by K. M. Ashman
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‘I assume by your reaction that you are aware of that dedication?’ asked John.
‘Of course, I am,’ stuttered Becky, ‘it was the throne name of Amenemhat the third, a twelfth dynasty Pharaoh, thought to be the greatest king of the middle kingdom. He reigned for over forty years and gained vast amounts of wealth from dominating Nubia, leading several expeditions himself.’
‘That’s right,’ said John, ‘also famous for building the black pyramid at Dashwar, as well as the pyramid at Hawara.’
‘Hang on,’ said Becky, ‘if what you are saying is true, not only did you and my father find a complex of catacombs as yet un-catalogued, which in itself is quite astonishing, but you also claim to have found the sealed door to another tomb, bearing the mark of one of the greatest Egyptian kings to have lived throughout the twelfth dynasty.’
‘Yes, quite exciting isn’t it?’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Becky. ‘If all this was true, I would know about it. Shit, the whole damned world would know about it.’
‘Look, I know it’s hard to take in,’ said John, ‘but I promise you it is all true. Imagine how we felt when we found it. We were in a daze for weeks. The shattered pottery and broken statues left behind in the catacombs are astonishing enough, but imagine what lies behind that locked door.’
‘You didn’t open it?’
‘No, credit us with some ethics,’ John said. ‘First we set about cataloguing everything in the outer chambers, before we could even think about opening the door. To be honest, we got a bit carried away and your father even saw himself as a modern day Howard Carter.’
‘That’s silly,’ said Becky, ‘Howard Carter found Tutankhamen’s intact burial chamber complete with all the funerary ornaments. Despite what it says on that door you found, it can’t be Amenemhat’s tomb, because his burial chamber has already been found.’
‘Has it?’ asked John with a slight smirk on his lips.
‘You know it has,’ said Becky. ‘He was buried in the Hawara pyramid.’
‘Remember your training as an Egyptologist, Becky,’ said John, ‘then re-examine your last statement.’
Becky paused, with a thoughtful look on her face, before making the statement again, with a slight change.
‘His burial chamber was found in the Hawara pyramid,’ she said.
‘Exactly,’ said John. ‘No mummy was ever found, at least, nothing that could be identified as Amenemhat.’
‘But there were remains of a burnt wooden coffin in the chamber, left by the tomb robbers.’
‘Exactly, as usual for the time, the tomb robbers burnt whatever mummy was there as a quick way to access any jewellery wrapped within the wraps or the body itself, but there is no scientific evidence that it was actually the man himself.’
‘But why?’ asked Becky. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Actually, it makes every sense,’ said John. ‘Amenemhat was a wily old dog. Not only did he last forty five years as king of Egypt, which is a huge feat in itself, but don’t forget the steps he took to protect the burial chamber in the Hawara pyramid.’
‘The trap doors and blind passages,’ said Becky.
‘Exactly,’ said John. ‘He built in secret passages, sliding doors and pitfalls, all designed to prevent grave robbers from accessing his final resting place, but even back then, grave robbers had a formidable reputation and he knew that his body would be at risk of plunder. It was entirely possible that even as they were building the pyramid, some of the builders were working out how to rob the bloody thing. I think Amenemhat knew that, and planned accordingly.’
‘Then why build the pyramid in the first place?’
‘Think about it. Whilst to all intents and purposes, he was preparing a massive monument as his last resting place; behind the scenes he was making other plans. Preparing somewhere that would not be so obvious, where his body would be safe for eternity.’
‘So where do you think he is?’ asked Becky. ‘In the tomb behind the door?’
‘Not exactly;’ said John, ‘first of all, I don’t believe it is a tomb.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, Amenemhat was also famous for building something else; in fact, he had a bit of a fixation for the type of structure I am thinking about.’
‘Labyrinths,’ said Becky.
‘Exactly, he built bloody dozens of them, and was quite famous for it. He even built the most famous of them all, the labyrinth referred to by Herodotus in the 5th century BC. Herodotus described it as a feature that not only exceeded the pyramids in grandeur and achievement, but equated them to exceeding the sum of all Greek constructions in the ancient world in achievement, scale and beauty. Some statement for a Greek, don’t you think?’
‘I have to admit I’m not too familiar with them,’ said Becky.
‘Amenemhat built an enormous labyrinth at the base of the Hawara pyramid. It was built over several stories and consisted of over three thousand rooms with countless corridors, each made from solid stone with marble facings. Hell, even the roof was made of giant stone slabs supported on tens of thousands of columns, each ornately carved from solid granite. Throughout the labyrinth, there were countless artefacts, statues, paintings, all collected from across many countries throughout the known world at that time. Tombs of minor royals and crocodile gods were tucked away throughout the system, each holding unknown treasures of their own. It must have been spectacular.’
‘I don’t see your point,’ said Becky. ‘If the Labyrinth was located just outside the Hawara pyramid, then why would he go to all that trouble only to be buried somewhere else?’
‘Don’t forget, Becky, all the earthly goods in the world meant nothing compared to the ultimate prize, a safe passage into the afterlife. To achieve that, his body had to rest in peace. If the grave robbers thought they had found his last resting place in the labyrinth or the pyramid, they would be unlikely to look too hard elsewhere.’
‘The ultimate bluff,’ said Becky.
‘Exactly, and that’s what I think he did. Provided a great big pyramid, surrounded by the greatest labyrinth the world has ever seen, all filled with wealth untold, and designed to attract any tomb robbers away from his final resting place.’
‘So you think he is in a tomb behind the door?’ suggested Becky.
‘Possibly, though I suspect it won’t be that straightforward. Knowing the man’s obsession, I suspect there may be another labyrinth, perhaps greater than the other one.’
‘There’s one unanswered question,’ said Becky. ‘If the entrance to this new labyrinth was found over a thousand years ago, and has been visited often since then by someone leaving offerings, why was the door left intact? It doesn’t make sense. Tomb robbers had no time for curses or other such mumbo jumbo. Why wouldn’t they just smash it down and plunder whatever is inside?’
‘That I don’t know,’ said John, ‘but I think your father did.’
‘What makes you think that?’ asked Becky
‘Because he opened the door, Becky. Your father went inside.’
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Chapter Two
Itjawi 1245 BC
The Caverns of Sekhmet
Sekhmet sat on her ornate throne of human skulls, gazing down at the scene before her in contempt. The walls all around the audience chamber were painted with graphic images of the dead and the dying, and pools of blood red fluid were sunk into the black marble floor. Swathes of semi-transparent fabric hung from the ceilings and the smell of death permeated everything. She sat quietly, letting the whole atmosphere of the room sink in, gazing down at the man sprawled face down on the audience chamber floor before her, his arms spread wide in acknowledgement of her supreme dominance. In the background a constant murmur of forbidden verses from unseen voices whispered through the audience chamber, sending their own tendrils of fear into the man’s heart, whilst offering familiar chords of comfort to the undead god.
Sekhmet knew it was drama
tic and it sent lightning bolts of fear into everyone unfortunate enough to enter her presence, but that was exactly what it was designed for. If those who feared her knew the extent of her own weakness, then it could cause the consequence that she feared most.
The temple was relatively small and situated deep in the rocky cliffs above Itjawi. The opening was a natural cleft in the rock, but once inside, it opened up into a series of passages and side chambers, ultimately leading to the audience chamber.
With a flick of her hand, she dismissed the attending acolytes, knowing full well that they would be disappointed at the feeding being denied them. When the room was finally empty, she spoke, her words ethereal and soft amongst the swaying fabrics.
‘Stand, Ramesses,’ she said, ‘and gaze upon a true living god.’
Ramesses II got to his feet and dared to raise his head to peer through to Sekhmet. As usual, she was indistinct, as not only did the fabrics obscure her form, but the few burning torches and complete lack of windows in the temple, combined to ensure the light was only enough to see around him.
‘Sekhmet, mother of gods, bringer of death, I bring you salutations and reverence,’ he said and bowed his head once again.
The old woman allowed herself an inner smile. The usual venerations uttered by most men who dared to enter her domain were irrelevant and irritable. She had heard it so often before that it ground on her patience, but to hear it uttered by a Pharaoh was always satisfying. Especially in this instance, where Ramesses II, probably the strongest monarch this country of Kemet had ever seen, acknowledged her superiority without any hesitation.
‘Ramesses,’ she said. ‘It is not six moons since we last spoke on the dying fields of Kadesh. I hear you won no great victory, yet suffered no great defeat. An unsatisfactory outcome for you, I would imagine.’
Ramesses lifted his head once more and stared toward her ghostly image, his eyes slightly narrowed in anger.
‘My victory was great, Sekhmet,’ he said, ‘and the Hittites were vanquished. Your spies tell you untruths.’
‘Perhaps,’ Sekhmet sighed. ‘But I care not either way. Hittites, Hyksos, Nubians, I have seen them all come and I have seen them all go. When your body rots in whatever puny temple you eventually build for yourself, there will, no doubt, be a different race calling themselves master. Yet I will still be here, and they too will prostate themselves before me or suffer the consequences.’
‘That won’t happen, Sekhmet,’ said Ramesses. ‘I am building an empire such as this country has never seen and my legacy will be eternal.’
‘Eternal,’ laughed Sekhmet and the sound of the cackle sent shivers down the king’s spine. ‘Do you even understand the meaning of eternal? Can your puny mortal mind even imagine the concept?’
‘Heaven is eternal,’ said Ramesses, ‘the gods are eternal and my name will rank amongst them in the two fields of the afterlife.’
‘Oh, Ramesses,’ sighed Sekhmet, ‘I expected so much more of you, yet you are no different to all the rest. When will you learn? The two fields that you speak of are nothing more than childish dreams, encouraged and propagated by those who have gone before you. There is no afterlife, Ramesses; there is only death, dust and nothingness. Despite your constant declarations of being a living god, and claims to immortality, you are a mortal being with a defined lifespan. When you die, Ramesses, there will be pain, fear and an end of life. That is all there is. You may build the highest pyramid, or dig the deepest tombs filled with all the riches in the world, but you will not change that fact. All you can hope for, Ramesses is as little suffering as possible before Anubis drags your soul to hell.’
Ramesses bit his tongue. He knew Sekhmet was goading him into reaction and though he wanted to rush forward and take the filth’s head from her shoulders, her very aura sent rivers of fear through his veins.
‘What’s the matter, Ramesses?’ she continued. ‘Do my words offend you?’
‘They do, Sekhmet, for though I have heard them before, I know them to be untrue. Every priest in every temple across this land tells me so. It is written on papyrus and into stones from times so far back, my ancestors walked across plains where pyramids now stand. They can’t all be wrong, yet you alone say that everything my whole people believe in is a falsehood.’
‘Ramesses, I have no reason to lie, but I care not whether you believe me. I have had this conversation with many kings, across many lands, yet all are too insecure in their own little worlds to accept the truth. I thought you were better, Ramesses. When you ascended the throne, I thought that at last, this man’s mind may be great enough to embrace the truth, but alas, you are just one more cow in a herd of unseeing cattle.’
Once again, Ramesses held back his temper. Sacrilege against his gods was one thing, but personal insults against his own person ripped at his vanity.
‘You always speak of such things,’ said Ramesses, ‘yet, without pause for breath, claim immortality for yourself. How can these two views be balanced in equal argument? Either immortality exists and can be achieved or it does not. Which side of the chariot do you ride, Sekhmet? Your argument makes no sense. I demand clarity.’
Through the folds of the transparent cloth, Ramesses could make out the figure of Sekhmet rising from her throne and walking slowly down the steps toward him. At first, his heart raced in fear as she approached the sheets, but she stopped short, less than ten paces from him.
‘Ramesses,’ she said, ‘I may have been hasty in my dismissal of you. Nobody has ever stepped within these walls and demanded anything, let alone an explanation from a god. Either they accept the way and follow as lambs, or nod meaningless understanding and then carry on in their own little worlds, irrespective of my truths. Only you, amongst thousands have demanded explanation and this is new to me. I wonder whether it merits consideration or your execution.’
‘You will not kill me, Sekhmet.’
The woman’s head tilted back and that ancient cackle rang out once more.
‘Oh, Ramesses,’ she said eventually, ‘your self-belief is amusing. You are nothing more than a rich man with an army.’
‘An army that could tear down this temple within weeks,’ said Ramesses, knowing full well that he was now risking everything.
The woman stared at him through the veils and Ramesses could see the faintest of smiles on her shrivelled face.
‘Are you threatening me, Ramesses?’ she asked softly.
All around, the room seemed to echo with the whispers of the unseen, and though he kept catching movement at the perimeter of his vision, no matter how quickly he turned his head, there was never anyone there. Even the drapes seemed to waft of their own accord, as if disturbed by the implied violence. Ramesses gulped as he realised he had probably overstepped the mark.
‘I offer no threat, Sekhmet,’ he said, ‘but only a thirst for knowledge. I am torn between the teachings of my ancestors and the strange truth of your words. How can I decide which way to travel when my knowledge is so limited, and an alternate path beckons?’
‘An alternate path,’ said Sekhmet, ‘I think you misunderstand. There is only the one path available to you, Ramesses, and that is the one which you are already upon. The path of life, pain and death.’
‘But if your words are true, Sekhmet, then immortality is possible. You proclaim to be immortal, yet you are flesh and bone, like me. The veils before me cannot conceal the fact that you age as we do, and if it was not for the fact that my father’s father referred to you as being old when he was yet a boy, then I would dismiss your claims forthwith and level this place to the ground. Surely, in support of your own stance, then you must believe that immortality is possible, for you are the proof. Either that or your words are false. My dilemma is evident and I cannot reconcile both facts.’
Sekhmet walked slowly forward, the veils parting before her until she was half an arm’s length before the king. The stench was overwhelming and it was all Ramesses could do to keep from vomiting.
&nb
sp; ‘You seek the truth, Ramesses?’ she asked.
‘I do.’
‘And what will you do with the truth?’
‘I will change the minds of my people,’ said Ramesses. ‘Enlighten them to the true path, whatever that may be.’
‘Even, if that path involves embracing me and others like me as the true gods?’
‘If that is the truth, then that is what I will proclaim,’ said Ramesses.
The old woman retreated back through the fabrics and walked toward a side door in the wall alongside her throne. As she reached the doorway, she half turned and spoke over her shoulder.
‘You have given me much to consider, Ramesses, but now is not the time to make such decisions. Be gone from this place and I will give your representation thought.’
‘When should I return?’ asked Ramesses.
‘I will let you know,’ said Sekhmet and disappeared through the doorway.
From behind him two acolytes approached and accompanied him back to the entrance, stopping short of where the sunlight crept a few paces into the cleft. Ramesses paused and looked back into the temple, knowing full well that he could have this place torn from the face of the earth within days, but though he doubted the old hag’s words, a tiny part of him was afraid, very afraid.
Inside the temple Sekhmet entered her room, weary and hungry. The room itself was extremely basic and was carved out of the rock itself. It contained no furniture, except the one extravagance that she allowed herself; the one thing that was a nod toward the culture of the country in which she currently existed, a sarcophagus. The granite coffin was lined with silks and she spent most of each day lying within its stone walls. Though she didn’t need to stay there, and indeed hadn’t slept for longer than she cared to remember, she found the claustrophobic confines of the coffin relaxing and peaceful.
A movement caught her eye in the corner of the room, and she saw a naked baby no more than a few months old, lying contentedly in a basket. At first, there was the slightest twinge of regret, but that was immediately drowned by a more pressing emotion, a primeval need that overwhelmed all her other senses. Hunger!