Ahmed Hadji, the young priest of Thoth, bowed his head submissively. "I shall obey, my master."
The old man smiled warmly down at the young priest. Had it been so recently that he had envied his protégé the smooth olive skin and the strong young arms? Had it truly annoyed him that Hadji's thick black moustache and curly black hair contrasted so starkly with his own bald head and thin white beard? Had he really thought with such sorrow that before he had become bent and shrunken with age he had been taller than the short man who now knelt before him? Foolishness, such foolishness. Age means nothing, nothing. The old man's eighty years of life and the young man's thirty years of life were but leaves drifting upon the surface of the eternal river, and decades, centuries, millennia awaited them both. Millions of years. A life of millions of years.
"Arise and go hence, Ahmed Hadji," the old man said kindly. "May the gods go before you on your journey. "
"Anet hrauthen neteru," Hadji whispered. Homage to the gods. He arose and returned to his place among the priests. The forty-two worshippers stood in silent meditation for a few moments, and then turned to leave the ruined mastaba, walking away in contemplative quiet. By the evening they would all have returned to their otherwise normal and un eventful lives, blending unnoticed into the teeming population of the modern Arab Republic of Egypt.
Soon the ancient ruin was empty once again but for the beetles and the lizards and the floating wisps of dust. The pitted stone hills in the distance caught and exchanged the last faint echoes of the pleading cry as it faded into the deepening stillness of the desert waste: 'Anpu, nekhemkua ma ab. Anubis, deliver me from death.
And then there was silence but for the low moaning wind which drifted over the sands.
I
THE PRIESTS
Verily I, even I, have come!
I have overthrown mine enemies
upon the Earth, although my
body lieth a mummy in the tomb.
—The Egyptian Book of the Dead, LXXXVI
CHAPTER 1
Reginald Fowles, fourteenth Earl of Selwyn, could be described in many ways to someone so ignorant of twentieth-century Britain as never to have heard of him. He succeeded to the peerage at the age of twenty-six, upon the death of his father, the thirteenth Earl. He did not take his seat in the House of Lords until three years thereafter, for his combat service in the First World War seemed a more pressing responsibility at the time. Wounded at the Battle of the Somme, the fourteenth Earl returned to England and involved himself cautiously in the internal politics of the Conservative party. Although it was true that for a brief period he was friendly with Oswald Mosley, the leader of the British Union of Fascists between the wars, the general public assumption that the Earl was himself a right-wing radical was untrue. He served His Imperial Majesty George VI as a colonial administrator in Africa and was being spoken of as a possible choice to be viceroy of India when Churchill called him to the War Office after the German conquest of France in 1940. The Earl remained in London throughout the war, and when his wife and only son were killed in a German bombing raid during the darkest days of the Blitz, he took the morning off to attend the funeral, stiffened his lip, and carried on with his job. After the defeat of Hitler's Reich, he retired to his vast estate at Chudley, and but for an occasional social engagement connected to the political life of the Conservative party, he never left it. His pithy and insightful articles were not unfamiliar to readers of The Times, but he himself was familiar to almost no one at all. When Queen Elizabeth paid him a courtesy call on his eightieth birthday, he behaved in the respectful, grateful, and decorous manner which his breeding and convictions engendered. The Queen could tell that she had best keep her visit brief, however, by the way he kept glancing at the clock during their conversation.
Brave soldier, loyal monarchist, servant of the Crown, world traveler, member of the cabinet—the fourteenth Earl of Selwyn was all of these things. But at the moment his most significant attributes were that he was an eighty-six-year-old man, and he was dying.
The prospect of his imminent demise upset many family friends and menials. The servants went about their tasks at Chudley with hushed deliberation as if already in mourning. Fredericks, the butler, grew to expect the daily phone calls from Downing Street and Windsor, inquiring after the old Earl's condition. Tessie, the cook, kept a handkerchief near her at all times, so as to be able to dab away the tears which kept threatening to erupt. The local notables visited frequently, not to see the Earl (who would not have received them anyway), but to let themselves be seen showing concern. There were only two people who were not concerned, only two people who hoped that the old Earl's death would come soon. One of them was the old Earl himself. The other was his nephew Roderick, the fifteenth Earl of Selwyn-to-be.
The old Earl did not fear death. As a devout member of the Church of England, his belief in the saving grace of God through Christ (a belief born more of habit than conviction, to be sure) provided him with whatever solace and comfort he may have needed. But beyond that, the old Earl was tired of living. He had seen the Empire which he had helped govern disintegrate. He had seen the old European order which he had known and loved destroy itself in two insane, suicidal wars. He had seen politics, once the dignified reserve of privilege, degenerate (in his eyes, at least) into a brothel of sycophantic careerism. He had seen his wife and son laid to rest, too soon, too soon.
And he had spent his entire adult life guarding a horrible secret, burdened with the knowledge of the terror which lay locked and bound in seven oblong crates in the attic at Chudley.
He was tired, worn out. He welcomed the approach of the end.
The old Earl's end was also going to be welcomed by his nephew, Roderick Fowles, a young man as unlike the old Earl as could be imagined. The old Earl had devoted his life to the service of the Crown and the kingdom. Young Roderick was devoted with equal intensity to his stomach and his palate. The old Earl had pursued a vision of order and justice. Young Roderick pursued women. The old Earl had thought rarely of himself. Young Roderick thought of nothing but himself.
Roderick was not a bad fellow, actually. He was just an example of the degree to which a life in which there was no pressing need to do anything could create a rather genial personality which contained no vision. Roderick was generous to a fault, primarily because it had never occurred to him that money was a finite commodity. He had the easy air, so attractive to women, which was born of an almost total absence of responsibility. His conversation was glib, charming, and devoid of content. He had hundreds of friends and made new ones easily and frequently, because his friendship had no depth. Though only twenty-two, he was already beginning to show signs of portliness, which would doubtless in another decade turn into obesity, the result of too much rich food, too much wine, consumed in quantities too great, too often. Roderick knew he was putting on too much weight, but he reacted to this fact with a smile, a sigh, and a shrug, as if it were a matter beyond his control. He simply did not care.
Nor, in one sense, need he care. He had been destined since his birth to be the fifteenth Earl of Selwyn. He had been wealthy and pampered and catered to. As the sole family member of the new generation, the entire future of the family rested with him, and he knew it, and his old uncle knew it, and his parents had known it while they were still alive. He was irreplaceable. To be sure, his uncle could have remarried and sired another heir, but that was unlikely. The old Earl's devotion to the memory of his late wife precluded such an action on his part. He was to live and die a childless widower.
Roderick Fowles thus grew to young manhood secure in the knowledge that all he need do for the rest of his life was enjoy himself, and enjoy himself he did, expansively, cheerfully, charmingly. He knew nothing of importance, did nothing of significance, thought nothing of relevance, and had no goal other than the immediate satisfaction of every momentary desire.
His uncle could not stand him.
He did not dislike his uncle, howeve
r; quite to the contrary, he found the old Earl to be a fascinating and diverting old fossil. The fact that he could not even begin to understand the attitudes which had structured the old Earl's life and actions served merely to make him all the more intriguing to young Roderick. He almost enjoyed the (to him) inexplicable rages to which his exploits drove the old Earl.
And he did not desire the old man's death in any personal or vindictive sense. He merely wished to inherit Chudley and the enormous fortune attendant thereunto. It was really quite inconsiderate for the old fellow to have lived so long beyond the average life span. Why, Roderick should have been the Earl of Selwyn over a decade ago!
Becoming Earl meant money to Roderick, nothing else. The allowance he received from his uncle, coupled with the money he derived from his father's bequest to him, was huge by any rational standard; but there can never be too much of a good thing, according to Roderick. He could not be fairly described as greedy, because greed is a result of an inadequate supply of funds, not an overabundance. But Roderick equated money with fun, and he liked to have fun—the more fun the better. Thus, the more money the better.
It was his preoccupation with possessing more and more money which had led him to contemplate selling some of the fourteenth Earl's "old rubbish," as Roderick described it. And it was this which brought him this day to the deathbed of the fourteenth Earl of Selwyn for what, Roderick hoped, would be one last tirade.
The old Earl lay tucked and bundled upon the canopied bed in a room already too hot and stuffy for everyone but him. He glowered as his nephew bent over him and asked solicitously, "How are we today, Uncle?" The old Earl's lip curled in distaste as he regarded young Roderick. The countenance which confronted him was pleasant enough: the sandy hair which fell in almost coquettish curls upon the unlined forehead; the clear green eyes which strove at this moment to display such concern; the thin aristocratic nose whose delicate upsweep gave an illusion of asceticism to the somewhat pudgy cheeks; the carefully manicured fingernails; the dapper tailored jacket; the unostentatious yet obviously expensive jewelry—all of this might have made Roderick a pleasant sight to anyone who did not know him as well as did his uncle, who did not hold him in such low esteem.
"How are we today?" the old Earl echoed sarcastically. We are dying today, you young idiot." His voice was feeble, his breathing labored.
"There, there, Uncle. No need to be so pessimistic." Roderick smiled, patting the cold and boney hand which rested on the bedcover. "I'm sure you'll be up and about in no time at all."
"I'll be up, all right. Up in a box on the shoulders of six men." He paused to catch his breath. Talking was an obvious source of discomfort to him. "And don't try to flatter me with your crocodile devotion, you insect! I know that you are practically salivating over your inheritance."
Roderick assumed an air of injured innocence. "Really, Uncle! Must you be so unkind? You know that I am sick with worry about you."
"Ha! If you are sick with worry about anything, it's about the inheritance taxes hanging over your head." The old Earl peered myopically past his nephew at the small man standing in the corner. "Who's that?"
The small man approached timidly. "It's Pearson, Your Lordship. Remember me? Your solicitor?"
"Of course I remember you, you little fool. I'm not senile, you know. I'm just dying. What are you doing here?"
"When you asked me to fetch Master Roderick from London, I took it upon myself to accompany him and pay my respects." Pearson, a servile and nervous fellow, clasped his hat to his chest as he spoke.
"I would prefer being shown respect, not having it paid to me," the old Earl coughed. "Very well, since you're here anyway, perhaps you can assist Roderick in explaining this!" He grabbed a folded newspaper from his night table and struck his nephew in the face with it. The unflappable Roderick merely smiled innocently.
"Wh-whatever are you referring to, Your Lordship?" Pearson stammered.
"You know damned well what I am referring to, you lickspittle!" the old Earl bellowed, his anger drawing forth reserves of hitherto unsuspected strength. "There, in black and white, on the back page."
Oh, Lord, he's seen it! Pearson thought with despair. But to maintain the fiction of his noninvolvement, he turned to the back page of the newspaper and took a moment to read the advertisement which he himself had composed.
NOTICE TO SELL
His Lordship the Earl of Selwyn wishes to make known his willingness to dispose of certain objets d'art and antiquities which form part of the private Selwyn collection. Grecian urns, medieval armor, Egyptian mummies, paintings by Gainsborough and Turner, and other valuable pieces are included in this offer. Interested parties should contact Mr. Horace Pearson, Esq., 37 Saville Row, London.
Pearson licked his lips and muttered, "Oh dear. Oh dear."
"I do not recall contemplating such a sale, Mr. Horace Pearson Esquire," the old Earl shouted. "But the explanation is of course obvious. It is not the fourteenth Earl of Selwyn who is interested in selling off the family collection, but the fifteenth." He grabbed the paper away from Pearson and struck Roderick with it once again. "Well, the fourteenth Earl is still breathing, thank you very much. And nothing, not one piece of that collection is to be sold, not now, not ever!"
Roderick sat down gently on the side of the bed and patted his uncle's hand once again. "Now don't upset yourself, Uncle. You shouldn't be worrying about such trivial—"
"It isn't trivial, damn you! It is a matter of the most vital importance. Roderick, how could you take it upon yourself to place this notice without consulting me. Is this a sense of propriety? And you!" he said, turning his wrath on the cowering Pearson. "Who is your employer, I or my worthless nephew?"
"Now don't be yelling at Pearson," Roderick interjected hastily. "I placed the notice myself without discussing it with him. He knows nothing about it."
God bless you, Master Roderick, Pearson thought.
"Do you think I'm foolish enough to believe that?" the old Earl muttered, seeming to lapse back into lassitude. "On your own you couldn't place a golf ball on a tee, let alone a notice in a newspaper." He sighed.
"Listen, Uncle," Roderick said, "I admit I was a bit precipitous. But, really, why should we keep all that old rubbish up there in the attic? It serves no purpose. It isn't displayed. No one ever sees it. Why not just sell it so that people can at least enjoy it all?"
The old Earl laughed humorlessly. "Oh, I see. It's altruism, is it? Philanthropy?"
"Of course it is."
"Then why sell it? Why not just donate it?" Roderick smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "Bah!" the old Earl grumbled. "You have more money than you know what to do with, and still you want more." He shook his head. "Thank God your parents didn't live long enough to see what you've turned into."
"Really, Uncle," Roderick said, his tone one of hurt and wounded pride.
"Don't 'Really Uncle' me, Roderick. You don't know what you're doing. You couldn't know . . ." He seemed to sink back into the pillows, suddenly once again weak, old, ill.
Pearson coughed softly and muttered, "If you will excuse me—"
"Come back here, Pearson," the old Earl said. "I want you to hear this." He turned to Roderick and said, "Listen to me carefully, nephew. You were indeed precipitous, and not so much as you may think. I will be dead soon, Roderick, and you will be the Earl of Selwyn, and you—stop grinning, you young idiot! This is important!—and you will have responsibilities. Life is not one long cocktail party. Your family have been loyal and useful servants of the Crown since the days of Henry II. . ."
As the old Earl commenced upon his labored and uninteresting account of the family, Roderick plastered a look of rapt attention upon his face and promptly allowed his mind to wander. The fifteenth Earl of Selwyn. What a nice sound that had to it! He pictured himself entering the House of Lords in his robes (he loved to dress up) and could barely suppress a smile of anticipation. Chudley would belong to him, along with the stables, the yachts, the invest
ments, the banks. Though he had only a vague idea how much money the old Earl had and where it came from (never having interested himself in such boring and mundane matters), he knew that it ran into the hundreds of millions of pounds.
"RODERICK!"
He snapped suddenly back to attention. "I'm listening, Uncle. Truly I am."
The old Earl pounded his fist feebly on the bed and muttered, "If only Richard had lived."
The reference to the dead cousin he had never known did not bother Roderick. His ego was so well insulated that nothing could bruise it. "Yes, yes, I know," he said soothingly.
"But be at peace, Uncle. I shall discharge my responsibilities in such a manner as will do well to the family honor."
The old Earl gazed at him piercingly. "I wish to extract a promise from you, nephew, in the presence of this witness." He nodded in the general direction of Pearson.
"Certainly, Uncle. Anything you wish." A promise is just words, after all, he thought.
"When you become the Earl of Selwyn, all of the property I now hold will be yours. That is your right as an Englishman and a peer. Even after the government takes its booty, you will be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. There will be no need to sell any of the collection."
"Of course, Uncle. I—"
"Shut up and listen! I repeat, it will all be yours. I do not believe that it will be necessary to sell anything, but that will be your decision to make." He took hold of Roderick's hand and squeezed it hard. "But not the seven boxes."
Roderick was momentarily confused. "You mean the mummies?"
"Yes, the mummies." The old Earl furrowed his brow. "How did you know that the boxes contained mummies, by the way? I don't recall ever telling you that. I don't recall ever telling anyone that."
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