Spending a night sleeping rough did not worry Charles in the least. It had been a regular, if not predictable, occurrence during his years at university: doorways, arches, church pews, market stall benches—these and others had sufficed for impromptu accommodations. Sleeping out under the stars would be a luxury by comparison. True, he was older now, but not so much older that he could not enjoy a night beneath the diamond-sprinkled spray of the Milky Way.
As the sun dropped below the western hills, flaming the sky with molten bronze, Charles found a stubby date palm at the edge of a sesame field and made his simple camp. After beating the surrounding shrubbery to drive out any resident snakes and scorpions, he piled a few dry palm branches together to make a reasonable bed and spread it with the cloth of his turban. He sat down with his back against the tree and rested, sipping a little water and listening to the cicadas and crickets and the calls of night-roosting birds. Slowly, slowly, the heat relinquished its grip on him and Charles felt his body relax. He opened his pack and brought out his supper—a feast of nuts and dried fruit, some hard biscuits, cured beef, and an apple. After the day’s rigour, the simple fare would have satisfied the most jaded palate, and Charles savoured every bite.
Night stole in from the east, extinguishing the last embers of the day, drenching the lowlands in cool blue shadow. Charles stretched out and, using his pack for a pillow, fell asleep counting stars as they appeared in the slowly wheeling heavens. He slept well and deeply, but was awake again just before sunrise—roused from rest by the barking of dogs. As it would not do to arrive in the riverside hamlet too early, he took his time with his morning ablutions—splurging recklessly with a little of his precious water to wash his face and hands—combing his hair and brushing his clothes to make himself as presentable as possible. He ate another handful of nuts and fruit while he waited for the sun to rise above the surrounding fields.
He set off again, refreshed, into the silvery haze of a cloudless day. As he neared the village, he could smell the humid, earthy scent coming from the great unseen river. At the outskirts of the settlement he was greeted by a pack of dogs, who announced his arrival to their masters with noisy enthusiasm. By the time Charles reached the centre of the settlement, his yapping entourage had alerted everyone within earshot to the presence of a stranger in their midst. Knowing he was marked and watched, he proceeded to the communal well, drank, and refilled his waterskin while he waited to be received by the local headman or elder.
This was not long in coming. Naturally curious, the country folk could not abide the mystery of this visiting stranger in their midst. A white-haired man in a faded blue kaftan approached and stood leaning on his stick.
“Salaam alaikum,” said Charles, holding out his hand.
“Alaikum salaam,” replied the elder. He did not accept the offered hand but raised his own in welcome.
If Charles’ Arabic was scant, his Egyptian was miniscule. Nevertheless, by dint of slow repetition and much gesturing, he was able to make himself understood. “I need men to help me,” he told the old man in his patched-together Arabic. “I have money.” He counted imaginary coins into his hand. “I can pay.”
When his pantomime failed to communicate, Charles tried his schoolboy French. “L’argent,” he said. “Je paie.”
“You pay,” echoed the headman, nodding to himself. He turned around and, beckoning to Charles, led him to his house nearby. They were followed by most of the assembled villagers, who stood crowding the open door and windows of the dwelling to observe the negotiations. Hibiscus tea was produced by a serving boy, and after a haltingly slow negotiation, a deal was finally struck: five men with tools appropriate for digging, three donkeys to carry the necessaries, and provisions for a six-day expedition to a site Charles would show them on the western side of the river. Transportation for the men, animals, and cargo would be provided. Half the cost would be paid on commencement, and half on completion and return. Only the village headman would be entrusted with the money, and he would act as paymaster to anyone supplying provisions, transportation, or labour. The final amount was agreed, to which Charles offered to pay a bonus if the expedition met with smooth, uncomplicated success.
The deal was sealed over a glass of raw Egyptian wine, and the white-haired elder asked when Charles wished to embark. “As soon as men and supplies can be gathered,” he answered. “Today, if it can be done.”
The man shook his head. “Tomorrow.” He patted the air with both hands. “You stay here. I make all things ready.”
Charles regretted cooling his heels for an entire day but accepted the offer with good grace and used the time to draw a simple map of the place he hoped to find on the west bank. Thanks to Benedict’s stories, Charles reckoned he had a pretty good idea where to look for the sarcophagus—providing he could find the wadi. This was the weakest part of his plan, he knew, but here he would trust local knowledge to lead him to the right place.
The next morning the expeditionary wheels began to turn—but slower and with many more halts and starts than Charles would have thought possible. Although the villagers expressed great interest in and enthusiasm for the project, this zeal failed to translate into speed. Moreover, there seemed to be no way to inspire in them the urgency Charles felt. The pace of progress in assembling the needed equipment and provisions was leisurely to the point of glacial.
After the fourth day, Charles gave up trying to hurry things along and simply sat under a date palm on the bank of the river, munching dried squash seeds and watching the wide green Nile roll by. This seemed by far the most sensible policy, since any interference on his part only served to slow things down further. On the sixth day, the headman came to where Charles had set up camp beneath the date palm and announced that tomorrow all preparations would be complete.
“Splendid!” cried Charles, leaping to his feet. “We will leave first thing in the morning.”
“Next day,” countered the village elder with a shake of his head. “I call my nephew.”
Finally, eight days after his arrival in the village, all was ready and the expedition assembled on the riverbank to load the boats and set out. At the water’s edge, the village elder placed his hand on the shoulder of a young man and indicated that he was to serve as the foreman of the expedition. “My nephew,” the old man said. “He is guide.”
“Shukran,” replied Charles. To the youth, he said, “What is your name?”
“He speaks no French. Only Arabic and Egyptian,” the headman informed him. “Just call him Shakir.”
“Well, Shakir,” said Charles, “make ready to depart.” He waved a hand at the boats and the few baskets yet remaining on the bank. “We go.”
“Okay, Sekrey!” Shakir clapped his hands and hurried the workers to stow the last of the provisions onto the waiting boats.
“What is sekrey?” asked Charles, appreciating the young fellow’s eagerness.
“It is captain,” replied the village elder. “Boat, caravan, or men—all same.” He offered a concluding bow. “Salaam.”
Shakir saw the last basket hauled aboard, then climbed into the lead vessel himself. He put out a narrow plank for Charles, who boarded and settled himself on a pile of rope in the bow, and the boat soon pushed off. The Nile was wide at this place, the water deep and easy-flowing, and the shallow-draft vessels drifted as they crossed, reaching the opposite shore a fair distance from the place where Charles wanted to disembark. The boats had to be slowly rowed back upstream to the landing place before they could be unloaded. Consequently, it was well past midday by the time the expedition was fully assembled—just in time for a lengthy rest through the hottest part of the day.
Though it chafed him to idle, Charles knew there was nothing for it but to endure the forced repose and stay on the good side of his crew. When at last the sun began to relinquish its fiery grip, they set off, reaching the farthest fringe of planted fields by sundown. Another night under the stars followed—this one much better supplied than th
e first—and they broke camp at dawn and set off, much refreshed, to begin the trek into the arid white wastes beyond the fertile green strip of planted fields.
Only one road ventured west into the desert, eventually bending around to run parallel to the escarpment of rocky hills and plateaux that stretched all the way to the Sahara. In places little more than a line scratched in the sun-blasted dirt, the naked track skirted the crumpled feet of the jagged barrens of the great limestone embankment that rose stark from the lower plain. Charles followed the trail, aided by a crude map he had concocted from the stories of his father, backed up by a book in the British Library detailing the geologic surveys of Emperor Napoleon’s military engineers.
Holding this rough guide in one hand, his head swathed in his makeshift turban, Charles stumped along, scanning the unfolding hillscape as he walked, searching for two things: a towering triangular peak that, when viewed from a certain angle, resembled a pyramid; and a narrow crevice opening onto the valley floor and somewhat adjacent to the pyramid peak. This was the wadi, or dry gorge, leading into the heart of the hills.
The day, already hot, grew hotter and drier the farther away from the irrigated fields they went. Charles poured water on his turban and opened his shirt, which produced a fleeting relief. Within minutes he felt like a beast basting in its own juices; he could heartily commiserate with the poor skewered pig aroast on a turning spit—all he lacked was an apple in his mouth to make the sensation complete.
Nowhere in this blighted wasteland did he see even a twig, much less a tree, to provide the least scintilla of shade. Everywhere he looked, the same monochromatic landscape met his gaze—a world leached of colour until all that remained was a palette primed in shades of deathly white. Even the sky above had faded from blue to a ghastly hue the colour of old bones.
The air was not only stifling but immobile—too hot and heavy to move. Breathing was a chore that seemed to offer little reward for the effort. It would be, Charles considered, easier to simply give up the onerous work and suffocate than continue the exercise. Nevertheless, a higher purpose drove him on.
Eventually they came upon a massive standing slab and decided to stop for a rest until the heat began to dissipate. The stone was a monument in red granite marking the boundary of some pharaoh or other’s domain.
The pause turned into a camp for the night since no one could muster either strength or will to continue the trek. Once the tents were erected and food began to cook, Charles allowed himself to entertain a more philosophical cast of mind. In the end, he decided, it was a fool’s errand to count progress in miles covered. Rushing about in the desert could only result in sunstroke or worse.
His new attitude lasted until the next morning, when he charged off in search of the pyramid-shaped hilltop that marked the entrance to the hidden wadi. He sailed along the dusty track, paying little attention to the fact that he was quickly outdistancing his entourage—until, hearing shouts behind him, Charles turned to see that the donkey train was far behind him. He sighed and sat down to wait until they caught up.
As he waited he studied his hand-drawn map, comparing it against the surrounding landscape—absorbed in this survey until a shadow fell across the paper, jolting Charles from his appraisal. He looked up to see young Shakir standing over him, staring at the paper. Charles gave it to him and, climbing to his feet, indicated the line of high bluffs stretching into the distance; then he tapped the page.
Shakir’s black eyes narrowed as his dark brow lowered with concentration. Charles pointed to his map, indicating the pyramid peak; next, he put his finger on the notch in the hill, which was meant to represent the hidden gorge leading to their destination.
Taking the map, the young man turned it this way and that, then darted off along the track. Charles called after him, then watched as Shakir paused, searched the hills, then came running back the other way, passing Charles and heading south.
“Okay, Sekrey!” announced the young man upon his return a few minutes later. Streaming sweat, but triumphant, Shakir tapped the paper and flung out his hand and pointed to the series of ragged outcrops looming over the trail to the south.
Accepting this assertion, Charles nodded and indicated that Shakir should lead the way. They resumed their march, moving along the bank of foothills, quickly reaching the place Shakir had identified. In little more than a quarter of a mile by Charles’ rough estimation, he spotted a gap at the base of the rising bank of hills—not the breach Charles had imagined, more a simple overlapping, like the inward fold of a ruffled drapery. As this irregularity was the only candidate for investigation they had so far turned up, Charles decided to explore. Even before reaching the gap, however, he could see that it was indeed the entrance to a fair-sized wadi.
Closer, he discerned the smooth walls of wind- and water-sculptured stone rising sheer on either side to form the narrow gorge. Upon reaching the entrance, he stepped between the walls and was engulfed in blessed shadow. Charles sighed, wiped the sweat from his face, and ploughed on. With every step the air temperature seemed to fall as within the shaded realm the sun no longer ruled with impunity. Seeing a wider place a few metres ahead, he made directly for it and there, almost staggering with relief, he stopped and slid down the smooth stone to sit with his back against the wall, luxuriating as much in the escape from the searing sun as in the knowledge that he had found Anen’s wadi.
Recovering the Skin Map was now very much in his grasp. In a few short days, the secret that Arthur Flinders-Petrie had long ago taken to his grave would at last belong to Charles and to Charles alone.
CHAPTER 24
In Which an Event of Great Significance Is Overlooked
Had he but known that the cosmic link between the shadow lamp and the Skin Map lay at his fingertips, Kit might have marked the day as one of the most significant in his life. But human consciousness is flighty, awareness fleeting, and important facts are often ignored; items of value remain unappreciated; vital information goes unremarked. In the heat of the moment, details of great significance are often overlooked. So it was that Kit failed to see what was right in front of him, and consequently the quest in which he and so many others were engaged failed to progress as it might have. Instead, this is what happened:
The day had faded to mellow gold and the sun had slipped behind the buildings surrounding the square. As the marketplace folded up around him, Kit returned to the upstairs room where he had left Gianni and Cassandra discussing the finer points of star-exploded elements. He gave the door a rap with his knuckles and received an “Enter if you dare” in reply.
“It’s only me,” he announced, pushing open the door. Gianni had gone, and Cass was resting on her bed. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were napping.”
“Thinking, not napping,” she said. “Come on in and make yourself at home.”
Kit took a chair from the table and spun it around to face her as she struggled up out of the hollow in the centre of her feather bed. “Well? What did you decide?” he asked. “About the rare earth stuff, I mean. Any ideas?”
“We agreed that we won’t be able to tell anything at all with the equipment we have on hand, and we dare not waste the material we’ve got trying things that probably won’t work,” she told him. “Our sample needs analysing with pretty sophisticated gear if we’re going to get a definitive result.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Fortunately, Gianni knows a place where we can get it tested properly.”
“Here?”
“Not hardly. He wants to take it to Rome.” At Kit’s raised eyebrows she laughed and said, “The Vatican.”
“The pope has a microscope?”
“I doubt the pope has much experience with exotic thermonuclear materials—if he does, he’s definitely hiding his light under a bushel. But the Vatican maintains a state-of-the-art lab, and Gianni knows how to get there in the twenty-first century, which is essential.”
“Being a priest proba
bly doesn’t hurt either,” Kit surmised.
Cass nodded. “He can get access there faster than probably anywhere else and no questions asked. So we’re good to go.”
“That Gianni.” Kit shook his head in admiration. “He’s a pip!”
She laughed again. “I like you, Kit.”
“I like you too.” He smiled and then ran out of things to say. “So, um—want to head over to the coffeehouse and see what everybody else is up to?”
Cass swung her legs off the bed and gracefully angled one stockinged foot into an empty shoe.
“We’d best take this with us,” said Kit, reaching around to retrieve the glass vial of rare earth from the table behind him. Preoccupied by the sight of a young lady’s shapely leg, his hand failed to connect with the little jar and instead upset the brass carapace of the shadow lamp containing the powdery residue of the burnt-out material. Black dust scattered over the handkerchief Cass had spread out as a work area.
“Oops! Sorry. No harm done,” he said and began sweeping the grainy ash back into the half shell of the lamp. When he had retrieved as much as he could, he shook the powdery remainder off the white square of fine-woven cloth.
It was at this moment that Kit might have noticed something extraordinary. Had he not been distracted, he would have seen that the grey smudge left on the handkerchief had formed a highly distinctive design: a spiral whorl with an unaccountably straight line directly through the centre and three separate dots along the outer edge.
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