the sun -- and drew up short. Here, a blanket had been spread out on the floor next to the stone sarcophagus. Humble possessions and empty tins of food littered the ground and clattered against Xanatos’ shoes. He glanced up at the ceiling, high, domed, and geometrically beautiful, like an Islamic mosque — well-kept, and so different from the messy shelter that had been carved out here by one of the city’s poor.
He stepped back out into the sun.
Gravediggers and tomb custodians milled about the street, ducking into tiny homes in-between the graves. But here and there, as Xanatos wandered, he saw squatters peeking out at him from behind mausoleums they’d broken into and made into homes. Sunken eyes, visible ribs, sun-chapped knuckles, they watched Xanatos go with a grim silence that set his teeth on edge.
And excited him.
When one of the tomb-dwellers held out his palm for money, Xanatos leapt at the chance. He placed a single banknote in the child’s hand and showed her a picture of Abd al-Nur, his eyebrows raised.
She shook her head.
The next beggar showed no sign of recognition. So it went, deep into the heart of the City of the Dead, until Xanatos was sure that either the clerk had led him astray or Abd al-Nur had started his journey and somehow failed to make it past the gate.
Funerary complexes with grand spires reached for the sky, housing the bodies of Sultans. An Iman’s jade-windowed tomb sparkled emerald in the sunlight. Candy wrappers and discarded bandages stuck to the soles of Xanatos’ shoes as he came to the city’s heart. He paused to study his map and check on Bucephalus, who was floating listlessly in his palm-sized enclosure.
“Buck up, Bucephalus,” said Xanatos cheerfully. “Even if we don’t find it, I’ve identified six potential new leads, and I’d like to meet with the Emir about that Anubis project he—“
A whisper of cold air raised the hair on Xanatos’ neck. He cut himself off, scanning the shadows warily, with Bucephalus in his palm.
There. In the alley, close to the ground and half-covered by a mound of sand. Were those…hieroglyphics?
“Hold that thought, Bucephalus,” Xanatos whispered. He tucked the flatworm back into his pocket and strode down the alleyway, stopping next to the old stone wall. Footsteps in the sand indicated someone had been here recently, and he recognized the tread of American-bought shoes. Abd al-Nur, despite the tomb-dwellers’ lack of recognition, had at least journeyed here, to this alleyway. With his shoe, Xanatos scraped the sand away and squinted at the hieroglyphics etched there. They were eroded, and he was by no means a fluent Egyptologist — not when he had so many juicy schemes and nefarious business plans taking up space in his head — but he recognized these marks.
A vulture. A lion. A basket. A folded cloth. A reed. A ripple of water, an outstretched hand, a mouth, and a folded cloth again.
ALKSNDRS.
Alexander.
Xanatos knelt in the sand and traced his fingertips, almost reverently, across the hieroglyphics inscribed there. In his pocket, Bucephalus the flatworm leapt inside his pool of lukewarm water, tail tapping against the enclosure’s lid. Xanatos rapped on the stone wall, bruising his knuckles, and his heartbeat quickened at the hollow echo inside.
But how to get in? That must be why Abd al-Nur had located the hieroglyphics only to leave so soon. He’d be back with a wrecking ball, knowing him. Or even worse: an archaeological team and an armada of journalists. Or even worse: non-profits. With a shudder, Xanatos ran his fingers down the wall and searched for a way in.
“Uh, Open Sesame?” Xanatos tried, feeling for a crack in the wall, a latch of some sort. When that didn’t work, he settled back on his haunches and said, “I’d kill for a magical wardrobe or a…”
Or a Bab irr. Xanatos leapt to his feet, fingers tingling with excitement. He hurried out of the alleyway and around the corner until he found the nondescript stone mausoleum on the other side. It was dry and dusty inside, undisturbed, but it was unusually small. The back wall stopped at least two meters before it should have. And there, built into the stone, was a tapestry slab lapsing into decay. Xanatos had read all about the secret passages built into traditional Arabic houses when he was planning the specs for his own modest home. The tale of an ancient wall in Aden, with six gates cut into it, had stuck with him. Now, with all his strength, he scraped the stone tapestry away from the wall and revealed the dark, cool cellar hidden underneath.
He caught his breath. He listened.
The sound of crisp, cool, bubbling water hit his ears.
“Jackpot, Bucephalus,” Xanatos whispered. He touched the flatworm’s enclosure as he edged down stone stairs hidden in shadow. It took too long for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he was so focused on the tepid stream bubbling out of a crack in the floor that he didn’t even notice the frail figure collapsed nearby. Rheumy eyes followed Xanatos as he knelt and dragged his fingers through the water.
He had just pulled out a chemical testing kit of his own invention when the frail old man spoke.
“Traveler,” he said in Ancient Greek.
Xanatos froze with the testing stick in the water. He swiveled his eyes to the side before he moved, relaxing when he saw it wasn’t Abd al-Nur, only an elderly tomb-dweller. With his bones sticking out of his skin and his clothes turned to rags, the old man looked close to death. And smelled like it, too: he had that yellowish, papery quality to his skin that made Xanatos think his bones would slice right through it if he moved too fast.
“How…” Xanatos paused, parsing his words. In Ancient Greek, he said, “How did you move that door?”
The old man lay slumped against the wall. Only his eyes moved. “I did not move it,” he said finally. “In two thousand years, it has not moved.”
Xanatos checked the testing strip. “I guess you burrowed through the floor, then?” he said glibly. He shook the testing strip and brightened at the results. “Safe to drink,” he said.
“Don’t,” said the old man quietly.
Xanatos ignored him. He removed the flatworm enclosure from his pocket and unscrewed the lid. With two fingers, he caught the flatworm by the tail.
“You first, Bucephalus,” he said, and the old man’s eyes sharpened. He watched as Xanatos lowered his test subject into the sandy water. Xanatos gave it a good few minutes to make sure the water was ingested and then replaced Bucephalus in his enclosure, safe and sound. With his elbows on his knees, he studied the old man. “I don’t see a burrowing hole,” he said casually. “Are you telling me you’ve been here for two thousand years?”
The old man made no response.
“You speak Ancient Greek,” Xanatos noted.
“Ancient?” the old man said, his voice dry.
“Let me guess.” Xanatos shuffled closer, his eyes gleaming. “You drank from this spring, didn’t you?”
“It is an underground river, my son, not a spring.”
Xanatos waved this distinction away. “You thought it would give you back your youth,” he guessed, “and it didn’t. That’s a lovely tale. But I think it’s more likely that you were planted here by my friend Abd al-Nur to scare me off.”
“I know of no man named Abd al-Nur,” said the old man levelly.
Xanatos hummed noncommittally. He eyed the grit in the water and wondered how he could filter it out. With a shrug, he removed his linen shirt and stretched it tight, scooping a pool of water into the fabric. He placed Bucephalus’ enclosure underneath it; the slightly curved lid was all he had to use as a cup.
"How old are you, son?" the old man asked.
Xanatos watched the water slowly trickle through the fabric of his shirt. “Twenty-three,” he said.
"I was thirty-two when I drank from the river," said the old man. His milky eyes went distant, fluid dribbling from the corners and weaving into the cracks. "My heart ceased beating, but my men felt a heartbeat still. My lungs ceased that rhythmic expansion, but when he laid his ear upon my breast, my righthand man still felt the gentle stirring of my breath. My limbs ceased to move, but my flesh remained pure, unblemished by decay."
The quiet rattle of the old man's lungs whistled in the dark. Xanatos peered through the shadows at him, his mouth set in a thin line.
"And then I was burned on a pyre, as a dead man," said the old man quietly, "and I awakened here, where I have been ever since, alive and aging more with every day."
The first drop of strained water plopped onto the flatworm’s lid. Xanatos stared down at it blankly.
“Assuming the fountain of youth is real,” he said finally, “it would be unwise to discount your story based purely on how … mythical it seems.”
The old man was silent.
“At the same time,” said Xanatos, “it would be doubly foolish to trust you. The most likely explanation is still that you’re Abd al-Nur’s plant.”
The old man hummed. “Drink from the waters if you choose to, child,” he said in a creaking voice. “There is nothing to stop you from leaving. Perhaps, unlike me, you will live your life. You will age as I might have aged. You will simply find that the aging never stops, and death’s cold comfort never comes.”
Xanatos twisted the shirt, wringing out a few more drops of clean water. There was a ringing in his ears, most likely caused by the change in air pressure from the City of the Dead into this long-closed cellar. But the more he focused on it, the more it seemed to have a rhythm, and that rhythm was his mother’s labored breathing as she died of cancer in her sickbed while fifteen-year-old David watched.
“Death’s no comfort,” he said.
“It is to me.”
The old man, without another word, rose to his feet. His joints creaked and popped as he shuffled to the stone stairs. With his muscles atrophied, he couldn’t climb them. He could only crawl, dragging himself from one step to the next, into the light. His thin skin caught on the steps’ edges and scraped open, leaving dark bloodstains wherever he touched. Fingernails pulled loose as he clawed his way up the steps, coming free without so much as a wince.
As he emerged, stray beams of sunlight caught him, giving Xanatos only the briefest glimpse of his colorless skin and blind eyes. He followed the old man tentatively, his throat tight, and watched as he pulled himself out of the nondescript tomb, into the City of the Dead. The old man crawled right past Abd al-Nur, who froze in the entrance to the alleyway with a chisel and hammer in hand, his face blanching as he caught sight of Xanatos. Together the two men watched as the shambling creature from the depths of the cellar slunk into the street, into the sun. Its rib cage cracked and collapsed under the meager weight of its own body, fractured by the hard press of stone underneath it. Its mouth stretched open, black toothless gums and withered tongue acting as gatekeepers for the rattling sigh emerging from its throat. Its fingers, blood-streaked and bony, reached for the sun.
And Alexander, King of Macedonia, died.
Two thousand years, he said. Xanatos held the flatworm enclosure in his hand, a single drink of clean water resting on the lid. He glanced down at Bucephalus VII, floating contentedly in his non-magical water, with no signs yet of any ill effects.
Then, with a grin, he held the enclosure out to Abd al-Nur.
“You first,” he said.