THE SMITING TEXTS

by Roy Lester Pond

  But the search revealed nothing more.

  Others had been here before and done their job too well. Kalila went on looking, flashing her torch over the wall.

  Impressive as this sepulchre was, it did not prove anything, Anson felt. His shoulders slumped in disappointment.

  “Was this my father’s evidence?” he said. “That Osiris really had a tomb? Does it prove anything? It’s a remarkable find, but was this the birthplace of heaven?”

  “I share your dismay,” Daniel said. “I thought Emory was intimating that he had found more, the burial place of the Neteru or at least of their relics.”

  “Perhaps he did. But not here.” Kalila sounded excited. “This message on the wall here told Emory that he had to go on looking further.”

  “You’ve found something?”

  “No. Amenemhat did.”

  They gathered around her and added their torch beams to hers, creating a blinding halo on the wall, at the heart of which lay several registers of finely cut hieroglyphic text.

  “The cartouches of the king, Maat-en-Ra, son of the sun, Amen-em-hat. He says here: I have caused the Lord of the Westerners to be buried anew in a new Duat along with the retinue of the forty-two gods.”

  “Amenemhat reburied Osiris!”

  “And in the company of the gods. All we have to do is work out where Emory went from here.”

  “But would a king rebury a predecessor, even a god?” Daniel said.

  “It happened all the time,” Anson told him. “When the tombs were being broken into and under threat, the priest-king Herihor reburied the greatest pharaohs: among them Ahmose, Amenhotep the First, Amosis, Rameses the Great, Rameses three and Rameses nine, Seti, Thutmosis one, two and three. Found at a hiding place at Deir el Bahari, the mummies carried dockets stating that in ‘year six of the Repetition of Births, Herihor caused these kings to be buried anew.’ He gathered the mummies of famous pharaohs and stored them together in two tombs considered safe enough to hide them permanently. The mummies were found intact.”

  “Okay, so where did Amenemhat bury Osiris?” Daniel said. “Your father’s clue spoke of a zigzag path and a structure more admired than the Pyramids. There’s only one place in history that fits that bill.”

  “The Lost Labyrinth,” Kalila said. “The Great Labyrinth in the Fayoum, built by Amenemhat III.” She frowned. “But as we know, the place identified as the site of the Labyrinth, beside the ruined mud brick pyramid of Amenemhat near ancient Lake Moeris, is now totally destroyed. Today, it’s just an empty field filled with limestone chips and rubble.”

  “So close, and now a dead end! We need time to think and to do more homework,” Daniel said. “We need to do a bit of research and I know just the place to go. The monastery.”

  “Wadi Natrun?” Kalila said.

  “What better place to escape the world?”

  Chapter 60

  THEY CLIMBED up the rope and gathered at the surface. The sandstorm had intensified. It whined and howled, attacking eyes, ears, mouths and nostrils. The blinding wind had totally obscured their view of the Land Cruiser.

  But they quickly forgot the irritation of the stinging grains of sand when the rattling slam of gunfire opened up and bullets kicked up sand around them. Through the brown cloud they saw the smudges of a swiftly moving vehicle. A police or military truck?

  They were under attack!

  More fire, closer this time, kicked up sand.

  Where was their Land Cruiser?

  They turned and more gunfire erupted, this time from a different direction, shots humming over their heads towards the advancing truck. Bad aim, or were they caught in the middle of a gunfight?

  “Our vehicle’s that way!” Daniel’s nephews called, dropping to the sand. Anson pushed Kalila down and went down on his knees himself. Daniel dropped down behind. They followed the young men who crawled beside a ridge of sand. More gunfire stuttered overhead. A burst of gunfire opened up in return and it turned into all out war.

  “What in hell is happening?” Anson said. He immediately regretted opening his mouth. Flying wind-driven sand invaded his mouth and throat. Spluttering, he crawled on, keeping low. Something ahead gathered form in the granular gloom. It was the shadow of their Land Cruiser.

  “Inside!” Daniel called. “We’ll make a run for it while they’re occupied!”

  They ran and jumped inside, closing out the storm as they banged their doors shut. John started the engine, throwing them back into their seats. They sped over the sand.

  “What the hell was that all about? Were they trying to kill us?”

  “One side was,” Daniel said grimly, “but the other side was trying to fend them off.”

  “You think that was a fight over us?”

  “I am convinced of it.”

  “But who?”

  They could still hear the crackle of fire as they gathered speed over the desert plain.

  Chapter 61

  AS THEY DROVE through the storm of flying sand, his thoughts were on fire with Osiris. A man-god who died and was resurrected to become the god of the dead, presiding in judgement over their eternal future.

  Was Osiris, central figure of the ancient Egyptian religion, the precursor of the messianic tradition? The parallels went on and on. After death, the bodies of both were wrapped in linen, Osiris by Isis and Jesus by Mary. Both Osiris and Jesus were born of virgin mothers. The followers of both ‘messiahs’ were required to believe in the dogma of divinity, death, resurrection, and the absolute control of their Lord over the destinies of the bodies and souls. Both provided the hope of resurrection through belief and personal identification, echoing John who wrote of Jesus: I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead yet shall he live: And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.

  They were travelling on the desert road that ran a hundred kilometres from Cairo to Wadi Natrun, in the Beheira Governorate, peering through the windscreen at the dust-engulfed landscape. It was afternoon. Progress had been frustratingly slow in the storm.

  “I can see now what happened to the lost army of Cambyses,” Anson said. “This sand could swallow an armoured division.”

  They passed through the tiny village of Bir Hooker, choked in the dust, then followed the signs to their destination, the last of four remaining monasteries in the Wadi Natrun, situated on the edge of the Western desert that stretched out in every direction. They headed for the northernmost and most isolated monastery.

  “The Monastery of al-Baramus,” Daniel announced. “The oldest in Wadi Natrun. If you ever doubted that the life of a hermit was arduous, then reflect for a moment on the origin of this monastery’s name. Baramus is Coptic for ‘two Romans’, since the monastery takes its names from two sons of the Roman Emperor Valentinus - Maximus and Domitius. The young men came to follow God and mortify their flesh by living the life of hermits in a local cave. Sadly, they underestimated the desert life - the exposure and rigours finished them both off. They died within three days of each other.”

  “That’s taking mortification to extremes,” Anson said.

  They pulled up in front of a towering wall and stepped out, stretching their legs. Anson looked up in wonder at the monastery’s forty-feet-high enclosing walls. Sheer sides covered in thick plaster rose to the sky. Only a tower peeped above it and the green fronds of palm trees, fluttering in the wind.

  “It looks like a medieval castle.”

  “Baramus is a fortress of the faith,” Kalila said.

  “And a much-needed protection for the monks’ hides,” Daniel smiled. “Berbers and Bedouin over the centuries have shown a fondness for massacring monks and sacking and destroying monasteries forty six monasteries have disappeared. Imagine the loss of saintly lives, not to mention irreplaceable books and documents.”

  “Is there a front door? Or is this one of those places where the monks hoist you up the ramparts in a basket?” Anson said.

  “No longer,�
�� said Daniel. “Once they used to lower food to the hungry in baskets and winch visitors to the top in nets, but these days we enter through a door, unlocked by a great key. But after sundown, Al Baramus will bar its door to the Pope himself. We will find refuge here for a while, until we work out what we do next. I can find a cell for you, Anson, but Kalila, no, I am sorry. No ladies may sleep on the premises,” he said, giving Kalila an apologetic smile. “But my nephews are going take you back to Bir Hooker, where you will be welcomed into a local Coptic family.”

  “More family members?” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “Just good friends.”

  Chapter 62

  THEY WENT THROUGH a small postern gate on the wall’s eastern side.

  Anson stepped into another world.

  It was more than a sensation of retreat. Away from the hissing sand outside, a sensation of dignified calm enclosed him like the forty-foot-high walls.

  He felt it immediately. Perhaps this was where his father should have been looking for eternity, the thought came to him.

  The silence engulfed him even in the open spaces where dusty palm trees rose and he saw several of the one hundred and thirty monks who lived here moving about like crows in their black robes and embroidered hoods. The silence was not just about walls and shutting out the world, it was a spiritual bubble that hushed his senses. His own loud footsteps made him wince. He dared not speak.

  It occurred to Anson then that his quest had taken an unexpected direction, turning inwards. Perhaps here, in this oasis of peace, the answers would come. “Rest first,” Daniel said. “Then prepare for a spot of digging in the library.”

  As he drifted to sleep on a cot in a surprisingly spacious mud-brick cell, Anson heard the distant voices of a choir rising in the heart of the monastery, singing in Coptic, a language of Egypt’s past, and he was for a time at peace.

  Chapter 63

  A GULF OF CALM still enveloped him when Daniel woke him and brought him bread and bean soup as well as dates from the monastery’s palms and, surprisingly, a bottle of Coca Cola.

  “Supper.”

  Anson glanced at his watch. It was seven p.m. Had he slept that long?

  While Anson wolfed down his meal like a starved prisoner, Daniel watched.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “As if this place, or the sand in my ears, has drowned out the world.”

  Daniel nodded in understanding. “The silence of the Monastery. It enters you. This is a very holy place. We have a wooden reliquary here that holds the relics of Saint Moses the Black and Saint Isidore and one of our monks went from this monastery to become a Patriarch, His Holiness Pope Kyrillos the Sixth.”

  Anson stopped eating to put his head on one side and listen.

  “The contemplative silence is something you can almost touch,” he said. “It’s contemplating me, I feel. You monks have been keeping a good thing to yourself, Daniel. I expected it to give me sensory deprivation, like lying in a liquid isolation tank, but I never guessed it could be so experiential -and engaging.”

  “Well, enjoy it, but sadly there will not be much time for contemplation. We have some muscular thinking to do and the best place for that is in our library. It contains many great treasures and recently we found more volumes hidden in the walls of the keep.”

  “A keep? Don’t tell me you needed greater safeguards than forty-foot walls?”

  “Indeed. North of the Church of the Holy Virgin is the keep, a tower that the monks call al-Qasr, the oldest tower in the Wadi Natrun, with a drawbridge entrance on the second floor. It once housed our library and it sits above a well and a storehouse that served to sustain the monks in times of siege.”

  Daniel led him to a building in the monastery complex, The Church of St John the Baptist. He took him through to the south sanctuary, into a library crammed with over three thousand manuscripts and books written in Coptic, Greek, Arabic and Hebrew and even English on subjects as wide ranging as theology, history, art, agriculture, Egyptology and archaeology, some modern, but many ancient.

  Equally ancient was the crumbling monk, Theodorus, who attended to the wooden cabinets that housed the books. Daniel introduced the old man who welcomed him. The two men of God fell into a long discussion in a Coptic dialect.

  “Theodorus understands a little English, but is modest about his proficiency, so forgive us.” Daniel shared the words of the riddle with the monk who gave it profound thought as if he were interpreting Holy Scripture. He spoke at last and Anson caught the English word ‘zigzag’ in the incomprehensible exchange that passed between the two.

  “That gives me an idea,” Daniel spoke in English, bringing Anson into the conversation. “I have asked Theodorus to bring us a map of ancient Egypt.”

  The old man shuffled off to fetch it.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “That ‘zigzag path’ reference in your father’s clue. Does it actually refer to the Great Labyrinth? You would think so, I must say, but I am wondering now. Could it in fact be referring to something else?”

  Abuna Theodorus returned with a volume, an English Atlas of Ancient Egypt. Daniel found a map of the delta and the two men of the Coptic faith bent over to peer. Daniel pointed to the name of a city in the delta.

  “Zag-a-Zig!”

  “You think it’s a pun?” Anson said. “The zigzag path refers to a city?”

  “It’s a thought. Remember, Emory was a visiting professor at Zag-a-zig University.” Daniel’s squat finger tapped the map. “Right there in the eastern Delta, where the Pelusiac and Tannic branches of the Nile join the Wadi Tumilat. A city that sits on the doorstep of the highly important archaeological site of Bubastis, city of the cat goddess. I will get to work and do a bit of desk archaeology.”

  “While you’re zigzagging, do you have anything that might refer to the Labyrinth at Hawara? I haven’t given up on that yet. I have a feeling my father’s message ‘amen’ may have been short for Amenemhat’s labyrinth.”

  “Even though archaeologists believe that they have already located the site of the Labyrinth?”

  “Even so. Just a feeling.”

  “Not you too. I learnt to respect your father’s eyes, nose and alimentary instincts. Yes, we have a collection of journals of archaeology in the library. You could start with those.”

  “I can’t shake the memory of the stelephorous statue I saw. It confirmed the link with Pharaoh Amenemhat III, the pharaoh who built the Great Labyrinth. I still feel he’s a vital part of the puzzle.”

  Chapter 64

  “MY YOUNG FRIEND, listen to this. Quite fascinating.”

  Daniel ferried a Coptic volume to the table where Anson sat with a pile of soft-covered Journals of Archaeology at his elbow. The monk opened the volume to revealed a hand drawn map of Lower Egypt. A series of red arrows and a dotted line criss-crossed the expanse. It appeared to indicate a route of peregrination.

  “What am I looking at?”

  “This dotted line marks the journey of the Holy Family who came to Egypt to escape Herod. Joseph, Mary and Jesus travelled all over Egypt until the boy was at least seven years old and some believe as old as ten. People welcomed the family in some places, but other towns spurned them. In many cases, upon their arrival, great idols of stone prostrated themselves in front of the child. This was of course in fulfilment of the Old Testament prophecy of Isaiah who wrote about the impact the holy infant was to have on the Egyptians: Behold the Lord rides on a swift cloud, and will come into Egypt and the idols of Egypt will totter at His Presence and the heart of Egypt will melt in the midst of it. After traversing the Sinai to Farma, they entered the delta, putting the perils of the wilderness behind them. They came at length to the town of Basta, about 100 kilometres north east of Cairo. Here, the holy child caused a water spring to well up miraculously from the ground. His presence also toppled stone idols, as Isaiah prophesied. The townsfolk, angry at the destruction of their gods, forced the Holy Fami
ly to turn their backs on Basta and head southwards…”

  In any other place and at any other time, this story might have sounded like naive legend to Anson, but here among holy men, in a Coptic desert monastery steeped in sacred history and surrounded by the empires of sand and silence that extended in all directions into the night, it had the ring of ineluctable fact.

  “Yes, Daniel, but what is the connection?”

  “This is the land of Goshen, where the Israelites lived during their sojourn in Egypt. It has a very ancient past, back to the predynastic period in fact. Bubastis was the capital of the Eighteenth Nome, even though it is now almost totally destroyed. Locals used the site as a stone quarry over the ages.”

  “And?”

  “Patience, Anson. I have made a further discovery. I have learnt that there is a papyrus in the Louvre Museum from this same Eighteenth Nome that mentions an entire necropolis of the gods.”

  “Yes, I seem to have heard mention of that before.”

  “What I am leading to is this. There appears to be a confluence of events and circumstances centred around Zagazig. A most auspicious place. Herodotus who visited Bubastis in the mid-fifth century BCE wrote: No other temples may be larger and more costly, none is more pleasing to look at than this. And they are still making new discoveries in the area. Not long ago they unearthed a gigantic royal statue of a wife of Rameses II, thought to be Nofretari at the archaeological site of Tell Basta, the biggest statue ever found in the Delta, some eleven tons of rose granite, eleven metres high.”

  It was tempting to believe.

  Yet Anson remained unconvinced.

  “The trouble is,” he said, “I am finding that wherever you point a finger at the map of Egypt you will strike something auspicious. But I can’t deny that it’s probably another piece of the puzzle.”

  Chapter 65

  THEY TOOK A BREAK and went up to the ramparts of the monastery for some air. The storm had eased and stars were just visible. They strolled on a walkway on top of the two- metre-thick wall that ran the length of the complex. Monks, Daniel told him, had once kept a close watch on the desert horizon from up here to guard against Berber attacks.