Sphinx

by T. S. Learner

  On the inside page was a portrait of a beautiful woman. The caption read High Priestess Banafrit. The patrician nose, long almond eyes and full mouth were profoundly human in their flawed asymmetry. I would have recognised this face on the street. In fact, it almost seemed familiar to me. The more I looked at it, the more I was convinced that I’d seen it before, but where? I read the text below the illustration.

  This depiction, discovered on the wall of a Hathor temple, is thought to be the only remaining representation of Banafrit (meaning ‘of the beautiful soul’) who lived during the reign of Nectanebo II in the Thirtieth Dynasty (360-343 BC) and dedicated herself solely to the Goddess Isis, the queen of all goddesses, endowed with magical powers unrivalled in the Pharaoh’s reign. Banafrit’s other titles included Divine Adoratrix and God’s Wife. Her power exceeded that of the High Priest and was only slightly less than that of the Pharaoh. As the supreme High Priestess, Banafrit would have worn the royal uraeus cobra on her brow; and would have appointed her own successor to ensure that her magic remained within the Isis sect.

  I looked at the illustration below the title. The central figure, a high priestess, sat on a throne and was dressed in a longsleeved ceremonial robe with red and blue ribbons and a tall pillbox-shaped headdress with flowers sprouting out of it. In one hand she held a sistrum - a rattle-like musical instrument associated with the goddess Hathor - and a garland of morning glory, the hallucinogenic bindweed, lay across her lap. A sparrow was perched at her feet next to a small pot. She was surrounded by handmaidens playing tambourines and wearing dark rose mantles over white gowns, similar pillbox headdresses adorned with a single blue lotus flower, and gold bands high around their necks. The caption told me that the image had been found in a tomb in Hierakonpolis on the Nile and was one of the very few depictions of an Isis festival rite. This particular scene had been dated to the reign of Ramses XI in 1000 BC, but the ritual had been carried out through the ages and it was known that Banafrit had performed similar rituals.

  Little is written about this powerful but enigmatic figure, although it is reported that several sphinx statues commissioned by Nectanebo were reported to have carried her facial features.

  I paused, realising where I’d seen the face in the illustration. It was the face of the sphinx that had pinned Isabella to the sea floor. How was that possible? Banafrit and Cleopatra had been three hundred years apart. A shiver ran through me; it was as though the priestess herself was trying to reach out to me through all those aeons. I thought back to my conversation with Barry, straining to remember every detail about the astrarium he’d mentioned. He’d talked about Ramses III, who lived in biblical times - he’d mentioned Moses, hadn’t he? - and then of Nectanebo II, whom Isabella had often spoken about. Ramses. Moses. Nectanebo. And here was Amelia’s Banafrit, High Priestess of the Isis sect, a cult who worshipped her, a legendary magician. And then there was the sphinx found at the underwater site of Cleopatra’s shipwrecked Ra boat. Was it a bizarre coincidence or did it mean something? I couldn’t dismiss an underlying fear that someone or something was directing my research. Isabella’s words about the astrarium guiding me forward rang into my ear and although I had dismissed it, and still did, as impossible, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were too many crossing lines and too many links in the chain for it not to have a significance. I began reading again.

  One of the greatest honours that could be bestowed upon a mortal, such privileges were usually reserved for royalty, further strengthening the hypothesis that Banafrit had been Nectanebo’s youngest sister. There is also strong evidence that she was his lover. Some might say the love of his life.

  The hieroglyphs found below this mural describe Banafrit’s vision of Nectanebo II’s Ba trapped in his tomb. Unable to fly in and out, it had perished, condemning the Pharaoh to eternal exclusion from the afterlife. It is possible that Banafrit, clearly a consummate strategist to have achieved such a powerful position, had heard rumours of an assassination plot and was using the vision as a metaphor to warn her Pharaoh. The hieroglyphs also mention a skybox, already legendary in the time of Nectanebo II for being able to inflict magic on the sea, sky and earth. It was this that Banafrit sought out to ensure the fortune and destiny of her beloved Pharaoh. Here the inscriptions become too heavily vandalised to make complete sense but a passage later talks of a following or cult that sprung up around the charismatic priestess. I believe I have uncovered evidence that proves this cult continued to exist well into the era of Cleopatra who herself might have identified with Banafrit.

  So there was the connection, I thought, although I had no idea what it meant. I leafed through the rest of the pages, most of them about the Isis cult and speculating about Banafrit’s relationship with Nectanebo, the various ways she supported his reign and kept him from harm.

  Interestingly enough, Nectanebo himself was immortalised through an account from a translation of an ancient manuscript entitled ‘The Dream of Nectanebo’ in which Nectanebo dreams he overhears the sky war-god Onuris complaining about his uncompleted temple. When Nectanebo woke he immediately summoned the priests who told him everything in the temple was finished except the hieroglyphs. Nectanebo employed the best hieroglyph-cutter around, one Petesis. Unfortunately, Petesis was distracted from his task by a beautiful woman whose name meant ‘noble Hathor’. Hathor was the goddess of love and drunkenness, but she also personified destruction. At this point the account ends abruptly, so we’ll never know exactly how angry Onuris was with the Pharaoh. I like to believe his fury might have had something to do with Nectanebo’s demise and eventual disappearance. And, to me, the strange way the scribe suddenly stopped writing seems to tell a story in itself - as if he himself might have been killed, a murder that would have prevented him from completing his task and revealing the whole story . . .

  A photograph of a sarcophagus followed, described as Nectanebo II’s empty coffin, now housed in the British Museum.

  Idly examining the photograph, I wondered why this paper had been so contentious within the archaeological community. It seemed fairly innocuous to me - the language conversational, the legends and myths telling a believable story. Not perhaps a clearly proven hypothesis but certainly insufficient grounds to ruin Amelia Lynhurst’s entire academic career. The reference to the skybox intrigued me. Isabella must have made a connection between that and her astrarium. I sighed: what was my role in all this? Whatever it was, I needed to listen to my own instincts and work out where the astrarium rightfully belonged. But that had to be soon, and not only for the sake of my own safety. I had to keep it out of the wrong hands.

  I noticed the change in the light outside; evening had fallen without me realising. I glanced towards the astrarium, still illuminated by the desk lamp. It threw a shadow now - the unmistakable silhouette of a robed woman, tall and statuesque. Then, terrifyingly slowly, the shadow turned to profile: the full lips and arched nose clearly defined.

  Outside, Tinnin the guard dog started barking. Then came the sound of running footsteps. My heart leapt, my whole body tensing as I got ready to defend myself. The footsteps died away and by the time I swung back to the astrarium the shadow had vanished. Had I imagined it?

  12

  The next morning I was due at the Brambilla family’s lawyer’s office for the reading of Isabella’s will. Having lost the astrarium once, I’d decided not to let it out of my sight. So I packed it into a rucksack and slung it over my back. And just before I’d left the house I’d taken Gareth’s illustration and hidden it at the back of my bookshelf in a dusty and boring-looking tome on accountancy.

  The office of Popnilogolos and Sons was located in the banking district, two buildings down from the Alexandrian Oil Company headquarters. Dreading another encounter with Francesca Brambilla, I pushed open the heavy brass door. Mr Popnilogolos’s secretary showed me into his office.

  ‘Am I early?’

  I glanced around; the heavy oak desk was surrounded by piles of documents stack
ed against the walls. In the centre sat two ominously empty chairs, like props waiting for actors to breathe life into them. I stepped over a stack of files towards one of the seats.

  ‘Don’t worry, Madame Brambilla is late as usual. She regards it as her perennial right.’ Mr Popnilogolos, an elegant man in his mid-fifties, his hair oiled back, immaculate in a black suit and blue tie despite the sweat prickling at his forehead, offered me a cigarette which I declined. He pulled out a box file from the top of a heavily stacked cabinet.

  ‘The Brambillas . . . well, I’m afraid, your wife’s estate was not worth very much. I hear Cecilia was at the funeral?’

  I nodded. Encouraged, he continued.

  ‘An exquisite woman. We all wanted her, you know, but Paolo was the only one who was not too intimidated to propose. He was frightened of nothing - except his father Giovanni, I suppose. An eccentric man but dangerous too.’ He swung around, clutching the box file to his chest. ‘Here we have it . . . Signora Isabella’s will.’ Popnilogolos sat down behind the desk and sighed ponderously. ‘Such a tragedy - appalling. The strange thing is, your wife came to see me only a week before her death. At the time I thought it bizarre: usually clients think about making their wills when they are somewhat older, not in their twenties and bursting with health.’ He looked up at me and must have caught the look that passed over my face. I knew that Isabella had taken the prediction seriously but I was shocked at the extent to which she’d gone to prepare. He continued without further hesitation. ‘Of course, I was happy to oblige, and her foresight was fortunate. You do realise Giovanni Brambilla left his house to his granddaughter upon his death? Which - technically, at least - made Isabella her grandmother’s landlady. And now possibly yourself. Fascinating.’ He smiled; leaving me with the distinct impression that the lawyer was indulging in a little schadenfreude. Before I had a chance to question this surprising information we heard his secretary welcoming another visitor.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ the lawyer said, with a wink, and stood to open the door.

  Francesca Brambilla settled into a chair where she sat stiffly upright, clutching her crocodile-skin handbag as if it were a barricade in a storm.

  ‘Are you comfortable, Madame?’ the lawyer enquired.

  ‘As comfortable as possible, given the unnatural circumstances. It really should be my will you are reading, not my granddaughter’s,’ she snapped back.

  I tried to catch her eye but she barely acknowledged my presence.

  ‘Indeed, life is tragically unpredictable - as we Alexandrians know too well,’ Popnilogolos responded smoothly. He turned to me. ‘Monsieur Warnock?’

  ‘You may proceed.’

  He cleared his throat and began reading: ‘I, Isabella Francesca Maria Brambilla, bequeath all of my estate, including the Brambilla Villa, my books, research and collection of artefacts, to my husband, Oliver Patrick Warnock. To my grandmother I leave the jewellery I inherited at the time of my father’s death. Dated 7 May 1977.’

  The two of us waited; I sensed we were both expecting something more conclusive - some kind of absolution, even.

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked finally.

  The lawyer nodded, then turned to Francesca. ‘You do realise what this means, Madame Brambilla?’

  Francesca’s hand shook as she grasped the ivory head of her cane. ‘This will was written seven days before her death?’

  Mr Popnilogolos smiled weakly. ‘Perhaps Madame Warnock had a premonition?’

  The old woman swung around to me. ‘Has this got anything to do with you?’

  ‘I promise you, Francesca, I had no idea that she’d made this will. Nor that Giovanni had left the house to her.’

  A difficult silence settled over the room like dust. Francesca’s deep voice stirred it up as she finally spoke.

  ‘My husband and I had a disagreement towards the end of his life. There were aspects of his behaviour that I did not approve of. Rewriting his will was Giovanni’s way of punishing me. I don’t think he ever imagined that Isabella would die before me.’ She turned back to me. ‘Does this mean you wish me to move out of the villa? You are the new owner, apparently.’

  ‘So it appears.’

  Watching her discomfort, it occurred to me that there was a way of taking advantage of the situation.

  ‘Mr Popnilogolos, would you give us a few minutes of privacy? ’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly.’ After a short bow, the lawyer stepped outside.

  ‘I’m happy to allow you to stay on in the villa on one condition, ’ I told Francesca.

  She narrowed her eyes angrily. ‘Which is?’

  ‘You tell me the truth about what happened to Isabella’s body. Why was she buried without her heart?’

  The elderly woman’s cane fell with a clatter to the parquet floor. ‘She had no heart?’

  ‘No heart, no internal organs.’

  Francesca seemed shocked but, at the same time, not completely surprised. As I watched, another expression - one of realisation - swept across her fine wrinkled features.

  I picked up the dropped cane. ‘You know something, don’t you, Francesca? What is it? You must tell me.’

  ‘I know nothing,’ she replied tersely. ‘I am as horrified as you.’

  Clutching the arms of the chair, she rose to her feet. ‘If you wish to evict me, I would appreciate at least twenty-four hours’ notice.’

  And without another word, she opened the door, pushed past the lawyer waiting outside and left.

  I walked down towards Mohammed Ali Square, where the Bourse, Alexandria’s cotton and stock exchange, had once stood. It had existed for centuries in one form or another. E. M. Forster had written about it, even ancient Arabic writers such as Ibn Jubayr. A symbol of old colonial Egypt, the Bourse had been burnt down in the hunger riots earlier in the year. You used to be able to hear the cries of the bartering merchants every morning. Now the site had been reduced to a vacant lot that functioned as a temporary car park. Somehow it seemed emblematic of modern Egypt.

  As I made my way through the narrow streets I kept thinking about Isabella’s missing organs: had it really been an ambulance waiting for her body on the jetty or something more sinister? Thinking of Isabella’s empty body made my heart clench with new grief, but it also seemed like a message, like another piece in the puzzle, seemingly unlinked and yet integral to my understanding of where to go from here. She’d said I would know what to do, had said it trustingly, unquestioningly, and I couldn’t disappoint her. Conscious of the weight of the astrarium on my shoulder, I reflected on the experts I knew and who I could trust to help me work out what to do with the device. Faakhir’s grim expression as he warned me of those who would use it to destroy the region’s political stability came back into my mind. What did he mean by this - an undermining of President Sadat’s peace initiative? There was little stability in the Middle East anyhow: Egypt had been at war with Israel only two years before and that war had been triggered by OPEC nations holding the world to ransom over oil prices in the early 1970s. It wouldn’t take much to destabilise what little progress both President Sadat and the US president Carter had achieved so far. And who knew how Israel might receive Sadat’s overtures - there was little or no trust on both sides of the border. But how could the possession of an ancient astrarium have an impact either way? Maybe there was some kind of strong historical symbolism that had suggestive power over Arabic/Israeli relations. Or was it some kind of devastasting weapon? I could have speculated for hours but in the end it almost didn’t matter whatever my conclusion might be - obviously there was someone out there who believed absolutely in the power of the device. And they were prepared to kill to get hold of it. I walked without thinking, taking little notice of what was around me. But that was a luxury I’d soon not be able to afford.

  Sensing a presence, I glanced behind me. A veiled older woman scurried behind a food stall. Frowning, I ducked behind a pillar; a minute later she re-emerged to run after a small child whom she cau
ght and scolded. I rested against the wall. Was I losing my abilities to think analytically? My rationalism? I’d lost a wife and a friend. I was carrying a priceless artefact on my back and I seemed to be walking into some kind of geopolitical battlefield in a country torn by modern ambition and ancient beliefs, all of which would unhinge the sanest of men. No, I thought firmly, the astrarium was real, Barry’s carbon-dating was indisputable and Isabella’s own belief, one in which she had invested her life, deserved respect. But it was no doubt a massive task to undertake. Had Isabella realised the implications when she’d made me promise I would embark on the venture if necessary? The pragmatist in me struggled against such an esoteric responsibility. I had work, I had the oilfield to look after, I needed to rebuild my world, and yet I’d made a promise that was now turning into the most significant of my life. I was compelled to carry through her task even at the risk of losing everything - even my life. I had no choice. I walked on, quickening my pace to get out of the back alley. Whatever my reservations, I needed to glean as much information as I could from as many people as possible. Both Hermes Hemiedes and Amelia Lynhurst had offered their help, but could I trust them? Isabella had been close to Hermes, but I didn’t have quite that relationship with him. He unnerved me somehow and I was never sure about his own agenda. Amelia seemed knowledgeable but her conflict with Isabella made me hesitate. And her reaction to Hermes at the funeral had been bizarre. Had she felt frightened or threatened by him? There were political divisions and conflicts within the archaeological world that were beyond my understanding. I’d witnessed first-hand Isabella’s frustrations over such struggles, as she herself had fallen victim to them again and again. Purely in terms of the archaeological community the astrarium was an enigma whose ramifications I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.