‘Gladstone?’ Mayne exclaimed, remembering what Kitchener had told him. ‘But you have surely been at loggerheads with him over your insistence on remaining in Khartoum.’
‘His involvement has been kept in the strictest secrecy, because he has not wanted his name to be associated with a quest that some might see as mystical. But he has in truth been my staunchest supporter. He tried his damnedest to dissuade me from returning here, and his irritation with me has a genuine basis to it. He tried to persuade me that what I had sought could wait until the Mahdist revolt had dissipated and we could return to the Sudan peaceably, but I told him the revolt was never likely to end within our lifetimes, and the quest would be lost. I felt that if I could make a discovery that drew together one who was regarded as a Christian soldier and another an Islamist visionary, then there was hope for some unity of vision that might emphasise the singularity of our beliefs, not their differences, and make war less of a certainty.’
‘So you came out here for that purpose? For the archaeology?’
‘My purpose in coming out here was in truth as I have told you: to arrange for the safe passage of my staff and their families from Khartoum, and to do all I could for the people of this city. But my archaeological quest was not disassociated from my aim to lift the veil of conflict from this place, and to stem the jihad.’
‘Did you find the temple?’
‘Muhammad Ahmad showed me the place, and I set my people to work. The temple was deeply buried, and it took months of effort. By the time the inner chamber was revealed, Muhammad Ahmad was no longer part of the picture; he had become the Mahdi, and the centre of the whirlwind that envelops us now. It was only after I had discovered the wall carvings and brought them to the light of day, when his spies among my workmen reported back to him, that he understood what he had seen as a boy for what it was. It was not early writing or some ancient spell. It was a map.’
‘Did you show it to him?’
Gordon shook his head. ‘By then we were enemies. But he sent his followers after me, to try to take the carvings. I kept them here in the storerooms of the palace, hidden away, and eventually put them on the Abbas. To enthuse them, he let his followers believe that he was after gold, that I had found clues to some ancient El Dorado of the desert. Indeed, that is what the first pharaohs who came here thought too, seeking to extend the borders of Egypt beyond the desert but also hunting the oases and wells for evidence of an ancient civilisation, just as we do today. If they truly found their El Dorado we shall never know, for they were repelled by the warriors they called the guardians of the desert, savage fighters like the Ansar of the Mahdi today. In two places where Akhenaten went I have found depictions of battle against Egyptians in which these enemies are victorious, almost as if Akhenaten were leaving the images as a warning for others from Egypt not to follow him.’
Mayne thought for a moment. ‘The crocodile temple, where I saw the image of Akhenaten. It had just such a depiction of carnage in battle.’
Gordon leaned forward, his voice intense. ‘It was the hunt for ancient gold, treasure they believed I had hidden away for secret dispatch to Egypt, that led the Mahdi’s men to ransack the Abbas, diving repeatedly on the wreck to search for it. But little did they know that there was a far greater treasure concealed there, a treasure that the Mahdi had sent his emirs to discover when they waylaid and murdered Stewart and his men.’
Mayne looked at the crocodile symbol on the drawing, and suddenly remembered the channel that Lieutenant Tanner had discovered at the cataract, from the Nile to the crocodile temple. He studied the drawing again, seeing the interconnectedness of the lines, their origin at one source. ‘Do you remember at Chatham studying hydraulic engineering, looking at Venice and the island cities of northern India? This isn’t a labyrinth. It’s a complex of canals, some of them rising over the others. That entrance must lead from a water source, a river. I think the reason why this has never been found is that it’s underground.’
Gordon nodded. ‘Agreed. And I think the water source had to be a river, to keep enough volume flowing into a complex like this, and to keep it from stagnating.’
‘In this part of the world that can only mean the Nile.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Amarna, Akhenaten’s capital city?’
‘Schliemann and Chaille-Long explored the site exhaustively and found no evidence. They even employed divers using compressed air cylinders to inspect the edges of the river underwater, but they found no indication of a channel.’
Mayne was at a loss. ‘Somewhere out here in the desert?’
Gordon put his finger on the blank square in the centre of the drawing where the Aten sun-disc should have been. ‘Until we find that piece of the puzzle, we are floundering in the dark. I believe that there may have been something there, a depiction, a symbol, a hieroglyphic inscription, that might have given some indication. That’s what I’ve been out here searching for, scouring any site we find in the desert with connections to Akhenaten. That’s why Kitchener was so excited by your report of the crocodile temple. We believe there may have been clues in other depictions that Akhenaten had carved in these places. If this was his dream, then he would have wanted to indicate it somehow, his singular achievement.’
Mayne stared hard at the depiction. ‘But what was it, this place?’
Gordon’s eyes blazed. ‘A great city. An underground city.’
Mayne stared at the arms of the Aten. ‘A city of light.’
Gordon put his finger on the papyrus-scroll hieroglyph. ‘A city of knowledge. Schliemann and I spoke about it before he departed for Troy. He had a most remarkable suggestion. He posited that by doing away with the old priesthood, Akhenaten would have been liberating knowledge kept for countless generations in the temples of Egypt, written down on scrolls and passed on by word of mouth through the temple clerks, knowledge that the priests controlled and kept secret, knowledge that they could use sparingly when needed to enhance their prestige, to impress on the people the favour given by the gods to the priesthood. Schliemann is a student not only of Troy and Homer and the age of heroes but also of the very distant past, of the very beginnings of humanity before the first cities and the first priests. He believes that much knowledge of medicinal cures from those early times when humans lived close with nature had been lost by the time of the pharaohs, but not all of it. He thinks that Akhenaten may have wished to do away with the old temples, and to create one place that would be the only temple, one place to worship one God. And in it he would put all of that accumulated knowledge, a great compendium of it collected from the beginning of time.’
‘So not a city of knowledge,’ Mayne murmured. ‘A temple of knowledge.’
‘Do you see, Mayne? That is what I have been seeking. Here, in this city of the walking dead, whom I shall soon join.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Take my journal for the last days of Khartoum. It ends today; when I saw that you had arrived, I retrieved it from my bedroom and quickly finished it. See that it reaches Captain John Howard at the School of Military Engineering. Do you know him?’
Mayne nodded. ‘Kitchener told me he is to have charge of all the artefacts you send back.’
Gordon swept his hand around the room. ‘Sadly not including any of these. Everything here will be looted and destroyed. And the original carved panels are lost beneath the sands of the Nile.’
‘There may be hope one day,’ Mayne said. ‘When this land is free of the jihad, it may be possible to bring compressor divers to the spot.’
Gordon lit another cigarette, and exhaled forcefully. ‘This land might one day fall again under our jurisdiction, but it will never be free of those who believe in jihad. And for those whom the Mahdi has appointed as his successors, those of his closest circle who know the true wealth of our El Dorado, the quest for the temple of lig
ht will be all-consuming and never-ending, becoming in their minds like the light that shines through from the east as they pray. It is a discovery that we must hope does not become the domain of those who would use it to gather more supporters bent on destruction and jihad. Whomsoever among my people are able to continue this quest must know that they are not the only ones.’
‘Kitchener will surely take up the mantle.’
‘Perhaps. But he will be driven towards his own destiny. Schliemann cannot hope to finish Troy in his lifetime. Von Slatin is a prisoner of the Mahdi, and may never be free. And Chaille-Long I no longer trust. His theories of the location of this complex do not seem remotely credible, some as far-fetched as Atlantis. He has gone back to America and may not be heard from again.’
‘Then it is for archaeologists of the future.’
Gordon wrapped the journal in waxed brown paper, and tied it up with string from his desk. He passed it to Mayne, who reached into his tunic pocket and took out the folded paper containing Gordon’s edict abolishing slavery, and then slipped it under the paper and into the journal. Gordon took another drag on his cigarette, and tapped the package. ‘Have no fear: I’ve learned my lesson from Reflections in Palestine. This book contains no mystical ramblings, no musings about God. It’s the journal of a commanding Royal Engineer, full of facts and figures. But that’s what it’s been about, Mayne, when all is said and done. It is facts and figures that would have kept Khartoum alive, yet it is facts and figures, minutely calculated by Wolseley – daily average distances up the Nile, ideal tonnages of whaleboats – that have inhibited our rescue and will lead to the city’s destruction.’
‘I will see to it that it reaches Howard.’
‘One last request.’ He pointed to Mayne’s holster. ‘I wonder whether I might have a look at your revolver?’
‘Certainly.’ Mayne unholstered his pistol and passed it to him. ‘Webley Government model, .455 calibre. The latest improvements, bought this year. The best revolver yet available for campaign service, in my opinion.’
Gordon inspected it appreciatively, spinning the cylinder and breaking it open, careful not to eject the cartridges. ‘My problem is this.’ He took out his own revolver and placed it on the table. ‘Webley-Pryse, in .450 calibre. Perfectly serviceable, but lacks punch. I don’t think it would put down a dervish coming at me with forty thousand angels egging him on. If I’d had time to visit my agent in Piccadilly before coming out here, I’d have bought one of yours.’
Mayne took out the box of cartridges from his belt, handed them to Gordon and picked up the Webley-Pryse. ‘A straight swap. Your need is greater than mine. I just wish I could help you with a sword.’
‘I’m most grateful, Mayne. And not to worry.’ Gordon reached behind the desk and pulled out a Pattern 1856 Royal Engineers officer’s sword. He unsheathed it halfway, revealing the blade, immaculately polished and oiled. ‘When I was a cadet at the Royal Military Academy, a fearsome old quartermaster sergeant taught us swordplay, a man by the name of Cannings. Probably long gone by the time you were there.’
‘Quartermaster Sergeant Major Cannings, sir. Probably still there now. We all thought he was old enough to have been at Waterloo.’
‘Gentlemen,’ he would say. ‘These ’ere swords is not for display.’
‘And then he’d proceed to split a melon in half with it.’
Gordon suddenly gave Mayne a steely look, all humour gone. ‘Well, I intend to do Cannings proud. Only this time it won’t be melons. There will be people out there among my staff shooting themselves rather than be caught by the dervishes, and there will be others who will go over to the Mahdi. But if I get half a chance, I’m going down fighting. Soldier first, engineer second. You remember?’
‘Impossible to forget, sir.’
‘Will you see to that, Mayne? Will you give me that half-chance?’
Before Mayne could think of a reply, Gordon had walked over to the sideboard to pick up his brandy glass and take another cigarette from the box. He lit it and took a deep lungful, and then downed the glass in one, exhaling with satisfaction and pouring himself another. He took it and stood in front of Mayne, the pallor in his cheeks tinged with colour, then raised the glass and the cigarette. ‘And you need have no final qualms that I might go over to the Mahdi. He has banned alcohol and tobacco. I still need my creature comforts.’ Mayne thought he detected a twinkle in those brilliant blue eyes, a brief spark in a face haunted by what he had been obliged to oversee during the past weeks and months, and by what lay ahead.
Mayne held out a hand. ‘I must go. It will be light in a few hours.’
‘Of course. And thank you for coming. It has been most agreeable. I fear I’ve rambled, but I am a man not used to company, especially that of a fellow sapper with such congenial shared interests.’ They shook hands, and Gordon led him to the door. ‘And look after that diary. If there’s anything to be salvaged from this sorry mess, it’s in there.’
Mayne began to walk down the corridor. There was a chill in the air; the warmth of early evening had gone. He felt like a priest walking away from a condemned man’s cell for the last time, but it was worse than that; he was more like an executioner having sized up his victim. He felt nauseous, but perhaps because of lack of food and the terrible stench, and he was suddenly light headed, and blinked hard. His mind was reeling from what he had heard. He had to keep up his strength for what was to come next.
Gordon had remained at the door, watching him; now he spoke again. ‘And Edward?’
Mayne stopped, and turned around. ‘Sir?’
‘Godspeed, Edward.’
Mayne heard the words, and then he heard his own voice, disembodied and wavering, as if he were watching himself on a distant stage.
‘Godspeed to you too, sir.’
24
Mayne slid off the reed boat into the water and pushed it towards the bank of the creek, feeling his feet sink into the ooze as he clung to the stern. The water was cool and dark, and he tried not to think of the horrors he had seen floating in it off Khartoum or of what might lurk in its depths. The level of the Nile had fallen at least two feet since he had left the creek the evening before, and the plank he had laid on the bank was now just out of reach. With a final effort he hauled the boat as far as he could out of the water and used it as a support, holding on to it as he struggled up the muddy bank. He stopped for a moment, panting hard, and wondered what it would be like to fall backwards into the water, to kick off from the bank and let the river take him; whether he would be mired in the horror of this place or whether the current would find him and take him past Khartoum and the cataracts and out into the sparkling clarity of the sea, away from here for ever. He felt himself sinking, and snapped back to reality. He heaved his legs up, then squelched and sucked through the mud until he reached the plank and pulled himself up. He was dripping with ooze, but he no longer cared. All that mattered to him now was to get back to Charrière and set up his rifle before the break of dawn.
He remembered his conversation with Gordon, and patted the journal in his upper tunic pocket. Something had been nagging at him, and then he remembered: it was the empty square in the centre of the drawing Gordon had shown him, where the ancient sculpture had been missing a piece. Gordon had said that he and his companions had searched everywhere for clues to its appearance, in ruins from the time of Akhenaten across the desert. And then Mayne remembered the slab he had taken from the wall in the crocodile temple, the one that he had given Tanner to pass on to Corporal Jones for safe keeping. It had lines radiating from the edge where it had formed part of the Aten symbol, but it also had shapes on one corner, obscured under slime. He cursed himself for remembering too late to tell Gordon: it might even have persuaded him that there was a shred of reason left for staying alive, for coming across the river with him. But there was nothing to be done about it now. It was too la
te.
A few minutes later he was back at the edge of the mud-brick enclosure surrounding the fort. There was still enough moonlight to see a reflection off the fetid pool inside, its surface stilled by the cold. Charrière had been busy; the embrasures and crumbled openings in the wall had been filled with clumps of thorny mimosa bush, concealing the interior from prying eyes. Mayne whistled quietly, knowing that Charrière would have seen his wake as he paddled across the river, then peered over the wall and pushed aside a branch of mimosa, making his way inside. Charrière lay awake beside the embrasure overlooking the river, wrapped up in his grey army blanket, his face swathed in his Arab headdress. Beside him Mayne could see the khaki wrap containing his rifle. He crawled alongside, slipping down the edge of the muddy crater that led to the pool, seeing Charrière watching him. Mayne knew he did not need to say anything. He had come alone, without Gordon.
He took his telescope from on top of the bag and rolled in front of the embrasure, training it on the palace. Gordon’s light was still on, and he looked up to the roof where Gordon had positioned his own telescope. For a split second he saw movement, a flash as the distant lens caught a hint of moonlight on the surface of the river, and then it was gone. But it was enough to show that Gordon had been watching him, following his progress past Tutti island and the dervish sentries, seeing that he had made it back to the fort. Both men now knew that the die was cast.
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