THE MAHABHARATA QUEST:THE ALEXANDER SECRET

westland ltd

The Mahabharata Quest:
The Alexander Secret

Christopher C. Doyle
is an author who transports the reader into a fascinating world where ancient secrets buried in legends blend with science and history to create a gripping story.

Brought up as a boy on a steady diet of books ranging from classical literature to science fiction and fantasy, Christopher has been writing since his schooldays. Since childhood, his literary mentors have been Jules Verne, H G Wells, Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein, JRR Tolkein, Robert Jordan and Terry Brooks.

Along the way to publishing his debut novel,
The Mahabharata Secret
, Christopher pursued a career in the corporate world after graduating from St. Stephens College, Delhi with a degree in Economics and studying business management at IIM Calcutta. Over the course of his corporate career, he has worked with leading multinational organisations as a senior executive and CEO before setting up a strategic consultancy in India in partnership with a US based consulting firm.

Over the course of his corporate career, Christopher has written articles on management and business for Indian and international publications and is also a regular invited speaker for international conventions and conferences. He is a certified Executive Coach and now works with senior executives to help them achieve success and better results in their organisations.

Work aside, Christopher is a musician and lives his passion for music through his band called Mid Life Crisis, which plays classic rock.

Christopher lives in Gurgaon with his wife Sharmila, daughter Shaynaya, and two dogs, Zach and Cody.

Facebook:
www.facebook.com/authorchristophercdoyle

Website:
www.christophercdoyle.com

The

Mahabharata Quest:

The Alexander

Secret

Christopher C. Doyle

westland ltd

61, 2nd Floor, Silverline Building, Alapakkam Main Road, Maduravoyal, Chennai 600 095

No. 38/10 (New No.5), Raghava Nagar, New Timber Yard Layout, Bengaluru 560 026

93, 1st Floor, Sham Lal Road, Daryaganj, New Delhi 110 002

First published by westland ltd 2014

First ebook edition: 2014

Copyright ©
Christopher C. Doyle, 2014

Christopher C. Doyle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-93-84030-59-9

Typeset by
PrePSol Enterprises Pvt. Ltd.

DISCLAIMER

This book is work of fiction and all characters in the book are fictional. Any resemblance to real life characters, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing by the publisher.

The jewel, the illuminator, shone in his hand;

Khizr looked down; what he sought, he found.

That fountain appeared like silver,

Like a silver stream which strains from the middle of the rock.

Not a fountain,—which is far from this speech;

But if, verily, it were,—it was a fountain of light.

How is the star in the morning-time?

As the morning star is in the morning,—even so it was.

How is the undiminished moon at night?

So it was that it was greater than the moon.

CANTO LXIX - ESKANDAR NAMA

PROLOGUE

316
bc

Gabiene, Persia, present day Iran

Eumenes lay on the bed in his prison tent and brooded on his fate. He knew he was doomed. He was a prisoner of Antigonus, the One-Eyed, with whom he had crossed swords before. This time he had been betrayed in the final battle. His own satraps had handed him over to the one-eyed general, in exchange for their baggage train which had been seized by Antigonus.

The capture of Eumenes had been celebrated publicly by Antigonus as the end of a long, bitter rivalry. But later that day, as the sun set, Antigonus had paid Eumenes a private visit.

It was then that Eumenes realised that Antigonus knew the true reason behind Alexander’s determination to march to the land of the great Indus; about what Alexander had found there. And he knew what had led the great conqueror to his death just two years later.

Eumenes had first served Philip, Alexander’s father, as a friend and secretary. After Philip’s assassination he had been Alexander’s chief secretary. It was Eumenes who had maintained the King’s Journals—the royal diaries, keeping daily records of the State. But it was what Eumenes had left
out
of the journals that was more important: a record of Alexander’s true ambitions and the great secret that had made him a god.

Sixteen years earlier, Eumenes had accompanied the conqueror to the Temple of Zeus-Ammon in the Siwa Oasis, where Alexander had been told that he was the son of Zeus-Ammon. And, therefore, a God himself.

Alexander had lost no time in proclaiming his divinity and began his march further east, towards the Indus River, to the ultimate goal that would truly make him a god. The stories he had heard about the great secret that would enable him to achieve that goal drove him relentlessly forward, even as his soldiers yearned for their homes.

Eumenes had stood with Alexander outside the underground cave where the secret of the gods was hidden. But Alexander had entered the cavern alone. When he returned, his face was flushed with triumph. He had found what he came for.

Proof of Alexander’s success in his secret mission came during the siege of the Mallis, during the journey back home along the Indus. Alexander had led the attack, scaling the wall using a ladder which broke and left him among the barbarians and separated from his army. So radiant was his face and so bright his armour that the barbarians had, at first, fled in fright, thinking a god had arrived in their midst! They had, however, recovered fast and charged. But Alexander had fought on with two guards by his side. Despite being struck by an arrow that lodged in his ribs, he put up a valiant stand, until the Macedonians made their way in and rescued their king.

But while the operation to extricate the arrow was under way, stories had spread in the camp that the conqueror was dead. Eumenes had waited anxiously for days outside Alexander’s cabin on his boat, for news of the conqueror’s health until, at last, Alexander emerged on deck, weak but alive. Whispers reached Eumenes’ ears about the miracle that had saved Alexander. The wound should have been fatal; a lot of blood had been lost. The physicians had given up – there was nothing they could do to heal the internal wounds or stem the blood loss.

But, even as they sat by helplessly, awaiting their king’s death, Alexander’s wound had begun to heal. The healing process was slow but it had started spontaneously. Observing Alexander’s recovery, the physicians had promptly tended to him in an attempt to accelerate the healing. And in a matter of days, the conqueror had recovered, his wounds healed, and he had insisted on showing himself to his men despite his weakened state.

Eumenes did not know what to think of the rumours. But on that day, like the rest of the army, he, too, believed that Alexander was a god. Immortal. Impervious to any weapon known to man. And Eumenes knew that Alexander’s visit to the cavern of the gods had a role to play in this transformation.

But now he was also convinced that, whatever the great secret that had lain in the cavern, whatever Alexander had done that night when he entered the cavern alone, it had something to do with the affliction which had left the conqueror delirious with fever, hoarse with thirst and unable to speak during his final days in Babylon. Alexander’s ambition to become a god had been achieved, but ironically at the cost of his life.

Eumenes also knew that it was this secret of Alexander’s that had been the reason the conqueror’s body lay in death for six days without decomposing, as fresh and white as if Alexander was alive and merely sleeping.

And, now, here he was, a prisoner to one of Alexander’s generals, who would surely execute him.

His only consolation was that Alexander’s great secret was safe. Eumenes had faithfully recorded all of the information from Callisthenes’ book,
Deeds of Alexander.
But he had removed from the official journals the portions of the book that referred to the secret mission that Callisthenes had undertaken on behalf of Alexander, in the land of the Sogdians, before the conqueror executed the historian. He had, instead, recorded his personal account of his experience with Alexander, along with Callisthenes’ mission, in his own secret journal, which he kept concealed in his tent as he campaigned.

He had also destroyed all his papers and documents before the great battle with Antigonus, denouncing his satraps as a “herd of wild beasts”. The secret journal had been despatched through a trusted courier to Olympias, Alexander’s mother, who was busy protecting the Macedonian throne from the ambitions of Cassander.

Antigonus would get nothing.

He drew a satisfied breath. He had done his duty by his conqueror. Antigonus, Ptolemy, Cassander – the men who were carving out Alexander’s empire amongst themselves – would never know Alexander’s great secret from the land of the Indus.

And neither would the rest of the world.

391
ad

Burial of a Secret

The empty wagon trundled along the lonely country road, its journey illuminated by the weak light of a half-moon. The horse trotted along, seemingly in no hurry, as if it knew that its mission was over and there was no longer any need for urgency. For the wagon had, until three days ago, carried something precious. Something valuable. Something that the world had worshipped for the last 500 years.

It was no longer safe. The new religion that had arisen in the Middle East was spreading rapidly across the world. Based on the life and death of a man called The Christ, it had reached Egypt, where the relic had lain for over 500 years. The new converts, who called themselves Christians, after their leader whom they believed to be the Son of God, were questioning the old gods. Statues were being torn down, temples were being destroyed, and images were being defaced.

It would have been a matter of time before the tide reached the sacred spot in Alexandria where the object of worship had lain buried, undisturbed for five centuries.

It had to be protected. And the Order had taken it upon itself to discharge this responsibility. The contents of the now empty wagon had been transported from its resting place in Alexandria, across rivers and oceans — borne in boats, ships, carts and wagons that bore the symbol of the Order.

A single serpent with five heads raised as if to strike.

It had been this symbol that had kept curious eyes and inquisitive minds away from the treasure on its journey. For the symbol was feared by all who saw it. The Order was secret — no one really knew what the Order was or who its members were; or even what its origins were—but its deeds were not.

Finally, its duty complete, the wagon and its driver were making their way towards the desert. The driver, Karmal, had one last stop to make.

The wagon passed through a village, hushed and silent. Asleep. Though the silence could have equally been on account of the serpent symbol painted on the sides of the wagon.

Presently, it reached the boundary wall of a large house and entered the gates, which were open, as if Karmal’s arrival were expected. At the end of the driveway stood the house, a multi-storeyed structure, built of stone and brick.

The wagon stopped before the main door of the house and Karmal dismounted. He didn’t have to wait long as the door opened and a tall figure emerged, hooded and cloaked.

‘Is it done?’ the hooded stranger asked in deep tones.

Karmal nodded wearily. It had been a long journey and he was tired.

‘Good. Then you know what you must do.’ The man turned to go.

‘Wait,’ Karmal held out his hand.

The figure spun around, clearly surprised. ‘What is it?’

‘Keep this.’ Karmal placed something in the man’s hand and resumed his seat on the wagon. He had one final task to complete.

The man stared after Karmal as the wagon exited the gate and disappeared from view, his hand clenched tight around the metal object Karmal had handed him. Then, he hurried into the house and threw off the hood, revealing a lean face with deep-set eyes and thin lips.

He unclenched his fist and stared at the small copper capsule that lay in his palm. Then, closing his fist around it once more, he bounded up the stairs and entered a study on the first floor.

After latching the door of the study, he sat down at the desk. His face was pale and he found his hands trembling.

What had that fool Karmal done?

He knew that Karmal would not fail the Order. He would faithfully drive the wagon for a few miles and then abandon the horse to trudge deep into the desert where he would slit his own throat. For no one should know the location of the relic. The Order had decreed that, to protect it, the relic should disappear forever.

Using a knife, he carefully prised open the cap that covered one end of the capsule, and shook it over the desk.

A thin strip of vellum fell out. He groaned. Even without looking at it, he knew.

It was a map!

He quickly rolled it up and stuffed it back into the copper capsule. The Order should never get to know about the existence of this map. It was the only clue to a location that was supposed to have been secret; hidden away forever.

He contemplated destroying the map then decided against it. He was the only one who knew of its existence. It could come in useful later, if he was ever in trouble with the Order.

But the map would have to be artfully concealed in a place and manner that only he knew of. And after him, the location would stay secret.

And he knew just the place to hide the capsule away.

June 1990

St. James College, Philadelphia, USA

Mike Ashford gritted his teeth as he willed the photocopier to work faster. It was brand new, one of the latest models which could photocopy using plain paper rather than the electrostatic copiers or the wet-type plain paper machines that were in vogue earlier. Yet, it was not fast enough for his purpose.

Sweat beaded his brow as he thought back to the telephone call that he had answered two hours ago.

‘Mike Ashford?’ the voice on the other end of the line enquired.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘Never mind. That isn’t important. Listen very carefully. I need something that you have. The papyrus documents that you discovered yesterday.’

Ashford was puzzled. He had told no one about the papyrus journals that he had found in a box in the basement of the library, apart from the faculty at the Classics Department. Had someone from the department leaked the news? That would be unlikely. Then, again, this unknown caller knew.

‘What documents?’ he ventured, testing the waters.

The voice grew hard. ‘Don’t play games with me, Ashford. I want the documents delivered to the address I will give you now. The journals should be in a sealed envelope. I don’t want the papyrus falling apart. Even if they are in relatively good condition.’ The caller proceeded to dictate an address in downtown Philadelphia.

Ashford was stunned. The caller had detailed knowledge about the journals, even down to the condition of the papyri!

‘And if I refuse?’ he countered. ‘These journals are the property of the college. As the librarian, it is my responsibility to protect them, not pass them around to anyone who calls.’

A note of impatience entered the voice of the caller. ‘Fine, then. You had your chance. You didn’t take it.’

The call was abruptly disconnected, leaving Ashford listening to an engaged tone.

He would have dismissed it as a crank call had it not been for the shocking news that he received just forty-five minutes later. Carl Dunn, the faculty member from the Classics Department whom he had first spoken to about the papyrus journals, had been hit by a car as he was crossing the street in front of his house. Dunn had died on the spot. The car that mowed him down had vanished. There were no eyewitnesses so the car would remain untraceable.

An uneasy feeling took hold of Ashford as he received the news. Dunn was a good man. A deeply religious Catholic, he had fitted well into this Jesuit liberal arts college. Was his shadowy caller behind this accident? It seemed too much of a coincidence.

He now recalled the mysterious circumstances that surrounded the disappearance, two weeks ago, of Lawrence Fuller, a former Professor of Classics and Dean at the college. Fuller was returning from attending a seminar at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago. He had checked out of his hotel and then vanished into thin air. The doorman at his hotel and the bell boy had reported seeing him into a cab but he never made it to the airport. The college had, under the terms of Fuller’s employment contract, taken custody of his letters and journals. These had been stuffed in boxes and buried in the basement without cataloguing them at the time. It was in one of these boxes that Ashford had found the papyri, while he was doing an inventory of Fuller’s possessions.

Where did that leave him then?
Ashford had been obstinate, turned down the caller’s request. Would he be next?