Roberto said, “Egypt’s hot, but pretty.”
She gave him an approving nod and looked at me. “What about you, Hal?”
“This is my first trip to Egypt, but I’m looking forward to learning much more about the site and country. Have you found any indications of where Queen Cleopatra might be buried?”
Dr. Corbelle sat back, as though surprised by my question. “I have not. Personally, I think that’s just another of Jim’s wild theories. I don’t think she’s buried anywhere near here. I have my money on the ruins of the ancient temple to Osiris at Abusir, which is about thirty miles from Alexandria.”
I drank coffee for a few seconds before I worked up the courage to say, “Would a woman who was believed to be the reincarnation of Isis be buried in a temple to Osiris? Isn’t it far more likely that she would be buried in a temple to Isis?”
Moriarity suppressed a smile.
Dr. Corbelle said, “Yes, it is possible. But many suggestive artifacts have been found in the Temple of Taposiris Magna, that’s the name of the temple to Osiris. For example, temple carvings showing two lovers in an embrace, coins bearing a likeness that may be Cleopatra, and even a ceramic fragment that shows a man with a cleft chin, as Marcus Antonius is supposed to have had.”
“So you think both of them might be buried there?”
“I think it’s possible. Do you disagree?”
I tried to organize my argument. This woman obviously knew way more than I did. Nervous, I stammered, “Well, no, I—I don’t think so. Gaius Julius wanted to conquer them in every way possible. He hated them. Cleopatra had specifically asked him to bury her with Antonius, so burying them far apart would have been his final triumph over her.” I swallowed hard. “Don’t you think that’s possible?”
Her blonde brows lifted as she nodded. “You’re a thinker, Hal Stevens. Yes, I do think it’s possible. Probably not likely, but certainly possible. Why don’t you ditch Jim and come to work for me? My excavation is right over there in front of—”
“I’m not letting you steal more of my crewmembers, LaSalle. Forget it. You already took Tashir and Ronald. Hal is working with me. However, I’ll gladly give you Robert the Drooler.” He flicked a hand at Roberto.
Roberto’s mouth quirked.
Dr. Corbelle tipped her cup, finished her coffee, and stood up. She was tall for a woman, as tall as I was, so around five-nine. “Hal? Robert? Come over to my excavation anytime, and I’ll show you around. And if you decide you want to defect to the Canadian part of the site, I’ll put you to work.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “We’d like to see your excavation.”
“Good.” When she swung back around to Moriarity, her smile vanished. “Get me that overdue report, Jim. Or I’ll have the museum sue you for breach of contract.”
She walked away like a tigress on a hunt, all rippling muscles and power.
Roberto reached up to grip a fistful of the white T-shirt over his heart. “Good Lord, my heart actually hurts. Falling hard here.”
Moriarity shoved his fedora back on his head. “Then you’d better have two PhDs, a curriculum vitae a thousand pages long, and a boat-load of money. She’s embarrassingly rich and acts like it. We worked on a joint US-Canadian project in 2010, and it was the worst field season of my life.”
Roberto said, “What’s a curriculum vitae?”
“It means,” Moriarity answered, “that somebody like you, who can’t even spell archaeology, is doomed. Now finish up your breakfast, and I’ll take you to an interesting part of the site.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Just as the other field crews started to fall into line for breakfast, and a variety of languages filled the air, we rose from the table and Moriarity led us out toward the ruins of the Roman fortress. The cool air blowing in off the ocean smelled of salt and sea.
I brought up the rear. Walking along the massive seven-foot-thick wall was sobering. It stretched high over my head, and in the yellow morning light the red bricks had an unearthly orange glow.
We followed Moriarity along a path that wound around puddles and between jumbled piles of ancient bricks, which I assumed had toppled from the fortress wall over the millennia.
Cleo had described this site a hundred times, but in her stories the Roman fortress was always a dark brooding wall that hulked over the earlier Egyptian ruins, like Rome still exerting influence over the conquered Egyptian people even after fifteen hundred years. To me, this morning, it was a bright exciting monument to an ancient culture I’d spent my whole life studying. Rome. A happy place. For me. As the path veered closer to the wall, I knew I was walking in the footsteps of ancient Roman legionnaires.
And right before my eyes, it all came into focus . . .
I heard the clip-clopping of horse hooves, bits jangling, Roman cavalrymen calling up to the soldiers guarding the walls as they rode by. It was night in the vision, but moonlight showed me the gleam of helmets and swords hanging from belts.
“This way, boys.” Moriarity veered off from the fortress wall and headed westward. We walked in silence for a time, just absorbing the scents and sounds of the archaeological site. As the breeze shifted, I smelled coffee and cardamom. The cardamom was especially intense here.
“Incidentally,” Moriarity said. “We’ve had a number of artifacts disappear from inventory on this site and later wind up for sale on the open market. So, if you see anyone pocketing an artifact, I want you to report it to me immediately.”
The path took us out into the flats where there was nothing—no ruins, no people, no artifacts. In another thirty paces, however, I saw the excavation on top of a low rise. Maybe one hundred feet in diameter, its circular shape was outlined by rows of carefully placed red bricks.
“Now watch your step up here,” Moriarity called. “The stairs down will be very slick this morning.”
When we arrived at the rim, I could see down into a bowl-like depression; it was filled with fog. Mist snaked around inside, obscuring most of the interior, but I caught glimpses of walls and numerous smaller chambers arranged around the exterior of the circle. On the far side, a life-size marble statue of Isis lay on its back, its stone eyes apparently fixed upon the shimmering clouds hovering above it.
Moriarity guided us to the mud-brick staircase. “Be careful.”
Moriarity trotted down into the bottom of the depression and stood looking up at us. His bearded face was little more than a dark splotch covered with a hat.
Roberto and I took the steps more carefully. Coated with mist, they were slick beneath our boots.
“Look around you, boys. See the different sizes of bricks distinguishing the layers through which you are traveling?”
Turning to my right, I saw what he meant. There were seven distinctive layers of bricks. The uppermost bricks were the largest, but they grew smaller in size as the stairs descended, as though they were funneling us down into the misty depths.
“You’re watching the journey of the soul as described in Re theology. The rim of the temple is the realm of light. The dim realm of the cemetery god Seker occupies the fourth and fifth hours of night, which is where you’re currently standing.” He extended a hand to indicate the fourth and fifth layers of bricks. “The sixth hour is an approach to the land of Osiris, which is where I’m standing on the floor of the temple, and the seventh hour, which can only be reached through the tunnels in the temple, is the Kingdom of Osiris.”
Looking around, I thought I saw one of the tunnels wavering through the mist; it was a partially excavated hole in the wall to my right. When I stared, trying to see it better, I had the feeling I was being watched by old and unearthly eyes.
“The Kingdom of Osiris is the netherworld realm of Duat, isn’t it?”
Far back in my head, I could hear Cleo’s soft voice telling me the dagger . . . will allow my soul to climb out of th
e netherworld of Duat and travel to the Island of the Two Flames.
“Yes. Each hour is guarded by demons controlled by priestly magical formulae. So be careful. Each step you take is a symbolic journey down into the land of the dead.”
Awed, I softly said, “I’ve never read about anything like this.”
“’Course not. This site is absolutely unique. Wish I was in charge here, but LaSalle Corbelle has exclusive rights to excavate this structure. As a matter of fact, we shouldn’t even be here. Only she and her students are allowed.”
Roberto leaped off the bottom step and vanished into the densest part of the white cloud. I could barely see him moving around down there.
Slowly, I took the stones one at a time, trying to imagine how it might have felt to be an ancient priest descending these stairs into the misty underworld—the guardian demons held at bay only through the strength of my magic. Above me, the risen sun went from being a yellow ball to a hazy white blur. It sounded like a thunderstorm down here. Every ledge was wet and dripping, and the sounds seemed to be magnified. Was the temple designed to be an echo chamber? Even Roberto’s breathing reverberated around the walls.
Moriarity opened his arms to the temple. “You should ask LaSalle if you can work here for a day. I’d ask for you, but if I did, she’d say no.”
As I stepped down into the sixth hour, the approach to the Kingdom of Osiris, I saw the three subterranean passageways arranged at regular intervals around the floor. The tunnels. Each had a set of stairs that led down. I aimed a hand at the passageway to my left. “What’s down there? What does Duat look like?”
“I don’t know. Like you, I just got here. I have no idea how far back that tunnel has been excavated. Now, I have to run. I need to get my teams organized in their excavation units. When you’re ready, come find me at the far end of the fortress wall.”
Trotting back up the stairs, he left Roberto and me alone in the misty temple. Roberto had his head tilted back, gazing upward at the carved heads that thrust from each layer of stone. “Are those the demons that guard the hours?”
“I guess so,” I said. “I can’t see them very well. When sunlight finally floods the temple and the mist evaporates, we’ll be able to see more clearly.”
While I was gawking, Roberto scrambled over a giant chunk of fallen wall and looked down the other side. “Oh, buddy, you’re going to want to see this.”
“What is it?”
He gave me an irritated look. “How would I know? I’m waiting for you to come tell me.”
I climbed up the wet bricks and stood next to him. The fog in the bottom shredded like an old gauze curtain, and suddenly there it was, cloaked in mist, looming from a dark pool of water. A sarcophagus. Mostly buried, all I could make out from above was the beautiful face painted on the stone. A woman. I understood instantly why Corbelle restricted access to this temple. Most of the pyramids had at one time or another been looted for the treasures they contained. Finding an intact sarcophagus was remarkable.
“So, what is it?”
“It’s a sarcophagus, a stone container that holds at least one coffin with a mummy. Some sarcophagi had three coffins inside, like King Tut’s.”
“There’s a mummy in there?”
“Probably.”
“Let’s go look at it.” Roberto leaped down and splashed into the pool of water beside the sarcophagus. As he studied the painted image, he said, “There’s a weird bird with a human face painted on her chest. What’s that about?”
Wedging my feet on the slick stones, I stepped down next to him. The water came up over the toes of my boots, but it was going to be a hot day. They’d be dry soon. “Ancient Egyptians believed that human beings had two souls, the Ka and the Ba. The Ka remained with the body. Priests opened the mouths of the dead so the Ka could eat and drink the offerings brought to the grave by loved ones. The Ba soul was portrayed as a human-headed bird, but it had the ability to take on different forms. It’s the Ba that travels to the afterlife. The shadow, the Khaybet, was alive, too, though.”
Roberto looked a little unnerved by that idea. “The shadow was alive?”
“Yeah, later on, it was like witchcraft. If you could capture and control someone’s shadow, his Khaybet, you could control him.”
“How would somebody catch a shadow?”
I shrugged. “Magical net? You’d know better than I would.”
“So, after you caught it, did the person walk off with no shadow?”
“I have no idea.”
Roberto shoved brown hair away from his blue eyes and squinted at the bird. “Bro, I have got to find a spell for that. Wouldn’t it be radical to be the only kid in school without a shadow?”
“You’d try to capture and control your own shadow?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well,” I said with a shrug. “I guess I don’t know enough about it to comment, but the Khaybet was powerful. What if your own shadow tried to get you?”
“Would it do that?” Roberto asked with wide eyes. “Like, grab me around the throat and beat my brains out on a concrete floor?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
Roberto glanced uneasily around the temple for a few seconds, before he said, “Okay, quality advice. Got it.”
I started methodically working my way around the sarcophagus, studying the painting more closely. The woman had elaborately braided black hair and green eyes. A transparent clinging dress sculpted her body. The purple color was still stunning. Murex shells? Pearls hung around her neck and studded her hair. Part of the painting was missing at the top of her head, but I thought she might be wearing a cobra headdress. Cobras had been the symbols of Egypt. It was hard to imagine that this could be anyone but Cleopatra, but surely Moriarity or Corbelle would have mentioned the fact that Cleopatra’s sarcophagus had been discovered in this temple. Since neither had, it must not be her. Maybe another Ptolemaic queen?
“Woah,” Roberto commented. “I didn’t know ancient Egyptian women wore see-through dresses.”
“Cleopatra is sometimes portrayed as wearing transparent dresses. I’ve never seen anyone else, though. But I’m not a specialist in Egyptian dress. I’m better with Roman and Greek fash—”
“Hello,” a frail old voice called from above us.
We both twisted around to look up. Standing on the rim of the temple, propped on his walking stick, was Samael. The hunchbacked elder wore a toothless smile. “Come. Both of you.” He waved a gnarled hand at us. “I wish to show you a grave.”
“What grave? The grave of the Sem priest?” I asked, but I was already hurrying toward the staircase that led out of the temple with Roberto less than three steps behind me.
Samael cocked his head curiously. “What Sem priest grave?”
“The Sem priest grave where you and Hassan Mallawi found the bagsu.”
“Who told you we found it in the grave of a Sem priest?”
Stunned, I said, “But I thought you found it in a grave.”
“Yes, we did.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Walking with Samael was agonizingly slow work. Every step he took had to be calculated. He looked around, propped his walking stick, gingerly stepped forward, then repeated the process. Look, prop, step.
“Samael, would it help if you held my arm?” I said and extended my elbow toward him.
He groped around until he found it, then slipped a skeletal arm through mine. “Thank you. The grave is over there.” He gestured with his stick.
The area ahead was a flat expanse of nothingness. Just bare ground scattered with a few chunks of what looked like the brownish slag of brickmaking.
While we slowly made our way, I asked, “Have you seen the sarcophagus in the temple excavation? Or . . . Heard about it?” I revised, realizing that he couldn’t see it.
“No, but it
’s not important.” He continued plodding forward out across the empty expanse of sand.
“How can you say that? The sarcophagus has a painting of a woman wearing purple with a cobra crown. I thought it might be—”
“Listen,” he hissed and cocked his ear. “Let him tell you.”
“Who?”
I concentrated on the wind, trying to hear something unusual. Laughter and ordinary conversation came from the archaeologists eating breakfast around the cook tent. Roberto and I exchanged a glance, and Roberto shrugged to tell me he heard nothing interesting.
In the distance, at the far end of the Roman fortress wall, Moriarity stood with ten students. He was pointing at something and talking, but he kept glancing our way. I could see his mouth moving.
We walked until we were at least a quarter mile from the site before I saw the excavation and my steps slowed. The dirt that had been removed created a small mound. “Is that it, Samael?”
“Yes. He’s calling and calling.”
As we got closer, I could see the partially excavated skeleton in the bottom of the pit. The left side of the man’s skull had been crushed, probably with a club. There were no grave goods, no fabrics, no jewelry, no pots of food . . . no evidence that he had been prepared for his journey to the afterlife. Instead, it looked like he’d been stripped naked and carefully, even lovingly, placed in the grave with his hands folded across his chest.
Roberto crouched and stared down. “Somebody did not like this dude. They bashed his skull in. You really hear him talking?”
Samael released my arm and grunted as he lowered himself to sit on the ground. “Come. Sit with me. Let us wait. You will hear, too.”
Roberto sat down cross-legged to the old man’s left. I continued standing for a time, surveying the people. Students had started dispersing from around the cook tent, heading out across the site. Several marched to the artifact boxes stacked on the tables beneath the ramadas and began shifting them around. The rest streamed away in different directions, presumably heading to their excavation units to start digging.
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