“It makes sense.”
There was dead air.
He checked to see if the signal had gone. “Vanessa?”
“Still here. I was thinking… Could you do with a writer? Someone to report on your discoveries in Armana?”
“It’s very early days. I’ve found more clay tablets. There were definitely two stories: Meryra’s secrets and Yanhamu’s life. I believe his story was written down by his wife after his death. I think they loved each other very much.”
“So could you?”
“Could I have a writer? I guess so… although…” And then he realized something, “Have you got a recommendation, is that it?”
“Me, dummy.”
His heart raced. “When can you get here?”
“I’m in Cairo.” She laughed and he imagined her cute crooked smile. “I’ll be there by tomorrow morning.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
1321 BCE, Thebes
Yanhamu squatted by the pool at the rear of the temple of Amun. He recalled standing in the same spot eight years ago with Nefer-bithia, the magistrate’s daughter. She had dared him to throw a stone into the tranquil water. So he had done it and a priest had chased them. The memory made him smile, and he flicked a stone over the edge. The way the ripples spread made him think of events and consequences: something small, spreading outward and wider, becoming something else, becoming something bigger.
He was no longer dressed as an officer in Pharaoh’s army, but wore a simple white tunic of indeterminable status. In his own life, he reflected, the stone had been Captain Ani, scarred by Laret. Because of the scar, Ani had become Serq—the Scorpion. Instead of revenge, Yanhamu had discovered friendship, trust and truth. Revenge had become incidental because he knew that his sister wanted him to have a pure heart and that Serq was doomed to be eaten by the Devourer. Life in this world, like the ripples in the pool, lasted only a short time, whereas the afterlife was like the Great River: a flow that had been since the beginning and would be until the end of time.
He dropped another stone into the water and watched the light play across the surface. He thought then about the events that had brought him back here.
Although Meryra’s coded notes did not explain Smenkhkare, Yanhamu was pretty sure who it must have been. Yanhamu had delivered the truth to Tutankhamen and, through him, to the gods. Having completed his mission, he bade Thayjem farewell and caught a boat sailing north.
Meryra’s final entries had been about fulfilling his destiny. When Horemheb persuaded Ay to take the old way out, Meryra knew it was time to leave and join the woman he recognized as true leader. He had found her in an ancient fortress town in the Delta with thousands of people who believed in Akhenaten, who believed in Nefertiti. She had known it would be impossible to move her husband’s body from Akhetaten. In the open, his enemies would destroy it. And so between them they had hatched a plan: Meryra would construct secret tombs for them and give them both a map so that each ka—their vital spirits—would find one another on Earth as well as in the afterlife.
As Horemheb persecuted the people of the Two Lands without true Egyptian blood, more and more of the Ibiru united under Nefertiti’s leadership. They no longer prayed to Ra or the Aten, but rather their god who had passed to the afterlife—and become one with Osiris, god of the underworld.
Before Yanhamu reached the ancient fortress town, he heard tell that the army had swept through and chased the Ibiru from the land. Nefertiti had died and become one with Isis. Her high priest, Osarseph, the priest of Osiris, led them to the mountains. They said he had taken the blue crown of leadership and the people called him Osar-moses.
Shocked, Yanhamu found the fortress town and its temples burning and dismantled. He stood on the hill surrounded by the scattered stones of the temple and prayed to Osiris, telling him that Meryra had fulfilled his mission and could be found in the Field of Reeds. Afterwards, he prayed for a long time to Nefertiti—who was Isis—asking her to look after his sister until he got there. When he finished he knew it was time for his life to change. He walked back until he hailed a small sailing boat to take him to a port. There he changed out of his officer’s uniform and enrolled on a cargo boat heading for Elephantine.
At the house of Lord Khety he discovered a new magistrate had moved in. All they could say was that Lord Khety and his family were no longer in the town. And so Yanhamu had returned to Thebes hoping a sign would tell him where to go, but he had found none and the water by the temple only seemed to reflect memories.
He wandered around the city, along the Avenue of Sphinxes and through the pylons at the great temple of Karnak. Nefertiti had built a pylon here, but it was said to have mysteriously collapsed, as though the gods themselves were passing judgement on the hated regime. Yanhamu no longer believed such propaganda. He passed priests playing senet in the shade of temple walls and decided he too should find protection from the intense heat of the day. He knew where he would go to consider his future: a grove of sycamore fig trees on the edge of the city, a quiet place disturbed only by the sparrows and occasional goat.
He sat for a long time, fingers of sunlight breaking through the canopy. Another memory came to him then. When he was learning to write hieroglyphs, he had tried to impress Khety’s daughter by writing her name in the wood of one of these trees. The thought made him smile. He got up and searched for the engraving. When he found it, he blinked in surprise. Beneath his poor attempt at Nefer-bithia was the inscription: Akhmin. After a second’s realization he began to run to the merchants’ quay.
If he could get passage on a fast boat, Akhmin was only two days away.
As the capital of the ninth nome, Akhmin had a lively merchants’ quay. When Yanhamu asked whether Magistrate Kehty worked here, a cargo handler pointed him in the direction of the lower nobles section.
He found the house easily and the sign on the door said City Magistrate. The plaster on the stones was cracked and the paint faded; it was a far cry from the houses Lord Khety had lived in in Thebes and Elephantine. He took a deep breath and quietly opened the door to a small courtyard.
A good-looking woman sat under a pomegranate tree, reading.
He said, “I’m looking for Lord Khety.”
She looked up, startled at first and then smiled. “Yani!”
“Bith.” He ran to her and they embraced.
She pushed him away gently. “I’m afraid Father died. I’m the judge here now.”
“I am sorry to hear about your farther but I didn’t come back for Lord Khety, Nefer-bithia. I’ve come back for you.”
“Good.” She grinned and punched his arm like she had when they were kids. “You can start by proving yourself worthy as my assistant. Then”—she kissed him—“we will see what happens next.”
Author’s Note
The Amarna letters exist and do include hidden meaning but the historical stories of Yanhamu and Meryra are pure fiction.
Pharaoh Akhenaten was originally entombed in his great city of Amarna. Where his mummy was moved to is a mystery but is likely to have coincided with events similar to those described in the book. There was significant turmoil and political manoeuvrings after his death. Nefertiti wanted to take power and continue the revolution of her husband. There is plenty of evidence, such as the destroyed pylons at Karnak, to suggest she did rule for a while. Whether or not she took the alternate identity of Smenkhare or whether 'he' was some other, unrecorded, relative of Akhenaten, we do not know. We also don't know what happened to Nefertiti. She appears to have been immensely popular with her followers and she may well have led them into hiding. If they were outlaws then her people would have been known as the Ibiru which is likely to have been the origin of the word Hebrew. The Berlin bust certainly appears to be that of an older Nefertiti suggesting she lived on for many years. Her tomb has never been found. Her connection with Moses is conjecture. However there is evidence that he was indeed a priest of Osiris and his full name would have been Osarseph or Osar-moses.
There is no evidence to suggest that Moses believed God was Osiris or Ra or the Aten for that matter, however it does make for an interesting story.
Acknowledgments
For two years I became obsessed with Egyptology as I researched and wrote this book. Rewritten four years later, I'm grateful to my wife for making me cut a great deal of detail that bogged down the early drafts. When immersed it's often hard to see what will be interesting to the general reader. Hopefully you haven't felt I've provided too little detail of ancient Egyptian religion, Tutankhamen and the strange events surrounding the discovery of his tomb, Lord Carnarvon's death and Carter's subsequent behaviour. Hello to the Scott-Rimington family who joined me on a trip to Egypt. Thanks for your friendship and accepting me as your pseudo-guide. Also to Jules Round and Andy Bellingham for your company. I must also thank Mohamed Albasha as the genuine Egyptologist and guide. Also to the Egyptologist Dr Aidan Dodson for advice. The Isis puzzle is real and it was discussions with the brilliant inventor, Andrew Reeves, that gave me the initial idea for the story. Thanks also to John Christiansen for additional research and to Pete Tonkin and David Bailey for their editorial comments. Once again, a big thank you to Richard Sheehan, my line editor for the diligent work you do. As always, any mistakes are my own. Finally, concerned that this story should not be seen as anti-Semitic, I'm grateful to my friend, Jonathan Abratt who I used as my sounding board for all things Jewish.
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Read the start of Kate Blakemore’s first outing in
I DARE YOU…
ONE
With the sea air in his nostrils and the sunrise turning the ocean to liquid gold, he considered it one of those good-to-be-alive days. Which he found ironic considering his old job.
The humidity was always a problem. Except for this morning. An unusual cool breeze aided his daily run along the coast. He vaulted the wall into his garden and began his routine of press-ups and burpees. Three sets of a hundred. He stretched and dived into the pool.
When he emerged, his careworn housekeeper was waving at him. He’d learned a while back that it was too dangerous to have an attractive maid. There were plenty of pretty young women in the city. Easy to pick up. Easy to leave.
“Señor que es urgente!”
He snatched up a towel and followed the housekeeper into the air-conditioned villa. She pointed at the study.
He could already hear the beep, and the signal was confirmed by a blinking red light on the console.
“Gracias, Cristina.” He flicked the response switch that meant he was ready to take a call and asked Cristina for an espresso.
Five minutes later, dressed and espresso consumed, the phone rang. There were no introductions but he knew the voice. Codename Mustang. He would never use that name even though they both knew the line was scrambled and untraceable.
“I may need you for a cleaning job.”
“May?”
“Depends how the dice fall,” Mustang said, trying to draw him in no doubt.
“I’m retired.”
“Or in exile?”
Cristina bustled past the patio window and he realized he was looking out at the palms, the beach and blue ocean beyond. Yes, Panama had its downsides, which was mainly the humidity. But better hot than the cold. He didn’t like cold weather. Nightly electrical storms provided an amazing light show which he figured was down to the humidity. And since the canal had been widened, Panama City had become Central America’s version of Dubai. Maybe it wasn’t nirvana, but as an escape it was pretty damn good.
Mustang continued: “Just this one and you’ll have enough money to retire properly. I presume you have the same account?”
“Yes.”
“Check it while I send you the details.” The line abruptly ended.
The advance in his bank account was more than he was usually paid in total. The reference code was relevant. Intrigued, he connected to a secure site and used the code to download a file.
Cristina showed no surprise at his request for a pack of gum. He popped a stick in his mouth and unconsciously played with the paper, folding and refolding. It helped him think and at other times it filled long hours of waiting.
He read the file. Remove the guy now; that would seem the easiest option. Mustang didn’t explain. There was no why, just the who. The guy was part of Mustang’s plan, and once over, the best case was it’d clean itself up. No need for his services. But plan for the worst. That was why Mustang needed someone. Someone he could trust to do it thoroughly.
The file had scenarios. The job: to get people to make the best case happen. And if it didn’t then any witnesses had to be dealt with.
The final payment didn’t depend on the scenario. He could buy a small island plus change for that. No more living in Panama. Maybe he’d have a host of pretty girls around the place.
He would never speak directly to Mustang again. Unless something went wrong. But nothing would.
He sat by the pool and re-read the file. Swallows darted across the water and their dips for flies caused a myriad of small ripples. He looked at the papers he’d been unconsciously folding and saw that he’d made a horse.
Why was Mustang so concerned? What had triggered the actions? The main guy was already in play, but which scenario would occur?
A young bird misjudged and hit the water. It flapped and paddled frantically before taking to the air again. He kept his eye on it, watched it swoop around, dipping perfectly the next time. There would be no second shot for him. It had to be right first time, whichever scenario played out. That meant being in control. He needed someone in the States and, he realized, someone else. In that moment his plan began to form. Watch, track and, if necessary, take control. He knew who to use: an ex-lover. She’d be attracted by the money and intrigue and maybe the promise. He needed her in England. In Windsor. That wouldn’t be a problem.
Getting her close to the girl may prove more of a challenge.
Time for the Janitor to come out of retirement.
TWO
There are days when a moment, an action, a decision, can determine the course of the rest of our lives. Sometimes we have a premonition or we can look back and recognize a warning sign. For Kate, the change was heralded by a thought, a random thought, as she stood at the rear bedroom window: how much of another person can we really know? Do we only see what they want us to see?
After six months, she was pretty certain the guy who had just left her Windsor apartment was the one for her. Mr Right, as her sister would tease. Sure, Kate didn’t know everything, but didn’t she know enough? A lifetime together would provide plenty of time for all the little facts and details.
Joe appeared at the corner and walked past the garages to his old silver Audi parked along by the fence. Even though he called himself just a salesman for a mobile phone company, anyone could see he was much more than that: the way he held himself, the way he walked with strong, confident strides.
He glanced up as he opened the car door and flashed his perfect Hollywood smile.
“Get a new car,” she mouthed, and he laughed.
Joe was generous with many things, although never to himself. He would happily treat her, but when it came to something for himself, he would make do. “Need versus want,” he would say. “The auto works fine and I don’t need a new one.”
“What about wanting something?”
“How about: I want you—and you are all I need?”
She smiled at the memory of the conversation. It was a good line, a little corny perhaps, but it worked, just like the line he used when they first met. She checked her watch as the Audi pulled away: 8:05. Whenever she was working part-time as a physio at the private tennis and health club, she used the late start to prepare breakfast for them both. But Joe’s schedule always seemed so precise,
and there he was again driving off at the same time. That side of him confused her slightly. On the one hand he was relaxed and fun but on the other he liked his routine. A mild case of OCD, perhaps? She could live with his tidiness—so long as the tins in the cupboard weren’t lined up with their labels facing the same way.
The thought of tidiness prompted Kate into action. It was her morning to clean the bathroom and she also needed to pop into town.
She was crouching by the bath when the home phone rang. Turning quickly made her heel knock into the bath panel. The panel popped out along part of the top edge. She tried to push it back but it immediately sprang away, only wider this time. Now she could see the dusty floor beneath the bath. In her opinion, no one should ever see the fragility of their home. Builders should make houses into secure cocoons, where bricks and dirt and spiders were on the outside. The thought of a giant house spider lurking under the bath made her neck prickle.
The phone stopped ringing.
Kate knelt beside the bath and, trying not to look into the dark space, gave the panel a solid push. It didn’t go back. There was no escaping it: she had to look at what she was doing. After a moment’s consideration, she decided the top and bottom would have to be manoeuvred into place. It would have to start with the whole panel coming away. Carefully, as though slow movement would be less likely to result in spiders running out, Kate pulled the panel free from the bath.
She took a breath and looked at the strip along the floor where the bottom edge slotted in. Something caught her eye. A blue bag, the size of a small handbag, nestled under the tub. Gritting her teeth she reached for the bag, pinched a corner between finger and thumb, and pulled it free. She stood, took a step backwards and stared at it.
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