Sphinx

by T. S. Learner

  Hermes’s last words lingered in a moment of silence and I felt a great trembling sweep through me - the idea that the astrarium might have biblical significance terrified me more than anything, a residue emotion from my childhood as I remembered my mother reading some of the more frightening passages from the Bible to me. Sitting up straight I tried to shake off my irrational fear.

  ‘You can’t mean—’

  ‘Let me finish,’ Hermes snapped back. ‘It would only take the rumour of owning such a potentially terrifying weapon to serve Ramses’s battle strategy and strike terror into the hearts of his enemies.’

  I digested this for a second.

  ‘And the inscriptions on the device confirm this?’

  ‘Well, the astrarium itself consists of three primary discs behind which a far more complex mechanism sits. The largest outer disc is made of an alloy I don’t recognise; it appears to be etched with a scaled-down version of the Dendera Zodiac - based on Egyptian astrology. The next disc describes the movements of Venus and Mars - Hathor and Horus to the Egyptian astronomers. The final disc follows the trajectories of Jupiter, whom the Egyptians identified with Amun-Zeus, and Saturn, the dreaded deity Seth.’ Hermes paused to sip some tea. ‘As to the inscriptions themselves, the majority are written in Egyptian hieroglyphs. Some are simply instructions on how to operate the mechanism. Some describe the history of the machine and chronicle its feats. There is a small amount of Ancient Greek, but I suspect this might have been added later - during the time of Ptolemy. There are a few lines of Aramaic, suggesting that Hebrew scholars were also involved in its construction and there is also acknowledgement of Babylonian astronomy, which the Egyptians respected too.’ He looked at me thoughtfully.

  ‘There is also mention of a key, called a Was, which is a reference to the staff of dominion carried by all sky deities.’ Hermes pointed to the small keyhole-like cavity I’d noticed before at the centre of the discs. ‘It appears to have been hand-operated.’

  ‘But the key is missing.’

  ‘Indeed. I suspect that in ancient times there would have been an official keeper of the Was. Possibly he drowned in the shipwreck and the Was key was lost; or perhaps he survived and the key is who knows where? But one thing is clear: reunite the key with the astrarium and you have a very powerful, very dangerous device at your service. Just look at this . . .’ He held a sheet of the traced Greek inscription under the light and began reading. ‘This illumination of the skies and of Fate - I use the word “Fate” here loosely as it is the nearest translation I can think of but the actual word suggests greater free will than the contemporary notion of Fate. Really, it is a combination of passion and destiny.’ He paused, whether from awe or for effect I couldn’t tell. ‘This illumination of the skies and of Fate is the inherited property of Her Majesty and earthly manifestation of Hathor, Aphrodite and Isis, Cleopatra VII . . .’

  As Hermes looked at me, I noticed his hands were trembling with excitement.

  ‘It does appear that Cleopatra was quite possibly the last owner of the astrarium,’ he said. ‘But there is something that disturbs me . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s this.’ He pushed an almost blank sheet of paper towards me. I recognised the cipher that I’d seen in Gareth’s drawing. ‘Do you know what it is?’ he asked. I saw no reason to lie.

  ‘I’ve seen it before. Isabella already knew of it when she was searching for the astrarium. She told me it was a cipher.’

  ‘But did she tell you what it meant?’ Hermes stared at me searchingly and for a moment I thought I detected in his eyes a paranoia bordering on desperation. He looked away quickly.

  ‘She never got the chance,’ I replied slowly. Instinct told me not to tell him that my brother might have the answer to the riddle.

  ‘I found it standing alone below the main body of text,’ Hermes said, watching me carefully. ‘For the life of me, I cannot decipher it. But its isolated position indicates its importance.’

  Despite the long hair combed back over the domed forehead, the rouge smeared roughly on each hollowed cheekbone, there was something entrancing about Hermes. I could see why Isabella had been so captivated by him: it was impossible not to find his passion and his depth of expertise compelling. He was one of those individuals who swept others up in his enthusiasm. His animated explanations, his obvious and infectious excitement made me struggle with my usual detachment.

  He picked up another paper.

  ‘The translation of the hieroglyphs is as follows: Whoever sets his birth date upon these dials will change/transform the path of his Ka. I will give to the slave the life of the Pharaoh; I will make Anubis bark the date of his demise. So the astrarium is also a predictive tool. In fact, I believe one of its predictions might have been the reason why Nectanebo fled Egypt. Some say he went to Ethiopia or the Macedonian mainland. Others believe that Aristotle was really Nectanebo II, and that he tutored his nemesis, the young Alexander, in the sciences of mathematics and astronomy.’

  From somewhere in the apartment came the sound of cutlery being rattled, a tap turned on, then off. Both Hermes and I looked around, startled. It was hard to stay in the present, to avoid being thrown back into the history that seemed to emanate from the artefact itself.

  ‘Isabella said the astrarium would prove that the ancient world knew long before Copernicus that the Earth rotated around the Sun,’ I commented thoughtfully, trying to anchor my thinking to a familiar reality, to ground myself.

  ‘My friend, you and I both know that isn’t the only thing at stake here. I fear you are letting your own prejudices dictate your perceptions.’

  ‘And I fear that, as in quantum physics where the observed particle is influenced by the observer, this astrarium’s purpose changes according to the expectations of whoever is examining it. It seems to become a metaphor.’ We looked at each other, locking stares as if in battle. Hermes was the first one to lower his gaze.

  ‘In any case, what we think is irrelevant,’ the Egyptologist countered. ‘The Ancient Egyptians believed that the most important principle of life was to maintain a balance between Maat, universal order, and Isfet, universal chaos. The astrarium was constructed as a means of restoring balance, a way of controlling chaos and evil, personified by Seth, and harmony and light, personified by Isis and Ra. Ramses and Nectanebo were both worshippers of Ammon, also known as Amun-Re. Amun symbolised concealment and mystery, while Re represented visibility and transparency. The name Amun-Re united this duality in the one god - a duality of light and dark. The astrarium could be used in the same dual capacity: to predict positive events such as the correct positions of the planets for successful navigation, it could lead you to treasure and predict auspicious dates for magical rituals and the like, and it could foretell negative events, such as the loss of a battle, the parting of water to save a people or drown an army, or even one’s own death date. The deciding factor was the true - or, in modern parlance, unconscious - motivation of the user.’

  I shook my head. ‘You’re trying to tell me that the astrarium itself makes a judgement about the true motivation of the user?’

  ‘Oliver, this machine has a soul, a kind of independent will. That is what the Ancient Egyptians believed. And I’m inclined to agree.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’ I hadn’t heard anything more preposterous in my life. Hermes held up his hand as if to silence me.

  ‘It would be dangerous to ignore me, Oliver. You don’t have the slightest idea of the astrarium’s importance or the danger it brings. Most of us live the unexamined life - we live in Isfet, in chaos. Seth rules this century, my friend. But what’s more important is that there are those who seek influence at such times. Amelia Lynhurst, for example, is a woman with dangerous aspirations.’

  ‘Really? Why do you think that?’

  ‘She was very possessive of Isabella when she was at Oxford - the relationship was more than that of mentor and student. Isabella was impressionable, putty in t
he older woman’s hands. For Amelia to seduce her was unethical. To abandon her was worse.’

  I wasn’t entirely surprised to hear Isabella had had an affair with a woman - her understanding of sexuality had been far more fluid and open-minded than mine. Isabella had been ten years younger than me and her experiences were very different from my own. My generation had been shaped by the drabness of the economic deprivation that followed the Second World War. Isabella had been luckier, benefiting from the economic boom and cultural openness of the 1960s. But Amelia Lynhurst? I just couldn’t quite believe it.

  ‘That was the real reason for them falling out?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘Believe me, Amelia does not have either your or Isabella’s interests at heart when it comes to the astrarium,’ Hermes told me. ‘If you go to her, not only will she betray you to the authorities; she will claim discovery of the instrument and use it to promote her own ambitions.’

  Hermes’s warning echoed the concerns that Isabella had expressed. I looked at him, speculating as to his agenda, but I had invested too much already. I had to trust him.

  ‘What do you know about Banafrit, Nectanebo’s priestess? ’ I asked tentatively.

  ‘How do you know about Banafrit?’

  ‘I found Amelia’s treatise on her in my wife’s possessions. Amelia claimed that Banafrit sought out the astrarium to help her pharaoh Nectanebo.’

  Hermes looked at me with interest. ‘So you know a little more than you have suggested, Oliver.’

  ‘That doesn’t make me a believer,’ I replied disparagingly.

  ‘Amelia Lynhurst always had an obsession with Isis, and I believe, apart from any professional glory she might gain, she’s spent so much of her life proving that Banafrit, high priestess of Isis, both found and rededicated the astrarium to Isis that she has obvious vested interest.’

  The detail was slightly lost on me, so I simply shrugged. Hermes looked at me firmly. ‘As I said before, this is still a working mechanism. It can manipulate the destiny of the individual who dares operate it but it can also wield a greater power. This is a fledging nation, Oliver, and there are those who seek to overthrow the current regime. There is a history of dictators, people corrupted by power, seeking out religious relics imbued with occult power. Think about Hitler and his obsession with the “Spear of Destiny”, an artefact that was meant to have speared Jesus Christ in his side and that was rumoured to confer invincibility upon its owner. Hitler sent officers across the globe to find it. Your astrarium has just as much legend attached and that legend speaks of power, power that still exists today. No wonder there are people who would do anything to gain possession of it.’

  Fear swept through me as belief and disbelief battled in my mind. ‘It is still a working mechanism missing its key,’ I finally pointed out, looking back at the astrarium.

  ‘Again, I urge you to leave the mechanism here. I will try to find the key for you.’

  In another place, at another time, I might have rejected outright such an obvious manipulation. But sitting in that richly decorated room, the lamplight catching the bronze dials of the astrarium, Hermes’s face rapt in anticipation, I was almost convinced by his explanations. Egypt had that effect - it was impossible to escape the history and mystical lineage of the land, no matter how sceptical one might be. But there was something else at stake here: Isabella’s commitment to the astrarium that she had died pursuing. At first I’d thought the authorities were simply trying to reclaim a prized possession. Now, I realised there was far more to the device than I had possibly imagined. A valuable artefact, a cult object, a powerful tool capable of destruction and resurrection - at least that was what others seemed to believe. Follow your instincts, Isabella had told me, and my instinct now was to learn more before surrendering it. ‘No, I’ll hold on to it for the time being,’ I said firmly. ‘I want to continue my own research. But thank you, Hermes, your help has been invaluable.’

  His face closed over and, to my surprise, for a second I thought I detected a glimmer of fury. ‘As you wish,’ he finally muttered.

  Intensely aware now of the fragility and antiquity of the device, I wrapped it up carefully again and placed it into my rucksack. ‘I just have one last question, Hermes. What’s the significance of a manifestation of a person’s Ba?’

  He replied almost grudgingly. ‘If the deceased’s Ba is seen after burial, it usually means that person’s task on earth is unfinished and their soul cannot complete its journey to the underworld.’

  As I left the building, I had the distinct impression of invisible wings brushing past my cheek.

  14

  I wound my way back to the city centre, my mind a whirling mass as familiar axioms battled a multitude of new hypotheses. With each step, the astrarium in the rucksack on my back bounced against me. I kept thinking of Hermes’s warning about the power of the device; then I remembered Barry’s explanation of the Ancient Egyptians’ belief in magic, their intertwining of religious worship, intellectual pursuit, sorcery and science.

  Walking helped me organise my thoughts; it was a habit borne of my childhood wanderings across the Cumbrian Fells. As the rhythm of the streets pounded up through my legs a destination began to take shape in my mind. A couple of old men were playing Shesh Besh outside a shoe stall. I glanced down at the backgammon pieces, calculating the moves necessary to win, and then made my own decision. I would go to the cemetery to talk to Isabella, to take her the astrarium.

  It was illogical, but this time, unlike in the oilfield where I’d legitimised my decisions with science, I was relying solely on my intuition. Now I truly had become the Diviner - the realisation felt painfully ironic.

  I walked on up Bab el-Mulouk back towards Rue Sherif and past the Antiques Market towards Cairo Station Square. My path was broken by two long queues of people; women in one, men in the other, all clutching their ration cards, snaking out of a gamaya - the ubiquitous co-op grocery store where the locals collected their rationed food: meat, rice, oil and flour. Such queues formed with each new shipment of rare imports, simple things like New Zealand lamb, butter and tea. Once commonplace, such items had now become scarce in the economic tumult created by Sadat opening up Egypt to the free market earlier that year.

  Here, towards the centre of the city, the buildings became more Westernised, and the old cosmopolitan Alexandria, elegant and ostentatious, began to appear: the old Lloyds Bank building, the Banco di Roma and the Bank of Athens - all originally landmarks of colonialism that were now under the banner of the National Bank of Egypt. I passed Bank Misr with its balconies and arches, more Ottoman than classical, then walked past the Anglican church of St Mark, and the old offices located in ornate neoclassical city blocks. Along Fouad Street the grand villas started appearing: Villa Salvago, Villa Sursock, Villa Rolo - phantoms from a past world.

  As I weaved between the pedestrians I became aware suddenly of the sound of a motorcycle behind me. I’d been so lost in thought that I didn’t know how long it had been trailing me. Realising I might have been followed from the moment I left Hermes’s apartment I glanced around wildly. A cab hooted next to me, the gesturing driver touting for business. I leaped in and instructed him to take me to Chatby Cemetery, just as the sound of the motorbike engine grew louder behind me.

  As the cab pulled away I glanced out the rear window, trying to catch a glimpse of the motorcycle. There it was, weaving its way towards me, dodging in and out of the chaos of pedestrians and horse-drawn carts. For a terrifying moment I thought I saw the menacing face of the man who had been in the car with Omar earlier that day. Then a minibus crammed full of commuters got in the way, and by the time it had passed, the motorcycle was gone.

  ISABELLA FRANCESCA MARIA BRAMBILLA

  B: 31/1/1949

  D: 14/5/1977.

  I stared at the engraved letters and numbers, their crisp edges confirming their newness. Isabella’s face, wryly smiling, gazed up from the black-and-white photograph set into the large marbl
e headstone next to the oval portraits of her father and uncles. Once again, I noticed the absence of Giovanni’s photograph. It seemed inconceivable that he would not be buried with his family and I wondered about the etiquette of asking Francesca directly about it. I glanced back at Isabella’s photo: it looked as if it had been taken at her first communion; I barely recognised her. It represented a period of her life I’d never had access to and I found myself momentarily flooded by a strange jealousy.

  It horrified me to think of Isabella lying in that grave incomplete. Had I failed her in death? Despite my own lack of spirituality, I couldn’t shake off the disturbing thought that Isabella would not be able to rest until her heart was returned to her, that her Ba might be trapped in this life for ever. I knew rationally that this couldn’t be the case but beneath it all I felt my pragmatism slowly beginning to erode. Despite my protestations to Hermes, I could feel myself being swept up in the great epic history of the astrarium. Stress, sheer physical exhaustion as well as my constant battle against grief had left me vulnerable, ungrounded. Had I begun to see meaning in arbitrary patterns? Imagined pursuers, ghosts in shadows, even symbols in dreams? Had I begun to imbue coincidence with meaning? Was I practising some kind of bizarre heuristics? Either way, it was undeniable - my parameters of reality were beginning to slip.

  Carefully I laid the astrarium, still inside my rucksack, onto the marble slab covering Isabella’s grave. I waited - for what I wasn’t sure: perhaps a sign that she was finally united with the object she had spent years searching for. The seconds ticked by into minutes. There was nothing, just the creaking of a tree branch and a faint breeze; time breathing out.

  I concentrated on an old wreath of lilies propped up against the headstone, the petals now brown and curling. One bloom had broken loose and fallen onto the grass. I crouched to pick it up and suddenly noticed a small hole at the far end of the marble slab. I kneeled down and looked closer: it was a chiselled hole about four inches deep and three inches across. Someone had even bothered to give it the appearance of a miniature door with an etched outline. I hadn’t seen it when we’d buried Isabella, yet somehow the image seemed hauntingly familiar.