Lady Fayth, having given an entirely believable performance of the Reluctant Accomplice, agreed to take on the chore and took herself to the Grand Imperial the next afternoon. She was there, waiting, when Wilhelmina returned from another unsuccessful attempt to locate Kit. The two exchanged a knowing glance and Wilhelmina, after greeting Etzel, filled a pot with fresh coffee and sat down with her ally to share information on the state of the game so far.
“I cannot understand the Black Earl’s interest in Kit,” Lady Fayth mused. “On the one hand he insists that Kit knows nothing useful to the quest. On the other hand he refuses to simply let him go. We have already stayed in Prague far longer than originally intended, and there are no plans at present to leave.”
“Burleigh is not being entirely truthful,” observed Mina. “No doubt the shock of seeing Kit here in Prague, when he thought him dead and buried in Egypt, revived his interest-at least insofar as he assumes Kit must have had help to escape the tomb.” She thought for a moment. “Has he said anything about this?”
“He has vouchsafed nothing specific or germane to the issue at hand. His lordship’s hirelings have borne the brunt of his anger on that account, and they have paid dearly for their lapse.” Her lips curled in a conspiratorial smile. “Nevertheless, they have helped our cause-unwittingly, it must be said-by maintaining the fiction that the prisoners were in the tomb when the wadi was abandoned. To admit anything more would merely bring even greater approbation down upon their sorry heads.”
“Poor things,” Wilhelmina said without the least shred of pity.
“As it stands, Kit is the object of the earl’s present obsession. The quest, I suspect, will not go forward until Kit is found. As to that, our nemesis intends on casting the net wider. He intends to find out what you know about this affair.” Lady Fayth sipped her coffee and watched Wilhelmina for a response.
Mina took this information in stride. “He is grasping at straws.” She thought for a moment. “What form would this interrogation take?”
“You might well ask. He has prevailed upon me to be the agent of his inquiry.” She offered a cheerful smile. “I am to gain your trust and induce you to confide in me. Under the guise of a dinner invitation, he would lure you to the inn, take you prisoner, and menace you into revealing your secrets.”
Wilhelmina’s brow creased with concern.
“Of course,” Haven continued quickly, “it goes without saying that we must decide between ourselves what we want him to know.”
“Then we must think very carefully what to tell him,” agreed Wilhelmina. She reached for the little pewter pot. “More coffee, Lady Fayth?”
The young lady made no move to hold out her cup. “I suspect he knows you are a ley traveller, and I have no doubt he intends you harm.”
Wilhelmina returned her gaze steadily. “He will have to catch me first.”
“It would be unwise to make light of the threat. Lord Burleigh is fully capable of carrying out his nefarious designs, as we both know only too well.” Lady Fayth gave her a solemn nod. “In regards to the dinner tomorrow night-you dare not for a moment even contemplate actually going.”
“But if I refuse,” countered Mina, “won’t that make him even more determined and suspicious?”
“Perhaps.” Haven pursed her perfect lips in thought; she glanced out the window at a man carrying a wicker basket. “Why not go away for a few days? Leave the city, go somewhere-anywhere. Stay out of his way completely.”
“Run away, you mean.”
“Why not? Only for a few days, mind. His lordship will soon grow tired of waiting and leave Prague. We would have departed long since if not for Kit.”
Wilhelmina thought for a moment. “I could go away,” she agreed. “I have been wanting to go back to-”
“Do not tell me,” warned Haven. “It will be better for both of us if I do not know. Only make some excuse and depart as soon as possible. Leave at once.”
Wilhelmina regarded her co-conspirator for a moment in silence, unable to tell if she was keeping something back.
“Please,” urged Lady Fayth. Reaching across the table, she clutched Wilhelmina’s hand and squeezed it for emphasis. “Please go.”
“Very well.” Mina rose and pushed back her chair. “If you will excuse me, I think I have some packing to do.”
PART TWO
The Jagged Mountain
CHAPTER 8
In Which a New God Is Extolled
Chaos is loosed upon the Black Land, my brother,” declared Anen, Second Prophet of Amun, with a solemn shake of his head. “Pharaoh pursues a dangerous course. He takes counsel only from his Habiru advisors and listens not to the voice of his own people. He taxes the land heavily to pay for the building of his new city in the desert.” He paused and added, “There is even talk of closing Amun’s many temples.”
Arthur Flinders-Petrie shook his head in sympathy. “I am sorry to hear it.”
“It is believed by many that unless he is stopped, Akhenaten will bring all the country to ruin.”
Benedict, reclining at table next to his father, cleared his throat. He leaned close and whispered, “What is he saying?”
“Excuse me a moment, Anen.” Arthur put his head near his son, and replied, “He is telling me that there is trouble in Egypt just now-the new pharaoh is pursuing a reckless course.”
“The new pharaoh-Amenhotep, you mean.”
Arthur nodded. “He has taken the name Akhenaten and is building a new city in the desert to honour his god. The people are unhappy.”
“Perhaps we should leave,” suggested Benedict. “If there’s going to be trouble… ”
“You may be right.” Arthur turned once more to his friend. “It was my hope that my son could abide here awhile to study your language with the priests in the temple school-as I did all those years ago. But it seems that the Flinders-Petrie visit has come at an awkward time. Perhaps it would be best if we made other plans. You will not want us underfoot.”
“Never think that,” said Anen, taking a handful of dates onto his gold plate. “As always, your visit gladdens my heart. To see you and your son once more is a potent medicine to this old man. The troubles of which I speak are but wisps of smoke on the winds of time.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “But true friendship is carved in stone. It endures forever.”
“It does indeed, my friend,” agreed Arthur. He dipped a scrap of bread into the olive oil and then into the salt, put it into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. “I treasure our friendship.”
Anen raised a finger, and a temple slave stepped silently to the table with the wine jug. Benedict swallowed the dregs and held up his cup for more. While the two older men talked, he contented himself with taking in the wealth of exotic sights around him. They had been in Egypt less than two days, and already he felt himself forgetting any other life but the one he saw around him-a life that seemed to flow as easily and effortlessly as the great green river Nile on which the High Priest’s palace was built.
Benedict fingered the blue lapis scarab he had been given as a token of Anen’s esteem and gazed around the intimate banquet hall-the smaller of the palace’s festive chambers-marvelling at the richly painted walls, the elegant statues and carvings, the stately columns and regal sphinxes, the tall, dark-skinned servants in their embroidered white robes, the exotic scent of sandalwood on the air, the sumptuous banquet spread on the low table before him. All of it-from the endless marble corridors to the gold chains round the priest’s neck-seemed fantastical, and far beyond what he had imagined from his father’s stories. Yet here he was, reclining at table in the presence of Egyptian nobility. The way Benedict understood it, Anen as Second Prophet ranked a step below High Priest but was nonetheless accorded all the benefits of royalty because of his blood ties to the royal family.
As a child of six, Benedict had visited Egypt; his father had brought him to meet Anen. But other than being very ill the day of the journey and very hot the rest o
f the time, he could remember almost nothing about it. This time, however, he was determined to soak up as much of the experience as he possibly could-all the more since the current troubles meant their visit might be curtailed.
He listened to the sibilant susurration of his elders’ speech and wondered how he would ever learn it. That was why they had come: to allow Benedict to further his education by learning the language- much as they had done a couple years ago when he spent time in China with his mother’s sister and her family. Then again, if the troubles his father and Anen were just then discussing were to deepen or spread, he would not have to worry about it, since they would not be staying.
“… the Habiru are hard workers and keep to themselves. Pharaoh has given them land in the Gesen, and they live there most peaceably. We have no difficulty with them. No”-he shook his smooth shaved head-“no, the difficulty is that Akhenaten has taken up their curious doctrine that their god, a formless spirit called El, is the only god worthy of honour and worship by anyone.
“Why? Why should this be?” Anen demanded. “It makes no sense. We do not say that only Amun must be worshipped, or only Horus, or only Anubis. There is room for all. You may venerate Sekmet or Ra if you like, while I am free to revere Ptah or Hathor or Isis as it suits me. There is room in Egypt for everyone, and each is free to follow the decrees of his own heart.”
The priest smiled sadly. “But it is not so with the Habiru. Their god El makes many demands, and one of these is that there must be no other gods worshipped by those who call on his name. This, I think, is because the Habiru do not recognise that all the gods are but expressions of the One, the Absolute God.”
“I have heard this said,” remarked Arthur. Like the English gentleman he was, Arthur did not argue with his various hosts about religion; whatever world or epoch he visited, he kept his own views to himself. It was one of the rules he lived by as a ley traveller.
“But these Habiru must make even simple things-like sacrifice and offering-very difficult,” Anen continued. “I do not understand it. Unfortunately, Pharaoh has become infatuated with the precepts of the Habiru and has turned his back on the gods of his own people. He shuns certain foods and will not cut his hair-all to appease this new god that he has named Aten.” The priest’s lips twisted with disapproval. “But this is merely El under a different name. This is where the difficulty lies.”
“I see the problem,” Arthur offered. “But what will you do about it?”
“In two days the Temple of Amun is sending a delegation to Aten City to discuss matters with Pharaoh-to see how this present difficulty may be resolved. You are welcome to come along.”
Anen glanced at Benedict, who was now nodding on his cushion. “It seems as if we have exhausted our young traveller with our talk.” He raised a hand, and one of the servants stepped up and knelt beside him. The priest spoke a few words, and the servant moved to the side of the sleeping youth and gave him a gentle nudge.
Benedict came awake with a start. “Oh!” He flushed. “Sorry, Father.”
“No matter,” said Arthur. “You are tired.” He nodded and spoke a command to the servant. “Itara here will take you to our lodgings. I will follow shortly.”
Benedict rose, and with a respectful bow to his host said, “Thank you for the wonderful dinner. I enjoyed it very much.” He then wished his two elders good night and followed the servant from the room.
“You must be very proud of him,” Anen observed when Arthur had translated his son’s thank-you. “He has grown into a fine young man since I last saw him.”
“Indeed he has,” Arthur said. “I am very fortunate.”
“It is good for a man to have a son to carry his name into the world and continue the work he has begun.”
“That, my friend, is my fervent hope-that my son should succeed me one day.”
“We must hope that day is long in coming.” Anen rose, and instantly a servant stepped forward. The priest waved him away. To Arthur, he said, “Come, let us walk around the pool a little before we go to our beds.”
Anen led his guest out into a private garden. The balmy air was sweet with the fragrance of jasmine and hibiscus. They strolled the garden lit by the lambent glow of candle-lit lanterns set along the paths around the sacred pool, which seemed radiant with the reflected light of a ripening moon and a bright spray of stars.
The garden, with its scented air and glowing pool, the blue, starfilled sky, and even the presence of Anen himself put Arthur in mind of that fate-filled night years before when, ravaged by fever, his dear, lovely wife, Xian-Li, succumbed to disease and died. The presence of his visitor must have brought the event to mind for Anen too, because after the two had walked awhile in silence, he asked, “Do you ever think about what happened?”
Arthur smiled. “Every time I look at Xian-Li.” They walked a little farther, and he added, “I think I mentioned Benedict’s troubled birth?”
“I seem to recall something about it, yes,” replied Anen. “You took him to Etruria to be born-because the physicians in your country had not the skill to effect his birth.” He thought for a moment and added, “In this Etruria, the High Priest is also king. Not so?”
“That is so,” confirmed Arthur. “One day you will be High Priest. Think where you would be if you lived in Etruria.”
Anen laughed gently. “I would not want to be king-too many wars, too much fighting all the time. It is not good for the soul.”
“I agree. Yet somehow Turms has been able to thrive, and his people with him.”
“Have you ever returned to the Spirit Well?”
“The Well of Souls?” Arthur nodded. “Two or three times. There is a mystery there I have yet to penetrate.”
“The secret of its life-giving spring?” wondered the priest. “Do not be forgetting-you have promised to show me this marvel one day.”
“I have not forgotten,” Arthur assured him. “One day I will solve the mystery-but until then, I think it best it remain a secret known to a trusted few-as few as possible.”
“I understand.”
Two days later the delegation of priests departed for the Holy City of Aten, some distance north of the High Temple at Niwet-Amun. They travelled by barge-five of them: two for the priests and three smaller boats for the servants and attendants. While those around him tended to their business-the priests to their discussions and the servants to their chores-Benedict sat perched on the wide, low rail with his legs dangling over the side of the barge. For hours he watched the panoply of life unfold along the greatest river in the world. The slow progression of the boats was mesmerising; the river world seemed to glide effortlessly by, revealing wonders around every bend: tiny islands filled with snow-white birds; basking crocodiles the colour of jade; buffalos being washed by brown-skinned boys; lazy, grey hippos waggling their ears and yawning; towering palms with golden branches laden with shiny black dates… and on and on without end.
Owing to the sluggish summer current, it took three days for the wide, flat boats to reach the pharaoh’s new city. The servants and minions disembarked first to prepare the landing place; they were followed by the priests in order of rank. The High Priest, a wizened old man named Ptahmose, who to Benedict’s eyes appeared as wrinkled and dried up as a walking mummy, came last, assisted by Anen, his second-in-command.
Dressed in simple kilts of starched white linen and the broad, multi-leaved collars of gold that were a symbol of their office, they walked up the avenue lined by their servants, some of whom held banners while others carried trumpets; still others bore cloth-covered baskets on their heads. As the delegation approached the low, whitewashed walls of the city, the trumpeters began to sound loud, rousing blasts on their instruments, heralding the arrival of their masters.
Arthur and Benedict, as guests of Anen, walked directly behind. Workers in the fields outside the city walls paused to watch the procession as it passed. At the gates they halted and waited while the guards hurried to push open the hug
e cedar trunks that formed the entrance; bound in iron and painted red, each of the two enormous doors took five men, straining at the rings, to open.
Once the way was clear, the parade resumed its stately progress. The stone-paved streets of the new city were wide and straight, the buildings low. The inhabitants on the streets paused to watch the spectacle; others came out of their dwellings to see what was happening. The streets were soon lined with curious onlookers.
As the priests made their way deeper into the new city, it became obvious that construction was still at an early stage: most of the structures, while roughed out in mud brick and plaster, had yet to be finished in stone. Only the temples-of which there were several of varying sizes-were complete; even the royal family’s residence waited to receive its gleaming white facade.
Nevertheless, work seemed to be hastening on. Builders swarmed the various construction sites-hundreds of them, organised in gangs, each with an overseer. The squat, swarthy labourers were all stripped to the waist, oozing sweat as they chiselled or plastered or carried bricks to and fro, with a cloth headdress the only concession to the pitiless sun. The appearance of the workers was so unlike that of the taller, more graceful Egyptians, Benedict guessed that these must be the Habiru that Anen had mentioned.
That they were skilled masons and artisans was clearly seen in the reliefs and statues and paintings that appeared at regular intervals along the streets of the royal city. Everywhere Benedict looked, there was an image of Pharaoh: Akhenaten with his wife, the beautiful Nefertiri; Akhenaten with his children; Akhenaten receiving the life-giving rays of the sun; Akhenaten mediating his god’s justice to the people of Egypt. Some of the statues appeared grotesque and misshapen-Akhenaten with big, blubbery lips, a round pot belly, and spindly bowed legs-absurd caricatures of the strictly codified official portraits.
“Look there,” he said, nudging his father with a discreet elbow. “The pharaoh’s face looks like a camel. Did they do that on purpose?”
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