The Amarnan Kings, Book 6: Scarab - Descendant

by Overton, Max

  "You didn't pay any attention to my wishes then, did you?"

  "Dani, we're your friends. If you're in trouble, we want to help."

  "You can't help."

  "Try us."

  Dani collapsed into a chair and ran her fingers through her bedraggled hair. "Look, I appreciate the thought, but just leave me alone, will you? I really just need to get through this on my own."

  "When you've told us what's wrong."

  "Damn you," Dani whispered.

  "Very likely," Daffyd said with a smile. "Now come on, this isn't the Dani we know and admire. Our Dani would let her friends help her, or at least tell them why they couldn't."

  Dani did not say anything.

  "It's to do with the university decision, isn't it?" Marc asked. "Well, we've already told you we'll help with the appeal."

  "I've asked around, lass," Daffyd said. "There's damn-all actual evidence been produced against you. It's all hearsay from Bashir, and the only reason McClelland and Bielish have bought into it is because of interdepartmental politics. We can raise enough doubt to get your suspension rescinded, I'm sure."

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Of course it does," Marc said. "You can't let the buggers get away with it."

  "Hang on, Marc," Daffyd said. "Why doesn't it matter, Dani?"

  Dani got up and walked over to the sideboard. She opened a drawer and took out a small folder which she dropped on the table in front of Daffyd.

  "That's why not."

  Daffyd opened the folder to reveal an airline ticket to Cairo. "You're going to Egypt after all?"

  "No. I was refused a visa. Bashir pulled strings and has prevented me from finding Scarab."

  Marc picked up the ticket and examined it. "So what now?" he asked. "You're going to give up?"

  "What the hell else can I do?" Dani demanded. "If I try and enter Egypt, I'll be arrested and deported. I can't get to Egypt, I can't recover my golden scarab, and I can't prevent Bashir desecrating Scarab's tomb. My whole purpose in life has been shot away."

  "Steady on, lass. It's a bit over the top to say that's your whole life purpose."

  "No it isn't. Ever since we found the chambers, I've known..." Dani's voice trailed away and she slumped down in a chair again.

  "Known what?" Marc asked.

  "It sounds stupid."

  "Tell us anyway."

  "It's as if...no, more than that...I was meant to find the chamber. The golden scarab came to me, just like it came to Scarab..." Dani smiled faintly. "Delusions of grandeur now. Are you going to have me committed?"

  "Good to see you smile, lass. It's an interesting concept, though...not having delusions--I don't believe that for one minute--but the golden scarab coming to you."

  "Come on, Dr Daffy, you don't believe that, do you?" Marc asked. "I mean, we all know Dani's a whiz at translation and has insights, but really, it's just a coincidence she found an artefact that resembled the one Scarab had."

  Daffyd shot Marc a sour look. "Look at the facts. There are three lines of argument I can see. First, Scarab found a carved golden scarab in the desert..."

  "Scarab ornaments are pretty common in ancient Egypt."

  "Not made of solid gold. It had an Aten disc carved on its underside, where there's usually a prayer or a person's name. That's unusual by itself because at the time of the Amarnan kings the Aten heresy was in direct conflict with the other gods--including Khepri, who was represented by the scarab. Then look at the golden scarab that Dani found. Identical description. Is that just coincidence?"

  Marc shrugged. "Okay, I'll give you that one. What else?"

  "Second point. In the account, not everyone could see the golden scarab for what it was. Remember how the Khabiru elder...what was his name?"

  "Jeheshua," Dani said.

  "That's right, Jeheshua. He only saw a rock until Atum lifted the scales from his eyes. The Amorites too--they saw nothing but a rock."

  "That's poetic licence..."

  "What about Dani's golden scarab? You've seen it; I've seen it, and the other expedition members saw it--but what about Bashir? He handled it and dismissed it as worthless--as nothing more than a plain rock. Another coincidence?"

  "You said there were three lines of argument."

  "Scarab used it to find things, to produce water, to protect herself, to raise the dead even--and don't call that more poetic licence, Marc. You've seen Dani use it to find the chambers. Those two golden scarabs are more than similar, more than identical even--they are one and the same. And while I think of it, there's a fourth reason. Dani's descended from Scarab."

  Dani grimaced. "That's just a family story. We have no proof."

  "And with a hundred or more generations between them, there's no way you could prove it," Marc added.

  "Dani's a dead ringer for Scarab. We all remarked on her similarity to the pictures in the chambers. And your grandmother was Egyptian, Dani," Daffyd added. "Your mother was her only daughter, and you're your mother's only daughter. The goddess Isis promised Scarab an unbroken line of daughters."

  "That's still only two generations--out of a hundred or so. Hardly conclusive."

  "No, you're right," Daffyd admitted. "Still, taken with the other arguments, it makes you think."

  "I'm not going to say what it makes me think," Marc muttered.

  "All right, so you see why I'm shattered that the golden scarab is lost to me," Dani said. "I waited thirty years to find something that meant so much to me, and then it's snatched away. I can't even go and look for it."

  "Why not?" Daffyd asked.

  "Eh? You know why not," Marc said. "Dani had her visa refused. She can't go to Egypt."

  "There are other ways of going somewhere that don't involve walking in the front door."

  "What do you mean?" Dani asked.

  "A flight into Cairo is not the only way into Egypt." Daffyd said patiently and then smiled at his friends' blank expressions. "Egypt has hundreds, maybe thousands, of miles of border with countries like Israel, Sudan and Libya. If you picked the right time and place, you could just stroll across the border."

  "Jesus, Dr Daffy, have you lost your mind?" Marc asked.

  "I wish you wouldn't call me that. And no, I haven't lost my mind. It's entirely possible. I've done it myself in Kenya. I was there a few years ago when the Mau-Mau uprising took place. I crossed the border on foot into the Tanganyika Territory. Egypt shouldn't be much more difficult if we plan it carefully."

  "We?" Dani asked.

  Daffyd smiled. "Well, you don't think I'd let you go by yourself, do you?"

  "I haven't even said I'm going," Dani said.

  "You will, and when you do, I'm going with you."

  "Shit, you're not leaving me behind," Marc said. "I can't let you two old fogeys wander off on your own. God knows what trouble you'll get into."

  "Look, I haven't agreed to anything, and besides, I'm the one that has nothing to lose by an illegal entry into Egypt. If you two go, there could be all sorts of repercussions. You could lose your jobs or worse."

  Marc shrugged, but Daffyd nodded thoughtfully. "You're right, and if we go it will be with our eyes open. You need to go and look for your golden scarab and Scarab's tomb, and I'm interested in that too, so I'm coming."

  Dani sighed and then smiled. "I can't say I won't be glad of your presence--both of you."

  "Have you thought about which border we're going to cross?" Marc asked. "Across the Negev I suppose."

  "Too public. With Israel and Egypt at each other's throats, that border will be watched much too closely. Libya's better."

  "What about Sudan?" Dani asked. "Large numbers of tribesmen wander across the borders down there."

  "Not many Europeans though. We'd stand out. Besides, there are some violent folk down that way. No, Libya's the way in."

  "There's an awful lot of desert," Marc said.

  "I never said it would be easy, and obviously there's a lot we need to work out, but I think we could do
that better on the spot. We should head down to Tripoli."

  "Just like that?"

  "Why not? The only other course is to do nothing."

  Return to Contents

  * * *

  Chapter Five

  Dani was on suspension and had no duties at the university, but Daffyd and Marc needed to make arrangements if they were to take time off. Marc had recently completed his PhD and was looking around for post-doctoral research, so taking a break inconvenienced a few undergraduate students that he tutored, but he felt he could live with that. He had a few other personal details to take care of, but he dealt with these quickly. Daffyd had lectures to give and two postgraduate students to supervise, but neither student was in a critical passage and his lectures could be covered by other staff members. He pleaded the stress of his recent adventures to his Head of Department, and was granted leave.

  "We can manage, Daffyd," said the HOD. "It's important you get yourself back on an even keel. Any thoughts about what you'll do?"

  "I thought about a holiday," Daffyd replied. "South of Europe maybe."

  "Well, enjoy yourself. We'll see you back here in what? Four weeks?"

  "Better make it six--after the mid-term break."

  Dani had cancelled her ticket to Cairo, and the three of them now booked passage on a flight that took them to Rome. They packed suitcases, as if for a holiday, and took the train down to London, flying out of Heathrow. In Rome, they cleared Customs and immediately took themselves to the smaller airline counters, looking for passage over the Mediterranean to North Africa. They found a flight to Tripoli leaving in a few hours, and by the next day, stepped out into the heat of the Libyan capital.

  "You do realise we could have flown here directly from Heathrow, don't you?" Marc asked.

  "Very true, boyo, but you never know who might be interested in where we're off to," Daffyd replied. "I thought a cursory false trail couldn't hurt."

  "Then it's a pity we couldn't see a bit of Rome first. I've never been there."

  "You can go later, when all this is over," Dani said. "Where to now, Daffyd?"

  "Search me," the Welshman said affably. "I've never been here before."

  "Jesus," Marc muttered.

  "However, Tripoli is in the northwest, and we need the Egyptian border in the east, so perhaps we should make our way to Benghazi for starters."

  "Back into the airport then?"

  "Unfortunately, our funds are not going to run to air travel everywhere. We can probably get a bus to Benghazi if you don't mind mixing with the locals."

  "We're all going to get murdered in our beds," Marc muttered.

  "Nonsense," Daffyd said. "King Idris runs a tight ship and since they discovered oil here last year, American and British firms have been flocking into the country. Westerners are generally liked, and I'm sure the public services are run efficiently."

  Neither Marc nor Daffyd was right. They were not murdered in their beds and in fact the Libyan people generally ignored them, but the bus service between Tripoli and Benghazi left a lot to be desired. The bus they found themselves on was old and in need of repair, as was the road between the two cities. They lurched and groaned over pot-holed roads, gusts of dust-laden heated air turning the insides of the bus into a gritty oven. The motion of the vehicle induced nausea, and the stink of unwashed bodies and sundry farmyard animals on board made them seriously reconsider what they were doing.

  Across the narrow aisle sat an old woman in long dress and shawl with a wicker cage stuffed with squawking chickens, and two rows behind was a man with a goat. The animal bleated continually and chewed anything within reach, including the fabric of the seats. A squealing pig or two occupied the rear of the bus and from the stench that drifted down to them; it became obvious the porcine animals had not been able to control their bowels.

  "Dear God," Marc protested. "Isn't there some other way we can get there?"

  "Open the windows wider," Dani advised.

  Marc did so, but dust billowed into the bus in choking clouds and he was forced to close them again. He drew a cloth over his face and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the stink and the dust. Daffyd grinned and pulled out his tobacco tin, rolling a fat cigarette and lighting up. Presently, clouds of strongly-scented blue smoke filled the bus and competed with the stenches of Libya. The Welshman leaned back in his seat and puffed happily, while Dani rolled her eyes and edged away from him.

  The trip to Benghazi took three days. The bus stopped at towns overnight, the parlous condition of the vehicle rendering night travel extremely perilous. They were put up in small, dirty hotels and suffered from a lack of water for washing and hard, uncomfortable beds. At least the food was good, if somewhat foreign to their palates. The main course was often the traditional heavy bazin dough in a tasty sauce of chicken, tomato, potato, chili and fenugreek. A small piece of dough would be ripped off the central mound and dipped into the surrounding moat of sauce. Other meals were couscous with vegetables and a variety of meats--goat, lamb, chicken or fish. The dish was served in a large bowl without utensils and groups of passengers sat around and dipped the fingers of their right hands in, shaping a ball of food and popping it into their mouths.

  On the first night, Marc was revolted to see the pig herder's dirty fingers probing the bowl in front of him and stopped eating, looking sick, but Dani nudged him.

  "Get used to it," she said. "Otherwise you'll go hungry."

  Marc did go hungry that night, though he ate some dates and swallowed several cups of sweet red tea. Thereafter, he tried to pick his fellow dining companions and managed to control his rebellious stomach enough to satisfy his hunger.

  "Why the hell can't they use individual plates and forks like civilised people?" he complained.

  "They are civilised," Daffyd replied. "They just have different customs. It's likely to get a lot worse, so make an effort, there's a good chap."

  Dani had no problem with the eating arrangements, and practiced her Arabic by getting into conversations with the other women and quizzing them about the ingredients. Soon, she was chatting away and laughing, with her translating some of the remarks for Marc's benefit. Daffyd understood enough of the local dialects to be able to follow the gist of the conversation, so he said little and applied himself to the tasty food.

  On the third day they rolled into the western Libyan city. Benghazi reflected its recent Italian colonialist past, and also the long-lasting effects of the Second World War, with many damaged buildings and vacant lots, though rebuilding was in progress as oil wealth started to flood into the country. The streets were often tree-lined and the stone buildings rose three or more floors with carved facades. Awnings shaded the footpaths as shops and restaurants littered the business area, the streets bustling with activity as the economy of the country roared into action.

  Dani, Daffyd and Marc stepped off the bus in the central city, glad to escape from the smells and dirt, and looking forward to re-entering a modern city where they could get cleaned up and take stock of their situation. Marc brushed his jacket down, releasing puffs of red dust and examined the soles of his shoes distastefully, scraping the edges on the footpath to rid them of ingrained pig dung.

  "Bloody hell," he growled. "It's hard to know what to do first--a nice hot bath, a decent night's kip, a good meal, or an efficient laundry service. Where's the hotel?"

  Dani shrugged, not looking at all discomforted by her dishevelled appearance. "Nothing's booked, so we'd better look for one."

  "A fairly cheap one," Daffyd added. "Our finances won't last if we're extravagant."

  They picked up their suitcases and set off into the teeming streets of the city, looking for accommodation. After a few hundred metres of lugging their baggage through the crowds and being importuned by seemingly every beggar in the city, they decided to ask the way, and were quickly directed into a side street where they found a dilapidated hotel whose better days, judging by the d�cor, had been pre-war. The clerk behind the desk
looked surprised at their sudden appearance in the lobby, but recovered quickly, donning an ingratiating smile and addressing them in a mixture of Italian and Arabic. Dani answered and entered into a spirited discussion of room rates and services available. After several minutes, she nodded and put five pounds on the desk. The money disappeared into the clerk's pocket and two large brass keys clattered onto the polished surface.

  "Two rooms," Dani said. "I'm in one, you two in the other. We share a bathroom."

  "For five pounds a night?" Marc asked. "Hell, in this place we should be getting a suite for that price."

  "For the week."

  The rooms were clean if somewhat Spartan. Two single beds occupied each room, with a nightstand between them and a wardrobe. Curtains hid dusty windows looking out on the street and an iron fire escape outside the windows descended two floors to the ground. A door led to an old-fashioned bathroom with a claw-footed bathtub, basin with a stained mirror, and a toilet. Daffyd leaned over the tub and turned the taps. The plumbing gurgled and groaned, spitting out rusty water that cleared after a few seconds, steam arising from the hot water pouring out. He turned them off and wiped his hand on his trousers.

  "Not too bad. Who's first up for a bath?"

  Marc opened his mouth and then shrugged. "Ladies first, I suppose."

  "Go on, I don't mind," Dani said with a smile. "You need to clean up more than the rest of us."

  "Ouch," Daffyd murmured. "You're next then, Dani."

  Two hours later, all three of them were washed and had changed into fresh clothes. They arranged for their laundry to be taken care of and set out to find a decent restaurant. In view of Marc's disenchantment with local Libyan cuisine, they opted for a tiny Italian eatery. They sat at a small table with a checked tablecloth in a courtyard at the back, under the shade of a spreading tamarind tree. Ripe pods littered the paved courtyard, yielding a sweet-sour smell when stepped on. They ordered pasta and salad, and even found that the proprietor served wine.

  "Libya is Muslim," the waiter explained in passable English, "But the police turn a blind eye if it is served out of sight of the public."