by Anna Butler
“Then we found some tombs to the north.” Archambault took up the tale. “A late dynasty catacomb, a labyrinth of streets of tombs and chapels dedicated to Thoth, most well-preserved. What we found in there fired up Ned.”
“We talked it over before you arrived, and we think it makes the most sense if we explain everything in order and show you what we found in the catacomb. It’s about ten minutes’ walk.” Causton flung a hand out in a vague northern direction.
We started off, picking our way across a landscape of tumbled stones and passing the remains of a line of statues: baboons squatting on their plinths, guarding what had been a procession way to the temple. Most were ruinous, their forms lost, but one or two were in good shape, their dog-like muzzles pointed towards us.
“Thoth.” Causton nodded in their direction. “He’s often depicted as an ibis-headed man, but he also took the shape of a baboon. They’re from the original Pharaonic temple.”
We forged on in silence under the stony gaze of the god’s eyes beneath their jutting eyebrows. The ground was scraggy with shattered masonry, perfect for breaking an ankle. I was so focused on watching where I put my feet, it was only when “Do let me help you over this rough patch” came from Theo, followed by Nell’s voice warm with thanks, that I realised she’d abandoned her mother to tag along behind our party. I turned to give her what I would describe as a speaking glance, but the sunny smile I got in return suggested it was speaking a different language to any Nell was prepared to understand. I gave it up as a bad job. She was a Lancaster, and we hadn’t achieved what we have, we hadn’t become the dealmakers, through being intimidated by a disapproving look.
We came to an area where excavation trenches drove deep into the earth, shored up by timbers. Like the expedition’s living quarters south of us, the working area was surrounded by one of Sam Hawkins’s patented “fry the brain of any intruder” security fences. On our arrival, Causton had fitted each of us with one of the metallic bracelets which would allow us passage with brains and bodies undamaged by the fence’s birefringent aether rays. He led the way, producing a couple of brimstone torches from his belt and handing me one. Archambault, similarly equipped, brought up the rear as we delved into a maze of semi-underground rooms and corridors. It took an archaeologist’s eye to see the pattern of tombs, streets, and chapels. My own saw a jumble of fallen stones.
Causton ducked under a lintel and into a small rectangular room. At the far end stood a stele stone, the sort incised with prayers and images of food and drink offerings and left in tombs to promise the dead man or woman a blissful afterlife. Behind me, Nell let out a sharp breath and a delighted murmur at seeing an impressive Aegyptian artefact in its native place. She was restrained enough to mute her raptures, probably out of sympathy for our anxiety over Ned.
Causton passed the pool of light from his brimstone over the stele before illuminating the wall behind it, which was thick with incised painted carvings. “You know what sparked Ned’s interest in Hermopolis?”
“The queer mechanism they fished up near a Greek island a couple of years ago,” I said. “At Antikythera. Ned was fascinated by it.”
“It invokes the name of Thoth. Hermopolis was the centre of his cult, and the temple would have been rich in paintings and intaglios showing him and his works. This sort of thing.” Causton waved his brimstone at the painted wall before us. “This particular decoration caught Ned’s attention. It tells the story of the Distant Goddess.”
Archambault turned his light onto the upper left quadrant of the carved wall. “She was the God’s Eye, the Eye of Ra, his daughter, identified as Hathor or Sekhmet or any one of half a dozen other goddesses, depending on which version of the tale one can find. She was Ra’s protector, ravening against his enemies.”
The God’s Eye was fearsome: full breasted, her hands spread out like claws, her lioness’s head gaping with pitiless teeth. The other gods, including the one Archambault identified as Ra, observed her with respect. From a distance. The circle of lamplight moved across the wall. Stopped. Now fully leonine, the goddess pulled down an antelope of some kind. An ibex, from the huge back-curving horns.
“She took a conniption fit at something and left Aegypt and her father, Ra, raging in the form of a lioness across the deserts—Nubia, most likely, though some tales say the Libyan desert—destroying everything she came across.” Causton grinned at Nell. “A dangerous woman.”
She smiled back. “We all are.”
Archambault took up the tale. “Even gods have enemies, vous comprenez, and without the Eye, Ra was weakened. The lands suffered drought and famine without the goddess’s protection. So he sent one of the other gods to find her and persuade her to come home. In the version of the myth painted here, Thoth is the divine messenger.” He swept out an arm towards the decorations. “Here, Thoth tempts the goddess to return.”
Theo and Nell crowded me as we studied the story. The carving didn’t mean a lot at first: a slender man with the head of an ibis, standing side-on in that odd Aegyptian pose, showing him twisted at the waist to present to the viewer his naked chest and broad shoulders, painted in the typical ochres and pale browns. He held something small and mechanical in his hands, with wheels and cogs and gears, offering it to the lioness. The God’s Eye was in midroar, mouth agape to show her teeth, her tail lashing. A hawk wheeled overhead, and a troop of baboons raced a herd of ibex across the desert behind them, running towards some distant mountains.
“Is that the machine you mentioned?” Nell pointed to the object Thoth held.
Archambault spread his hands, conveying a sense of helplessness. “No one knows what an undamaged Antikythera find might look like, but as soon as Ned saw this painting, he was as adamant that it is the machine. Nothing anyone could say would convince him otherwise. Un tel entêtement! Ned is always of a great stubbornness.”
Theo said something under his breath, sounding very like “Tell me about it!” But all he said aloud was “How does it fit with the legend, sir?”
“Thoth, too, was far in the south, beyond the deserts.” Causton swept his light over the paintings and focused on one panel. “See these hieroglyphs here? A rough translation is ‘in the Land of Punt, in his secret place where he was measuring the lands and the heavens, the Great Baboon heard the voice of his father, Ra, calling him to bring the goddess home’. Taking the form of a baboon, Thoth sought out the goddess, and by telling her stories and giving her intriguing presents, he cajoled her home again to Aegypt. At which point the terrible lion became the ‘beautiful of face’, Hathor of the Southern Sycamore, and the balance of the world was restored. Peace and plenty returned to the lands, and Ra was protected.”
Every tale deserved a happy ending. Even mine.
“As you can imagine, Ned was most taken with this.” Archambault’s indulgent tone betrayed his fondness for Ned. “He stood here for hours, just contemplating the wall decoration. I had to push him out of the way, to permit me to paint it.”
I studied the painted walls. Each set of images showed Thoth, sometimes in baboon form, gifting the lioness with magical toys or telling her stories. “Ned’s looking for Thoth’s secret place. A workshop?”
Causton nodded, closing his hand on my shoulder and giving me a little shake. Approval, I believe.
Archambault favoured me with the sort of smile a tutor might give a promising pupil. “It seems likely.” He moved the light to illuminate another carved and painted image. “The clues are here. The odd-shaped mountain in the background, the painted river, the forests—”
“A map!” Theo’s jubilant shout rolled over the low roof and stirred the ancient echoes. “It’s a map!”
Theo was right. It was indeed a map. But would it lead me to Ned?
Nell’s hand stole into mine and squeezed tight. I tried not to break her fingers when I squeezed back, and when she smiled at me, I was surprised to find the corners of my mouth tilting up in answer.
“We spent some days discussin
g it,” Archambault told us when our excitement calmed. “We focused on the Nile, of course. No other river was significant for the ancient Aegyptians. Ned sent to Cairo for the best, most detailed maps, and we pored over them. In the end, we thought following the Nile south to its source offered the best chance of finding what he was looking for.”
I raised a hand and followed the twisting blue line of a river. No. The river, the only river in the Aegyptian world. I didn’t quite touch the wall painting with my finger—they were damned fragile things, as I knew from Abydos. “On the basis Thoth himself would have followed the river south, I assume.” I glanced at them. “We know Ned went into Abyssinia.”
They stared.
“There are other forces in play here. I don’t believe his exact location is known, but the forces I mention know enough to have sent them chasing into Abyssinia after him. We need to find him as quickly as possible. Before they do.” I touched Archambault’s arm. The old man looked stricken. “I’ll tell you more later.”
“Right.” Causton’s mouth twisted. “Damned havey-cavey.”
“Oh, yes.”
He shook his head and went on. “We opted for the Blue Nile. We know it passes through hundreds of miles of impenetrable gorges in Abyssinia, much like the depiction here.” He pointed to one of the images, where, if I squinted, I could imagine the artist had intended to convey steep-sided ravines. “While the White Nile has some difficult stretches, they are farther to the south. Possibly too far for the ancient Aegyptians to have much detailed knowledge of its course.”
“That’s a big assumption.”
Causton ducked his head in acknowledgement. “True. But what the ancients knew of the White Nile was the swamps of southern Sudan. The Blue Nile is clearer, cleaner, and less infested with disease and crocodiles. A more welcoming route for an ancient exploring to the south.” He held up both hands in a helpless gesture. “We made the best guess we could. Besides, we have more evidence elsewhere to show you.”
I nodded. I didn’t need a rationale for why Ned went into Abyssinia. I just needed to know where he was heading.
“I have for you a full set of my copies of these paintings,” Archambault said.
“Duplicates of the maps Ned sent for, too. Plus copies of all the plans we drew up with him.” Causton’s smile was tight. “Ned was too canny not to leave a set behind. I don’t think he was expecting trouble, but he planned for it. At least this way, you can go after him.”
“It’s a start.” I summoned up a smile. “A damn good one. Thank you, both.” I blew out a sigh. “Right. Let’s eat, collect together everything Theo and I are going to need, and find out what our Teutonic friends want.”
Theo straightened up, squaring back his shoulders. He was as tall as Ned, the top of his head brushing the rock ceiling. “I want to know why they’re here.”
Didn’t we all?
Our programme didn’t quite unfold in that order. We went first to the tent Ned had used as his personal quarters and office. Sparsely furnished with an army cot, a small table, and a single chair, it was pitched so it backed onto a tumbled mass of ruinous masonry. An almost intact room had survived in the midst of the stony mound, accessible through a short tunnel braced by strong wooden props, which the expedition team had used as storage for their finds. Even to my inexpert eye, those were few and of poor quality.
But then, Ned hadn’t come here for them. He’d found what he’d wanted on the painted walls of the old tomb.
Causton retrieved a small tin trunk from the storage room and drew a pile of maps and papers from it. These he spread on the table, taking obvious care to order them from left to right. His hands stopped, frozen, hovering over the maps. He studied them, and then looked up, forehead creased.
“What is it, Tom?” I was not a naturally suspicious man, but Causton’s behaviour couldn’t help but raise concern.
“These are out of order.”
“Mais non!” Archambault joined him.
For a moment or two they flipped papers around, turning them over and muttering to each other things like “That one.” “No, this.” “Ah...” “Here, the second possibility…”
Then Archambault stepped back, shaking his head. “Tom is correct. Things are jumbled. One map is displaced from where it should be in the sequence.”
“Not the most crucial one, thank Thoth. But I don’t understand how—” Causton closed his mouth so sharply his teeth clacked together. “As Raoul said earlier, everything here is a copy. We kept them separate, Ned’s sketches and the official maps, but we kept them in a particular order. One of the Ordnance Survey sheets was not in its proper place.”
“Was it annotated in any way?” I asked.
“Yes. It has a square drawn on it, of the area that interested us.”
Wonderful.
Causton chuffed out a laugh. “If someone has been spying on us, good luck to them. These maps cover hundreds of square miles of territory, and there are several areas of interest in the Abyssinian Highlands. We identified a good dozen possibilities, and they can’t know which is Ned’s real destination.”
We knew Ned had been spied upon. Here was proof. Nothing to do about it right then, though, but turn my attention to the papers, which I studied in the order Tom presented them. Scattered amongst them, Archambault’s paintings of the tomb wall decorations glowed like jewels.
The first batch set the pattern for the rest: a parchment covered with Ned’s familiar scrawling handwriting, rough drawings, fragments of maps both printed and hand-drawn in brisk black lines. Some comprised one of Archambault’s paintings, pasted side by side with a section cut from a real map of the Aegyptian Sudan or Abyssinia although Ned, with undoubted intent, had neglected to note which page of the atlas he’d cut up. Cautious and clever, my Ned.
Ruffling the various pages allowed me to run my fingertip across Ned’s scrawl. It was the closest I could get to him. Until I found him.
When I’d worked my way through everything Tom handed me, I studied the official maps provided by the Ordnance Survey. They are the ultimate cartographers, but even they couldn’t provide anything other than a partial picture. Oh, at the country level they are unimpeachable. When we examined the detail, though, it became apparent from the large white spaces that their topographical knowledge is patchy, at best. At worst, they have no more information than the medieval mapmakers who had just as many white spaces, all inhabited by carefully inked reptiles breathing out fiery letters warning the unwary hic sunt dracones.
“You see the challenges,” Archambault said.
“You’re to be commended for making any sense out of this at all.” I flicked over one of the hand-drawn maps and scowled at the notes on the other side.
“These are the possibilities that seemed to match the wall paintings. The papers chart our analysis of where we should turn our efforts, a record of our thinking from beginning to end.” Causton’s hand swept from left to right in illustration. “We decided on this area.” He had a wry look on his face as he pointed to the final batch of parchments.
I reached for it at the same moment as the winds blowing over the vast necropolises of the western desert toyed with the tent, making the flaps at the entrance bounce and flutter and thrumming the taut canvas sides like a sepulchral drum, wafting the dry smell that might be mummy dust and powdered unguents over us in its warm breath. Little clouds of loose sand eddied around our feet. We all started.
Theo, closest to the entrance, strode to it and looked out. “Nothing but the wind.”
I eyed the tent flaps. Of course it was.
The top parchment followed the same pattern: maps on the recto, with the verso covered in notes in Ned’s spiky writing. “T-PLAT. 37PD. Roof gslnd? abv Lobelia & Pinus. Follow Capra walia trails? Theropithecus? Not watt ibis! Poss Dk Chntg-gos? Shikra?”
I waved the parchment at Causton. “Do translate, Tom. It may as well be in Mandarin expressed in hieroglyphs, for all the sense this makes.”
“Ned was looking for correlations between the known flora and fauna of the Highlands, and the wall decoration.” Causton turned Archambault’s painting of the map scene towards me. “We tried to match the trees drawn here to the pines on the lower slopes of the Highlands. Ned thought the baboons might be of the species Theropithecus gelada, the ibex probably the Capra walia species, and of the birds depicted, the hawk could be a dark chanting goshawk. They’re common in the Highlands, as are the ibex and baboons.”
That made a little more sense than Mandarin. I nodded my thanks and turned back to the recto side of the parchment. It was more intelligible, the usual hand-drawn diagram with its official equivalent pasted alongside.
“Good Lord.” I squinted at where someone—Ned, probably—had inked a square on the official map in red, arrows at each corner aiming inward.
The map was damnably small, showing little but the Schiehallion lines delineating the contours of the myriad gorges of the Blue Nile in its winding course in the Abyssinian Highlands, each line joining points of equal height, and they were hard to read.
“Here.” Archambault offered a large magnifying glass.
I took it and bent again over the map. I flipped backwards and forwards between the hand-drawn map and the real thing before I found the correlation.
I could hardly believe what I was seeing, but I had the key now.
“This is where he went.” It wasn’t a question.
It didn’t seem possible Causton’s grin could widen without him splitting something, but he managed it. “Yes. The most promising of the options. He planned on heading straight for it, forgoing exploration of the other sites unless this one proved a blank.”
I handed Theo the map and magnifier. “I find this difficult to credit.”
