Mother's whole body went still, just for a second, and my insides turned to jelly. She clearly did not like this question.
"Why do you ask, dear?" Not much of an answer, that. In fact, I recognized it as a major avoidance tactic, one I used quite often myself. My unease grew. "No reason, really. Just curious."
"Do you remember when Henry was born?" Mum said brightly. "How funny he looked? Just like a little old gnome. And old Dr. Topham was there?"
"Yes, Mum. But I want to know about when I was born." My voice came out a little more stern than I had intended. Mum blinked at me, and I stared into her dark brown eyes—eyes that were nothing like my own. A cold feeling of dread filled me. Why wouldn't she answer the question?
"Well." Mum gave a nervous little laugh. "It's an unusual story, really. You weren't born at home or in a hospital. You were born in Egypt."
Whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't this. "Egypt?" I repeated stupidly.
Mother gave that nervous laugh again, her cheeks flushing faintly pink. "Yes, I'm afraid so. Your father and I had been working on an excavation of an ancient temple site when I discovered I was in the family way. However, the rainy season came early that year, and there was major flooding, which made travel impossible. Especially in my condition. When the rains finally stopped, it was too late for me to travel, so I stayed and continued my work."
In Egypt. I was born in Egypt. Before I could wrap my mind around that, she continued.
"As I said, I had decided to keep working. I felt perfectly fine, strong and healthy, and I saw no reason to be confined to my hotel room. I would have gone quite mad, I'm sure. However, eager child that you were, you came three weeks earlier than expected and caught us off-guard." She cleared her throat. "You were born in the temple I was working in at the time."
A temple! "Whose temple was it?" I asked, nearly afraid of the answer.
"It was a temple dedicated to Isis."
Well, at least it wasn't a Seth Temple. "Why did you never tell me this before?" I wanted to know. Was she ashamed?
"Well, it was a bit of a scandal, all the way around. I was the first archaeologist to give birth on a dig," she said, her voice drier than dust from the Sahara. "Not to mention the sheer impropriety of it all. In fact, your grandmother still hasn't forgiven me. Such a vulgar thing to do, you know. Have a baby in a far-off foreign land on heathen soil."
"Is that why she dislikes me so?"
"Oh, Theo, darling. I don't think she dislikes you so much as she is worried for you. She is convinced that your being born and spending your first months of life in a strange land has ruined your chances of being a proper British miss. Pure rubbish, but that's your grandmother for you. Your father, however, was quite taken with the whole situation. Called you our most precious artifact."
"He did?" Her words stunned me. I was my father's most precious artifact? How could that be? My eyes began to prickle and burn.
However, before I could embarrass myself with a full display of waterworks, there was a shout from below: "fire!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Momentary Truce
MOTHER AND I RACED TOWARD THE SHOUTING. When we arrived in the foyer, we found Father flapping his morning coat, putting out a burning statue. Underneath the smell of smoke, ash, and dung, I caught the rotten-egg stench of sulfur. That did not bode well.
"What happened?" Mother asked, hurrying forward.
With the fire now safely out, Father let his coat hang limply at his side and ran his hand through his hair. "I'm not sure. The blasted thing just burst into flames. Weems?" He turned to the First Assistant Curator. "What did you do to it?"
"N-nothing, sir." Weems squirmed uncomfortably.
"Well, it didn't just spontaneously combust," Father said.
"I-I'm afraid it did," the unfortunate Weems continued. "There is no other explanation."
"Tell us exactly what you were doing before it burst into flames," Mother suggested.
Weems scrubbed his hands over his face, as if trying to wash away the memory. "Well, I had just unwrapped the statue from the roll of felt she came down in—"
"Where's the felt?" Father asked.
Weems pointed to the dark green fabric that had fallen to the floor. Father bent down and picked it up, then rubbed it between his fingers and sniffed it. "Go on."
"... and set her on the display column."
"How, exactly?" Father asked.
"Like this." Weems took the statue from Father and set it carefully down on the column. Faint bits of dust and ash swirled in the glinting rays of the morning sun, casting the black basalt statue in bright light. There was a faint swoosh, then a crackle as the statue caught fire again.
Father gave a shout of surprise and whipped his coat up and began beating at the flames once more. "Quit doing that!" he shouted.
Poor Weems looked sick with bewilderment. He obviously had no idea how he kept managing to set the statue on fire.
I, however, did. And as much as I disliked Weems, I knew it had nothing to do with him. Clearly the statue of Sekhmet was cursed.
It was a very cunning curse, actually, and one I'd seen only a few times before. Ancient magicians would curse a funereal object so that when it was brought out into the sun, it would burst into flames. In this way, they hoped to discourage tomb robbers from plundering the pharaohs' tombs.
When at last the flames were out again, Father looked haggard. "Maybe it's the plinth," he said, bending down to look at it. But of course it wasn't. I saw Clive Fagenbush watching Weems with a knowing glint in his eye; then our gazes met and a look of understanding passed between us. Fagenbush also knew what had caused that fire, and it was no plinth.
"Here, Father," I said, stepping forward at the same moment that Fagenbush did. "I'll just take that back up to the workroom for you."
Fagenbush glared at me, furious I'd offered first.
"Oh, thank you, Theodosia. That would be best, I think." He turned to Weems. "And you, I think it best if you go work on the guest list for Friday's reception. I can't risk you incinerating anything else."
"Very well, sir," Weems said, trying to look as if he weren't the least bit demoralized by all this.
I took the statue from Father, careful to touch only the very top of its head and its feet. Sekhmet was the lioness-headed goddess who represented the destructive force of the sun, and she and her ancient priestesses were a tad vengeful. They often coated such statues with various poisons, so that if the flames didn't get you, the poison would. With luck, some of the ash would cling to the surface and would act like a rubbing, allowing me to read the cursed hieroglyphs that had been used. I was surprised at how cool it was to the touch, but that simply confirmed it was magic, not the principle of combustion, that was at work here.
When I reached the workroom, I carried the statue of Sekhmet over close to the window, careful not to let the feeble sunlight touch it. Unfortunately, even with a faint film of ash on the statue, I couldn't make out the hieroglyphs that formed the curse, and until I knew those, I couldn't remove it.
Very carefully, I moved the statue toward the faint rays of sun coming in through the thick glass. I held Sekhmet so she wasn't quite touching the light itself, only brushing against some of the dust motes dancing in the sun.
It worked. The statue didn't catch fire, but it began to heat up, and as it did, the faint hieroglyphs became visible. Because I wasn't in the direct sunlight, the inscribed hieroglyphs on the statue didn't move and swarm so much as pusate, so even though they were faint, they were stationary and therefore easier to read.
Working quickly, before the statue actually caught fire again, I peered closely at the symbols. Destruction. Chaos. Power of the sun. Avenger of wrongs. Our lady of slaughter. Honestly! We were lucky the statue had only burst into flames!
From what I could make of the inscribed spell, the curse on this statue called down the fires of the desert on anyone who moved it from the darkness of the Temple of Thutmose III i
nto the sunlight.
Once I'd clearly seen all the hieroglyphs, I moved the statue over to the workbench, being careful not to touch it against anything. The curse confirmed what I'd thought: it had been devised so tomb raiders wouldn't steal it. However, that presupposed that all tomb raiders could read the hieroglyphs, which most definitely wasn't the case.
Wait a moment. I looked down at the surface of the statue, but the symbols were already fading. Bother. I picked it back up and went over to the window, paying careful attention to one specific hieroglyph.
Behind me, the workroom door opened. "Perfect timing," I said. "I need your opinion." Then I turned around. It wasn't Father, as I'd expected, but Fagenbush. And he had a most strange look on his face—as if his normal sneer had been tainted with a glimmer of hope.
"You need my opinion?" he repeated, clearly unsure he had heard correctly. It was an odd moment, and it felt as if something I couldn't even identify hung in the balance. Uncomfortable, I turned back to the statue and said, "I need a second opinion; now hurry, before this thing catches fire again."
There was a long pause, then I heard his footsteps behind me. As he drew closer, I noticed that the scent of ox dung was growing fainter. The curse must be wearing off.
"What have you found so far?" he asked.
"The usual for Sekhmet: Chaos. Power of the sun. Avenger of wrongs. Our lady of slaughter. But see this glyph here? That's the one I need a second opinion on. What do you think it translates to?"
Fagenbush leaned in closer and angled his head. "'Tomb.' No, 'temple.'"
"Yes!" I beamed at him, and he blinked in surprise. "I made that exact same mistake. But it is 'temple,' isn't it."
He nodded.
"Which makes the whole thing quite odd, because the inscription claims that this statue was to remain in the Temple of Thutmose III for all eternity, not in his tomb, as I'd first thought. The only problem is—"
"There isn't any Temple of Thutmose III." Fagenbush looked at me, and I could practically see the gears whirring in his head.
"Exactly. At least, none that's been discovered yet."
A very long, very charged silence filled the room, making me a bit uncomfortable.
"Keep an eye on this for a moment, would you? I need to go get something to remove the curse with." Then, before he could say no, I rushed to the door and nearly flew down to my closet, where I had left my curse-removal kit. I snatched it and hurried back up the stairs. Inside the workroom, Fagenbush was poring over some of the steles that littered the worktable. As I approached, his eyes zeroed in on my satchel, but he said nothing.
I lugged it over to the table and began rifling through it until I found a small yellow tin, which I set on the worktable next to the statue.
"What is that?" Fagenbush asked.
"Beeswax," I told him as I opened the tin. "It won't remove the curse entirely, but if I rub it over the entire statue, it will act as a barrier between it and the rays of the sun, effectively nullifying the curse until I have a chance to research it fully."
He stared at me oddly. "Beeswax," he said, his voice flat.
"Yes. Watch." I dipped a corner of a nearby rag into the wax and began rubbing it over the statue. "It won't hurt the basalt the statue is made of," I pointed out. "And see how nicely it polishes it up?"
By the time I finished the first coat of wax, my hands began to itch. Frowning down at them, I realized I had a nearly overwhelming need to wash them. Which made no sense, since I was wearing gloves, the way I always did. Ignoring the sensation, I dipped the rag into the wax for a second coat, then stopped.
What if some element of the curse had managed to work through both the rag and my gloves? That thought had me putting down the rag and the statue rather quickly. "Do you want to put a second coat on? I need to go wash my hands. But be careful, the statue might be transferring something itchy."
He looked up sharply at me, and I was suddenly painfully aware of all the decoy artifacts that I'd put in his way. "Truly," I said, holding up my hands. "My palms are itching fiercely, so be careful."
His face relaxed, and he picked up the rag and dipped it in the wax tin. I glanced briefly at the steles scattered on the worktable, worried that he'd finish the second coat of wax and have a chance to search for references to "temple" before I returned. Then I reminded myself I was only going to be gone a minute. How long did it take to wash one's hands?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A Tale of Two Bubus
WHEN I REACHED THE LAVATORY on the first floor, I was stunned to see Awi Bubu waiting there. My hands stopped itching immediately "Awi Bubu?"
He gave a little bow. "Little Miss."
"Wh-what are you doing here?"
"Your mother and I finished our meeting a quarter of an hour ago."
Then it dawned on me. "You made my hands itch!"
He looked absurdly proud of that fact.
"How did you do that?"
"It is but one of my talents. Is there somewhere we can speak alone?"
"Very well." I tried to think where best to take him. We could be too easily overheard in the reading room. The catacombs were out of the question; who knew how he'd react if he saw any of the artifacts down there? The way things were going, he'd want them all back. "We'll go to my, er, room," I finally said.
I led him to my small closet, relieved when we didn't run into anybody else in the hallways. I opened the door and motioned for him to walk in first, my heart racing in anticipation. Was I finally to learn what was going on?
Awi Bubu studied the small room, his keen black eyes missing no detail, seeing everything from my frocks on their hooks to the blanket folded at the foot of the sarcophagus. He fingered the blanket and looked at the sarcophagus curiously. "Little Miss never fails to surprise me," he said. "And I have not been easily surprised in many, many years."
I shrugged, unsure what to say to that.
Without further comment, he turned to the wall behind him and wrote three hieroglyphic symbols on it with his finger, then repeated the gesture on each of the other three walls. Even though I watched closely, I could not make out which symbols he'd used. "There," he said at last. "Now Shu cannot carry our words to others."
"Why would the god of air do that?" I asked.
"Because the wedjadeen are sworn to protect the secrets of the gods; it is our sacred duty."
I flinched as he said the forbidden word, then realized he'd said our.
"If the gods hear us speaking lightly of their matters, they will report it to others, others who might not be as sympathetic as I am to Little Miss's predicament. For Little Miss has, indeed, guessed rightly. I am a wedjadeen, one of the Eyes of Horus, although an exiled one—that part of my tale is true."
We both froze at a scratch on the door. He stared at the door as if seeing through it, then nodded. "It is only your cat. Let her in."
It was indeed Isis. She stalked into the room, and I closed the door behind her.
"You may as well sit down, this is a long tale."
I settled myself on the floor with my back against the wall and held Isis in my lap. We both watched Awi Bubu, who seemed to be waging some inner war with himself.
"I have come to the decision that I must tell you all, even though it is against our rules. This half knowledge you have pieced together is too dangerous. Best that you know the full truth. Besides, I am convinced that you play some important role that I do not yet understand."
Afraid to utter a word lest he change his mind, I merely nodded.
"We are," Awi Bubu said, "a most ancient and honorable group of men. Our roots go back to the long-ago high priests of the New Kingdom during the reign of the heretic pharaoh Akhenaton, who tried to advance his one god, Aton, over the gods and goddesses who had ruled Egypt since the beginning of time. We live in small villages, poor villages, that attract no tourist or archaeological attention. Our fathers and our fathers' fathers held the same positions we do. We have one precept: guard and prot
ect the sacred artifacts of the gods until the one true pharaoh can be restored to his throne. That is our entire reason for existing.
"When the Persians invaded Egypt, they brought their gods with them and tried to inflict them on our people. Though we wore the yoke of Persian oppression, we were successful at avoiding heresy and kept to our own gods, but it was hard. After decades of diligent manipulation, we managed to restore an Egyptian to the throne once more. All was well, for a time. But Egypt had grown weak under foreign oppression, and her gods were angry with the new gods brought to her land. The Persian king Artaxerxes attacked, and Nectanebo II fled with a small party of Egyptian priests and made his way to Macedonia. And so when it came to pass that Alexander conquered Egypt, there was much se cret rejoicing, for the blood of the pharaohs flowed in his veins."
"But wait!" I said, thoroughly confused. "Alexander's father was King Philip of Macedonia. How did Alexander come to have Egyptian blood then?"
"His father was not Philip but Nectanebo II, although only a handful knew of this, the wedjadeen among them. However, we had not counted on the influence of the Greeks holding such sway over the young Alexander. Soon, he began to combine our Egyptian gods with his Greek ones, an abomination in our eyes. The high priests reasoned and argued with him, but their protestations fell on deaf ears. They were hesitant to act, however, for he was a true son of Egypt. When Alexander died and his general Ptolemy assumed control, it became a different matter. No blood of Egypt flowed in that general's veins, and he had no right to call himself pharaoh. Even so, he continued Alexander's work, building new temples, merging his gods with our own, committing sacrilege.
"When he finally built the Serapeum in Alexandria, he sent a call out to all the temples to bring their most sacred artifacts for housing in this great monument. The high priests held a council among themselves and decided they would not do what this impostor pharaoh ordered. Instead, they brought lesser artifacts to the Serapeum. Their most sacred, true artifacts, they entrusted to a small, fiercely committed band of magician priests who called themselves the Eyes of Horus, the wedjadeen. We swore to guard these relics for when the true pharaoh rose again.
Theodosia and the Eyes of Horus Page 19
