by Will Adams
‘You won’t be.’
‘I know I won’t be. But that’s how he’ll make it look. He’ll take what he needs and ignore everything else. He’ll make me a laughing stock.’
‘Please.’ Fatima touched her wrist. ‘You don’t know how tight our budget is. Once I’m gone—’
Gaille winced. ‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘It’s the truth, my dear. I need to leave this project in good financial health. It’s my legacy. And that means raising the profile of this region. I’m asking you to help. If you feel you can’t, I suppose I could always postpone my tests.’
Gaille blinked and clenched her jaw. ‘That’s unfair, Fatima.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
The wall-clock ticked away the seconds. Gaille finally let out her breath. ‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘You win. What exactly do you want me to do?’
‘Just be helpful. That’s all. Help them make a good programme. And I want you to show them the talatat too.’
‘No!’ cried Gaille. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Can you think of a better way to generate publicity?’
‘It’s too early. We can’t be anything like sure. If it turns out we’re wrong—’
Fatima nodded. ‘Just show them the place, then. Explain how your image software works, how you recreate those old scenes after all these centuries. Leave everything else to me. My doctor insists I eat, after all. I’ll join you for dinner tonight. That way, if anyone’s made a laughing stock over this, it’ll be me.’
SEVEN
I
Night fell as Knox and Omar headed back towards the excavation site, avoiding the route they’d taken before, wary of being spotted. They took farm tracks instead, crossing a wooden bridge over another irrigation channel into a field, then navigating by moonlight until their further progress was balked by a high stone wall. By his reckoning, the Texas Society site lay across a lane just the other side. He trundled on a short distance until he spotted a padlocked steel gate, rolled to a stop.
His white shirt glowed treacherously in the moonlight when he got out of the Jeep, so he rummaged in the back for a dark polo-neck jersey for himself, found a jacket for Omar too. Then he patted his pockets to make sure he had his camera-phone, and set off. A bird hooted and flapped lazily away as they climbed the gate. They crossed the lane, reached the irrigation channel. Knox grinned at Omar, enjoying himself, but Omar only grimaced in response, his discomfort clear.
Knox clambered down the near bank, taking a cascade of earth and stone with him, stepped across the dank ribbon of water at its foot, scrambled up the far bank on his palms and knees, peered cautiously over the top. The landscape was flat and featureless, making it hard to get a fix. He waited for Omar to arrive then crouched low and headed on in. He’d barely gone fifty metres before he trod on a fat stone and turned his ankle, stumbling to the ground. There were many such stones, he now saw, pale-grey and rounded, some even arranged in rough cairns, all aligned in the same direction. He came across a tent of translucent plastic sheeting, pulled it back to expose a pit beneath, a crumbled wall of ancient bricks at its foot, filtered moonlight glowing on a domed skull, thin curved ribs and long bones. ‘Neat rows of white stones,’ he murmured, taking a photograph, though without his flash attachment he wasn’t sure quite what would show up. ‘Just like the cemetery at Qumran. Skeletons pointing south, their faces turned to the rising sun. And see how the bones are tinted slightly purple?’
‘So?’
‘The Essenes used to drink a juice made from madder root. It stains bones red, if you drink enough of it. And didn’t Griffin say they used to grow madder around here?’
‘You think your lid came from one of these graves?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Then can we leave now?’
‘Not yet. We still need to see—’
A snarl behind them. Knox whirled around to see a mangy dog, ribs showing through its flanks, moonlight reflecting brightly from its black eyes and silvery slobber. Ancient Egyptian cemeteries had typically been sited on desert fringes; good quality farmland had been too valuable to waste. They’d consequently become the haunts of scavengers, one reason why the jackal-god Anubis had been so closely associated with death. Knox hissed and waved. But it only growled louder, bared its fangs, its territory infringed.
‘Make it go away,’ said Omar.
‘I’m trying,’ said Knox.
Torchlight flared away to their left, vanished then came back, stronger and nearer. A security guard on his rounds, swinging his torch back and forth, painting yellow ellipses on the ground that came perilously close. They ducked down behind the plastic tent, allowing the dog to approach to within a few feet, snarling and sniffing. Omar jabbed a finger back the way they’d come, but it was too late, the security guard was almost upon them. Knox gestured for Omar to crouch low, hold his nerve.
The guard heard the dog, picked it out with his torch, then stooped for a stone that he hurled hard. It missed its target but provoked a furious barking. The guard came closer. Knox could see dots of moonlight gleaming on his polished black boots. His second shot caught the dog a glancing blow on its hind leg. It yelped and bounded away. The guard laughed heartily then turned and walked off.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ pleaded Omar, once he’d vanished from sight.
‘Just a little further,’ said Knox, dusting himself down. He hated playing the bully, but this place needed checking out. They soon came to a sandy embankment, a yellow glow on the other side. Knox crawled up on his elbows and knees, that familiar metallic tang at the back of his mouth as he peered over the top. Griffin and a young man with buzz-cut blond hair were standing by the rear of a pick-up backed against the open door of a squat brick building, its interior light on. Two more young men emerged with a crate that they lugged onto the flatbed. Their hair was cropped short too, and they were wearing identical cornflower blue shirts and khaki trousers.
‘That’ll do for now,’ said Griffin. ‘We’ll have to come back anyhow.’ He locked up the building, got into the pick-up, the three young men climbing up onto the back.
‘What are they doing?’ whispered Omar as the truck drove off.
‘Clearing out their magazine. So that we won’t find anything incriminating tomorrow.’
‘Let’s go to the police. We’ll tell them everything.’
‘They’ll have hidden it all by the time we get back.’
‘Please, Daniel. I hate this kind of business.’
Knox took out the keys to his Jeep, closed Omar’s hand around them. ‘Go wait for me,’ he said. ‘If I’m not back in an hour, go get the police.’
Omar pulled a face. ‘Please come with me.’
‘We need to find out where they’re putting this stuff, Omar. You must see that.’ And before Omar could protest, Knox got to his feet and jogged across the broken ground after the pick-up, its rear lights shining like a demon’s eyes in the darkness.
II
Lily felt a little sheepish as she emerged from Stafford’s room. ‘He has some urgent phone calls to make,’ she told Gaille, waiting outside. ‘Is it essential that he comes with us?’
‘It’s your documentary,’ shrugged Gaille. ‘Fatima just thought you might be interested, that’s all.’
‘And we are. Don’t think we don’t appreciate it. It’s just …’
‘He has phone calls to make,’ suggested Gaille.
‘Yes,’ said Lily, dropping her eyes. Stafford had discovered the Internet connection in his room, was now happily catching up with his email, checking out his latest sales figures and running searches of his own name to see if anyone had written anything nice about him recently.
She followed Gaille out of the compound’s back gate straight into the desert. Her feet sank into the soft dry sand, making her camera equipment feel twice as heavy.
‘You want help with that?’ asked Gaille.
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
�
�So you’re Stafford’s camera-woman, are you?’ said Gaille, taking a bag.
‘And producer,’ nodded Lily ruefully. ‘As well as sound engineer, gofer, runner – everything else you can think of.’ Stafford had apparently been all for luxury and large crews while he’d been working on someone else’s dime. But he’d grown increasingly affronted at the thought of anyone else making money from his work, so he’d set up his own production company, intending to hawk the finished product to broadcasters. He’d duly cut costs to the bone, hiring inexperienced staff like herself and bullying them so mercilessly that her three colleagues had walked out just a week before, landing this whole nightmare of a trip on her shoulders. She’d hoped to be able to rely on local help, but Stafford’s high-handed manner had driven even those away. ‘Not that I get to do as much camerawork as I’d like. Charles does his own whenever he can.’ She allowed herself a small smile. ‘I think he has this image of himself as an intrepid solo desert adventurer. He likes to keep adjusting the settings while talking to camera, so that viewers will think him out here on his own. I just film when he’s interviewing people, or if we need a pan or zoom.’ They reached the entrance to the site. Gaille unlocked the wooden door, turned on the generator, gave it a few moments to warm up before flipping switches and leading Lily down eerie corridors of crumbling sandstone to a cavernous new space. ‘Wow!’ murmured Lily. ‘What is this place?’
‘The inside of a pylon of a Nineteenth Dynasty Temple of Amun.’ She pointed to a mound of bricks in the far corner. ‘And these are what I brought you to see. They’re Ancient Egyptian bricks called talatat. They were used by—’
‘Whoa, whoa,’ interjected Lily. ‘I can film this, yes?’
‘If it’s light enough in here, sure.’
Lily patted the side of her Sony VX2000. ‘This thing’s a marvel, believe me. It’ll look wonderfully atmospheric.’ She’d grown to love cameras. It hadn’t always been that way. When she’d first encountered them, at children’s parties and at school, she’d feared and hated them. It was bad enough having other children stare at her birthmark in her presence, but at least she’d been there to make sure they didn’t say anything too cruel. Cameras had allowed them to take her ugliness away with them, to look at it whenever they chose, to poke fun at her and laugh and insult her to their heart’s content, with no way for her to defend herself against it.
She’d been cursed with a runaway imagination, Lily. At times the thought of what the other children were saying about her had tormented her so severely that her only way of soothing it had been to imagine the moment of her own death, the sweetness of release. She’d started deliberately hurting herself, slapping herself across her cheek, jabbing scissors into her arm. But then one day her uncle had almost negligently given her his cast-off camcorder. She still shivered at the memory. Just holding the viewfinder to her eye concealed her birthmark, which had been wonderful in itself. But it was the power that it had given her that had been transforming. The power to make others look good or bad as she chose. The power to make them look gracious or sullen, ugly or beautiful. And she’d used that power too. She’d discovered a real talent in herself. It had given her identity and self-esteem. Most of all, it had given her a path.
She unpacked and set up the equipment, plugged in and put on her headphones, checked sound and light levels, hoisted the camera to her shoulder, turned it on Gaille. ‘You were saying?’ she asked.
‘Oh,’ said Gaille, taken aback. ‘I thought you’d be filming the talatat, not me.’
‘I want both,’ said Lily, well accustomed to soothing stage fright. ‘But don’t worry. Charles already has his script. He’s highly unlikely to make changes this late, believe me. And you’d need to sign a release anyway, so if you don’t like it …’
‘Okay.’
‘Thanks. Now crouch down. That’s it. Straighten your back and look up at me. No, not like that. Lift your chin. A little more. That’s it. Perfect. Now rest your right hand on the bricks.’
‘Are you sure? It feels very odd.’
‘But it looks great,’ smiled Lily. ‘Trust me. I’m good at this. Now start at the beginning. Assume I know nothing. Which is, I’m afraid, shamefully close to the truth. So, then. What is this place? And what exactly are talatat?’
III
The pick-up’s brake lights flared red and then vanished over a ridge. Knox kept his eyes fixed upon the spot and slowed to a gentler jog to gather his breath. He reached the ridge, crouched down to peer over it, but there was nothing the other side. He wandered the darkness for a while, was beginning to give up hope, when he heard a clang away to his right. He climbed another ridge to find the pick-up parked in a slight hollow on the other side, its engine off, lights out, no sign of life except for a gentle yellow glow emanating from a pit next to it.
With any kind of GPS, he’d simply have logged the coordinates and headed off to fetch the police. But without GPS, getting a fix was virtually impossible. The skyline was featureless except for the distant orange flame of natural gas burn off, the dark outline of twin power-station chimneys. He crept forwards. The pit proved to be a flight of steps leading down through a hatchway to some kind of atrium, a generator muttering away inside. He went over to the pick-up, just three boxes left on the flatbed. There was an earthenware statue inside the first, a young boy with a finger to his lips. Harpocrates, a deity popular among Egyptians, Greeks and Romans. He photographed it, was about to open the second box when he heard footsteps. He dropped instantly to the ground, slithered beneath the pick-up. The three young men emerged, came over, their boots by Knox’s face, kicking up dry dust that made his throat tickle. They picked up the last boxes and went back down. But they passed Griffin on the steps, and he emerged a moment later, breathing hard. He came over and sat heavily on the flatbed, making its suspension creak, trapping Knox underneath. A minute passed. Two. The young men reappeared.
‘Let’s get that last load then,’ muttered Griffin. They all climbed aboard and set off, leaving Knox exposed. He tucked his hands beneath his stomach, pressed his face into the hard earth, expecting to be spotted at any moment. But they vanished over the ridge without incident. Knox picked himself up, went back to the mouth of the pit. The light was still on at its foot, the hatchway open. Too good a chance to miss, even though Omar would doubtless be going frantic by now. He tiptoed down to the atrium, his heart in his mouth. No one inside, only a generator chuntering away in the corner. It suddenly started stuttering and coughing, sending vibrations through the floor, the lights dimming for a moment before they picked up again. He waited for his heart to resettle, checked his watch. Griffin would surely be at least fifteen minutes. He could allow himself ten.
Arched passages led left and right. He went left. The passage snaked this way and that, following the path of least resistance through the limestone. Lamps were strung out every few paces on orange electrical flex, their light coaxing nightmarish shadows from the rough-cut bedrock. The passage opened abruptly into a large catacomb, its walls cut with columns of square-mouthed loculi, an island of crates and boxes stacked in the centre. He photographed a skeleton in one of the burial niches, eye-sockets staring blindly upwards. The Essenes had considered death unclean; burial inside a communal area like this would have been unthinkable. It was a big blow to his Therapeutae theory.
A camera and ultraviolet lamps were fixed to a stand on a worktable. There were trays and boxes stacked beneath, a processing sheet taped to each, artefacts to be photographed. Knox opened one, found a clay oil lamp in the form of a leering satyr. The next box contained a silver ring; the third a faïence bowl. But it was the fourth box that gave him the shivers. It was divided into six small compartments, and lying inside each of them was a shrunken, mummified human ear.
EIGHT
I
‘We’re currently inside the pylon of a Temple of Amun,’ began Gaille, her voice echoing in the large chamber. ‘It was completed under Ramesses II, but it fell into disrepair be
fore being extensively rebuilt by the Ptolemies.’
‘And its connection with Amarna?’ prompted Lily.
‘Yes,’ blushed Gaille. ‘Forgive me.’
‘No need for forgiveness. You’re a natural. The camera loves you.’
‘Thanks.’ Gaille smiled wryly, her scepticism clear. ‘As you know, Egyptians typically built their monuments and temples with massive blocks of quarried stone, as with the pyramids. But cutting and transporting them was expensive and time-consuming, and Akhenaten was in a hurry. He wanted new temples to the Aten in Karnak and Amarna, and he wanted them now. So his engineers came up with a different type of brick, these talatat. They weigh about a hundred pounds each, light enough for a single construction worker to heave into place by himself, though it wouldn’t have done much good for their backs. And after the walls were completed, they’d be carved and painted into grand scenes, like a huge television wall.’
‘So how did they get here?’
Gaille nodded. ‘After Akhenaten died, his successors determined to destroy every trace of him and his heresy. Did you know that Tutankhamun’s name was originally Tutankhaten. He was pressured into changing it after Akhenaten died. Names were incredibly important back then. The Ancient Egyptians believed that even saying someone’s name helped sustain them in the afterlife, one reason why Akhenaten’s name was deliberately excised from temples and monuments across the land. But his talatat suffered a different fate. When his buildings were dismantled, the bricks were used as hard-core for building projects all across Egypt. So every time we excavate a post-Amarna site, there’s a chance we’ll find some.’
‘And recreate the original scenes on Akhenaten’s walls?’
‘That’s the idea. But it isn’t easy. Imagine buying a hundred jigsaw puzzles, jumbling all the pieces up together, then throwing away ninety per cent and bashing up the rest with a hammer. But making sense of such things is what I do. It’s why Fatima invited me down here. I usually work with ancient texts, but the principle’s the same.’