The Age of Ra aog-1

by James Lovegrove

  ''Where have you been?'' she snapped. ''We've been looking all over. Come on. There's no time to waste.''

  ''What? What's going on?''

  ''The Lightbringer. He wishes to meet you.''

  ''Me? Why?''

  ''He just does. Now come with us.''

  David glanced at Saeed and Salim, both large men, both wearing impenetrably dark sunglasses. He had a feeling Zafirah hadn't brought them along just for company.

  He picked up his beer bottle, drained it, set it down again.

  He wasn't really in the mood for trouble.

  Besides, infinite possibility…

  Why the hell not?

  11. Amulets

  They went in procession up the ramp to the Temple of Hatshepsut, Zafirah leading the way, David following close behind, Saeed and Salim at the rear.

  The terrace at the top of the ramp led to a second ramp, which in turn led to a courtyard. Everywhere, there were brightly coloured reliefs depicting birds and trees and gods and goddesses and a great deal else that David didn't have time to take in. Across the courtyard lay a pink granite doorway, hewn out from the rockface. Passing through this they entered a long subterranean chamber, gloomily lit, blessedly cool.

  The Lightbringer was seated at the far end, in heavy shadow, his masked head ghostly in the darkness. Zafirah strode up to him and the two of them spoke for a while in low tones, the Lightbringer casting frequent glances over Zafirah's shoulder at David. It was impossible to tell what the glances meant. That all-white oval of a face was utterly indecipherable, a blank sheet of paper.

  While they were talking, David spotted the six Bedouin strongboxes stacked in a corner of the chamber. One of them lay open, its padlock having been prised off with a crowbar.

  He craned his neck. His eyes widened.

  Inside were amulets, dozens of them. They were the sort of trinkets you could buy at any shop or temple, made of die-cut steel, machine tooled, the sort that factories in Formosa and the Crimea churned out by the million. Each was slung on a cord of knotted leather and was designed to be worn around the neck as a fashion accessory or a symbol of faith or both. David saw an ankh, a scarab, a crown, a hand, an eye, a representation of cow-headed Hathor, and countless others, all jumbled together. They were the most ordinary-looking objects imaginable.

  Except, these ones weren't ordinary. You could tell. These amulets had ba. They were infused with it. Together, en masse, they pulsated with it. It radiated out of the strongbox like an aura. Somewhere deep in his head, deeper than his ears, David could hear a throbbing. At the back of his throat, he could taste the power.

  The Lightbringer noticed him staring and let out a small, mask-muffled laugh. He said something to Zafirah, which she translated into English.

  ''The Lightbringer wishes to know what you think of our gift to him.''

  ''Well, since he asks,'' David said, ''those things are completely illegal.''

  As Zafirah relayed the answer, the Lightbringer shrugged and laughed. His reply, via her, was: ''Illegal they might be, but highly useful too. Saqqara Birds are everywhere, and some of us don't always wish to be seen. A man wearing one of these amulets is blurred to a priest's inner eye, all but invisible. He may act in secret, without arousing attention. Spies from every power bloc, not least the Hegemony, use them as a matter of course, although no government would ever admit it. So, they can only ever be transported from place to place by people like those Bedouin, in secret. To traffic in ba-charged amulets is a crime under international law, and no nation wants to be seen to be breaking the law.''

  ''They're unholy,'' David added.

  ''Some would say the same about me,'' said the Lightbringer. ''Including, I suspect, you.''

  ''I wouldn't put it that strongly.''

  ''Then how would you put it?

  David said, ''I think you're foolhardy, that's for certain, taking on the gods. You're picking a fight you can't hope to win.''

  ''Gods aren't invincible. How can they be? The One True Pantheon managed to wipe out its rivals, after all. If Jehovah and Allah and Odin and Zeus and the rest were so almighty, how come they're not still around, worshipped everywhere?''

  ''That was gods defeating gods, in a struggle that lasted centuries. You, if you don't mind my saying so, aren't in nearly the same league.''

  The Lightbringer started chuckling even before Zafirah had translated that last remark. David got the impression that the man understood more English than he was prepared to let on.

  ''The First Family won their victory on two fronts,'' the Lightbringer replied. ''Yes, they battled the other pantheons on a plane beyond our comprehension, but the war was waged down here as well. Men were involved, knowingly or otherwise. All those clashes between the faiths — Christians hounding so-called pagans, Muslims persecuting Jews — were fostered behind the scenes by followers of the One True Religion. We know this now. The Freemasons, the Knights Templar, and the other cults and secret societies famous for their Ancient Egyptian iconography — that was their task, to install acolytes in high places and have them exert influence over governments and monarchs. It was done to keep the other religions at one another's throats constantly. With every battle, every pogrom, every massacre, the other gods lost worshippers and were weakened. They were also distracted, making them easier targets for attack on the divine plane. It was a long, sustained campaign that went on till the last of the First Family's enemies was exhausted, drained of all power, and could be picked off easily.''

  ''And then the First Family stepped back and passed the world on to their offspring, and here we all are.'' David snorted. ''So? It doesn't change the fact that you're human and they're divine, and thinking you stand a chance against them is like an ant thinking it could topple you.''

  ''Enough ants, employing the right tactics and leverage, probably could topple me,'' said the Lightbringer. ''My point is that the gods conducted part of their war on earth and I intend to use the same battleground. I doubt I'm going to be able to convince you of this, though.''

  ''I don't think so.''

  ''A pity. From what I've been told about you, I could do with somebody like you by my side.''

  ''Me?''

  ''A true soldier. A man who understands how to take and give orders.''

  ''Oh no. No, no, no.'' David shook his head vehemently. ''I'm not up for that. Not at all. I can't defy the gods. I'm a believer.''

  ''Are you?''

  ''Of course I am. I was raised that way, I've lived that way all my life…''

  ''That doesn't mean you are one,'' said the Lightbringer. ''All it means is you've been conditioned to think you are.''

  ''I trust in Isis and Osiris. I respect them as rulers. I have faith in them to guide our leaders wisely and do what's best for us.''

  ''Did Isis and Osiris, I wonder, sanction the bombing of you and your fellow paratroopers at Petra?''

  David kept his voice even. ''It was a military decision, made for the general good. And in a roundabout way it saved my life.''

  ''But the gods aren't involved in military decisions?''

  ''They speak to priests and kings, not field marshals.''

  ''But field marshals are answerable to priests and kings, are they not?''

  ''Zafirah,'' David said, ''I've had enough of this. Please tell Mister No Face here that I'm not prepared to argue the rights and wrongs of theocracy with him. I'm not going to be able to persuade him to see my point of view and he's not going to be able to persuade me to see his, and that's an end of it. Oh, and by the way, thanks for telling him absolutely everything you know about me. I love being put at a disadvantage when I'm meeting a complete stranger.''

  ''He asked,'' she said. ''He's very interested in you, in case you hadn't noticed.''

  ''Well, if he wants a boyfriend, he's barking up the wrong tree.''

  David judged that to be a pretty good exit line, and turned on his heel to go.

  Immediately Saeed and Salim closed ranks, blocking the way
out.

  ''All right,'' David said, ''which one of you plug-uglies wants it first?''

  The two Liberators folded their arms. David reckoned he could take them down pretty easily. Though both were stockily well built, neither radiated the calm, ready-for-anything aura of an experienced fighter. Street muscle. They would go for obvious blows — face, chest, belly. He would jab at nerve clusters and soft spots — throat, eyes, genitals. No contest.

  The Lightbringer spoke, and Saeed and Salim unfolded their arms and stepped aside.

  He spoke again, and Zafirah said, ''David, the Lightbringer says you are free to leave if you wish. He will not stop you. But,'' she continued, ''he has heard rumours that you are an accomplished senet player.''

  ''Oh, has he? News travels fast.''

  ''Luxor is a small place and the Lightbringer likes to stay informed. He wants to know if you will sit with him in private and play a few games.''

  ''What for? I can't see the point.''

  ''Indulge me,'' the Lightbringer said through Zafirah. ''I fancy myself a pretty good player too. In fact, I've yet to meet my equal in the game. Maybe that's you?''

  ''Not interested.''

  ''Not interested? Or do you simply fear losing?''

  David knew, with an inward sigh, that that was that. A gauntlet had just been thrown down and there was no way he couldn't pick it up. Nobody called David Westwynter a coward. Or even implied it.

  Ten minutes later, he and the Lightbringer were alone in the chamber. Everyone else had been dismissed, including Zafirah. Without her as interpreter there would be no conversation, no interaction other than through the game itself. It was just the two of them, hunched on wooden chairs, with the board laid out on an upturned crate between them.

  David noted that it was a proper AW Games board, not a crude knock-off like the ones he'd played on earlier in the day. Freegypt was exempt from international patent law, much as it was exempt from all the other rules the rest of the world lived by, so bogus copies of the game could be produced and sold with impunity. The Lightbringer, however, clearly preferred the quality and craftsmanship of the genuine article. The version he owned was actually the deluxe edition, carved from teak, with counters made of polished marble and a small drawer inset into the board in which to stow them. Everything was scratched and scuffed with age and use.

  As the Lightbringer set out the counters for the first game, David took the opportunity to study him at close range. The mask was sewn to fit, with seams down both sides, and gathered at the neck. Whatever material it was made from, it was thin enough that the wearer could see out without much difficulty. Seeing in, though, was much harder. David could just make out the glitter of the man's eyes as they flicked to and fro. The mouth was a dim oval. He thought he spied a patch of strange, ribbed roughness covering the skin of most of one cheek, but it might have been shadows cast by tiny pleats and folds in the fabric.

  The Lightbringer looked up and David ended his scrutiny. The Lightbringer proffered the casting sticks. David took them and threw them. He got a 1, meaning he was playing black and went first.

  And the game commenced.

  And David lost.

  It happened so fast he could barely believe it. He'd succeeded in getting just one of his counters to Square 30 and off the board. He'd had a hard time even manoeuvring them onto the last row.

  The Lightbringer gave a grunt of satisfaction, then made a gesture: perhaps David would like a second chance.

  David certainly did.

  The game began again, and again David lost. He made a better fist of it this time, installing counters on both the House of Beauty and the House of Three Truths, but it wasn't enough to foil the Lightbringer's efforts. He won while David still had three counters left to remove.

  The Lightbringer might have been pleased to have had two victories on the trot. He might have been annoyed that David wasn't proving to be much competition after all. It was impossible to know.

  They knuckled down to a third game, David now more determined than ever to beat the other man.

  It was a close-fought contest. Luck was definitely on David's side this time, in as much as luck meant anything. The sticks kept giving him fours and sixes, allowing him turn after turn after turn. He built up a commanding lead. He removed one counter from the board.

  Then the Lightbringer came from behind, gained the upper hand, and in fewer than ten moves had all his counters off and yet another victory under his belt.

  David looked at the board aghast, as if somehow it had betrayed him. Three games. He had lost three whole games. And badly too. They'd not even been marginal defeats. They'd been crushing ones.

  He hadn't had such a poor run at senet since… he couldn't remember when. He could think of only two people who'd ever been able to best him at the game quite so convincingly. One was his father, and the other was dead.

  He debated whether to agree to a fourth game. He wasn't sure his ego could handle it. However, when the Lightbringer held out the sticks to him, he took them, and shook them, and threw them, and once again board-game battle was joined.

  Now David began to notice something. He hadn't realised it before, but the Lightbringer's playing strategies were very familiar. They mirrored his own. Every move the other man made was the move he too would have made had he been in that position. The Lightbringer followed game patterns he himself favoured. It was as though he was up against another David Westwynter, and that was why he was losing. The same skills he used to beat others were being used to beat him.

  Accordingly he changed tactics. He abandoned formal play. All the permutations he knew by rote, he avoided. He went for wild-card moves instead, doing what he least expected of himself and therefore what his opponent would least expect too. Given a choice between safe and unpredictable, he chose the latter every time. His only rule was recklessness. Chaos was the order of the day.

  He didn't care that this probably meant he would lose. It was also the only hope he had of winning. If he continued to play as before, he would simply be handing the Lightbringer a fourth victory.

  To his surprise, the gamble paid off. As he plucked his fifth and final counter off the board, David could barely suppress a grin of glee.

  The Lightbringer nodded, perhaps in appreciation, perhaps in bemusement, perhaps both.

  Then, in perfect English, with no trace of an accent, he said: ''Well done.''

  David's jaw dropped.

  ''You figured it out,'' the Lightbringer went on. ''Took you long enough, but you got there. Go mad. Take absurd risks. It's the only defence against tightly structured play.''

  ''You're… you're British.''

  ''Yes, but you can do better than that.''

  ''What do you mean?''

  ''What do you think I mean? Dave.''

  David didn't understand.

  Then he did.

  All at once the chamber seemed tiny, constrictingly small. David felt as though the world were telescoping down, zeroing in on this point in space and time, this moment, this impossible event. Nothing else was happening anywhere, just this. There was just this stone room, these two chairs, the two people sitting on them. Everything outside the immediate vicinity had ceased to matter, ceased to be.

  He stared at the Lightbringer. And stared and stared.

  The features behind the mask remained hidden. Unknowable.

  But the voice…

  Oh gods. Oh Osiris of Djed-pillar. Oh Isis of the Blood Knot.

  That voice.

  Huskily, querulously, not even in a whisper, more an exhalation, David spoke the name.

  ''Steven?''

  12. Aegean

  Let me tell you this, Dave. All the advance planning in the world, all the preparation, all the well-formulated tactics, it doesn't amount to a bucket of shit once the fighting starts. That's true of any battle and it's truer than true of naval battles. The moment you and the enemy engage, everything goes to pieces. All you can do is hang in there, keep hammering
away at the other guy, and hope there are more of your ships left afloat at the end than there are of his. That's while contending with sea conditions, tides, weather, all of that as well. It's a wonder the admirals even bother with strategy meetings. They might as well sit in a circle wanking each other off for all the difference it makes. They probably do that anyway.

  So there we were, three days out of Marseilles, steaming up through the Dodecanese to take on the Nephs, who were harrying merchant shipping all along the east coast of Greece from Thessaloniki to Athens. It was a classic piece of sabre-rattling from them. Things had been pretty quiet on the Mediterranean front for a couple of years and someone high up at Neph Fleet HQ must've got bored and fancied some action. You can bet the Setics were egging them on from the sidelines, too. Moscow in particular had been itching to reopen hostilities in the Med arena. All those battleships docked at Odessa and Sevastopol — couldn't have them sitting there gathering barnacles, now could we? Besides, there's nothing worse than sailors in port with nothing to do. They drink the bars dry, wear out the whores, and start fights. So it was in the Setics' interest if the Nephs stirred it up with us. Then they could come whizzing to the rescue from the Black Sea, bingo, everyone happy.

  On the day of the battle itself, I was on Forenoon Watch and eight bells were about to toll. Which means, landlubber, my shift was nearly over and it was coming up to midday. It had been a beautiful morning. I remember telling myself to try and take it all in, how the sky looked, how the sea looked, the smell of the air, because I knew we were likely to encounter the Nephs that day and I mightn't have the chance to enjoy another morning ever again. The sky was sapphire. The sea was purple, choppy, frenetic. We were sailing with a strong southerly bumping us along from behind, so I was inhaling plenty of fumes from the funnel but I didn't mind. Barely noticed. Everywhere on a warship smells of diesel. Your clothes stink of it, your hair. It's a sailor's perfume.

  Lovely morning, like I say, and it felt good to be part of a fleet heading towards a battle zone. From my starboard watch post I could see at least half a dozen other ships — a couple of frigates, a destroyer, our fellow dreadnought the Indomitable, and the corvettes that were escorting her and us. Our corvette was the Serapis, and personally I blame her imbecile of a captain for what happened to the Immortal. I mean, his one and only job was to stop a submarine getting a shot off at us, and did he do that? Did he arse!