by James Bennet
He bypassed Enlightenment and headed toward Living and Dying. The usher left these exhibits behind, hurrying downstairs into the education centre. Here, the caterers fussed over long tables laden with ice buckets, pyramids of glasses and trays of canapés for the after-show bash. Ben guessed he would have to corner Winlock with his questions. The usher directed him into the lecture theatre, and after finding a half-empty row in the darkened auditorium (and apologising to a hissing couple for half crushing their toes), he settled down to watch the professor.
“It was strange to return to Egypt after all those years,” Winlock was saying, his bald head shining under the stage lights, a tanned, erudite egg. “But how could I forget Kamenwati’s tomb? We stumbled across it in the mid-sixties, during the construction of the Aswan Dam. Of course, the Dam left many ruins underwater, and several important sites, including Abu Simbel, were dismantled block-by-block and shifted to higher ground. No mean feat, as you can imagine. The largely man-made Lake Nasser, while ending Egypt’s dependence on the flooding of the Nile, drowned more than its fair share of tombs. Only a few survived, and when the Royal Society agreed to fund my return last year, I hardly expected Kamenwati’s to be waiting for me, let alone with door intact.”
The audience was rapt. Sitting like a schoolboy in his gabardine suit, backside shifting in the fold-down seat, Ben’s discomfort felt like a flare blazing over his head. No one around him was munching popcorn. No one was necking in the back row. He didn’t belong here, adrift in this sea of gold-rimmed spectacles and twinkling jewellery. Expensive cologne and choice perfume spiced the scholarly air. He could almost hear the surrounding brain cells bubbling. Wealth, of course, didn’t automatically mean refinement – and in Ben’s case, his acumen stemmed from experience rather than study. He knew his history because he had lived through a fair portion of it, but he was far from what anyone would call academic. London was a hot-ticket town, but for all tonight’s exclusivity Ben wouldn’t have paid to see Winlock speak, so it surprised him that in no time at all the little man on stage had absorbed him so completely.
“Baba Kamenwati was a priest in the New Kingdom, near the beginning of the Eighteenth Dynasty. He served under his master, the First Prophet of Amun, during the reign of Hatshepsut, the longest-reigning female pharaoh, over three and a half thousand years ago.” Professor Winlock let this sink in, smiling in appreciation of his subject. “Was there ever a more famous queen? One more beloved of her people?”
Ben wondered. He could think of several, from Eleanor of Aquitaine to Victoria, both of whom he’d had the pleasure of meeting on different occasions, distant adventures many years ago. Hatshepsut was aeons before his time and he’d never heard of her before. All around him, expensive hairstyles and finely combed beards were nodding along and he was tempted to join in, make out he wasn’t the dunce he felt he was.
“After the death of her husband,” Winlock said, “Hatshepsut was made regent to rule for her stepson, Thutmose III, until the young man came of age. Nevertheless, this was not enough for her and she soon took the unprecedented step of declaring herself pharaoh, taking up the title of king. Fearless and proud, she insisted she was as fit to rule as any man.”
Dunce or no, Ben couldn’t fail to be impressed.
“And she proved it. Despite the expected uproar that usually meets usurpers, Hatshepsut’s reign was a golden one, a time of peace and prosperity, filled with magnificent art and a host of ambitious building projects, the greatest of which was Deir el-Bahari, her mortuary temple near the Valley of the Kings.” Winlock, a pristine figure in his white tuxedo, twitched his blonde horseshoe moustache and tapped the screen behind him with a stick. The projected image showed the entrance to a tomb. Thick yellow pillars stood on either side of the egress, half submerged in muddy water. The bank around the shadowed mouth bore the scars of recent excavation. “Baba Kamenwati was a favourite of this illustrious ruler, at least to begin with. The hieroglyphs outside his tomb tell us as much.”
Ben squinted to see them, the outline of owl and lion, bowl and flame, hand and…whatever that was – the flaking symbols of a long-forgotten language. Some of the symbols had been scratched out.
Winlock’s face grew serious, his tone darkening.
“Now, the Ancient Egyptians strongly believed in life after death. It was a complex system and I won’t bore you with the details. In a nutshell, they preserved dead bodies so that the departed soul – the ba – could make use of them again in the afterlife, the supernatural worlds beyond our own. Once in the Duat, the Egyptian underworld, the jackal-headed god Anubis weighed the hearts of the deceased against ma’at, the feather of truth. If the heart didn’t tip the scales, Anubis deemed the ba pure and the soul walked into the Fields of Yalu, there to live out eternity in peace. But if the heart was heavy with sin and the scales tipped, Anubis summoned Ammit, Devourer of Souls – a half-dog, half-crocodile demon – who consumed the corrupted soul, condemning it to endless suffering.” The professor cleared his throat, betraying what he thought of these primitive beliefs. “For all his apparent devotion, Baba Kamenwati was secretly subversive,and later on, he came to be seen as a dangerous heretic. Behind closed doors, he worshipped Anubis, and not just as the Lord of the Underworld and the Judge of the Dead, but as the lord of all gods, superior to Ra himself.”
This didn’t surprise Ben. He’d lived long enough to know that where gods were concerned, some folks liked to play mix-and-match with entire pantheons, favouring the ones that served their needs best.
“All Egypt revered death in those days,” Winlock went on. “Kamenwati took the notion one step further and established the underground ‘jackal cult’, a cabal of priests dabbling in the black arts, in sex magick and necromancy. The cult made sacrifices in the temple, sending countless infants to the flames, cutting out hearts on altars of stone. At the height of his power, Kamenwati was the most feared man in Egypt. He wanted to conquer death and live forever in this world, defying Ra and escaping the afterlife. Hatshepsut, once she came to learn of this ambition, could not allow such evil to continue. She sent guards to the Karnak temple and Kamenwati to the god he loved most.
“Of course, we only learnt all this once we had broken into the tomb. The hieroglyphics inside left us in little doubt that we had opened a lost chapter in history…”
The image on the screen changed, a window on to another land. The scene showed Winlock and his team knee-deep in muddy water, spades held high before the shattered tomb door. Open Sesame. Ben imagined the heat beating down on the desert sands and glittering off the lake, which lapped against the tomb as though to quench the thirst of the dead.
“Picture it.” Winlock puffed out his chest, a trim white bird. “I felt like Howard Carter must have felt in 1922 at the entrance to King Tut’s tomb. Was I worried about curses? Execration texts and poison boxes? No, not really. It was 2015 and I was much too excited. We stood there on the threshold of time, about to plunder the treasures of the past. And, by George, what treasures we found.”
A spotlight blinked on, illuminating a thin pedestal on the left side of the stage. A silver burial mask shone upon it. The audience oohed, a wave of awe. The mask resembled a hollow-cheeked face, no piety in its expression. It was a simple but beautiful ornament, cleansed of the muck of ages – and surely unfit for a priest who had gone to his death in disgrace…
Winlock appeared to read Ben’s mind.
“The tomb itself shows the esteem with which the Pharaoh regarded Kamenwati. Or more precisely, the fear.” Winlock took a sip of water from a table beside him, pausing for effect. “Egypt was always a land of superstition. Considering Kamenwati’s obsession with death, it’s hardly surprising that Hatshepsut feared some kind of posthumous revenge. She might even have feared Anubis himself. After all, she had killed his foremost earthly ambassador. And so, despite Kamenwati’s sacrilege, Hatshepsut interred the priest with all the trappings befitting his station. The tomb boasts beautifully painted scenes, de
picting life in the Karnak temple. We discovered cartouches with the Pharaoh’s name, revealing that the sem priests embalmed Kamenwati with Hatshepsut’s blessing, and there are only two or three pictograms describing his crimes. Of course, his downfall would have been an embarrassment to both the temple and the royal family. It only makes sense that they would try to hush it up.”
The image on the screen changed again, revealing the interior of the tomb. It didn’t look like much to Ben, just a narrow chamber letting in diffuse sunlight, shining on dull and crumbling walls. Brown water pooled everywhere. Columns leant from the swamp like guards caught napping on the job. Faded frescos lined the walls – there an eye, a scarab or cat – and rows of illegible prayers, winged gods, worn renderings of Nile life. Fascinated by the history, he was disappointed by the actual tomb. He found it hard to imagine anyone plucking riches from it. He looked at the impassive silver mask on the pedestal again, and then another spotlight was blinking on.
“Mostly what we found was rot, the usual offerings for the dead. Wooden carvings, canopic jars and fossilised food. All decayed beyond restoration. I think you’ll agree that our team did a great job on the mask.” This prompted murmured assent. “Nevertheless, these magic bricks you see before you were an even greater find. Not only do they support the theory of the Pharaoh’s fear, they are quite unlike any other find to date.”
The spotlight shone on another pedestal, this one in the middle of the stage. Four statuettes, their bases rough and rectangular, rested upon it. Winlock clicked a button on his stick and the screen zoomed in for a close-up.
“The ancients placed these bricks in tombs to protect the dead from their enemies. They usually depict the sons of Horus, the god of protection. Positioned at the chamber’s cardinal points – north, east, south and west – each brick bore a spell from the Book of the Dead, binding the deceased to Anubis, guiding the ba into the underworld.” Winlock frowned, recalling some former puzzlement. “But these bricks are different. They don’t depict gods, but demons. Here we see Ammit, Devourer of Souls. Apep, the Lizard. Shezmu, the Executioner. And Set, the Oppressor. Now you must understand, no archaeologist had ever seen such a thing. We discussed the matter long into the night and could only reach the vague conclusion that the sem priests had placed these bricks in the tomb to prevent the ba from leaving, to block its path into the afterlife. Many things in Kamenwati’s tomb turned our former knowledge on its head.”
Ben studied the figures on the screen, these fierce spiritual guardians. In their chipped, crumbling forms, he saw crocodile jaws and bird claws, forked tongues and cobra hoods, leonine manes and simian fangs. Set the Oppressor, the tallest of them, had a long curved snout like an aardvark, which crowned his muscular human body. The clay chimeras were primal nightmares, obviously designed to terrify, but seeing the human mixed with the bestial Ben shifted a little in his seat, reluctant to accept his sense of empathy. And his reflex disdain.
How human beings love their monsters.
“After three thousand years, and twice as many floods?” Ben heard Winlock say, responding to a question from the audience. “No, there was no mummy. All we found was mud, I’m afraid. Mud in the bottom of a cracked sarcophagus.”
Another latecomer roused Ben from his thoughts. The auditorium doors swung wide and a slender silhouette entered through the brief rhombus of light. The doors swung closed again – now you see me, now you don’t – and people craned their necks back to the stage, all ears for the impromptu Q&A session breaking out on the front row, flustering the little professor. The row Ben sat in vibrated gently as the latecomer found her way to the end seat, eight or nine spaces over from his. Glancing to his left, he saw a shapely shadow standing in the gloom, a shadow among shadows. Keen eyesight zeroing in, he could tell that she was African, the light from the screen reflecting off her skin. His gaze rolled over her tall frame, her hair plaited in threadlike rows. The style suited her sharply boned face and long neck, both turned regally to watch the stage. The dress she wore was dark and close-fitting, perfectly moulded to her breasts and bum, and a lump jumped into Ben’s throat as the woman sat down in one fluid motion, oiled silk in the gloom.
Sensing his stare, she shot him a look. Proud. Dismissive. Cold. She folded her hands and sat forward, her lithe form oddly tense, head raised as she listened to Winlock.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please.” The professor held up his hands, his moustache twitching. “I’ll gladly answer all of your questions at the end of my presentation. In the meantime, allow me to show you the last of our finds. A relic that leaps from the pages of myth…”
A spotlight winked on in the middle of the stage. Raised at an angle on a velvet tray, a thin white object rested on yet another pedestal. Its cylindrical shape glowed in the radiance, lending it a mystical sheen. Gold glittered around the object, an inlaid filigree twist. Carved hieroglyphics edged the gilding, its polished length culminating in an arch, an almost-but-not-quite circle, like the handle of a walking stick, a needle’s eye or…
A shepherd’s crook.
A tongue of ice licked Ben’s spine.
Star, Crook and Pschent. Star, Crook and Pschent. Wasn’t that what the witch had chanted on the Brooklyn Bridge? Star, Crook and Pschent. And hadn’t he, familiar with the common use of the word, assumed that Babe Cathy had been on about criminals? Perhaps the thief who smashed into the Javits Center?
Yes. He had. But here was another connection, tenuous and teasing. Just how many pieces made up this puzzle?
“…which we were only sure of once our zoologists dated the ivory to the fifteenth century BC.” Winlock was speaking again, nudging Ben from his thoughts. “The ivory is African, of course, originating in lands around the Horn. In olden days, southern Egypt and the Sudan comprised a vast kingdom known as Nubia. South of Nubia lay the legendary Land of Punt, an unmapped, savage realm ruled by tribal kings and queens. The powers that some texts attribute to them amount to the wildest folklore – the ability to turn tides, crush mountains, control the weather and so on – typical primitive poppycock. It’s likely that these kings and queens encouraged such notions themselves, striking fear into their neighbours, Egypt, Kush and Ophir.
“These days, we know Punt as Somalia and its reputation is tragic rather than grand. Still, the hieroglyphs carved on the heqa – the crook-staff, shaped to form a symbol meaning ruler, prince, chief, et cetera – relate a time of healing, of restoration and great prosperity. The hieroglyphs also claim that the crook can command the most powerful magic. No one is sure how Kamenwati came by it or why we should find it in his tomb. Considering his extracurricular activities, our team dubbed it the Jackal’s Crook…”
Polite laughter rippled through the throng. No doubt the Society had heard such stories before, chalking them up to superstition or dewy-eyed romance. Ben thought it must feel great to be so sure of the world and its limits, to laugh off angels as cloud formations and ghosts as tricks of the light. While he envied the crowd’s peace of mind, he did not envy their ignorance. Their self-assurance was a double-edged sword, one that granted comfort and security but blinded them to the truth.
The gulf between Ben’s world and theirs was an abyss that could easily swallow him, if he let it. Here he was, a myth sat among ordinary mortals as they scoffed at the notion of magic, talents that stretched beyond the mundane. But any wizard or witch drawing on the astral substance of the nether would have scoffed at the crowd’s arrogance. Ben found it somewhat disorienting.
He didn’t have time to dwell on the matter. The row he sat in was shaking, vibrating with unseen force. Rivets creaked, straining against the floor, a persistent hum filling his ears. A tremor? In London? The spotlights stuttered and blinked, beaming through the dust motes. Up on stage, Professor Winlock took a step forward and steadied the pedestal bearing the Crook, the pull-down screen flapping behind him. A growing babble rose from the audience, panicked birds about to take flight.
Glancing around him, Ben c
aught sight of the woman at the end of the row. He had got it wrong. The dress she wore wasn’t tight at all. She wasn’t wearing a dress. Naked, she sat stiff and straight-backed, her fists clenched and her body trembling. Even in the gloom, he could see rage and pain battling across her pantherine features.
“Tuug.” The guttural word stabbed the air and she spat its meaning immediately after. “Thief.”
Like shadow, like smoke, she rose and stepped into the aisle.
The tremors increased, juddering under Ben’s feet as he stood up, the fold-down seat snapping back. A familiar smell hit his nostrils, a blown fuse, an overheated plug, mixed with a raw, carnal undertone, an ionic, sentient storm. The stench had filled his lounge the other night, coupled with a mockery of footprints, laughter sketched in the dust. I can walk freely in your lair. He remembered the rune etched on his door, a forgotten wyrm-tongue glyph, and he looked in horror at the woman.
This was no earthquake, but the reverberation of magical force, feedback whining from the nether. Experience told him as much. And the woman was clearly its focal point. Static poured from her, tugging his hair and nipping his flesh, engulfing him like a swarm of mosquitoes. The prickling air enveloped her, galvanised her, and she slid forward, her feet floating inches off the ground. Sapphires danced in her eyes. Sparks cascaded from her outstretched arms, sizzling on the aisle carpet.