by Mike Ashley
I had to speak to Giovanni, to seek his advice. But as I began to walk towards the entrance Paolo grabbed my arm roughly which shocked me, as I had not thought him capable of such an act.
“I can’t let you tell, Sarah,” he said quietly. I detected a note of desperation in his voice and for the first time I felt afraid.
I broke from him and called out, half-expecting someone to come running to my aid down the passage. But there was nobody about. James must have left to help with the excavation of the new tomb. Paolo made another grab for me and I screamed. Then I heard something fall from the ceiling followed by a trickling sound, like sand.
Paolo held me tightly. I was surprised by his strength as I struggled, fighting with my nails and teeth like a cat. There was a deep rumbling noise from above and Paolo loosed his grip and looked up. Boulders and sand were raining from the ceiling of the tomb. It was collapsing. We had to get out.
I took advantage of the distraction to make my way down the passage. Behind me I heard more rumbling masking the sound of Paolo’s dragging footsteps as he gained on me: his lameness had never affected his strength or his speed. My steps felt slow and heavy as I ran and I seemed to make no progress. I had experienced such frustration in dreams but this was reality and if I didn’t escape I feared I would face death.
At last I could see the sun at the end of the passage and from the rumblings above I knew that the tomb of Hetsut was collapsing.
Paolo was behind me, breathing heavily, gaining speed. I knew I would only be safe once I was out in the open and I was concerned for Paolo: killer or not, I wanted him to escape the choking tomb.
Then I tripped on a stone which protruded from the wall and fell flat on the sandy floor of the tunnel. I could hear more rumblings and falling rocks. And I could hear Paolo behind me, the dragging of his left leg on the ground. I pushed myself up then there was a crash like thunder overhead as the whole tomb collapsed. I shielded my face and prayed.
A few moments later all was still. It was pitch dark and I put out a hand to feel rubble ahead of me, blocking the passage. Dry dust filled my mouth and when I tried to call Paolo’s name the answer was silence. I lay in the darkness, each breath an effort in the hot airless space that I feared would be my tomb.
I formed prayers in my mind and after what seemed like an age those prayers were answered. I heard my husband’s anxious voice calling my name and I replied as best I could, choking and coughing on the dust that filled my mouth and nostrils. I tried to take shallow, calm breaths as I listened to the clinking of my rescuers’ spades draw nearer. I would be safe soon in my Giovanni’s strong arms. But Paolo, I feared, was lost, buried in the tomb of the dancing girl to rest there with her for eternity.
I had not wished to give my dear Giovanni the news that a kinsman of his was a murderer. And yet how could I allow Ahmut to die for a murder he did not commit? I had to tell my story but I told it confidentially so that only Giovanni and the authorities in Luxor knew the truth. The rest, including James, thought that Paolo had died in a tragic accident, as did his unhappy family. An unlucky end for a young man who had had more than his share of bad fortune.
Six years after these events, in 1823, my husband died in Africa on an expedition to Timbuktu and I mourn him as much now as I did when I was first brought the dreadful tidings of his death. After the collapse of Hetsut’s tomb he never spoke of Paolo, and the last resting place of the dancing girl was sealed and obliterated from the records we made so painstakingly of our discoveries.
But now I am alone in the world I find myself thinking of Hetsut often. I have translated the hieroglyphics I copied from the wall of her tomb and I have discovered that she was mistress to a great nobleman whose wife was so jealous that she pushed her rival into the Nile where she was attacked by a crocodile and lost her leg. Hetsut died of her injuries several weeks later and the strange painted words on her tomb poured curses down upon her attacker.
Perhaps it is best that such a tale of such bitter hatred and vengeance should never be told. Such things belong in the world of Anubis, god of the dead, lord of the mummy wrappings.
As I sit here in my shabby room, writing by the light of a small candle, I try not to think of Paolo’s terrible death. In times of poverty and hardship it is best to think of pleasant things; of my dear, brilliant husband, the Great Belzoni with whom I shared so much.
I shall not allow Anubis to triumph.
UNROLLING THE DEAD
Ian Morson
It was not until Champollion cracked the code of the Egyptian hieroglyphs with the help of the Rosetta Stone in 1822 that light was at last shone on the mysteries of Egyptian antiquity. The following story intriguingly parallels the translation of a papyrus against the actual events at the time of the Tenth Dynasty king Meryakare, four thousand years before.
Ian Morson is best known for his series of novels set in 13th-century Oxford and involving the investigations of Master William Falconer at the fledgling University, starting with Falconer’s Crusade (1994).
Harkhuf the embalmer woke up in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the proximity of his new, young wife, Nefre. He thought he had heard a sound, but didn’t know whether it was in his dream, or if it had been real. He lay for a long moment, straining to hear anything in the silence, but could hear nothing. For reassurance, he slid a hand under the cool linen sheet, and connected with Nefre’s body. It was warm, and smooth, and he could feel the soft down on her back. No, the problem wasn’t Nefre – the real problem was the other female. The one who lay on the slab in his workshop.
The magnificent, white-robed figure stepped out from behind the Sphinx. It was preternaturally tall and topped with a cruel, staring jackal’s head, ears abnormally pricked. It was the very embodiment of Anubis – God of the Dead, Guide through the Underworld, and Hearer of Prayers. The assembled throng gasped, several ladies recoiling in terror, and having to fan themselves for fear of fainting. The unbearable heat and the anticipation was literally breathtaking. Palm fronds rustled as the god stepped between them. Anubis threw his arms high into the air, and cried out, causing another frisson to run through the witnessing crowd.
“O Great One who became Sky,
You are strong, you are mighty,
You fill every place with your beauty,
The whole earth is beneath you, you possess it!
As you enfold earth and all things in your arms,
So have you taken this great lady to you,
An indestructible star within you!”
The audience was enraptured. But beneath the mask, beads of sweat were pouring down Il Professore Giuseppe Malinferno’s forehead, and stinging his eyes. But he was in no position to wipe them away, and blinked, shaking his head slightly. The mask of Anubis wobbled, and settled at a more uncertain, rather jaunty, angle on his brow. He cursed the Countess for having had that new-fangled steam heating system installed by Sir John Soane. Weren’t all English mansions supposed to be icy cold, and draughty? Wasn’t it part of their psyche, the English predilection for being uncomfortable at home? He yearned once again for the long, hot summers of Sicily, or even the dry, desiccating heat of Cairo. The sort of heat that made a mummy of anyone buried in the deserts of Egypt. Then he remembered where he was, and invoked the gods once more.
“Oh Imsety, Hapy, Duamutef, Kebehsenuef,
Who live by maat,
Who lean on their staffs,
Who watch over Upper Egypt,
O Boatman of the boatless just,
Ferryman of the Field of Rushes!
Ferry Ankh-Wadjet to us.”
For a moment Malinferno thought the footmen had missed their cue. Then he heard the creaking groan of the cart on which the stone sarcophagus was loaded. He hoped the floor of the Countess’ ballroom could stand up to the weight. He imagined the assembled crowd, that included a minor princeling, a sprinkling of Lords, several Members of Parliament, and Reverend Hilary Sparling, plunging to the cellars of the house throu
gh a hole rent by the Egyptian queen’s coffin. He wryly surmised that most would not be missed. Least of all the Reverend Sparling, who on being introduced to Il Professore condemned this “Frenchified new fad for Egyptian bits and bobs”. He roundly castigated Napoleon, safely dead these three years, then waxed lyrical in the theme of the English nobility as no better than tomb robbers.
“Indeed, many edifices, having hitherto withstood the eternal attacks of ancient barbarians, cannot now resist the speculation of civilized cupidity, virtuosi and antiquarians.”
Malinferno, guessing he was included in the latter categories, chose to ignore Sparling’s comment. Especially as the collector in question here had been the late, somewhat lamented husband of Countess Rosalind, the very French Count Amaury de St Tudy. His Egyptian collection, snaffled from under Napoleon’s nose 20 years earlier in 1804, had languished in the cellars of the ancestral home of his English wife. Until, riding to hounds, he had fallen off his horse, expired, and the Countess realized unrolling Egyptian mummies had become all the rage.
Which was why Giuseppe Malinferno, civil engineer by training, amateur Egyptologist and charlatan by inclination, was standing before the Countess’s invited guests in a slightly cock-eyed jackal mask. He gestured at the footmen to lift the wooden coffin of Queen Ankh-Wadjet, of the Tenth Dynasty, out of her sarcophagus, and place it at his feet. The fashionable entertainment of peeling back the bandages from a mummy, and revealing its secrets to the overfed, and overstimulated members of English society was underway.
Malinferno bent over the highly decorated coffin with its images of the gods Geb, Nut, Isis, Thoth and more. He reached across the lid and raised it slowly up. It creaked satisfyingly. At the very moment that all eyes were glued on the dark interior that was being revealed, a wraith appeared as if by magic at the head of the coffin. It was a tall, voluptuous figure wearing the horned mask of Hathor. Not for the first time, Malinferno had cause to revise his description of the figure as wraith-like. The diaphanous robe did little to hide the curvaceous attractions of his mysterious companion, Madam Nefre. She was scandalously nude underneath it, and the audience loved the fact.
“Bleeding ’ot in ’ere,” whispered Madam Nefre into Malinferno’s jackal ear. “I’m sweating like a pig.”
“No, you are a cow.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hathor is a cow god, hence the horns. Now let’s get on with this farrago.”
Between them they lifted the mummy from the coffin, and laid the dark, stained bundle on the rosewood table. Malinferno breathed a sigh of relief that it had not stuck to the bottom of the coffin as some mummies did. The linen wrappings were virtually intact, and the unrolling promised to go well. Then Madam Nefre saw a piece of papyrus protruding from the topmost layer of bandages on the mummy’s chest. She idly drew it out, and was going to lay it to one side, when she saw there were some hieroglyphs written on it. She read them.
Madam Nefre, known to her old mother as Doll Pucket, ex-street whore, and Malinferno’s occasional lover, was proud of her facility to learn anything at remarkable speed. She recalled what Joe Malinferno had called her when first he discovered her abilities. An autodidact, he had called her. She was about to hit him hard where it hurt, on the assumption that it meant something rude. But he had assured her it was a compliment to her self-taught skills. It had all begun one night, after he had availed himself of her services, paid his few shillings, and they were lying back on the rumpled pillows. She had picked up this book at his bedside.
“What’s this, Joe? Who’s this Champo Lion geezer?”
“Oh, Doll, you will not understand even if I tell you. And it’s Champollion.” He gave it the correct inflection. “He is French, and he has deciphered the written language of the ancient Egyptians, called hieroglyphics.”
It exasperated Doll that Joe could be so patronizing sometimes. So she said no more at the time, but stole his book, and devoured the contents. The next time he brought round one of those bits of Egyptian stone he called a “steelie”, she casually translated the inscription on it. It astounded him.
“How did you do that? Have you seen this stele before?”
She smiled enigmatically, and asked him to test her again. He gave her a rubbing he had made himself from a tomb in Thebes. She translated it faultlessly. As she did now with this scrap of papyrus. It read –
“Murder!” yelped Doll.
*
Harkhuf the embalmer thought he heard a whisper, and threw a fearful glance over his shoulder. He had felt an irresistible urge to check on the embalmed body in his workshop, and had left Nefre in the warm pit of their marital bed to venture out into the night. Now, he wasn’t sure whether he had imagined the sound that appeared to come from the outer darkness. After all, it might just have been the rustling of the spirits of the dead that had passed through this place. The Pure Place, where the body was made ready for its returning ka, scared some people. But Harkhuf was used to living and working at this crossroads for dead spirits. A wandering ka held no fears for him. No, he was more fearful that the noise sounded like the scuffling of living, human feet on sand. The sand that now encroached further every day into the streets of the necropolis. Last month, the Priests of Amun-Re had prayed for a normal inundation again, but once again they had failed. Iteru had not burst its banks, and the sands of Deshret drifted a little further into the Black Land. Kemet was being squeezed out of existence, and so was he. He had had his back to the wall since his terrible discovery. And every little sound made him fear for his life.
He decided it was time for a little insurance cover. He slipped the scrap of papyrus with the tell-tale word on it under the layer of linen bandages he had wrapped Ankh-Wadjet in that very afternoon. The threat of its revelation might delay things a little. He also took one other precaution involving the disposition of the body. But his only hope for a permanent escape was if the scroll on which he had written the full story reached the right hands. The scuffling sound oozed out of the darkness again, and he prayed that the papyrus would be sufficient.
*
The ballroom was silent. Doll’s eerie cry had unnerved the assembled worthies, and they had all departed. The ladies sought relief from the unexpected shock in the inhalation of smelling salts, and a comfortable couch on which to swoon. The young princeling, being of a nervous disposition, was also amongst their number. The other gentlemen had, by and large, decided to boost their spirits with some vigorous imbibing. The countess herself had last been seen being consoled in the library by the Reverend Sparling. She could not yet decide if the revelation had made or ruined the unrolling.
In any case, Malinferno was glad to be left alone to carry out the task of examining the mummy. Alone except for Doll Pucket, self-taught genius, of course. Between them they prised open the outer layers of linen cloth, which partially adhered to the topmost inner layers due to being steeped in some sort of resinous gum. Coarser bandages formed the inner layers, and between them Malinferno and Doll Pucket found a pretty floral necklet of lotus petals, and an ornament of red leather, now brittle and broken.
“Look, Doll, you can still make out the impression of various deities on the leather. There’s Geb and Nut, and here the jackal god, Anubis.”
“Nah! This mummy was dug up in Herakleopolis, wannit?”
Malinferno sighed at the mangling of the English tongue that was Doll’s natural inflection, but nodded in agreement.
“Then the jackal god gotta be Wepwawe, eh?”
Doll looked at Malinferno, legs akimbo and her hands on her hips in triumphant pose. He realized she had been reading his books again, and was inclined to cruelly revise his diagnosis from autodidact to idiot-savant. But she was right. The jackal god of Herakleopolis, a town many miles south and west of Memphis, indeed regaled in the name of Wepwawe. He returned to their labours, only to be reminded, as he pulled away the bag-like final garment on the mummy, of his desire to strip the semi-transparent robe from Doll’s h
ot body, and fondle her plump charms. Ankh-Wadjet’s body, on the other hand, could in no way be said to be adipose.
As he peeled away the final layer of linen, the wonderful odour of cinnamon and cassia wood assailed his nostrils. He never ceased to marvel that the aroma of the spicery used to coat the body some four thousand years earlier could still be so redolent.
“Ahhh. Smell that. That is the odour that would have pervaded the air around the corpse when first it was embalmed.”
Doll was not much impressed, being more concerned with discovering why the embalmer should have left such a curious message for them.
“Huh. Wot’s this powdery stuff ‘ere?” She pointed at the shrivelled appendage that was the queen’s nose. Malinferno peered closely, for once glad to be given the opportunity to expound his own knowledge.
“Almost certainly carbonate of soda, with some muriate and sulphate of the same.”
“Oh, natron.” Doll sniffed in disdain at the traces of the natural dessicant used by the ancient embalmer. Nothing strange in that, then. She began examining the grey skin. “It’s soft! And sort of greasy. And look, there’s a big slit in ‘er side.”
“The left side, yes. That is where the ripper would have ritually opened up the body with his obsidian knife.”
“The ripper?”
“That was his name. When he had carried out his task, he would then have been ceremonially expelled from the place for defiling the body. Then the viscera – liver, kidneys, lungs and so on – would have been removed, and stored in canopic jars.”
Doll pointed at the four earthen jars that stood at the end of the table on which Queen Ankh-Wadjet lay. “That’s them.”
“Yes. The one with the baboon head holds the lungs. The one with the human head the liver. The jackal-headed one, which curiously is a slightly different shape to the others, guards the stomach, and the falcon-headed one the intestines. They are the four Sons of Horus.”
