by Will Adams
‘Of course not,’ said Stafford. ‘I was talking about the establishment in general. So-called Egypt experts who refuse even to consider that the Bible might have light to shed upon Egyptian history.’
‘Which people are these?’ asked Fatima. ‘I’ve never met any.’
‘I don’t suggest for a moment that the Bible is strictly factual,’ continued Stafford. ‘But clearly it’s by far our best account of Judaism’s origins. Who can doubt, for example, that a slave population later known as the Jews were present in Egypt in large numbers sometime during the second millennium BC? And who can doubt that they came into conflict with their Egyptian masters and fled in a mass exodus, led by a man they called Moses? Or that they stormed and destroyed Jericho and other cities before settling in and around Jerusalem. That’s the skeleton of what happened. Our job as historians is to flesh those bones out as best we can.’
‘Oh,’ said Fatima. ‘That’s our job, is it?’
‘Yes,’ said Stafford complacently. ‘It is. And if we do, we straightaway encounter a problem. Because there’s no obvious Egyptian account of any such exodus. Of course, it wasn’t anything like so significant for the Egyptians as for the Jews, just the flight of a group of slaves, so that’s understandable enough. And it’s not as though we’re completely without clues to work with. For example, Genesis credits Joseph with bringing the Hebrews to Egypt. And chariots are mentioned not once, not twice, but three times in Joseph’s story. But the Egyptians didn’t have chariots before the Eighteenth Dynasty, so the Jews can’t possibly even have arrived in Egypt before the mid sixteenth-century BC. And then there’s the Merneptah Stele, which records a victory over the tribe of Israel in Canaan, so the Exodus must have already taken place by the time it was inscribed, around 1225 BC. So now we have a bracket of dates: 1550–1225 BC. Or, to put it another way, sometime during the Eighteenth Dynasty. Agreed?’
‘Your logic appears impeccable,’ said Fatima.
‘Thank you,’ said Stafford. ‘Now let’s see if we can’t narrow it down further. The Ptolemies commissioned a man called Manetho to write a history of Egypt. His King List still forms the basis for our understanding of the ancient dynastic structure.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Manetho was an Egyptian high priest, and he had access to the records of the Temple of Amun in Heliopolis. He identified a man called Osarseph as the biblical Moses. This Osarseph was high priest to a Pharaoh Amenhotep, and apparently he built up a following among outcasts and lepers. He became so powerful that the gods came to Amenhotep in a dream and ordered him to drive Osarseph from Egypt, but Osarseph drove out Amenhotep instead, establishing a thirteen-year reign before he was finally expelled. So. Not only do we have our independent confirmation of the Exodus, we also have a massive clue in our search for Moses. This man Osarseph. This Pharaoh Amenhotep.’
‘There were four Pharaoh Amenhoteps during the Eighteenth Dynasty. Which one do you suppose Manetho was referring to?’
‘He said that the pharaoh had a son called Ramesses. Ramesses was a Nineteenth Dynasty name, so Manetho was clearly referring to one of the later, not earlier, Amenhoteps.’
‘Ah. I see.’
‘Now, Osarseph’s thirteen-year reign might appear to be a problem, because we have no other record of a Pharaoh Osarseph, or of any Eighteenth Dynasty pharaoh ruling for thirteen years. But let’s take a closer look at our various candidates. Ay or Horemheb, maybe. Neither was of royal birth, one being a vizier before he ascended the throne, the other a general. But Ay reigned just four years; and Horemheb’s nineteen years were largely orthodox and prosperous. Smenkhkare lasted just a few months, while Tutankhamun was only a youngster when he died. None of them fit. But we have one possibility left. Akhenaten. He succeeded his father Amenhotep III. And though he ruled for seventeen years in all, something extraordinary evidently happened during his fifth year. Not only did he change his name, he also founded his new capital city of Akhetaten, the place we know as Amarna, from where he ruled until 1332 BC. Thirteen forty-five to 1332. Tell me: how many years is that?’
‘Thirteen,’ said Fatima.
‘Exactly,’ nodded Stafford. ‘So we have our match, superficially at least. But that raises other questions. For example, why would anyone consider Akhenaten an interloper? He was the legitimate pharaoh, after all. And, apart from Manetho’s assertion, is there anything else to connect Akhenaten with Moses?’
Fatima spread her hands. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to put us out of our suspense?’
II
Knox crossed a low hummock of rock, glanced around. The pursuit was getting closer all the time. His breath was hard and hot, his stitch jabbing sharp. The moon slid behind a rare drift of nighttime cloud. He used the greater darkness to cut right, away from the fence, running almost blind. But then the moon reappeared and he saw plastic sheeting ahead. The cemetery. A cry went up behind him. He ran towards the irrigation channel, slithered down the bank, splashed wearily through the water at the foot, clambering up the other side, his shoes clotting with water and mud.
A pair of headlamps appeared to his right, one of the pick-ups. It accelerated down the lane towards him, doors flying open, two young men jumping out. Knox vaulted the gate near where he’d parked, but there was no sign of Omar or the Jeep on the other side – other than the tracks it had left in the earth, at least.
He juddered to a halt, hands on his knees, heaving for air, his thighs weighted down with lactic acid. Three young men arrived at the gate behind him, climbing it without great hurry, confident they had their man. The breeze pressed Knox’s soaking shirt against his skin. The chill of the night, coupled with apprehension, rippled a shiver right through him.
An old engine roared. Knox turned to see the Jeep bumping towards him, Omar at the wheel, its passenger door already flapping open. Knox ran to meet it, tumbled inside, slammed and locked the door even as his pursuers made a last effort to catch him, surrounding the Jeep, pounding on the windows, faces ugly with frustration as Omar swung the wheel around, crunching up through the gears as they jolted their escape across the field.
III
Peterson gripped his King James Version tight as he stared at the painted section of wall that had been drawn to his attention by Michael just before Knox had been discovered. The distilled water had cleaned off the thick coat of dirt, and revived the underlying pigments too, so that the mural glowed clearly: two men in white robes emerging from a cave, a figure in blue kneeling before them, a single line of text beneath.
Peterson had come late to languages, but his Greek was good enough for this, not least because the phrase had showed up in his nightmares this past decade, ever since he’d first encountered the Carpocratians.
Son of David, have mercy on me.
The blood rushed from his head, leaving him so dizzy that he had to put a hand against the wall to steady himself.
Son of David, have mercy on me.
And Knox had had a camera! Of all people! Knox! A heavy dull thumping in his chest, like a distant steel-press. What had he done? He looked around. Everyone else had chased off after Knox, leaving him alone. That was something. He picked up a rock hammer and attacked the wall furiously, venting his rage and fear on it, hacking wildly at the plaster until it lay in dust and fragments on the floor. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, before sensing he had company. He turned to see Griffin staring horrified at him, at what he’d done.
‘Well?’ demanded Peterson, turning defence into attack. ‘Did you catch him?’
Griffin shook his head. ‘Tawfiq was waiting in the fields.’
‘You let them get away? Don’t you know what damage they can do?’
‘They can’t get far. The only way out of those fields is by that old bridge. Nathan’s gone to wait there.’
He nodded. That was something. But this was now too delicate a situation to leave to anyone else. He needed to take personal command. ‘Close this site up,’ he ordered Griffin.
‘I don’t want to see a trace of it when I come back. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
Peterson tossed the rock hammer negligently away into the corner, as though it were nothing, what he’d just done to the wall. Then he checked his pockets for his car keys and strode towards the hole in the wall with such purpose that Griffin had to jump back out of his way.
ELEVEN
I
‘Monotheism,’ declared Stafford.
‘I beg your pardon,’ frowned Fatima.
‘Monotheism. That’s the key. Moses was the original champion of the One True God. “Thou shalt have no other gods but me.” And what sets Akhenaten apart from any other pharaoh?’
‘Monotheism?’ suggested Fatima.
‘Exactly. Monotheism. Before him, Egypt had always had a multitude of gods. But under Akhenaten, everything changed. For him, there was only one God. The sun disc. The Aten. All others were fabrications of the human mind and the craftsman’s art. And he did more than pay lip service to this idea. He acted upon it. He closed the temples of rival gods, particularly those of Amun, the Aten’s chief rival. In fact, he had Amun’s name excised from monuments all over Egypt. You’ll acknowledge that much, I trust?’
‘Acknowledge it? I wrote a book on the subject.’
‘Good. Now, Manetho – he who claimed that Osarseph was Moses – based his history on the records of the Temple of Amun in Heliopolis. And what do you imagine the priests of Amun would have thought of Akhenaten, the man who’d closed down their temples and excised their God’s name across the land? Do you not think they’d have considered him an interloper? His supporters lepers?’ He took another swallow of wine then wiped his mouth, smearing dark hairs against his wrist. ‘Good,’ he said, taking silence for assent. ‘Now, let’s take another look at Moses. A Hebrew child, we are told, set upon the Nile in a basket of rushes, rescued by the pharaoh’s daughter who gave him the name Moses because it was Hebrew for “drawn out”. But that whole tale has the ring of folklore, doesn’t it? Why would a pharaoh’s daughter give a foundling a Hebrew name, after all? She wouldn’t have known he was Hebrew, for one thing. Nor would she have spoken Hebrew, not least because it didn’t exist back then. No. The true explanation is simple. Moses means “son” in Egyptian, and it’s a common part of pharaonic names, as in Tutmosis, son of Thoth, or Ramesses, son of Ra. The foundling myth was merely a retrospective attempt to claim Moses as a born Jew; but the truth is that he was born an Egyptian prince.’
‘The Bible says he murdered an Egyptian soldier, doesn’t it?’ frowned Fatima. ‘And that he fled to the land of Kush. I can’t recall Akhenaten doing that.’
‘You’re never going to get a perfect match,’ said Stafford. ‘The question is whether the fit’s close enough. It clearly is. And that’s without even going into the remarkable parallels between the doctrines of Akhenaten and Moses.’
‘Which parallels are those exactly?’
‘I’ll tell you, if you give me a chance.’
‘Please,’ said Fatima. ‘Be my guest.’
‘I already am your guest,’ observed Stafford, gesturing grandly with his glass, slopping wine like blood onto his borrowed galabaya. He brushed the droplets irritably away, then composed himself to complete his thesis.
II
Inspector Naguib Hussein was usually good at forgetting his police work once he’d closed his front door for the night. Normally, his wife and daughter were a tonic to his spirits. But not tonight, not even as he stooped low for Husniyah to throw her arms around his neck so that he could lift her up. He tried not to let her see his anxiety, however, as he carried her through the bead curtain into their kitchen, kissing her surreptitiously on her crown, noting with a warm stab of pain and pride how springy and black her hair was, the thin pale valley of scalp that showed through beneath.
Yasmine looked up from her cooking, eyes tired, complexion shiny with vapours. ‘That smells good,’ he said. He tried to pinch a morsel from the pot, but she smacked his hand and made him drop it. They shared a smile. Thirteen years of marriage, and still he could be surprised by the freshness of their affection. Husniyah sat cross-legged on the floor, a pad of paper on her lap, drawing pictures of animals and trees and houses. He watched over her shoulder, praising her skill, asking questions. But soon he fell into a reverie, brooding on the evils of the world, and it was only when Yasmine touched his shoulder that he realized she’d been talking to him. He shook his head to clear it, mustered the warmest smile he could. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘Something’s on your mind,’ she said.
‘Nothing particular.’ But he couldn’t prevent his eyes from swivelling to his daughter.
‘Husniyah, beloved,’ said Yasmine gently. ‘Could you please leave us a moment?’ Husniyah looked up, puzzled; but she’d been brought up to be obedient, so she gathered her things and left without a word. ‘Well?’ asked Yasmine.
Naguib sighed. Sometimes he wished his wife didn’t know him so well. ‘We found a body today,’ he admitted.
‘A body?’
‘A young woman. A girl.’
Yasmine’s eyes flashed instinctively to the bead curtain. ‘A girl. How old?’
‘Thirteen. Maybe fourteen.’
It took Yasmine an effort to get her next question out. ‘And she was … murdered?’
‘It’s too early to be sure,’ answered Naguib. ‘But probably. Yes.’
‘That makes three in a month.’
‘The other two were down in Assiut.’
‘So? Maybe they moved here because things were getting too hot down there.’
‘We don’t know how long this one has been there. There’s no reason to suspect the cases are connected.’
‘Yet you do suspect it, don’t you?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What are you doing about it?’
‘Not much,’ he confessed. ‘Gamal has other priorities.’
‘Priorities that come before finding the murderer of three young girls?’
‘With all this tension and everything, he doesn’t think this is the right time …’ Naguib drifted lamely to a halt. The other side of the curtain, Husniyah started singing, ostensibly to herself, but actually so that her parents could hear her, be aware of her, protect her.
‘Tell me you’re going to go after whoever did this,’ said Yasmine fiercely. ‘Tell me you’re going to catch them before they kill again.’
For a moment, that wretched mummified mess reappeared in Naguib’s mind, still wrapped in her tarpaulin shroud. Who knew whose face he’d find next time? He met his wife’s eyes directly, as he always did on the important matters, when he needed her to know she could trust him. ‘Yes,’ he promised. ‘I am.’
III
‘Any good?’ asked Omar, leaning over from the driver’s seat to check Knox’s photographs on the screen of his camera-phone.
‘Just watch what you’re doing, will you?’ said Knox, as Omar crunched the Jeep’s gears again.
‘Huh!’ said Omar. ‘They’re pretty dark, aren’t they?’
‘Maybe I should send them to Gaille,’ said Knox. ‘She’ll be able to make something of them, if anyone can.’
‘She’d better. We need more than that to show the police.’
‘Says the man who didn’t think we needed photographs at all.’ He started composing a text message, not easy as they bumped across the field, without even a seat belt to hold him in place. Took the attached at poss Therapeutae site! Light terrible. Can you help? All speed appreciated! Love, Daniel. He frowned in dissatisfaction, replaced Love with Much love then All love and finally All my love. None felt right. Everyone protested their love these days. The word had been cheapened into meaninglessness. He sat there feeling ridiculous. This was scarcely the time to fret over such things, after all. Yet he fretted all the same. He stabbed out some other words with his index finger, stared down at them for several seconds, unnerved by how plaintive they sounded. But he’d already wasted
too much time, so he attached the photographs and sent them on their way before he could change his mind.
Omar muttered a curse, slowed, came to a halt. Knox looked up to see headlights crisscrossing a main road a kilometre away. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Down there.’
Now Knox saw it, moonlight glowing on a pickup parked by the wooden bridge. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered.
‘What now?’
‘There has to be another way out. Let’s keep looking.’
The engine screeched as Omar tried to force it into gear. ‘Mine’s an automatic,’ he said with a wince.
‘You want me to drive?’
‘It might be best.’
They switched seats. Knox belted up, thrust the Jeep into gear, headed off in search of another way out. The pick-up lumbered after them, obviously wanting to keep them in sight, but staying a wary distance behind, between them and the bridge.
Knox crossed a rise, swung around. The moment the pick-up reappeared, he floored the pedal, accelerated towards it, jolting violently over the rutted ground. Omar clutched the door-handle, stamped on imaginary brakes. But Knox kept his foot to the floor. The pick-up swung round, aware it was a race for the bridge. He sped past it, but it quickly caught up, its engine newer and more powerful.
‘We’ll never get away,’ cried Omar.
‘Hold tight,’ said Knox, weaving back and forth to prevent the pick-up from pulling alongside, wheels spitting clods of mud. He swung out wide then turned sharply back towards the bridge. He was almost there when a 4x4 surged out of the darkness on the far side, its headlights springing on full and dazzling, so that Knox had to throw up a hand to shield his eyes, slam on the brakes, but too late, tyres losing grip, slithering sideways, missing the bridge and hurtling instead into the irrigation channel, flinging out his arm in an instinctive effort to pin Omar in his seat, their bonnet smashing into the opposite bank, metal crumpling, windscreen exploding in a great cacophony of glass, hurling him against his seat belt, his head snapping violently back, something crashing into the back of his skull, and everything going black.