Tomb of the Lost Read online

  TOMB OF

  THE LOST

  JULIAN NOYCE

  2011© Julian Noyce

  FOR MY GRANDPARENTS

  ALFRED DENNIS NOYCE

  ROYAL ENGINEER

  1916-1995

  VERONICA ELIZABETH NOYCE

  1921-2008

  FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BOLD

  -VIRGIL -

  PROLOGUE

  BABYLON, PERSIA, JUNE 323BC

  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

  BERLIN,GERMANY, MAY 1942

  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.

  The driver took his eyes off the cars other occupant just in time to swerve around and splash a cyclist. The cyclist wobbled to a stop and shook his fist at the car but stopped as soon as he realised its importance. He lifted his bicycle onto the pavement and tried to go unnoticed amongst the crowd of pedestrians. When the driver looked into the rear view mirror again the back seat passenger was staring at him.

  “Sorry sir. 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.

  “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 again , 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.

  Th
e 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.

  There were two machine gun nests down here on the pavement and once he got to the top of the steps there were two more, all surrounded by sandbags. At the entrance SS men patrolled with vicious looking Alsatians. Another SS man opened the door for him and he stepped inside the building.

  Down at the car the driver sighed with relief. The SS man who had met the car puffed up his cheeks and blew out his breath.

  “Here that was a general wasn’t it?”

  The driver nodded.

  “Second in command to Von Arnim.”

  “What’s he doing here?” the SS man continued looking up at the tall grey building “ the Wehrmacht normally stay away from Gestapo headquarters.”

  “It must be something to do with that black case he was carrying,” the driver replied.

  “Glad I’m not him!” the SS man said nodding towards the main door, “SS Heini’s in a right shitty mood today so I’ve heard.”

  The driver winced at such talk. Heinrich Himmler was the most feared man in Berlin, more feared than the Fuhrer. The driver shuddered now at the thought of Himmler and his secret police the bestial Gestapo.

  “I’m just glad it’s not me either! I hope I never have to go through those doors!”

  “Some never come back out again mate!” the SS man concluded.

  The driver clutched nervously at the scarf around his throat. He felt like it was choking him. He looked up at the building, the rain falling straight down. He imagined Himmler up there somewhere on the top floor. He looked up above the roof and half expected to see huge black vultures circling. But there was just the clouds and the rain.

  “If you don’t mind,” the driver said “I’m going to sit in the car out of the rain. Can I leave it here?”

  “No,” the SS man said opening the door and getting into the front passenger seat “I’ll show you where you can park.”

  A door was opened and von Brockhorst was shown in to a reception room on the seventh floor.

  “Someone will attend to you in a moment sir,” the usher spoke.

  Von Brockhorst thanked him and taking off his gloves looked around the room. The carpet was deep pile and he realised he was dripping water on to it. He began to unbutton his coat. A side door opened and a steward entered.

  “Good morning general. My name is Max, I am one of Herr Himmler’s personal assistants. May I take your coat for you?”

  Von Brockhorst thanked the man and removed his hat also. The steward took the hat and gloves with the coat and returned almost instantly.

  “May I get you tea or coffee?”

  “Tea would be nice.”

  “Of course sir. Please make yourself comfortable. The Herr Reichsfuhrer won’t keep you waiting any longer than necessary.”

  Von Brockhorst was about to sit when he caught sight of himself in a large mirror. He moved over to it and examined his reflection. He smoothed down his short dark hair and brushed down an already immaculate uniform removing one hair from his sleeve and letting it fall to the floor. He checked that his iron cross 1st class was straight around his throat and made sure that his red shoulder tabs with the oak leaves and swords were even. He looked down at his feet and taking out a handkerchief he reached down and wiped some small splashes of dirt from his boots. He looked at his rows of medal ribbons on his left breast. He was one of the most decorated soldiers in German history.

  There was a click as the door opened and Max returned carrying a tray containing a teapot, cup, sugar, milk, cream, spoon, saucer and a selection of biscuits and fairy cakes.

  Von Brockhorst took a seat, admiring the quality of the leather armchair he had chosen. All of the sofas were of the same furnishing.

  Max poured a cup of tea and Von Brockhorst rose once again, selected a biscuit and taking the teacup on its saucer he strode over to a window and looked out over the Rhine. The rain was hitting the panes hard and snaking down the glass. A row of barges moved lazily down the brown murky river.

  Max left the room again. Von Brockhorst continued watching out of the window for another ten minutes when the door clicked open once more. Von Brockhorst slowly turned from the window, it was a different steward.

  “Herr general?” the man enquired.

  “Yes.”

  “The Herr Reichsfuhrer will see you now.”

  Von Brockhorst placed his cup and saucer on the table and the new steward opened the double wooden doors, ushered the General in, and closed them behind him. In this new room Von Brockhorst could hear a distant rat-tat-tat.

  “Typists in the next room,” the steward said helpfully.

  They crossed to another door. This one leather padded and the steward knocked against it.

  “Come,” a voice called from beyond.

  The steward opened the door and stepped inside the room and immediately to one side. Von Brockhorst stepped in smartly. The steward clicked his heels together, kept his head low and left closing the door quietly behind him.

  Von Brockhorst looked around this room. Expensive furniture, carpeting, marble busts, expensive paintings, a large desk behind which sat a bald headed man writing. Von Brockhorst focused on him.

  The man signed the paper he was writing on with a flourish, put his pen down, pushed his chair back, put both his palms flat on the desk and pushed himself upright. He suddenly sprang around the desk and approached Von Brockhorst with his right hand extended. Though he didn’t smile there was friendliness in his voice.

  “It’s good to see you again General Von Brockhorst.”

  “Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

  “Please take a seat. How are you enjoying Berlin?”

  Von Brockhorst sat down opposite Himmler.

  “I must admit Herr Reichsfuhrer I’m looking forward to returning to action. I’m sure Berlin is very nice but I crave commanding my troops.”

  “Ah yes,” Himmler said rustling through some papers on his desk,

  “Here we are. You are appointed commander in North Africa in command of the Afrika Korps answering directly to Von Arnim.”

  Von Brockhorst was surprised at Himmler’s knowledge though he didn’t show it. This was the head of the German police and soon to be minister of the interior, head of the SS, the secret police and supervisor of the final solution, the elimination of the Jews. The second most powerful man in Germany. Von Brockhorst was Wehrmacht, army, and nothing to do with the Gestapo and certainly not answerable to them or this man, unless of course a crime had been committed which there hadn’t.

  Himmler put the paper down. Von Brockhorst followed it with his eyes. It had been personally signed by Adolf Hitler. Himmler was now looking across his desk at the General, light flickering off his pince-nez.

  “I am surprised Herr Reichsfuhrer that our beloved Fuhrer would trouble you on so trivial a matter as to the posting of one of his Generals.”

  Himmler took his glasses off , put them on his desk and rubbed his eyes.

  “The Fuhrer knows that I am merely interested in his interests. My job is not a very pleasant one but it is necessary…. No…. vital to the fatherland. All non believers must be removed. I need just one name from every family in Germany just one. This morning I signed an execution order for an SS General. A General Vorgsburg,” Himmler continued reading the name from his out tray. He looked up. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

  �
�He has been found guilty of treason and will face the firing squad. Shocking a man in his position.”

  Von Brockhorst felt dread. He looked at the evil man sat in front of him in his high backed chair and half expected to see a black eagle perched either side of his head.

  “Like I said,“ Himmler continued “I need just one name. Why I’d wager that if I dug deep enough I could even uncover some dirt on you General,” he said with a smirk.

  Von Brockhorst remained quiet and stared at the man unafraid now. Himmler suddenly snapped the file on Vorgsburg shut.

  ‘That’s his life’ Von Brockhorst was thinking ’snapped shut just like that’

  “Like I said it’s an essential job. One which the Fuhrer has entrusted to me. Now tell me my friend what can I do for you?”

  The General undid his briefcase, took out a letter and slid it across the desk.

  “I need a man from you. A special man for the task ahead.”

  Von Brockhorst sighed with relief when he sank back into the comfortable rear seat of the Mercedes once again.

  “Wehrmacht headquarters,” he said to the driver not even noticing that it was the same one as before.

  Von Brockhorst and Himmler had talked for over two hours and the General had felt that there was more to the man than the cold policeman he had first thought. There was warmth in the man to be found if you scratched the surface deep enough. Himmler had been very interested in the meeting the previous week at the Fuhrers country retreat the ’Berghof’ in Bavaria.

  Von Brockhorst cast his mind back. He had been the last of the Generals to arrive and was greeted well. They were there to receive orders from the Fuhrer. Only Himmler and Goering were not present. Goering having already been debriefed and approved of the plan.

  Von Brockhorst greeted them each in turn. Gerd von Runstedt, Alfred Jodl, Albert Kesselring. The tall elegant young General helping himself to punch he hadn’t met but knew.