ADVANCE PRAISE FOR
THE CAIRO CODEX
The Cairo Codex is a riveting novel that portrays the unique bonds between two powerful women separated by millennia. Their relationship foreshadows a seismic shift in the Egyptian landscape. A splendidly researched and original historical novel that evokes the beautiful prose and exotic setting of The Red Tent.
—Jeffrey Small, Bestselling Author of
The Jericho Deception and The Breath of God
Lambert’s life in Egypt was the stimulus for this multi-layered historical novel. The Cairo Codex combines the three great religions of the Middle East with modern and historical characters, suspense, and the challenges of life and politics in present day Egypt. This creates an altogether fascinating narrative that is hard to put down!
—Dr. Waguida El Bakary, former Associate Dean,
American University, Cairo
The most rewarding experience for any author is to know that you have written a great book and that perceptive readers will be able to share your story and enjoy your talent. Such is The Cairo Codex—a spell-binding novel of Egyptian history, religion, romance, and politics.
—David Appleby, composer, author of
Bravo Brazil! and Music of Brazil
I loved The Cairo Codex. After reading the Prologue, I was hooked and immediately felt propelled into Cairo. The writing is strong, as are the characters and story. Bravo! I’m looking forward to the next adventure of Justine Jenner.
—Paul Williams, archaeologist,
U.S. Department of Interior
The Cairo Codex takes us into two worlds, one of an ancient time when one notable woman began to influence history, and another when Dr. Justine Jenner discovers a connection between that world and her own. Readers gain insight into the world of archaeology—a world that, to the uninitiated, may seem a quiet, interesting and ordered world of discovery and scholars. Instead, we find the intrigue and thrill of a more sinister underworld where individuals will do almost anything to either steal the glory of a new discovery or hide a truth that may change the way we think forever. Is anyone right to trust anyone? The Cairo Codex can’t be put down until the end of the last page and leaves you wanting more.
—Baroness Miranda Taxi,
Il Pero, Arezzo, Italy
The Cairo Codex merges the past and present into a brilliantly original story. Through an accident of fate, Justine finds herself with a stunning primeval text bound to disrupt the sensitive balance of religion, politics, and history. Lambert deftly weaves ancient and modern Egypt into a novel of intrigue, love, and adventure.
—Diane Zimmerman, author,
The Power of the Social Brain and
the forthcoming Cognitive Capital
In this compelling novel, the lives of two women, two thousand years apart, become intertwined when the ancient diary of one is found by the second, a young archaeologist, during a violent earthquake in a crypt in Old Cairo. Among the incendiary words contained in the lost diary is an indication of the impact of Buddhism on what would become Christianity and Islam. An original and splendidly researched work of fiction, The Cairo Codex encompasses religious and political intrigue in a riveting historical novel.
—Jacquelynn Baas, author,
Smile of the Buddha and
The Mind of the Buddha
Also by Linda Lambert:
The Constructivist Leader
Who Will Save Our Schools
Women’s Ways of Leading
Building Leadership Capacity in Schools
Leadership Capacity for Lasting School Improvement
PUBLISHED BY WEST HILLS PRESS
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced—mechanically, electronically, or by any other means, including photocopying—without written permission of the publisher. Trademarks: West Hills Press, and related trade dress are trademarks or registered trademarks of West Hills Press, LLC, and may not be used without written permission. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
Cover images © 123rf.com/Bartosz Wardziak,
©istockphoto.com/ IZI1947
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by West Hills Press, Atlanta, Georgia
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1933512341
Printed in U.S.A.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
DEDICATION
This novel is dedicated to my son, Tod Taylor Green, whose creativity inspires me and loving spirit nourishes me. Tod’s knowledge of introspection and meditation provided insight into the power of reflection informing the three major religions discussed in this novel.
I also dedicate The Cairo Codex to my mother, Lucretia (Lucrezia) Mae Lashmet, who is portrayed as living the life she had yearned for: imaginative, artistic, and free.
Tod and my daughter, April Smock, had a special relationship with my mother. Together, they shared many creative qualities and seemed to understand things about the world that escaped more ordinary mortals.
Lucretia died in August 2001.
PROLOGUE
Delhi is a great place—most bazaar storytellers in India make their villain hail from there; but when the agony and intrigue are piled highest and the tale halts till the very last breathless sprinkle of cowries has ceased to fall on his mat, why then, with wagging head and hooked forefinger, the storyteller goes on: “But there was a man from Cairo, an Egyptian of the Egyptians, who”—and all the crowd knows that a bit of real metropolitan devilry is coming.
—Rudyard Kipling, Letters of Travel
APRIL 8, 2007
THIRTEEN WORN STEPS DESCENDED to the uneven marble floor of the crypt.
As Justine ducked into the cool air of the cave at the back of St. Sergius Church, she felt as though she were stepping back two thousand years. Nadia, her UNESCO host, had offered to give her a tour of Old Cairo, but she’d set off on her own this morning instead, eager to reacquaint herself with a city that held so many memories of her childhood visit.
Her boot bumped an electrical cord snaking up the stairs, sending two bare bulbs swinging from side to side, shadowing the crypt with patches of light and dark. She took each step with deliberate slowness, allowing her body to absorb the holy site where Mary, Joseph, and Jesus had supposedly made their home after their flight from Palestine. Myth or fact . . . or something in between?
The last time she was here, the crypt had been closed because of groundwater that had seeped in after the ’92 earthquake. She and her mother had sat at the top of the marble steps, staring at the water below. “This is a story of history and magic . . .” her mother began, as she often did. While her mother had unraveled the tale of the goddess Isis, Justine had let her mind slip back to what might have been the ordinary lives of extraordinary people in this lonely place.
She could see now that at one time the crypt had served as a three-aisled chapel with an altar near the front wall. She ran her fingers across the smooth plastered walls surrounding four marble-crowned columns and supported by a roughly hewned wooden ceiling, almost feeling the pulse of stories untold. Shadows painted haunting images across the walls. Perhaps ghosts or saints watch over this holy place. While she wasn’t a religious person, she could, like her mother, be swept up in the power of the historical moment.
She shivered. Somehow, despite the emptiness of the crypt, she was certain that it was here that she would find answers to the questions that drove her, questions that had been pushing against her mind since she was an adolescent.
So what was she seeking?
Nearly four hundred kilometers to the east of Cairo, the morning su
n danced a crystalline ballet across the Gulf of Aqaba. Deep below the shimmering waters, the Arabian plate snuggled up against the African plate as it had for millennia. This morning, the earthen plates quivered—only slightly. But enough. Suppressed energy, like flexing muscles, reached the tipping point. The quiver snaked west across the African plate, under the Sinai landmass, beneath the Gulf of Suez, and into the eastern Sahara, creating a long ribbon of rupture. The quake hit Old Cairo some ninety seconds later.
Justine was still gazing at the arched ceiling when her feet began to move back and forth, her body swaying abruptly. The crypt must be settling into the water table below. Then a jolt ran up her spine and she was slammed against one of the stone pillars. The lights went out, plunging the crypt into blackness.
The shaking continued for what seemed like an eternity, although it must have been only seconds. Terror washed over her. Suddenly she was nine years old again, riding in the backseat of the family car as it approached the San Francisco Bay Bridge. It was 1989 and the Loma Prieta earthquake was about to rip a section of bridge away right in front of them. “Get out of the car!” her father had screamed. Hand in hand, they’d run east, back toward the city of Oakland. Justine turned around just in time to see their Toyota, and her new ballet shoes, teeter on the ragged edge of the torn bridge and then drop into the bay below.
She realized she was squeezing her eyes shut. Forcing herself to open them, she tried to peer through the darkness toward the direction of the exit. Cracking and crashing sounds deafened her as the crypt came alive. Grabbing onto one of the pillars to steady herself, she coughed as a cloud of fine sandstone dust entered her lungs. Then, to her horror, the pillar began to tilt toward her. She dove to the floor, throwing her arms up to protect her head. Plaster from the ceiling and walls rained down, covering her with a veil of dust. To her right, another of the large columns collapsed with a terrible roar.
Since no light entered the crypt, she knew that the stairwell was blocked. Has the whole of St. Sergius collapsed on top of me? Panic possessed her as the first aftershock hit, more ferocious than the initial quake. Huge chunks of plaster tumbled within inches of her face, trapping her in the hollow beneath the collapsed column, which had wedged against the wall of the crypt and held. She didn’t move; she couldn’t move. But she had to get out of here.
She began pulling pieces of plaster away from her with both hands, the jagged edges cutting her fingers and palms. The air was heavy and thick, sandstone dust crowding out precious oxygen. A thought seized her as she found it harder and harder to draw a breath: I’m going to die here and no one knows where I am.
The sound of her heart pounded in her ears. She had to act, to do something. Cautiously, she maneuvered herself into a crouch. The rumbling of the floor beneath her stopped; there hadn’t been an aftershock for several seconds. She waited, relieved by the stillness. Careful not to press her back too forcefully against the column above her, she felt around her feet, finding a heel that had broken off her boot and her canvas bag. Then her fingers touched a surface of parched skin—the flaking edges of what felt like a small book. Something that had fallen out of her bag? She tried to remember if she’d been carrying a book, but quickly gave up and stuffed it into the bag with her other belongings.
She had just stuck her head out from beneath the column, searching for an exit, when the second aftershock hit with such fury that the encrusted ceiling collapsed around her, burying her alive.
SPRING, 2 CE
Sunlight skims across the WATER beneath a pale lavender mist as I watch the Great River Nile come to life around me, warm sand rising between my toes. How long will these mornings be mine? For nearly eight summers I’ve been free to come to this river alone, to listen to my own thoughts. At home, Mother could never feel the warm waters touch her skin, never travel without a man at her side.
I step into the river, embraced by the water rising around my ankles. Two white cranes, startled by the approaching light, take flight. Hundreds of birds ascend in harmony while a single pelican swoops into the water, finds its target, and emerges with a mouthful of squirming catfish. In the glassy waters below, blue and white lotuses with toothed leaves offer temporary homes to restless grasshoppers and water beetles. I try to still my worried thoughts. My husband moves slowly now and speaks of home. What will I say, what will I do, when the time comes to return to Palestine? Will I be listened to?
The waters part, two large protruding eyes and a gray leather mound surfacing into sunlight. I laugh as an indifferent purple gallinule spreads its wings and squats between the hippo’s eyes. Colorful bursts of acacia, hyacinth, and oleander hug the towering palms around us. Inhaling the fragrant air, I feel a wave of exhilaration. What joy nature brings! Although melancholy is often my companion, I am grateful to God for these moments alone.
I kneel to catch some of the warm, clear water in my pot, and slip my sandy feet into leather sandals. Wet sand clings to the fringe on my tunic and I shake it to loosen the sand’s tight hold. The cloth will dry quickly in this heat.
When I lean over the water, my thick blanket of hair divides by a peak at the center of my forehead and frames my oval face, tanned by the Egyptian sun. I see two dimples that deepen when I smile down at myself. I’m beginning to look like my mother.
Still holding on to memories of my youth, I shoulder the pot of water and start up the rise. The first thirst to be satisfied belongs to the sycamore tree near our home. This young sapling came with us from Palestine those many summers ago, the tender root wrapped in damp linen and kept in a small leather pouch at my side. Sometimes we could spare only a few drops of water to keep it alive. No one but I thought it could survive. The sapling is a piece of my life before marriage . . . when I was just me, no longer a child, not yet a wife or mother.
Beyond the sycamore, I water our small garden, tucking my long skirt into my girdle to cradle the vegetables and the figs. As I make my way up the short rise toward home, the sand gives way to patches of pale green grass followed by soil hardened by nature’s neglect. Soon the tears of the goddess, the only source of moisture in the land of Egypt, will swell the waters of the Great River, bringing life to this parched land. Those welcome waters will push our families of Babylon to higher ground, but we’ll return, and then we can plant the rich soil left by the floodwaters with golden grains for breads. Thankfully, the hungry waters will not come until after Passover.
At the crest of the rise, I turn back toward the Great River. In the distance, three giant pyramids stand north of the exalted city of Memphis, once the home of the pharaohs and capital of the greatest empire the world has ever known. My husband often travels across the waters to Memphis to watch Egyptian craftsmen at work and to buy cedar imported from Lebanon for making fine furniture. I have often gone along, comforted by those rare moments when we can be alone, when we can talk about our sons, our life together in this ancient land. As I gaze across the river, I see the remains of a tall stone pharaoh and giant white lion’s head, gods protecting the magnificent golden city, and I spare a moment to pray that our God will protect us. The pot of water grows heavy, and I hurry up the rise to face the day of uncertainty and decision ahead.
Ducking through the portal into our family home, a spacious cave carved into stone, I am surprised to find my husband sitting in shadow on a small chair near the far end of the table. Morning light reflects off the western wall and settles on the glass lantern set into a small niche in the sandstone. A miniature prism of multicolored light captures his attention. Deep in thought, he doesn’t notice that I am here.
“Is anything wrong?” I ask, walking through the light into near darkness.
“I am just resting for a short while before I return to work,” he says. “My body has lasted me these many summers, but I’m afraid my knees will forsake me while I still need them.” Even in the subdued light, I can see his expression, an unfamiliar blend of youthful optimism and aged resignation.
“Are you sure
that is all?” I ask, pulling forth a chair. Is this the moment when he will tell me we must return to our homeland? Is it possible that I could stay behind?
“I’ve many feelings about coming to Egypt, and they weigh on me. We had little choice but to leave when the place of Moses called to us.” He pauses—then, seeming to notice something in my expression, asks, “Where are your thoughts?”
I am embarrassed that my own worries distract me. “I’m sorry, my husband . . . Moses called us?”
“Moses called us.” He nods and continues, assured of my attention. “Herod was a madman, as are his sons. But I’m not sure we’ll ever belong here. My end may be growing near, and our family is far away.”
He has found steady work in Egypt—his fine furniture is sold at the weekly market and word of mouth brings farmers from miles around to purchase his yokes. Now that the Romans ask him to prepare the gates for the new fortifications, our family need not worry about our livelihood as before. At one time, such security was more than we could hope for, but my husband knows the Romans have no love of Jews, and he feels a sense of impending peril.
The morning light broadens its reach, reflecting on the sleeping pallets tucked into the shorter sides of the cave. I knew that marriage to a man of many years would be beset with difficulties, but I thought we could grow old together. Now he is growing old without me. I walk to him, taking his face in my hands. With my thumbs I gently smooth the leathery wrinkles around his soft brown eyes. As always, his eyes speak of both his love and acquaintance with sorrow. On either side of his thin mouth, small curved lines are drawn in memory of his frequent smiles. Gray hairs define his chin, eyebrows, and head. But the core of his character rests deep inside, where quiet courage meets humility.
As I hold his face, a tear warms my hand.
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