by Will Adams
Gaille took back the file, flipped through for the shooting schedule. It listed every major site in Amarna, including the boundary stele, the workmen’s village, the Northern Palace, the Southern Tombs and the Royal Tomb. ‘You really expect to film all these in one day?’ she murmured to Lily.
Lily shook her head. ‘We started getting permissions before Charles had finished his script. We applied for everything, just in case. All we actually need is the boundary stele, the Northern Palace and the Royal Tomb.’
‘Where in the Royal Tomb?’ demanded Captain Khaled.
‘Just the mouth and the burial chamber.’
He squinted unhappily, but seemed to accept it. ‘You will need an escort,’ he declared, thrusting the file back at her. ‘Nasser and I will come with you.’
Gaille and Lily shared a glance. The last thing they wanted was this man treading on their heels all day. ‘That’s very kind,’ said Gaille, ‘but I’m sure we’ll be—’
‘We come with you,’ said Khaled.
Gaille forced a smile. ‘That’s very kind,’ she said.
II
Knox lay petrified in his hospital bed, waiting for the intruder to reappear, grab his pillow, finish what he’d started. But the seconds ticked by and nothing happened. He must have left already. It was a limited comfort, however. Someone wanted him dead, and they knew where to find him too. He needed to get away.
The adrenaline burst had given him a little strength. He moved his right leg to the edge of his bed, let it drop heavily over the side. He waited till he was stable, moved his left leg to join it. It dragged his thighs with it, his backside, then his whole body went crashing to the floor, ripping his catheter free, the IV stand wobbling but remaining upright. He lay there winded, half-expecting the door to fly open. But no one came in. His clothes were on the chest of drawers. He crawled laboriously over, grabbed them down, torn and stained with soot and oil, yet still less conspicuous than a hospital gown. He pulled on his jeans, his shirt, his black jersey. Using the iron bed-frame, he hauled himself to his feet. A dizzying rush of blood, he had to fight past the urge to faint. He let go of the bed-frame, staggered across the room to the door. A moment to compose himself. A deep breath. He opened the door. Morning sun blurred on the facing window. He used the wall to hold himself up as he went out.
‘Hey!’
Knox glanced left. The policeman was smoking by an open window. He flicked the cigarette away, folded his arms, assumed a stern expression, evidently expecting that to be enough to bring Knox to heel. But Knox turned the other way instead, stumbled through swing doors into a stairwell, clutching the banister tight as he staggered down a flight.
‘Hey!’ cried the policeman, from the swing doors. ‘Come back!’
Knox lurched out onto an identical corridor, a porter leaning against the wall, warming his hands around a glass of chai. He heard the policeman shouting, set down his glass, began striding towards Knox. A door to Knox’s left. Locked. Across the corridor to the windows, opened them, looked out. A cement mixer below, a pyramid of sand. He hauled himself onto the windowsill, tipped himself out, just as the policeman grabbed his ankle. Gravity ripped him free, he turned his shoulder, hitting the side of the sand heap, bouncing out onto the driveway, a car swerving around him, the driver shouting and shaking her fist.
He picked himself up, hobbled out past the deserted guard-post onto the road. A lorry forced him back against the wall. A taxi-driver tooted. Knox waved him over, pulled open the rear door, collapsed inside, just as the policeman ran out onto the road.
‘You have money?’ asked the driver.
Knox’s tongue felt as huge and clumsy as a balloon in his mouth. He couldn’t form the words. He searched his pockets instead, found his wallet, produced two tattered banknotes from it. The driver nodded and pulled away, leaving the policeman shouting vainly in their wake. ‘Where?’ he asked.
The question took Knox by surprise. His only concern had been getting away. But he had questions that needed urgent answers: about this mysterious crash that had put him in hospital, the stranger who’d tried to kill him. His last clear memory was meeting his French friend Augustin for a coffee. Maybe he’d know something. He mumbled his address to the driver, then collapsed exhausted across the rear seats.
III
‘Do you have to stand there?’ complained Stafford. ‘You’re in my eye-line.’
Gaille looked helplessly around. Lily had already taken her footage of the boundary stele itself, and now Stafford was setting up the camera to film himself against the desert backdrop, leaving her a choice of standing in his eye-line or actually in shot.
‘Come with me,’ said Lily, gesturing at a thin track that led up the slope. ‘I’ve done my bit.’
The steep path was treacherous with loose shale, but they soon emerged onto a hilltop plateau with a magnificent view over the bleak sandstone plain to the thin ribbon of vegetation that shielded the Nile.
‘Christ!’ muttered Lily. ‘Imagine living here.’
‘Wait till midday,’ agreed Gaille. ‘Or come back during summer. You wouldn’t build a prison here.’
‘So why did Akhenaten choose it? I mean there must have been more to it than this sun rising between the cliffs business.’
‘Amarna was virgin soil,’ said Gaille. ‘Never consecrated to any other god. Maybe that was important. And you must remember that Egypt was originally a fusion of two lands, Upper and Lower Egypt, always vying for the ascendancy. This is effectively the border between the two, so maybe Akhenaten thought it a pragmatic place to rule from. Though there are other theories too.’
‘Such as?’
Gaille pointed north, to where the crescent of cliffs rejoined the Nile. ‘That’s where Akhenaten built his own palace. It’s got plenty of natural shade, yet it’s also close enough to the Nile to have beautiful gardens and pools. And whenever he had business in the main part of Amarna, he rode in on his chariot with soldiers running alongside to shade him from the sun.’
‘All right for some.’
‘Quite. There were hundreds and hundreds of offering tables in the main Aten temple. Each one would have been piled high with meat and fruit and vegetables during ceremonies. Yet the human remains in the cemeteries here show clear signs of anaemia and malnutrition. And then there’s a famous letter from an Assyrian king called Ashuruballit. “Why do you keep my messengers standing in the open sun? They’ll die in the open sun. If the king enjoys standing in the open sun, then let him do so by all means. But, really, why should my people suffer? They will be killed.”’
Lily frowned. ‘You think he was a sadist?’
‘I think it’s possible. I mean, imagine your boss is right, that Akhenaten suffered from some dreadful disease. It isn’t hard to see him taking pleasure in the suffering of others, is it?’
‘No.’
‘But the thing is, I don’t know, not for sure. No one does. Not me, not Fatima, not your boss. We simply don’t have enough evidence. You should try to find some way to make your viewers understand that. Everything in your programme will be best guesses, not fact. Everything.’
Lily squinted shrewdly. ‘Is this about what Fatima told us last night?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Those talatat showing Akhenaten without genitalia. You’re not comfortable about them, are you? That’s why you went to bed.’
Gaille could feel herself blushing. ‘I just think it’s too early to be sure one way or the other.’
‘Then why did she tell us?’
‘This is a wonderful part of Egypt. The people are enchanting, the history is magical, but hardly anyone ever comes here. Fatima wants to change that.’
‘And we’re the bait?’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite that bluntly.’
‘It’s fine,’ grinned Lily. ‘Actually, I’m glad. I’d like the programme to do something good.’
‘Thank you.’
Lily nodded. ‘Can I ask you a really stup
id question? It’s been bugging me ever since we got down here, but I haven’t dared ask.’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s about pronunciation. I mean, the Ancient Egyptian alphabet didn’t have vowels, right? So how do you know how all these names like Akhenaten and Nefertiti were pronounced?’
‘That’s anything but stupid,’ smiled Gaille. ‘The truth is, we don’t, not for sure. But we do have some good clues from other languages, particularly Coptic.’
‘Coptic?’ frowned Lily. ‘I thought Coptic was a church?’
‘It is,’ agreed Gaille. ‘It all goes back to Alexander the Great’s conquest of Egypt. He introduced Greek as the language of administration, but all the people still spoke Egyptian, of course, so the scribes gradually developed the habit of writing down Egyptian speech phonetically with the Greek alphabet, which did have vowels. That eventually became Coptic, which in turn became the language of early Christianity here, and the name stuck. So whenever we find an Egyptian word written in Coptic, we get a very good idea of its original pronunciation. Not perfect, of course, particularly for the Amarna era, which finished over a thousand years before Alexander. Our best guesses for that actually come from Akkadian cuneiform rather than Coptic; and Akkadian is a bastard, believe me. That’s why Akhenaten’s name has been transcribed in so many different ways over the years. The Victorians actually knew him as Khu-en-aten or Ken-hu-aten, but recently we’ve …’ She broke off, put her palm flat upon her belly, her breath suddenly coming hot and fast.
‘What is it?’ asked Lily anxiously.
‘Nothing. Just a little turn, that’s all.’
‘This wretched sun.’
‘Yes.’ She gathered herself, found a smile. ‘Would you mind terribly if I went back to the car, sat down for a bit?’
‘Of course not. You want me to come with you?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’ Her legs were unsteady as she made her way down the path to where the Discovery was parked. The tourist policemen were dozing in the front of their truck. She took Stafford’s book from the dashboard, sat sideways on the driver’s seat, the dark synthetic fabric feeling gluey from the sun. She flipped through the pages, found what she was looking for.
Yes. Just as she remembered.
But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. Could it?
IV
The moment the IV stand had crashed to the floor, Peterson had known his opportunity was gone: the best he could hope for was to get out unseen. He’d hidden behind the door as the policeman had looked in, had slipped out when he’d gone hunting for a nurse, through the swing doors at the end of the corridor, down two floors and out through a fire exit. Then he’d sat in his Toyota, taking a few moments to gather himself, think things through.
He prided himself on his strength of character, Peterson. On his ability to hold his nerve. But he undeniably felt the pressure right now. Knox was sure to blab about the intruder in his room. Even if he didn’t remember yesterday’s events, he’d have no trouble describing his assailant, and Farooq would make the link in a heartbeat. Straight-out denial wouldn’t save Peterson. He needed an alibi. He needed to get back to the dig.
A window on the first floor opened at that moment. He looked up in time to see Knox hauling himself out, tumbling onto the sand pile beneath, then scrambling to his feet and staggering out onto the road.
A huge shiver ran through Peterson. He felt overwhelmed by a sense of privilege. God had wanted him to see this. It followed that He still had work for Peterson to do. He knew in his heart what it was too, and he accepted his mission without hesitation.
He put the Toyota into gear, followed Knox out onto the road, watched him collapse into a taxi. He followed the taxi east across Alexandria until it pulled up outside a tall grey block of flats. Knox climbed unsteadily out, vanished inside. Peterson found a place to park then went to check the names on the buzzers. An Augustin Pascal lived on the sixth floor. A man of that name was Alexandria’s most celebrated underwater archaeologist. Surely it was him Knox had gone to see. The lift doors opened. Two women emerged chattering into the lobby. Peterson couldn’t afford to be seen. He ducked his head and hurried back to his Toyota to await the opportunity he was certain his Lord would provide.
EIGHTEEN
I
Lily watched curiously as Gaille walked down to the Discovery. The way she grabbed Stafford’s book from the dashboard and flipped avidly through it reminded her that Gaille had also pestered Stafford with questions about the Copper Scroll.
Something was up, she was sure of it.
She made her own way down, approaching quietly from behind, drawing to within a few paces before Gaille heard her, snapping Stafford’s book closed, holding it down low as she turned, clumsily trying to hide it. ‘Christ!’ she said, putting a hand over her heart. ‘You gave me a fright.’
‘Sorry,’ said Lily. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ She put her hand on Gaille’s shoulder. ‘Are you quite sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine. Please don’t worry.’
‘How can I not? After all you’ve done for us.’
‘It’s nothing. Really.’
Lily allowed herself a mischievous smile. ‘It’s the Copper Scroll, isn’t it?’
Gaille’s eyes went wide. ‘How did you know?’
‘Really, Gaille. We need to play some poker before I leave. Come on. Spill.’
Gaille’s eyes flickered anxiously up to Stafford, but the need to confide was evidently too strong. ‘You won’t tell anyone?’ she asked. ‘Not until I’ve had a chance to think through what it means, at least.’
‘You have my word,’ nodded Lily.
Gaille opened the book, showed her the clusters of Greek letters from the Copper Scroll. ‘See these?’ she said. ‘These first three would have been pronounced something like Ken-Hagh-En.’
‘Kenhaghen?’ frowned Lily. ‘You don’t mean … as in Akhenaten?’
‘Yes. I think I do.’
‘But that makes no sense.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Gaille gave a mirthless laugh. ‘But the Copper Scroll is a Jewish document, remember, and you’re the ones here doing a programme on Akhenaten as Moses.’
‘Jesus!’ muttered Lily. She looked up at Stafford. ‘I’m sorry, Gaille,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to let me tell him.’
She shook her head vigorously. ‘He won’t thank you.’
‘Are you kidding? This is dynamite.’
Gaille held up Stafford’s book. ‘Haven’t you read this? He made his money and his reputation on the back of it, claiming that the Copper Scroll treasures came from the Temple of Solomon. You want to tell him he’s got it all wrong, that they really came from here?’
‘From here?’
‘If this really is Akhenaten’s name,’ nodded Gaille, ‘that has to be the implication.’
‘But the Copper Scroll was in Hebrew,’ protested Lily.
‘Yes, but copied from another, older document. Maybe the Essenes translated it when they copied it. After all, if you’re right about Akhenaten being Moses, the Essenes would be by far his most likely true heirs.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Have you read Akhenaten’s poem, the Hymn of the Aten? It outlines his way of thinking. Basically, he divided everything into sunlight and darkness, good and evil. That was exactly how the Essenes viewed the world. They called themselves the Sons of Light and they saw themselves as engaged in a life-or-death struggle against the Sons of Darkness. They practised a form of sun-worship too. They thought of God as the “perfect light” and they prayed to the east every morning, beseeching the sun to rise. They even carried trowels with them to bury their faeces so they wouldn’t offend the sun. They used a solar calendar, just like they did here. And Amarna faces twenty degrees south of due east, you know, and Qumran is on exactly the same axis.’
‘Jesus!’ muttered Lily.
‘Essene ritual linen was Egyptian, as were their dyes. Their burials were Egyptian. Arc
haeologists even found an ankh inscribed on a headstone at Qumran, and the ankh was Akhenaten’s symbol of life, as you know. They marked up their scrolls with red ink too, a practice only otherwise found in Egypt. Then there’s the Copper Scroll itself. Ancient Egyptians sometimes inscribed important documents on copper. No one else did – not as far as I know, at least. And the other Dead Sea Scrolls are absolutely packed with references to the Essenes’ spiritual leader, a Messiah-like figure known only as the “Teacher of Righteousness”. That’s precisely how Akhenaten was known here in Amarna.’
‘It’s true then. It has to be.’
‘Not necessarily. Over a thousand years passed between Amarna and Qumran, remember. And everything I just said is circumstantial. No one’s ever found a smoking gun.’
‘The Copper Scroll isn’t circumstantial,’ pointed out Lily.
A few moments’ silence. ‘No,’ admitted Gaille. ‘It isn’t.’
II
The decorators had been out of Augustin Pascal’s flat for nearly a week now, but they’d left their distinctive smell behind, that sour cocktail of paint and solvent. It was most noticeable at this time of the morning, with the unwelcome intrusion of another dawn, the way it combined with his low-wattage acid hangover and the mocking empty space on the mattress beside him. Two weeks he’d had this damned bed, and still untested. Something had gone seriously wrong in his life.
A pounding on his front door. His bastard neighbours were always complaining. He turned onto his side, muffled his ear with his pillow, waited for them to fuck off. God, but he felt tired. His expensive new bed and mattress, his fine linen, his duck-down pillows. He couldn’t remember ever sleeping so badly or feeling such relentless fatigue.
The pounding continued. With a cry of exasperation, he pushed himself to his feet, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, went to open his door. ‘What the fuck … ?’ he scowled when he saw Knox. But then he noticed his friend’s cuts and bruises. ‘Jesus! What the hell happened?’
