WILL ADAMS

The Exodus Quest

In fond memory of my friend and cousin Mark Petre

Contents

Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Chapter Fifty-Five Chapter Fifty-Six Chapter Fifty-Seven Epilogue Acknowledgements About the Author Also by Will Adams Copyright About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The southern shore of Lake Mariut, AD 415

The plaster had dried at last. Marcus scooped up handfuls of dirt and sand from the floor, smeared them across the fresh white surface until it was dulled and dark and virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the wall. He held his oil lamp close to examine it, added more dirt where needed until satisfied, though in truth it needed the eyes of a younger man. A last walk through the old, familiar passages and chambers, bidding farewell to his comrades and ancestors in the catacombs, to a lifetime of memories, then up the steps and out.

Late afternoon already. No time to waste.

He closed the wooden hatch, shovelled sand and stone down on it. The crash and scatter as it landed, the swish of robes, the crunch of his iron-shod spade. He began to hear in these noises the distant chanting of a mob. It grew so strong, so convincing, he paused to listen. But now there was only silence, save for his heavy breathing, the hammer of his heart, the trickle of settling sand.

Nothing but the fears of a solitary old man.

The sun was low in the west, tinting orange. They usually came by night, as evildoers will, though they were growing bolder all the time. He’d seen strange faces in the harbour that morning. One-time friends muttering amongst themselves. People whose diseases he’d treated without thought for his own safety looking at him like contagion.

He began to shovel again, faster and faster, to quell the panic before it could overwhelm him.

He’d thought they’d be able to ride it out. Their community had survived many previous pogroms and wars, after all. He’d imagined, foolishly, that their ideas would prevail in the end because they were so much stronger and more rational than the pious cruel nonsense of the so-called right-thinking. But he’d been wrong. It was human nature, when fears were stirred, that reason lost all power.

Poor Hypatia! That beautiful, wise and gentle woman. They said her lynching had been ordered by Pope Cyril himself. Epiphanes had witnessed the whole thing. A mere boy; too young for such a sight. The mob led by that sanctimonious monster Peter the Reader. No surprise there. They’d torn her from her chariot, stripped her naked, dragged her to their church, cut her flesh from her bones with oyster-shells, then burned her remains.

Men of God they called themselves. How was it possible they couldn’t see what they truly were?

The sun had set. The night began to cool. His pace slowed. He was far from the prime of youth. But he didn’t stop altogether. The quicker he finished, the quicker he could set off, catch up his family and fellows in their quest for sanctuary near Hermopolis or perhaps even Chenoboskion, depending on how far this madness had spread. He’d sent them on ahead with all the scrolls and other treasured possessions they’d been able to carry, the accumulated wisdom of centuries. But he himself had stayed behind. They’d grown lax these past few years. It was no secret they had an underground complex here, he knew; not least because absurd rumours about their wealth and hidden treasures had found their way back to him. If these villains looked hard and long enough, they’d every chance of finding these steps, however well he buried them. That was why he’d plastered up the entrance to the baptism chamber, so that some small fraction of their knowledge might survive even if the underground complex itself was discovered. And maybe one day sanity would return, and they could too. If not himself, then his children or grandchildren. And if not them, then perhaps the people of a future age. A more rational, enlightened age. Maybe they’d appreciate the wisdom of the walls, not hate and vilify it.

He finished filling in the shaft, trod it down until it was hard to see. Time to go. The prospect dismayed him. He was too old for such adventures, too old to start again. All he’d ever sought in life was the peace in which to study his texts, learn the nature of the world. But that was now denied him by these swaggering cruel bullies who’d made it a sin even to think. You could see it in their eyes, the pleasure they took in the wanton exercise of their power. They wallowed in their villainy. They raised their hands up high as though the blood on them shone like virtue.

He was travelling light, just his robes, a small sack of provisions, a few coins in his purse. But he hadn’t walked ten minutes before he saw a glow over the ridge ahead. It meant nothing to him at first, too lost in private thoughts. But then he realized. Torches. Approaching from the harbour. The direction of the breeze changed and then he heard them. Men and women shouting, singing, jubilant in the anticipation of another lynching.

He hurried back the way he’d come, his heart pounding. Their settlement was on a gentle hill overlooking the lake. He reached the crown and saw the glow on every side, like a pyre just lit, flames licking up the tinder. A cry to his right. A rooftop began to blaze. A second and then a third. Their homes! Their lives! The clamour grew louder, closer. That hateful baying! How these people loved their work. He turned this way and that, seeking a path out, but everywhere he went, torches forced him back, penning him into an ever-smaller space.

The cry went up at last. He’d been seen. He turned and fled, but his old legs weren’t up to it, even though he knew the penalty of capture. And then they were all around him, their faces enflamed with bloodlust, and there was nothing more he could do save go with dignity and courage, try to shame them into compassion. Or, failing that, perhaps when they woke in the morning, they’d look back on their work this night with such horror and revulsion that others might be spared.

That would be something.

He fell to his knees on the rocky ground, his whole body trembling uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He began to pray.

ONE

I

Bab Sedra Street, Alexandria

Daniel Knox was walking north along Sharia Bab Sedra when he saw the earthenware bowl on the street-trader’s flapped-out tablecloth. It was filled with matchbooks and packets of white napkins, and it was propping up one end of a line of battered Arabic schoolbooks. His heart gave a little flutter; he suffered a moment’s déjà vu. He’d seen one like it before, he was sure of it. Somewhere interesting, too. For a few seconds he almost had the answer, but then it eluded him, and the feeling slowly faded, leaving him merely uneasy, unsure whether his mind was playing tricks.

He paused, crouched, picked up a garish plastic vase with wilting artificial yellow flowers, then a ragged geography textbook with all its pages falling out, so that out-of-date maps of Egypt’s topography and demographics fanned out over the tablecloth like a deck of cards swept by a magician’s hand.

‘Salaam alekum,’ nodded the trader. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old, made to look even younger by hand-me-down clothes at least two sizes too big.

‘Wa alekum es salaam,’ replied Knox.

‘You like this book, mister? You want to buy?’

Knox shrugged and put it back, then glanced around as though uninterested in anything he saw. But the young hawker only gave a crooked-toothed smile. He wasn’t a fool. Knox grinned self-deprecatingly and touched the earthenware bowl with his finger. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘Sir has a fine eye,’ he said. ‘A wonderful antique from Alexandria’s rich history. The fruit bowl of Alexander the Great himself! Yes! Alexander the Great! No word of a lie.’

‘Alexander the Great?’ said Knox. ‘Surely not?’

‘No word of a lie,’ insisted the young man. ‘They find his body, you know. They find this in his tomb! Yes! The man who find Alexander, he is a man called Daniel Knox, he is my very good friend, he give this to me himself!’

Knox laughed. Since that particular adventure, he’d been everyone’s very good friend. ‘And you’re selling it out here on the street?’ he teased. ‘Surely if it belonged to Alexander, it’s worthy of the Cairo Museum itself!’ He picked it up, again felt that reprise of déjà vu, a curious tingling in his chest, a dryness at the back of his mouth, a slight pressure at the base of his cranium.

He turned the bowl around in his hands, enjoying the sensation of touch. He was no expert on ceramics, but all field archaeologists had a certain knowledge, not least because about nine out of every ten artefacts on any given site were some kind of pottery, a fragment from a plate, cup or jar, a shard from an oil lamp or perfume flask, perhaps even an ostracon, if it was your lucky day.

But this wasn’t broken. It was some seven inches in diameter and three inches deep, with a flat base and curved sides and no rim to speak of, so that you could hold it in both hands and drink directly from it. From the smooth texture, the clay had evidently been well sieved for grit and pebbles before it had been hard-fired. It was pinkish-grey, though coated with a paler wash that gave it a swirling texture, like cream just stirred into coffee. Maybe local provenance; maybe not. He’d need an expert to determine that. He had little more success with the dating. Fine-ware like oil lamps and expensive crockery had changed constantly with prevailing fashions, if only to show off the wealth of their owners; but coarse-ware like this had tended to keep its form, sometimes for centuries. Circa AD 50 at a guess, plus or minus a couple of hundred years. Or a couple of thousand. He put it back down, intending to walk away, but it just wouldn’t let him go. He squatted there, staring at it, rubbing his jaw, trying to read its message, work out how it had put its hook in him.

Knox knew how rare it was to find valuable artefacts in a street market. The hawkers were too shrewd to sell high-quality pieces that way, the antiquities police too observant. And there were artisans in the back streets of Alexandria and Cairo who could knock out convincing replicas in a heartbeat, if they thought they could fool a gullible tourist into parting with their cash. But this particular bowl seemed too dowdy to be worth the effort. ‘How much?’ he asked finally.

‘One thousand US,’ replied the young man without blinking.

Knox laughed again. Egyptians were expert at pricing the buyer, not the piece. Clearly he was looking unusually wealthy today. Wealthy and stupid. Again he made to walk away; again something stopped him. He touched it with his fingertip, reluctant to be drawn into a haggle. Once you started, it was rude not to finish, and Knox wasn’t at all sure he wanted this piece, even if he could get it cheap. If it was a genuine antiquity, after all, then buying it was illegal. If it was fake, then he’d feel annoyed with himself for days at being taken in, especially if his friends and colleagues ever got to hear about it. He shook his head decisively, and this time he did stand up.

‘Five hundred,’ said the young hawker hurriedly, sensing his fat fish slipping through his fingers. ‘I see you before. You a good man. I make you special price. Very special price.’

Knox shook his head. ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked.

‘It is from the tomb of Alexander the Great, I assure you! My friend give it to me because he is a very good—’

‘The truth,’ said Knox. ‘Or I walk away now.’

The boy’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘Why I tell you this?’ he asked. ‘So you call the police?’

Knox fished in his back pocket for some cash, letting him see the banknotes. ‘How can I be confident it’s genuine unless you tell me where you got it?’ he asked.

The trader pulled a face, looked around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. ‘A friend of my cousin works on an excavation,’ he murmured.

‘Which excavation?’ frowned Knox. ‘Who runs it?’

‘Foreigners.’

‘What kind of foreigners?’

He shrugged indifferently. ‘Foreigners.’

‘Where?’

‘South,’ he waved vaguely. ‘South of Mariut.’

Knox nodded. It made sense. Lake Mariut had been hemmed around by farms and settlements in ancient times, before the inflows from the Nile had silted up and the lake had started to shrink. He counted his money slowly. If this bowl had indeed come from an archaeological site, he had a duty to return it, or at least to let someone there know that they had a security problem. Thirty-five Egyptian pounds. He folded them between his thumb and forefinger. ‘South of the lake, you say?’ he frowned. ‘Where, exactly? I’ll need to know precisely if I’m to buy.’

The young man’s eyes refocused reluctantly from the money to Knox. A bitter expression soured his face, as though he realized he’d said too much already. He muttered an obscenity, gathered the four corners of his tablecloth, hoisted it up so that all his wares clattered together, hurried away. Knox made to follow, but a colossus of a man appeared from nowhere, stepped across his path. Knox tried to go around him, but the man simply moved sideways to block him, arms folded across his chest, a dry smile on his lips, inviting Knox to try something. And then it was too late anyway, the youngster swallowed up by crowds, taking his earthenware bowl with him.

Knox shrugged and let it go. It was almost certainly nothing.

Yes. Almost certainly.

II

The Eastern Desert, Middle Egypt

Police Inspector Naguib Hussein watched the hospital pathologist pull back a flap of the blue tarpaulin to reveal the desiccated body of the girl within. At least, Naguib assumed it was a girl, judging by her diminutive size, long hair, cheap jewellery and clothes, but in truth he couldn’t be sure. She’d been dead too long, buried out here in the baking hot sands of the Eastern Desert, mummified as she’d putrefied, the back of her head broken open and stuck fast by congealed gore to the tarpaulin.

‘Who found her?’ asked the pathologist.

‘One of the guides,’ said Naguib. ‘Apparently some tourists wanted a taste of the real desert.’ He gave an amused grunt. They’d got that, all right.

‘And she was just lying here?’

‘They saw the tarpaulin first. Then her foot. The rest of her was still hidden.’

‘Last night’s windstorm must have uncovered her.’

‘And covered any tracks, too,’ agreed Naguib. He watched with folded arms as the pathologist continued his preliminary assessment, examining her scalp, her eyes, her cheeks and her ears, manipulating her lower jaw back and forth to open her mouth, probing a spatula deep inside, scraping froth and grit and sand from the dried-out membrane of her tongue, cheeks and throat. He closed her mouth again, studied her neck, her collarbones, the bulging, dislocated right shoulder and her arms, folded awkwardly, almost coyly, down by her sides.

‘How old is she?’ asked Naguib.

‘Wait for my report.’

‘Please. I need something to work on.’

The pathologist sighed. ‘Thirteen, fourteen. Something like that. And her right shoulder shows signs of post-mortem dislocation.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Naguib. Out of professional vanity, he wanted the pathologist to know he’d spotted this himself, so he said: ‘I thought perhaps that rigor set in before she could be buried. Perhaps it set in with her arm thrown up above her head. Perhaps whoever buried her dislocated it when they were trying to wrap her up in the tarpaulin.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed the pathologist. Evidently not a man for uninformed speculation.

‘What time would that give us after death?’

‘That depends,’ said the pathologist. ‘The hotter it is, the quicker rigor sets in, but the quicker it passes, too. And if she’d been running, say, or fighting, then it would be quicker.’

Naguib breathed in deep to quell any hint of impatience. ‘Approximately.’

‘Shoulders are typically the last muscle groups to develop rigor. Onset takes at least three hours, often six or seven. After that …’ He shook his head. ‘It can last for anything from another six hours to two days.’

‘But a minimum of three hours, yes?’

‘Usually. Though there are cases.’

‘There are always cases,’ said Naguib.

‘Yes.’ With his finger, the pathologist tickled out the fragile links of a chain around her neck, a silver charm hanging from it. A Coptic cross. He glanced around at Naguib, the two men no doubt sharing a single thought. Another dead Copt girl. That was all this region needed right now.

‘It’s a nice enough piece,’ muttered the pathologist.

‘Yes,’ agreed Naguib. Which argued against robbery. The pathologist lifted the girl’s skirts, but her underclothes, while ragged, were intact. No sign of sexual assault. No sign of any assault, indeed; except, of course, that the back of her skull had been smashed in. ‘Any indication how long she’s been here?’ he asked.

The pathologist shrugged. ‘I’d be guessing. I’ll need to get her back to base.’

Naguib nodded. That was fair enough. Desert corpses were notoriously tough. A month, a year, a decade; out here they all looked the same. ‘And the cause of death? The blow to her head, yes?’

‘Too early to say.’

Naguib pulled a face. ‘Come on. I won’t hold you to it.’

‘Everyone tells me that. And then they hold me to it.’

‘Okay. If not the blow to her head, maybe her neck was broken?’

The pathologist tapped his thumb against his knee, debating with himself whether to say anything or keep quiet. ‘You really want my best guess?’ he asked finally.

‘Yes.’

‘You won’t like it.’

‘Try me.’

The pathologist stood up. Hands on his hips, he looked around at the arid yellow sands of the Eastern Desert stretching away as far as the eye could see, shimmering with heat, broken only by the rugged Amarna cliffs. ‘Very well, then,’ he smiled, as though aware opportunities like this wouldn’t come his way too often. ‘I rather suspect she drowned.’

III

Knox found Omar Tawfiq kneeling on his office floor, the casing and innards of a computer spread out in front of him, a screwdriver in his hand, a smudge of grease on his cheek. ‘Don’t you already have enough to do?’ he asked.

‘Our computer people won’t come out until tomorrow.’

‘So hire new ones.’

‘New ones will charge more.’

‘Yes. Because they’ll come out when you need them.’

Omar shrugged, as if to accept the truth of this, though Knox doubted he’d act upon it. A young man who looked even younger, he’d recently been promoted interim head of the Supreme Council for Antiquities in Alexandria; but everyone knew that he’d got the job because Yusuf Abbas, the Cairo-based secretary general, wanted someone pliable and disposable he could bully while he manoeuvred one of his own trusted lieutenants into the permanent role. Even Omar knew this, but he was too diffident to resent it. Instead, he spent his time hiding from his bemused staff in his old office, filling his time with comfort-zone tasks like these. He stood, wiped his hands. ‘So what can I do for you, my friend?’

Knox hesitated. ‘I saw an old bowl in the market. Hard-fired. Well-levigated. Pinkish-grey with a white slip. Maybe seven inches in diameter.’

‘That could be anything.’

‘Yes. But it gave me that feeling, you know?’

Omar nodded seriously, as though he had respect for Knox’s feelings. ‘You’re here to check our database?’

‘If that’s possible.’

‘Of course.’ Omar was proud of his database. Building it had been his main responsibility before his unexpected promotion. ‘Use Maha’s office. She’s away today.’

They walked through together. Omar sat at her desk. ‘Give me a minute,’ he said.

Knox nodded and walked to the window, looked down at his Jeep. It had cost him a fortune to have it repaired after the Alexander business, but it had been good to him over the years, and he was glad of his decision.

‘Any word from Gaille?’ asked Omar.

‘No.’

‘Do you know when’s she coming back?’

‘When she’s finished, I imagine.’

Omar’s cheeks reddened. ‘All set,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ sighed Knox. ‘I didn’t mean to snap.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s just, everyone keeps asking, you know?’

‘That’s because we like her so much. Because we like you both.’

‘Thanks,’ said Knox. He began working his way through the database, colour and black-and-white photos of cups, plates, figurines, funerary lamps. Mostly, he flipped past them without a second glance, the old computer groaning and sighing as it strained to keep up. But every so often an image would catch his eye. Yet nothing quite matched. Ancient artefacts were like this. The closer you looked, the more potential points of difference you found.

Omar came back in with a jug of water and two glasses on a tray. ‘Any luck?’

‘Not yet.’ He finished the database. ‘Is that it?’

‘Of local provenance, yes.’

‘And non local?’

Omar sighed. ‘I wrote to a number of museums and universities when I was setting this up. I didn’t get much of a response at the time. Since my recent appointment, however …’

Knox laughed. ‘What a surprise.’

‘But we haven’t entered the data yet. All we have are CDs and paperwork.’

‘May I see?’

Omar opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, pulled out a cardboard box of CDs. ‘They’re not in any order,’ he warned.

‘That’s okay,’ said Knox. He slid one into the computer. The chuntering grew louder. A page of thumbnails appeared. Fragments of papyrus and linen cloth. He clicked to the next page, and then the third. The ceramics, when he found them, were colourful and patterned, nothing like what he was looking for.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Omar.

‘Thanks.’ The second CD was of Roman-era statuary, the third of jewellery, the fourth corrupt. Knox’s mind began to wander, triggered perhaps by Omar’s earlier question. A sudden memory of Gaille, taking breakfast one morning on the Nile Corniche in Minya: the way she licked her upper lip free of the slight glaze from her pastry, her dark hair spilled forwards, her smile as she caught him watching.

The eighth CD was an anatomy lecture demonstrating how to distinguish manual labourers from the idle rich by bone thickness and spine curvature.

Gaille’s mobile had rung that morning in Minya. She’d checked the number, shifted in her seat, turning herself away from him to hold a stilted conversation that she’d quickly ended by promising to call back later.

‘Who was that?’ he’d asked.

‘No one.’

‘You want to get on to your service provider, if you keep getting calls from people who don’t exist.’

A reluctant sigh. ‘Fatima.’

‘Fatima?’ An unexpected stab of jealousy. Fatima was his friend. He’d introduced the two of them barely a week before. ‘What did she want?’

‘I guess she’d heard about Siwa being postponed.’

‘You guess?’

‘Fine. She’d heard about it.’

‘And she rang to commiserate, did she?’

‘You remember how interested she was in my image software?’

The eleventh CD was of Islamic artefacts. The twelfth was of silver and golden coins.

‘She wants you to go and work for her?’

‘Siwa’s not exactly about to happen, is it?’ Gaille had said. ‘And I hate doing nothing, especially on a salary. I hate being a drain.’

‘You’re not a drain,’ he’d said bleakly. ‘How could you think yourself a drain?’

‘It’s how I feel.’

The thirteenth CD was of pre-dynastic tomb paintings. He started checking the fourteenth on autopilot. He’d got halfway through when he sensed he’d missed something. He paged back to the previous screen, then the one before. And there it was, top right, the twin of the bowl he’d seen, only upside down, resting on its rim. Same shape, same colour, same texture, same patterning. But there was no description of it, only reference numbers.

He fetched Omar, who pulled a ring binder from the filing cabinet. Knox read out the reference numbers while he flipped through the pages, ran his finger down the entries, came to the right one, frowned in puzzlement. ‘But that can’t be right,’ he said. ‘It’s not even a bowl.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘A lid. A storage jar lid.’

Knox grunted. Obvious, now that Omar pointed it out. Not that it helped much. Egypt had been the breadbasket of the ancient world. Huge quantities of produce had passed through Alexandria’s multiple harbours. Making jars to store and transport it had been a vast industry. ‘My mistake,’ he agreed.

His admission did little to mollify Omar. ‘But it’s not from anywhere near here,’ he said. ‘It’s not even from Egypt.’

‘Where, then?’

He squinted at Knox, as though he suspected himself the victim of a bad joke. ‘Qumran,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s what the Dead Sea Scrolls were found in.’

TWO

I

Assiut Railway Station, Middle Egypt

Gaille Bonnard was beginning to regret coming inside the station to meet Charles Stafford and his party. She usually enjoyed crowds, the clamour and camaraderie, especially here in Middle Egypt, with its effusively friendly people, not yet soured by overexposure to tourists. But tensions had grown palpably over recent weeks. A protest march was even taking place that afternoon elsewhere in the city, which presumably explained why she could see only three men from the Central Security Forces on the platform, as opposed to the usual flood of uniforms. To make matters worse, an earlier train had broken down, so twice the usual number of passengers were waiting to board, all girding themselves for the inevitable squabbles over seats.

The tracks started to rattle. Vermin scurried. People manoeuvred for position. The ancient train rolled in, windows already being lowered, doors crashing open, passengers spilling out, laden with belongings, fighting through the scrum. Hawkers walked along the line of windows offering translucent bags of baladi bread, paper cones packed with seeds, sesame bars, sweets and drinks.

Away down the platform, a strikingly good-looking thirty-something man emerged from the first-class carriage. Charles Stafford. Despite his two-day stubble, she recognized him at once from the jacket photographs on the books Fatima had lent her the night before. She’d skimmed through them out of courtesy, though they were the kind of populist history she deplored – wild speculation backed by outrageously selective use of the evidence. Conspiracies everywhere, secret societies, lost treasures waiting beneath every mound; and never a dissenting voice to be heard, unless it could be ridiculed and dismissed.

Stafford paused to put on a pair of mirror shades, then hoisted a black leather laptop case to his shoulder and descended onto the platform. A stumpy young woman in a navy-blue suit came after him, tucking wilful strands of bright-red hair back beneath her floral headscarf. And an Egyptian porter followed behind, struggling beneath mounds of matching brown-leather luggage.

An elderly woman stumbled against Stafford as he pushed his way through the crowd. His laptop swung and clipped a young boy around the ear. The boy saw instantly how wealthy Stafford looked and promptly started bawling. A man in dirty-brown robes said something curt to Stafford, who waved him arrogantly away. The boy bawled even more loudly. Stafford sighed heavily and glanced around at the redhead, evidently expecting her to sort it out. She stooped, examined the boy’s ear, clucked sympathetically, slipped him a banknote. He couldn’t suppress his grin as he danced off. But the man in the brown robes was still feeling stung from Stafford’s dismissal, and the transaction only irritated him further. He declared loudly that foreigners evidently now thought they could batter Egyptian children at will, then pay their way out of it.

The redhead gave an uncertain smile and tried to back away, but the man’s words struck a chord with the crowd, and a cordon formed, trapping them inside, the atmosphere turning ugly. Stafford tried to barge his way out, but someone jolted him hard enough that his shades came off. He grabbed for them but they fell to the ground. A moment later Gaille heard the crunch of glass as they went underfoot. A scornful laugh rang out.

Gaille glanced anxiously over at the three CSF men, but they were walking away into the ticket hall, heads ducked, wanting nothing to do with this. Fear flared hot in her chest as she debated what to do. This wasn’t her problem. No one even knew she was here. Her 4x4 was parked directly outside. She hesitated just a moment longer, then turned and hurried out.

II

‘But it’s just a lid,’ protested Omar, as he hurried down the SCA’s front steps after Knox. ‘There must have been thousands like it. How can you be so certain it came from Qumran?’

Knox unlocked his Jeep, climbed in. ‘Because it’s the only place Dead Sea Scroll jars have ever been found,’ he told Omar. ‘At least, there was one other found in Jericho, just a few miles north, and maybe another at Masada, also close by. Other than that …’

‘But it looked perfectly ordinary.’

‘It may have looked it,’ replied Knox, waiting for a van to pass before pulling out. ‘But you have to understand something. Two thousand years ago, jars were used either for transporting goods or for storing them. Transportation jars were typically amphorae, with big handles to make them easier to heft about, and robust, because they had to withstand a lot of knocks, and cylindrical, because that made them more efficient to stack.’ He turned right at the end of the street, then sharp left. ‘But once the goods reached their final destination, they were decanted into storage jars with rounded bottoms that bedded into sandy floors and were easy to tip whenever people needed to pour out their contents. They also had long necks and narrow mouths so that they could be corked and their contents kept fresh. But the Dead Sea Scroll jars weren’t like that. They had flat bottoms and stubby necks and fat mouths, and there was a very good reason for that.’

‘Which was?’

His brakes sang as he slowed for a tram clanking across the junction ahead. ‘How much do you know about Qumran?’ he asked.

‘It was occupied by the Essenes, wasn’t it?’ said Omar. ‘That Jewish sect. Though haven’t I heard people claim that it was a villa or a fort or something?’

‘They’ve suggested it,’ agreed Knox, who’d been fascinated by the place since a family holiday there as a child. ‘I think they’re wrong, though. I mean, Pliny said that the Essenes lived on the northwest of the Dead Sea. If not Qumran itself, then very close to it, and no one has found a convincing alternative. One expert put it very succinctly: Either Qumran and the scrolls were both Essene, or we have a quite astonishing coincidence: Two major religious communities living almost on top of each other, sharing similar views and rituals, one of which was described by ancient authors yet left no physical traces; while the other was somehow ignored by all our sources but left extensive ruins and documents.’

‘So Qumran was occupied by the Essenes,’ agreed Omar. ‘That doesn’t explain why their jars are unique.’

‘The Essenes were fanatical about ritual purity,’ said Knox. ‘The slightest thing could render a pure receptacle impure. A drop of rain, a tumbling insect, an inappropriate spillage. And if it did, it was a major headache. I mean, if a receptacle became tainted, then obviously anything in it was immediately tainted too, and had to be chucked. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Liquids and grain are poured in a stream, you see, so the real issue was whether the impurity climbed back up that stream and infected the storage jar too. The Pharisees and other Jewish sects took a relaxed view, but the Essenes believed that everything would be contaminated, so they couldn’t risk pouring out contents in a stream. Instead, they’d lift the lid a little, dip in a measuring cup and transfer it that way. And because they no longer had to tip their storage jars, they could have flat bottoms, which made them much more stable; and short necks and fat mouths, too, to make them easier to dip into.’

‘And jars with fat mouths need bowls for lids,’ grinned Omar.

‘Exactly,’ nodded Knox. They were nearing the Desert Road Junction. He hunkered down in his seat to scan the road-signs. A quick review of the records in Omar’s office had shown just four foreign-run sites in the vicinity of Lake Mariut, but there was nothing currently happening at Philoxinite, Taposiris Magna or Abu Mina; which left only one worthwhile candidate: a group called the Texas Society of Biblical Archaeology excavating out near Borg el-Arab.

‘So what would the lid be doing here?’ asked Omar, once Knox had navigated them onto the right road.

‘It may well have come centuries ago,’ shrugged Knox. ‘The Dead Sea Scrolls were known about in antiquity. We have reports from the second, third and fourth centuries of texts being found in Qumran caves. Origen even used them to write his Hexapla.’

‘His what?’

‘The Bible written out six times in parallel columns. The first in Hebrew, the second in Greek, and then a series of edited versions. It helped other scholars compare and contrast the various versions. But the point is, he relied heavily on Dead Sea Scrolls.’

‘And you think they might have been brought here in this jar of yours?’

‘It’s got to be a possibility.’

Omar swallowed audibly. ‘You don’t think we might actually find … scrolls, do you?’

Knox laughed. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. One of the scrolls was inscribed on copper – a treasure map, would you believe? But all the rest were on parchment or papyrus. Alexandria’s climate would have chewed those up centuries ago. Besides, there’s another explanation. A more intriguing one. To me, at least.’

‘Go on.’

‘We’re pretty sure the Essenes didn’t live only in Qumran,’ said Knox. ‘Josephus mentions an Essene Gate in Jerusalem, for example, and several scrolls laid down rules for how Essenes should live outside Qumran. Besides, we know there were several thousand Essenes, whereas Qumran could only hold a few hundred. So obviously there were other communities.’

‘You mean here? In Alexandria?’

Knox grinned. ‘Have you ever heard of the Therapeutae?’ he asked.

III

The Reverend Ernest Peterson surreptitiously dabbed his brow. He didn’t like being seen to sweat. He didn’t like showing any sign of weakness. Fifty-two years old, ramrod straight, grizzled hair, fierce eyes, a hawk’s nose. Never without his copy of the King James Version. Never without his preacher’s livery. A man proud to show through his own unyielding purpose a faint glimmer of the irresistible strength of God. Yet the sweat kept coming. It wasn’t just the humidity in this cramped, dark underground labyrinth. It was the vertiginous sense of what he was on the verge of achieving.

Thirty-odd years before, Peterson had been a punk – a petty thief, always in trouble with the law. Under arrest one night, dozing on a police bench, glancing up at a Heinrich Hofmann print of Christ hanging high up on the wall, his heart suddenly starting to race crazily, like the most violent panic attack, but which suddenly dissolved into the most intense and serene vision of his life, a blinding white light, an epiphany. He’d stumbled from the bench after it was done, searching for a reflective surface in which to see what imprint it had left upon him: bleached hair, charred skin, albino irises. To his astonishment, there’d been no physical change whatsoever. Yet it had changed him, all right. It had transformed him from within. For no man could look upon the face of Christ and remain untouched.

He dabbed his forehead once more, turned to Griffin. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Then do it.’

He stood back as Griffin and Michael heaved a first block of stone from the false wall to reveal the open space behind that had been indicated by their probes. Griffin reached in his torch, twisted it this way and that, illuminating a large chamber that flickered with shadow and colour, provoking murmurs and gasps from his young students. But Peterson only nodded at Nathan and Michael to continue dismantling the wall.

It said in the Good Book: The Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh upon outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart. The Lord had looked upon his heart that night in custody. The Lord had seen something in him that even he hadn’t realized was there.

A sufficient gap had been created for Griffin to step through, but Peterson put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going first.’

‘It should be an archaeologist.’

‘I’m going first,’ repeated Peterson. He rested his palm on the rough crumbled mortar, stepped through into the new chamber.

He’d not merely been transformed that night; he’d been given purpose. Of all God’s gifts, perhaps the greatest. It hadn’t been easy. He’d wasted years on the medieval make-believe of the Turin Shroud and the Veil of Veronica. Yet he’d never once doubted or contemplated giving in. The Lord didn’t hand out such missions on a whim. And finally he’d found the right lead, had followed it relentlessly, was now within touching distance. He felt it. He knew it. The time of the light was coming, certain as sunrise.

He shone his torch around the chamber. Thirty paces long, ten wide. Everything covered in dust. A deep bath embedded in the floor, a wide flight of steps leading down into it, divided by a low stone wall, so that community members could descend unclean down one side and emerge purified from the other. Walls plastered and painted in antiquity; pigments dulled by neglect, cobwebs, dirt and wormcasts. He brushed an area with his hand, shone his torch obliquely at the revealed scene. A woman in blue with a child on her lap. He had to blink away tears.

‘Reverend! Look!’

He glanced around to see Marcia shining her torch up at the domed ceiling, painted to represent the sky, a glowing orange sun near its apex, constellations of yellow stars, a creamy full moon, red coals of planets. Day and night together. Joy effervesced in his heart as Peterson stared up. He fell to his knees in gratitude and adoration. ‘Let us give thanks,’ he said. He gazed around until all his young students had fallen to their knees. And then even Griffin had to follow, compelled by the power of the group.

‘I know that my redeemer liveth,’ cried Peterson, his voice reverberating loudly around the chamber. ‘And that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.’

Yes, he exulted. In my flesh shall I see God.

IV

Naguib Hussein was on his way back to the Mallawi police station to make his report when he decided it might be as well to make a detour to Amarna, ask the people there if they’d heard anything about a missing young girl, if only to take the opportunity of introducing himself.

A tourist policeman was fooling around on his motorbike, gunning his engine, braking sharply, spraying huge arcs of dust and sand with his back wheel: entertainment for his officer and two comrades drinking chai on wooden benches beneath a makeshift sunshade. Naguib braced himself. Relations between the services were strained around here, each looking down on the other. He waited for the officer to acknowledge his arrival, but he continued to ignore him until Naguib’s cheeks grew warm. He scowled and walked across the officer’s line of sight, giving him no choice but to notice him, though he still didn’t get up. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

Naguib nodded at the eastern crescent of hills. ‘I’ve just come from the desert,’ he said.

‘If they’ll pay you for it.’

‘One of the guides took some tourists out last night. They found a girl.’

‘A girl?’ frowned the officer. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean they found her body. Wrapped in tarpaulin.’

The officer set down his glass, stood up. A tall man, beautifully presented, razor-cut hair, manicured nails, a silken moustache, making the most of his uniform. ‘I hadn’t heard,’ he said, suddenly earnest, offering his hand. ‘Captain Khaled Osman, at your service.’

‘Inspector Naguib Hussein.’

‘Are you new here, Inspector? I don’t recall seeing you before.’

‘Six weeks,’ admitted Naguib. ‘I was in Minya before.’

‘You must have done something pretty bad to get posted here.’

Naguib gave a wry grunt. He’d been investigating military equipment on the black market, hadn’t dropped it even when the trail had led him to the top, not even after he’d been warned off. He hated Egypt’s culture of corruption. ‘They told me it was a promotion,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Khaled. ‘They told me that, too.’ He glanced around. ‘You’ll join us for some chai?’

Naguib shook his head. ‘I need to get back to the station. I just thought I’d ask if you’d heard anything.’

Khaled shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll ask around, if you like. Keep an ear to the ground.’

‘Thank you,’ said Naguib. ‘I’d be most grateful.’ He returned to his Lada feeling cheered. His wife always said that a drop of courtesy could solve a world of ills. She knew what she was talking about, his wife.

THREE

I

Gaille unlocked the Discovery and climbed inside. She sat there for a moment, breathing hard, studying herself in the rear-view. Her tan, headscarf and local clothes gave her anonymity if she wanted it. She could drive away and no one would ever know. Only that wasn’t quite true. She’d know.

She grabbed her camera from the glove compartment, hurried out and back through the ticket hall where the police were still hiding, her heart pounding, chills fluttering across her skin. Stafford and his companions were still hemmed in on the platform, wrestling for their luggage with two youths. She stepped up onto a bench, wielded her camera like a weapon. ‘CNN!’ she cried out. ‘Al Jazeera!’ Attention shifted instantly to her, a wave of hostility, quickly replaced by fear, people instinctively ducking their faces, not wanting to be captured on film. She panned around to the men from the Central Security Forces. The officer scowled and snapped out orders. His men hurried out, opened a precarious corridor with their batons that Stafford, the redhead and Gaille all hurried down, out to the Discovery.

‘What are you waiting for?’ yelled Stafford, slamming the passenger door behind him. ‘Get us out of here.’

‘What about your porter?’

‘Fuck him,’ snapped Stafford. ‘Just get us out of here, will you?’

‘But—’

‘He’s one of them, isn’t he? He can look after himself.’

The CSF men were waving them away, as though they couldn’t guarantee them protection much longer. Gaille thrust the Discovery into gear, surged away. Traffic was gridlocked the way she wanted to go; she turned left instead. The streets quickly narrowed, aged, turned into a bazaar, forcing her to slow right down, wend her way between irritated shoppers. With all the twists and turns, she quickly became disoriented. She leaned forwards in her seat, scanning the skyline for a familiar landmark by which to navigate.

II

Captain Khaled Osman kept his smile fixed to his lips as he waved off the police inspector. But it vanished when he turned to his men. ‘Time for a patrol, I think,’ he said. ‘Faisal. Nasser. Abdullah. Come with me, please.’

Khaled sat stiffly in the passenger seat as Nasser drove and Abdullah and Faisal cowered in the back. There was silence apart from the blast of the engine. The silence of anger. The silence of fear. They reached the Northern Tombs. Khaled climbed out; his men followed, forming a desultory line, sagging like sacks of rice. He’d done his best to instil some pride of uniform in these men since being forcibly transferred into the tourist police out of the army, but it was futile, they were worthless, all they cared about was gouging baksheesh from the tourists. He walked back and forth in front of them, their heads bowed in shame like the miserable pups they were. ‘One job I give you!’ he spat. ‘One damned job! And you can’t even do that!’

‘But we did exactly what you—’

Khaled slapped Faisal across the cheek, the crack echoing off the cliff walls behind. ‘How could you have done?’ he yelled, saliva spraying over Faisal’s face. ‘They found her, didn’t they?’

A smile tweaked Abdullah’s lips, evidently relieved that Faisal was taking the brunt. Khaled grabbed his collar and clutched it so tightly that his face turned red and he started struggling for breath. ‘If this goes wrong …’ vowed Khaled. ‘If this goes wrong …’

‘We never wanted any part of this, sir,’ protested Faisal. ‘It was all your idea. Now look!’

‘Shut up!’ snarled Khaled, letting go of Abdullah, who gasped for breath, massaged his raw throat. ‘You want to spend your whole life poor? Is that what you want? This is our chance to be rich.’

‘Rich!’ scoffed Faisal.

‘Yes, rich.’

‘There’s nothing there, sir! Haven’t you realized that yet?’

‘You’re wrong,’ insisted Khaled. ‘It’s in there. I can smell it. One more week and it’ll be ours.’ He wagged a finger at them. ‘But no more mistakes. Understand? No more mistakes.’

III

Knox drove west out along the new Desert Road into a palette of extraordinary colours, the ice-packs of the salt farms dazzling white to his right, the chemical sheen of Lake Mariut glowing almost purple to his left, and, up above, the wisps of late-afternoon cloud making for a Jackson Pollock sky.

‘The Therapeutae?’ frowned Omar. ‘Weren’t they early Christians?’

Knox shook his head. ‘They had Christian attitudes and practices, and they were claimed as Christians by certain early church fathers, and it’s even possible they became Christians. But they can’t have started out as Christians, not least because they were living in and around Alexandria before Christ started preaching. No, they were Jews, all right. Philo admired them so much he almost joined them, after all, and he was certainly Jewish. What’s more, he implied a very strong connection between them and the Essenes. The Therapeutae were his ideal of the contemplative life, the Essenes of the active life. But their beliefs and practices were otherwise virtually indistinguishable.’

‘In what ways?’

‘Both were extremely ascetic,’ said Knox, scratching the resinous scab of a mosquito bite on his forearm. ‘It’s commonplace now, but no one used to think there was much virtue in poverty before the Essenes. Their initiates had to hand over most of their worldly belongings when they joined, as did new Therapeutae. Both rejected slavery and considered it an honour to serve others. Both held their elders in great esteem. Both were vegetarian and disapproved of animal sacrifice, perhaps because both believed in reincarnation. Both dressed in white linen. Both were renowned for their medical skill. Some argue that the words Essene and Therapeutae actually derived from Aramaic and Greek for healers, though it’s more probable they both meant “servants of God”.’ He turned south onto the low causeway across Lake Mariut, where a few fishermen were idling away their day on the rocky verges. ‘Purification rituals mattered hugely to both. Both were largely or completely celibate, sustaining their numbers through recruitment rather than procreation. Both sang antiphonal chants. In fact, some Passover hymns found at Qumran might well have been composed by the Therapeutae. Both used a solar calendar, as opposed to the usual Jewish lunar calendar. And both had a ritual three hundred and sixty four days to their year, even though they knew the real figure.’

They arrived south of the lake, a barren landscape of Bedouin farms, vast industrial complexes, expensive verdant villas and large stretches of rocky waste-ground that no one had yet found a use for. Knox pulled into the side to consult their map. A grey heron looked quizzically at him from a reed-bed. He winked at it and it flapped leisurely away.

‘The Essenes and the Therapeutae,’ prompted Omar.

‘Yes,’ nodded Knox, pulling away again, turning west, the map open on his lap, keeping as close to the lake as the roads allowed. ‘Both were keenly interested in the hidden meanings of the scriptures. Both knew secrets they couldn’t divulge to outsiders, such as the names of angels. Geometry, numerology, anagrams and word-plays held special meaning to both, as did jubilees. The Therapeutae held a feast every seven days, a more important one every fifty days. Fifty was a very special number, you see, because it was the sum of three squared plus four squared plus five squared; and any triangle with the lengths of its sides in the ratio of three, four, five is a right-angled triangle, which they held to be the building-block of the universe.’

‘Right-angled triangles? Isn’t that more Greek than Jewish?’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Knox, turning left down a narrow lane, flat tilled fields to their right, bare limestone bedrock to their left. ‘They had an amazing amount in common with the Pythagoreans. Diet, calendar, rituals, beliefs. All the things I just mentioned. And clear traces of sun-worship too. Ancient Alexandrians actually claimed that Pythagoras derived all his knowledge from Moses, that his religion was essentially Egyptian. He did spend twenty years here, after all. So maybe he got it all from the same place as the Therapeutae.’

An irrigation canal ran along the left-hand side of the road, its banks grazed by goats. This whole area was a lattice of channels distributing fresh water from the Nile. By his reckoning, the excavation should be somewhere the other side. He kept going until he saw an earthen bridge ahead, guarded by two men in uniform playing backgammon on a wooden trestle table. He turned left over the bridge, pulled to a stop beside them. ‘Is this the Texas Society dig?’ he asked.

‘What do you want?’ asked the elder of the guards.

‘To talk to the chief archaeologist.’

‘You mean Mister Griffin?’

‘If that’s his name.’

‘You have an appointment?’

‘This is Mr Tawfiq,’ said Knox, nodding at Omar. ‘He’s head of the Supreme Council in Alexandria, and he wants to speak to the chief archaeologist. I suggest you let him know we’re here.’

The guard held Knox’s eye, but when Knox didn’t look away, he stood, turned his back, held a muttered conversation on his walkie-talkie. ‘Very well,’ he said gruffly, once he was done. ‘Follow this track to the end. Wait by the cabin. Mister Griffin will meet you there.’

‘So?’ asked Omar. ‘Do we know where these Therapeutae of yours lived?’

‘Not exactly,’ admitted Knox. ‘Philo did give us some clues, though. For example, he said that their settlement was on a slightly raised plain within reach of the sea breezes. And that they were close enough together to defend each other from attack, yet far enough apart to be alone with their thoughts. Oh, yes, and he told us one other thing.’

‘Which was?’

The two men topped a small rise. A wooden cabin with a canvas extension came into view, two battered white pick-ups and a 4x4 parked outside. And, in the distance, the flat blue sheen of Alexandria’s great lake. Knox turned to Omar with a slight smile. ‘That their settlement was on the southern bank of Lake Mariut,’ he said.

FOUR

I

Lily Auster stared bleakly out the window of the Discovery as Gaille drove them slowly through the narrow wending alleys of the Assiut bazaar. Two days into her first proper overseas assignment, already a train wreck. She clenched her fist until her nails dug pale crescents in her palm. Get a grip, girl, she told herself. A setback, that’s all. It was her job to deal with setbacks and then move on. If she couldn’t deal with such things, she should find a new career. She forced a smile first onto her lips and then up into her eyes and leaned forwards between the front seats. ‘So you’re Gaille Bonnard, yes?’ she asked with all the brightness she could muster.

‘Yes,’ agreed Gaille.

‘I rang Fatima while we were on the train,’ nodded Lily. ‘She said you’d be meeting us. Thanks so much for helping out back there. I thought we were toast.’

‘Forget it,’ said Gaille.

‘I’m Lily, by the way. Lily Auster. And of course you recognize our star, Charles Stafford.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Gaille. ‘Pleased to meet you both.’

‘Bloody maniacs!’ muttered Stafford. ‘What was wrong with those people?’

‘Things are very tense around here at the moment. Two young girls have been raped and murdered. And they were both Copts. Egyptian Christians, that is.’

‘I know what a Copt is, thank you,’ said Stafford.

‘Those poor girls,’ said Lily, checking herself in the rear-view mirror, her eyes flicking instinctively to her cheek. The laser treatments had done exactly what the brochure had promised, reducing her vivid port-wine birthmark to a reddish-brown glow that people barely even noticed any more. But she’d discovered an unwelcome truth about disfigurement: suffer it long enough, and it became a part of who you were, your personality. She still felt ugly, no matter what the mirror tried to tell her. ‘But why is it significant they were Copts?’

‘The last time anything like this happened – a murder – the police simply rounded up hundreds of other Copts. It caused an awful lot of friction with the West. People assumed it was religious discrimination, you see – Muslim on Christian; though it wasn’t, really. It’s just how the police investigate around here. They grab all the nearest people and beat them until one of them talks. But this time, instead of rounding up Copts, they’ve used it as an excuse to grab all the local Islamic firebrands and beat them instead. And their friends and families blame people like us. There’s a big march on through the city this afternoon.’

‘Charming,’ nodded Stafford, his interest fading fast. He turned to Lily. ‘What luggage did we lose?’

‘Just clothes, I think,’ said Lily. ‘I saved our equipment.’

‘My clothes, I suppose.’

‘Both our clothes.’

‘What the hell am I supposed to wear on camera?’

‘We’ll find you something. Don’t worry.’ Her smile had become strained these past few days. Working for Stafford would do that to you, particularly if your colleagues had jumped ship, as hers had. Last night over dinner he’d gone on about his recent trip to Delphi. Gnothi Seauton, the Oracle had advised. Know thyself. Stafford had sat back in his chair and claimed it as his prescription for a fulfilled life. Her unintentional snort had sprayed atomized droplets of white wine across the tablecloth. She’d never met a man with such little self-awareness, yet he’d done absurdly well, was both successful and happy. Oh, to be a narcissist, with unshakeable faith in your own beauty and wonderfulness. And to have people admire you for it too! Because they did: people were such fools, they took others at their own estimate. She turned back to Gaille. ‘Fatima said you’d come with us tomorrow. That’s so kind of you.’

‘Tomorrow?’ frowned Gaille. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Didn’t she mention it?’

‘No,’ said Gaille. ‘She didn’t. Why? What’s happening?’

‘We’re filming in Amarna. Our guide went AWOL.’

‘Good riddance to him,’ muttered Stafford. ‘Man had an attitude.’

‘That’s why we had to take the train,’ said Lily. ‘Your professor said she’d come with us. But now apparently something’s come up. So we’re really stuck. It’s not just that we need an expert to talk to camera, though that would be great. It’s that neither of us speak Arabic. I mean, our documentation’s in order and everything, but I don’t know how things work around here. Every country has its own ways, you know?’

‘I’ll have a word with Fatima when we get back,’ sighed Gaille. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to sort something out.’

‘Thanks,’ said Lily, squeezing Gaille’s shoulder. ‘That’s brilliant of you.’ A pang of shame, quickly suppressed. It was one of the hidden penalties of ugliness that no one ever volunteered their help; you had to find other ways to get what you needed: flattery, bargaining, bribery, throwing yourself on their mercy.

They drifted to a halt. Lily glanced through the windscreen. The way ahead was blocked by metal barricades, ranks of riot police in black uniforms and helmets, the protest march passing the other side, fervent young men in robes, the perfect oval faces of the women in their hijab, others completely veiled by their niqab. A sweet stab of longing low in Lily’s stomach. As a girl, how envious she’d been of Muslim women, able to hide behind the sanctuary of burkha. ‘I hate to ask,’ she murmured, ‘but are you sure this is the right way?’

II

Knox and Omar leaned against the Jeep as they waited for Griffin. ‘Maha said these were bullet-holes from that Alexander business,’ said Omar, fingering the patched-up bodywork. ‘They’re not really, are they?’

‘Afraid so.’

Omar laughed. ‘You do live, Daniel.’

‘Only just.’ He stooped to check the ground. The site was on a gentle hummock of limestone, almost completely bare of soil, useless for farming and untouched by industrialization or property development. If people had lived here in ancient times, there was a fair chance traces of them would have survived. He looked up at the scuff of footsteps. Two middle-aged men emerged from behind the cabin, their clothes and hair grey with dust and cobwebs. ‘Mister Tawfiq,’ said the first, thrusting out his right hand, revealing a dark crescent of sweat beneath his armpit. ‘I understand you’re the new head of the SCA in Alexandria. Congratulations.’

‘Oh,’ said Omar. ‘I’m only interim head, you know.’

‘I met your predecessor, of course. A terrible tragedy to lose such a good man so young.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Omar. He turned to Knox. ‘And this is my friend, Mister Daniel Knox.’

‘Daniel Knox?’ asked the man. ‘Of Alexander’s tomb fame?’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Knox.

‘We are honoured,’ he said, shaking his hand. ‘I’m Mortimer Griffin. Chief archaeologist of this excavation.’ He turned to his companion. ‘And this is the Reverend Ernest Peterson.’

‘An excavation with its own chaplain?’ asked Knox.

‘We’re really a training dig,’ explained Griffin. ‘Most of our crew are very young, you know. Away from home for the first time, a lot of them. Their parents feel better knowing they have moral guidance.’

‘Of course,’ said Knox. He offered to shake Peterson’s hand, but Peterson just stood there, his arms folded, staring back with a granite smile.

‘So what can we do for you gentlemen?’ asked Griffin, pretending nothing had just happened. ‘All this way without an appointment. It must be important.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Knox. ‘I’m beginning to think it might be.’

III

Stafford sighed loudly as Gaille pulled to a stop by the barriers. ‘Don’t tell me we’re lost!’

‘I had to get us away from the station,’ said Gaille defensively. She leaned forwards. Late afternoon sun blurred like a headache on her dusty windscreen. There was no indication of when the march might end and the barricades be removed. Nothing for it: she pulled an awkward five-point turn in the narrow street, headed back through the bazaar and emerged onto the square outside the crowded train station, the traffic and emerging passengers forcing her to slow almost to walking pace as she worked her way through the crowd.

Two men were laughing good-naturedly as they tussled over a straw hat. ‘That’s mine!’ scowled Stafford. He lowered his window, grabbed for his hat. The two men danced off yelling cheerful insults, bringing the Discovery to general attention. People walked in front, forcing Gaille to a stop. ‘What are you doing?’ protested Stafford, raising his window back up.

‘I thought you wanted your hat.’

‘Get us out of here.’

Gaille pressed her palm on her horn, revved her engine until the throng reluctantly parted, allowing her to squirt through a gap and away. But the traffic lights ahead turned red, a three-wheel van blocking their escape. Gaille glanced back. A tall youth was swaggering after them, swinging his shoulders, probably only wanting to impress his friends; but the seconds passed and the lights didn’t change, and he drew closer and closer, so that Gaille knew he’d have to do something or look ridiculous. She checked to make sure the doors were all locked, looked around again. The man stooped, picked up a stone the size of an egg from the edge of the kerb, threw it hard. It clanged on their roof, skittered off down the street. Others began to near. A clod of earth exploded on their back window, leaving an ugly brown smear. The lights finally turned. The three-wheeler struggled to get away. Suddenly they were surrounded, people banging on their windows. A man reached beneath his robes just as an explosion, like a firecracker, made Gaille’s hands jump on the steering wheel. A wisp of smoke leaked apologetically from the three-wheeler’s exhaust as it finally picked up speed. She stamped her foot down indignantly and accelerated away.

FIVE

I

‘Well?’ said Griffin. ‘Won’t you tell us why you’re here?’

‘I was offered an artefact in Alexandria this morning,’ replied Knox. ‘The seller said it was from an excavation south of Mariut.’

‘You shouldn’t believe what those people tell you. Anything for a sale.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Knox.

Griffin’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of artefact exactly?’

‘A storage-jar lid.’

‘A storage-jar lid? You came all this way for a storage-jar lid?’

‘We came all this way because we think antiquities theft is a serious matter,’ said Omar.

‘Yes, of course,’ nodded Griffin, suitably chastened. ‘But you must realize there used to be a substantial pottery industry out here. They made jars to transport grain and wine all around the Mediterranean, you know. Good wine, too. Strabo commended it highly. So did Horace and Virgil. They even found some amphorae of it off Marseilles, would you believe? Walk along the old lake-front here, you’ll find great heaps of ancient pottery fragments. Anyone could have picked up your lid from one of them. It didn’t have to come from an excavation.’

‘This lid wasn’t broken,’ said Knox. ‘Besides, it was … unusual.’

‘Unusual?’ said Griffin, shading his eyes from the sun. ‘In what way?’

‘What exactly is this site?’ asked Omar.

‘An old farm. Of no great interest, believe me.’

‘Really?’ frowned Knox. ‘Then why excavate here?’

‘This is primarily a training excavation. It gives our students the chance to experience life on a real dig.’

‘What did they farm here?’

‘All kinds of things. Grain. Vines. Beans. Madder. Papyrus. You know.’

‘On limestone bedrock?’

‘This is where they lived. Their fields were on all sides.’

‘And the people?’

Griffin scratched beneath his collar, beginning to feel the pressure. ‘Like I say. This was an old farm. They were old farmers.’

‘What era?’

Griffin glanced at Peterson, but found no help. ‘We’ve found artefacts from the Nineteenth Dynasty on. But mostly Graeco-Roman. Nothing later than the early fifth century AD. A couple of coins from 413 or 414, something like that. There seems to have been a fire around that time. Luckily for us.’

Knox nodded. A good blaze would put a carbonized shell over a site, protecting it from the worst ravages of time and weather. ‘The Christian riots?’ he suggested.

‘Why would Christians burn down a farm?’

‘Why indeed?’ agreed Knox.

‘Perhaps you could give us the tour,’ suggested Omar into the ensuing silence. ‘Show us what you’ve been finding.’

‘Of course. Of course. Any time. Just make an appointment with Claire.’

‘Claire?’

‘Our administrator. She speaks Arabic, you know.’

‘That’s good,’ said Omar. ‘Because I can barely speak a word of English myself.’

Griffin had the grace to blush. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It was just if you had one of your people make the appointment for you.’

‘Can’t we speak to her now?’

‘I’m afraid she’s not on site. And this season may not be easy. Rush of work. So much to do. So little time.’ He waved vaguely at the desert behind him, as though they could see for themselves. But of course they could see nothing.

‘We wouldn’t get in your way,’ said Knox.

‘I think I’m the best judge of that, don’t you?’

‘No,’ said Omar tersely. ‘I think I’m the best judge.’

‘We report to Cairo, not you,’ said Peterson, speaking for the first time. ‘I’m not quite clear what your jurisdiction here is.’

‘Do you have an SCA representative here?’ asked Omar.

‘Of course,’ nodded Griffin. ‘Abdel Lateef.’

‘May I speak with him?’

‘Ah. He’s in Cairo today.’

‘Tomorrow, then?’

‘I’m not sure when he’ll be back.’

Knox and Omar shared a glance. The SCA representative was supposed to be on site full time. ‘You have an Egyptian crew, I assume. May I speak with your reis?’

‘By all means,’ said Peterson. ‘Just show us your authorization.’ He waited a moment for Omar to produce it, then shook his head in theatrical disappointment. ‘No? Well do come back when you have it.’

‘But I’m head of the Supreme Council in Alexandria,’ protested Omar.

‘Interim head,’ retorted Peterson. ‘Drive safely, now.’ And he turned his back on them and strode away, leaving Griffin to hurry after him.

II

Gaille was waved to a stop at a checkpoint a couple of kilometres north of Assiut, assigned two police cars for the return journey north. It was like that round here. In her headscarf, driving alone, Gaille was effectively invisible; but once she had such obvious Westerners as Stafford and Lily for passengers, there was little chance of avoiding an escort. Gaille hated driving in convoy like this; the police here drove at breakneck pace, wending wildly through traffic, forcing her to drive frighteningly fast just to keep up. But they reached the end of the police jurisdiction without incident and the two cars vanished as quickly as they’d appeared.

‘So what’s your programme about, then?’ asked Gaille, slowing with relief to a more comfortable speed.

‘I’ve a copy of the synopsis for this segment, if you’d like,’ said Lily from the back, unzipping her bag.

‘That’s confidential,’ snapped Stafford.

‘We’re asking Gaille to help,’ observed Lily. ‘How can she if she doesn’t know what we’re working on?’

‘Very well,’ sighed Stafford. He took the synopsis from Lily, glanced through it to make sure it contained no state secrets, then rested it on his knee and cleared his throat. ‘In 1714,’ he began sonorously, as if for a voice-over, ‘Claude Sicard, a French Jesuit scholar, came across an inscription cut into the cliffs at a desolate site near the Nile in the heart of Egypt. It turned out to be a boundary marker for one of the most remarkable cities of the ancient world, the capital city of a previously unknown pharaoh, a pharaoh who’d inspired the birth of a new philosophy, a new style of art, and – most of all – of bold new ideas about the nature of God that had shattered the status quo and irreversibly altered the history of the world.’

As opposed to reversibly altering it, you mean? thought Gaille, struggling not to smile.

Stafford squinted at her. ‘Did you say something?’

‘No.’

He pursed his lips, but then let it go, picked up where he’d left off. ‘The new ways had proved too much for the Egyptian establishment, however. Extraordinarily, it would transpire, this city hadn’t just been abandoned, it had been deliberately dismantled, brick by brick, to remove any evidence of its existence. And all across Egypt, every mention of this man and his reign had been meticulously erased so that the seas of time closed over his head without a trace. Who was he, this heretic pharaoh? What crime had he committed that was so monstrous, it had had to be expunged from history? In his latest groundbreaking book and companion documentary, iconoclastic historian Charles Stafford explores the astonishing multiple mysteries of the Amarna era, and puts forward a revolutionary new theory that not only shatters the way we think about Akhenaten, but will also rewrite our notions of the history of the ancient Near East.’ He folded the sheet back up, tucked it away in his inside jacket pocket, looking rather pleased with himself.

A donkey was standing in the middle of the road ahead, its front legs hobbled so that it could move only in feeble bunny-hops. Gaille put her foot on the brakes, slowing right down, trying to give it time to reach the verge, but it didn’t move, it just stood there, terrified and bewildered, so that she had to cut into the other lane to drive around it, provoking angry bursts of horn from other traffic. ‘Your programme’s really going to do all that?’ she asked, checking anxiously in her rear-view until the donkey had vanished from sight.

‘And more. Much more.’

‘How?’

‘He’s suggesting Akhenaten had a disease,’ volunteered Lily from the back.

‘Oh,’ said Gaille, disappointed, as she turned left off the main Nile road onto a narrow country lane. The grotesque images of Akhenaten and his family were one of the most fiercely debated aspects of the Amarna era. He himself had often been portrayed with a swollen skull, protruding jaw, slanted eyes, fleshy lips, narrow shoulders, wide hips, pronounced breasts, a potbelly, fat thighs and spindly calves. Hardly the heroic picture of manhood that most pharaohs had aspired to. His daughters, too, were typically shown with almond skulls, elongated limbs, spidery fingers and toes. Some believed that this had simply been the prevailing artistic style. But others, like Stafford it seemed, argued that it portrayed the ravages of some vicious disease. ‘Which are you going with?’ she asked. ‘Marfan’s Syndrome? Frohlich’s?’

‘Scarcely Frohlich’s,’ sniffed Stafford. ‘It causes sterility. And Akhenaten had six daughters, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Gaille, who’d worked on her father’s excavation in Amarna for two seasons while still a teenager, and who’d studied the Eighteenth Dynasty for three years at the Sorbonne. ‘I did.’ Even so, there was only so much of the relentless ‘child of his loins, his alone, no one else’s, just his’ inscriptions that you could read before wondering whether someone wasn’t protesting a mite too much.

‘We spoke to a specialist before coming out,’ said Lily. ‘He reckoned Marfan’s Syndrome was the most likely candidate. But he did suggest others too. Ehler’s-Danlos. Klinefelter’s.’

‘It was Marfan’s,’ asserted Stafford. ‘It’s autosomal dominant, you see. That’s to say, if a child inherits the relevant gene from either parent, they’ll inherit the syndrome, too. Look at the daughters; all portrayed with classic Marfan’s symptoms. The odds against that happening unless the condition was autosomal dominant are enormous.’

‘What do you think, Gaille?’ asked Lily.

She slowed to bump her way across a thick carpet of sugar-cane husks laid out to dry in the sun, fuel for the furnaces of the black-honey factories, their thick black smoke still visible despite the growing late-afternoon gloom. ‘It’s certainly plausible,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s not exactly new.’

‘Yes,’ smiled Stafford. ‘But then you haven’t heard the groundbreaking bit yet.’

III

‘This is bad,’ muttered Griffin, whey-faced, hurrying after Peterson. ‘This is a disaster.’

‘Cleave ye unto the Lord thy God, Brother Griffin,’ said Peterson. ‘No man will be able to resist you.’ The visit of Knox and Tawfiq had, in truth, exhilarated him. For was not Daniel Knox a one-time protégé of that shameless abominator Richard Mitchell? Which made him an abominator himself, a servant of the Devil. And if the Devil was sending his emissaries on such missions, it could only mean he was worried. Which in turn was proof that Peterson was close to fulfilling his purpose.

‘What if they come back?’ protested Griffin. ‘What if they bring the police?’

‘That’s what we pay your friends in Cairo for, isn’t it?’

‘We’ll need to hide the shaft,’ said Griffin, holding his belly as if he had a stomach ache. ‘And the magazine! Good grief. If they find those artefacts …’

‘Stop panicking, will you?’

‘How can you be so calm?’

‘Because we have the Lord on our side, Brother Griffin. That’s how.’

‘But don’t you realize—?’

‘Listen,’ said Peterson. ‘Do as I tell you and everything will be fine. First, go and talk to our Egyptian crew. One of them stole that lid. Demand his colleagues give him up.’

‘They never will.’

‘Of course not. But use it as an excuse to send them all home until your investigation is complete. We need them off the site.’

‘Oh. Good thinking.’

‘Then call Cairo. Let your friends know our situation, that we need their support. Remind them that if there’s any kind of enquiry, we might not be able to prevent their names from coming up. Then move anything that could cause us a problem out of the magazine and back underground. Store it in the catacombs for the moment.’

‘And you? What are you going to do?’

‘The Lord’s work, Brother Griffin. The Lord’s work.’

Griffin paled. ‘You’re not seriously planning to go on with this?’

‘Have you forgotten why we’re here, Brother Griffin?’

‘No, Reverend.’

‘Then what are you waiting for?’ Peterson watched disdainfully as Griffin slouched away. A man of terrible weak faith; but you had to use the tools to hand when you did the Lord’s work. He strode up a hummock of rock, relishing the tightness in his hams and calves, the burnish of the setting sun upon his nape, the long sharp shadow he cut in the sand. He’d never for one moment imagined he’d feel such affinity for Egypt, away from his church and flock and home. Yet there was a quality to the light here, as though it too had suffered in the flames and been purified.

He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs. The earliest Christian monks had chosen this place to answer God’s call. Peterson had always imagined that an accident of history and geography; but he’d soon realized that there was more to it than that. This was a profoundly spiritual place, all the more so the further you ventured into the desert. You felt it in the blazing sun, in the sweat and ache of labour, in the way water splashed gloriously over your parched skin and lips. You glimpsed it in the voluptuous golden lines of the dunes and the shimmering blue skies. You heard it in the silence.

He paused, looked around to make sure no one could see him, then went down into the slight dip in which they’d found the mouth of the shaft two years before. That first season, and the next, he’d allowed himself to be constrained by Griffin’s anxieties, excavating the cemetery and old buildings during the day, only going about their true business once their Egyptian crew had left for the night. But his patience had finally run out. He was an Old Testament preacher by temperament, scornful of the divine social worker championed by so many modern religious leaders. His God was a jealous God, a stern and demanding God: a God of love and forgiveness to those who submitted utterly to him; but a God of furious wrath and vengeance to His enemies and to those who let Him down.

Peterson had no intention of letting his God down. He had one night to complete his sacred mission. He intended to make the most of it.

SIX

I

‘The groundbreaking bit?’ asked Gaille.

Stafford hesitated, but he was clearly proud of his ideas and wanted to impress her: the maverick historian showing up the establishment academic. ‘I’ll not tell you everything,’ he said. ‘But I’ll say this much. Yes, nearly every modern work on Akhenaten mentions the possibility of some disease or other. But as an adjunct, you know. A sidebar. They get it out of the way and then move on. But I don’t think you can get it out the way and move on. If it’s true, after all, it would have had the most profound impact. Think about it. A young man suddenly developing a bewildering, disfiguring and incurable disease. And no ordinary young man, but one of almost unlimited power, viewed as a living God by his sycophantic court. Can’t you see how that would be a catalyst for all kinds of new thinking? Priests devising new theologies to explain his ravages as blessings not curses; artists striving to represent disfigurement as beauty. Akhenaten was constantly pledging never to leave Amarna because it was the spiritual home of his new God, the Aten. But actually his vows sound much more like the wheedling of a frightened young man finding excuses to stay home. Amarna was sanctuary. People here knew better than to make him feel a freak.’

‘Maybe,’ said Gaille.

‘There’s no maybe about it,’ said Stafford. ‘Disease explains so much. His children all died young, you know.’

They’d reached the last of the cultivated fields, and now passed between a thin line of trees out shockingly into the raw desert, nothing but dunes between them and the high ridge of sandstone cliffs ahead. ‘Christ!’ muttered Lily from the back.

‘Quite a sight, isn’t it,’ agreed Gaille. It felt like true border territory this, the tall grey water towers every kilometre or two resembling nothing quite so much as guard-posts struggling to keep the hostile desert at bay. She pointed through her windscreen. ‘See that walled compound with the trees in front? That’s where we’re going. It used to be the local power station, but they abandoned it for a new one further south, so Fatima took it over. It’s almost exactly halfway between Hermopolis and Tuna el-Gabel, which puts us right in the—’

‘I’m sorry you find my theories so boring,’ said Stafford.

‘I don’t at all,’ protested Gaille. ‘You were telling us about how all Akhenaten’s children died young.’

‘Yes,’ said Stafford, a little mollified. ‘His six daughters certainly, and Smenkhkare and the famous Tutankhamun too, if they were his sons, as some scholars suggest. Marfan’s Syndrome drastically reduces life expectancy. Aortic dissection mostly. Pregnancy is a particularly dangerous time because of the additional pressures on the heart. At least two of Akhenaten’s daughters died in childbirth.’

‘So did a lot of women back then,’ pointed out Gaille. Life expectancy for women had been less than thirty years, significantly less than for men, largely because of the dangers of pregnancy.

‘And Akhenaten is often criticized for letting his empire fall apart while he lazed around worshipping the Aten. Marfan’s causes extreme fatigue. Maybe that’s why he’s never portrayed doing anything energetic, except riding his chariot. And it would explain his love of the sun too. Marfan’s sufferers really feel the cold, you know. And their eyesight is afflicted, so that they need good light to see anything.’

‘Quite a risk, isn’t it? Basing your whole thesis on such a speculation.’

‘You academics!’ snorted Stafford. ‘Always so frightened of being proved wrong. You’ve lost your nerve; you hedge everything. But I’m not wrong. My theory explains Akhenaten perfectly. Can you offer another theory that even comes close?’

‘How about the opium-den theory?’

Stafford slid her a glance. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Gaille nodded. ‘You know they’ve got the mummy of Akhenaten’s father, Amenhotep III, in the vaults of the Cairo Museum?’

‘So?’

‘It’s been examined by palaeopathologists. His teeth were in a wretched state, apparently.’ She glanced around at Lily. ‘They used to grind up their grain with stone,’ she said. ‘Little bits of grit were always getting in the mix. Like eating sandpaper. All Egyptians of a certain age had worn-down teeth, but Amenhotep particularly so. He must have been constantly plagued by abscesses. Have you ever had a tooth abscess?’

Lily winced sympathetically, touched a hand to her cheek. ‘Once,’ she said.

‘Then you’ll know just how much pain he’d have been in. No antibiotics, of course. You just had to wait it out. He’d almost certainly have drunk to numb the pain. Wine, mostly, though the Egyptians loved their beer. But there’s another possibility. According to something called the Ebers Papyrus, opium was well known to Eighteenth Dynasty medics. They imported it from Cyprus, made it into a paste and spread it as an analgesic over the sore area: the gums in Amenhotep’s case. Is it really too much of a stretch to imagine doctors prescribing opium for Akhenaten too, particularly if he was suffering from some disease, as you claim?’

They reached the outside of Fatima’s compound. The gates were closed, so Gaille gave a short squirt of horn. ‘Maybe he got the taste for it. Opium was certainly used at Amarna. We’ve found poppy-shaped juglets there, with traces of opiates inside. The Minoans used opium to induce religious ecstasy and inspire their art. Isn’t it possible that Akhenaten and his courtiers did the same? I mean, there’s something rather hallucinogenic about the whole Amarna period, isn’t there? The art, the court, the religion, the hapless foreign policy?’

Lily laughed. ‘You’re saying Akhenaten was a junkie?’

‘I’m saying it’s a theory that explains the Amarna era. One of several. As to whether it’s right or not …’

‘I’ve never heard it before,’ said Stafford. ‘Has anyone published on it?’

‘A couple of articles in the journals,’ said Gaille, as the front gates finally swung open. ‘But nothing major.’

‘Interesting,’ murmured Stafford. ‘Most interesting.’

II

‘They’ve found something,’ said Knox, as he drove away from the Texas Society site. ‘They’re hiding it from us.’

‘What makes you think that?’ frowned Omar.

‘Didn’t you notice how their hair was matted with cobwebs and dust? You only get that when you’ve found something underground.’

‘Oh,’ said Omar gloomily. ‘But they’re archaeologists. They wouldn’t have been awarded the concession if they couldn’t be trusted.’

Knox gave an eloquent snort. ‘Sure! Because no one ever took baksheesh in this country. Besides, didn’t you see the way that preacher glared at me?’

‘It was like he knew you from somewhere,’ nodded Omar. ‘Have you met him before?’

‘Not that I can remember. But I recognize that look. You remember Richard Mitchell, my old mentor?’

‘Gaille’s father?’ asked Omar. ‘Of course. I never got to meet him, but I heard plenty of stories.’

‘I’ll bet,’ laughed Knox. ‘You heard he was homosexual?’

Omar coloured. ‘I assumed that was just malicious gossip. I mean, he was Gaille’s father, after all.’

‘The two aren’t incompatible, you know. And just because gossip is malicious, doesn’t make it wrong.’

‘Oh.’

‘The thing is, because I worked with him so closely, lots of people assumed I was his boy, you know. I never bothered to put them right. Let them think what they want, right? Anyway, most people in our business don’t much care. But a few do. You soon get to recognize a certain look in their eye.’

‘You think Peterson’s like that?’

‘The Bible’s pretty intolerant of homosexuality,’ nodded Knox. ‘People try to gloss it over, but it’s there all right. And some Christians exult in the opportunity to be spiteful in the name of God. That’s fine, up to a point. They’re entitled to their opinion. It’s just, if I’ve learned one thing in archaeology, it’s never to entrust a sensitive site to anyone who’s convinced of the truth before they start. It’s too easy for them to fit the evidence to their theories, rather than the other way around.’

‘I’ll call Cairo first thing in the morning. We’ll come straight back out.’

‘That will still leave them all night.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’

‘We go back now. We look around.’

‘Are you crazy?’ protested Omar. ‘I’m head of the SCA in Alexandria! I can’t go sneaking around archaeological sites at night. How would it look if we were caught?’

‘Like you were doing your job.’

Omar’s cheeks flamed, but then he sighed and bowed his head. ‘I hate this kind of thing! I’m no damned good at it. Why on earth did Yusuf Abbas appoint me?’

‘Maybe because he knew you wouldn’t cause him any trouble,’ said Knox ruthlessly.

A dark scowl flickered like a passing cloud across Omar’s face. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’

III

Gaille showed Stafford and Lily to their rooms, then went in search of Fatima. No surprise, she was at her desk, swaddled in blankets, looking cadaverous with exhaustion beneath her shawl. It was sometimes hard for Gaille to believe that so frail and shrunken a frame could house so formidable an intellect. Born just east of here, she’d discovered her passion for Ancient Egypt young, had won a scholarship to Leiden University in Holland before becoming a lecturer there, returning to Egypt each year to excavate at Berenike. But her illness had drawn her back here, close to her family, her roots. ‘I saw you were back,’ she smiled. ‘Thank you.’

Gaille put her hand upon her shoulder. ‘I was glad to help.’

‘What did you make of our friend Mister Stafford?’

‘Oh. I really didn’t have much of a chance to get to know him.’

Fatima allowed herself a rare laugh. ‘That bad?’

‘He’s not my kind of historian.’

‘Mine, neither.’

‘Then why invite him?’

‘Because we need funds, my dear,’ said Fatima. ‘And, for that, we first need publicity.’ She clenched her eyes and produced a blood-red handkerchief, the inevitable prelude to one of her violent coughing fits.

Gaille waited patiently until she was recovered. ‘There must be other ways,’ she said, as the handkerchief vanished once more beneath Fatima’s robes.

‘I wish there were.’ But they both knew the reality. Most of the SCA’s constrained budget went to Giza, Saqqara, Luxor and the other landmark sites. So few people ever visited this stretch of Middle Egypt, it wasn’t considered an attractive investment, despite its beauty, friendliness and historical significance.

‘I don’t see how having Stafford here will help,’ said Gaille mulishly.

‘People read his books,’ replied Fatima.

‘His books are nonsense.’

‘I know they are. But people still read them. And they watch his programmes too. And some of them will no doubt be prompted to learn more, maybe even come here to find the truth for themselves. All we need is enough traffic to support a tourist infrastructure.’

‘They said something about me going with them to Amarna tomorrow.’

Fatima nodded. ‘I’m sorry to land that on you,’ she said. ‘But my doctor came today. He’s not happy with my … prognosis.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Gaille wretchedly. ‘Oh, Fatima.’

‘I’m not looking for sympathy,’ she said sharply. ‘I’m explaining the situation. He’s ordered me to hospital tomorrow for tests. So I won’t be able to accompany Stafford as I’d promised. Someone must take my place. I’ve already banked my fee and I assure you I’m not paying it back.’

‘Why not one of the others?’ asked Gaille. ‘They know more than I do.’

‘No they don’t. You spent two seasons excavating Amarna with your father, didn’t you?’

‘I was only a teenager. It was over a decade ago.’

‘So? None of my people have spent anything like that much time there. And you studied the Eighteenth Dynasty at the Sorbonne, didn’t you? And haven’t you just been back there with Knox? Besides, we both know that Western audiences will respond more positively to a Western face, a Western voice.’

‘He’ll make it seem like I’m endorsing his ideas.’

‘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 before 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.’

‘How do you go about it?’

‘It’s easiest if I explain with scrolls. Imagine finding thousands of fragments from different documents all muddled up together. Your first task is to photograph them all to scale and at very high resolution, because the original fragments are simply too fragile to work with. You then examine each one more closely. Is the material papyrus or parchment? If papyrus, what weave? If parchment, from what animal? We can test the DNA these days, would you believe, to see if two fragments of parchment come from the same animal. What colour is it? How smooth? How thick? What does the reverse look like? How about the ink? Has it smudged or bled? Can we analyse its chemical signature? Is the nib thick or thin, regular or scratchy? And what about the handwriting? Scribal hands are very distinctive, though you have to be careful with that, because people often worked on more than one document, and some documents were written by more than one scribe. Anyway, all that should help you separate the initial jumble into different original scrolls; rather like separating the jigsaw pieces I mentioned earlier into their different puzzles. Your next task is to reassemble them.’

‘How?’

‘Often we’re already familiar with the texts,’ answered Gaille. ‘Like with the Book of the Dead, for instance. Then it’s just a question of translating the fragments and seeing where they fit. But if it’s an original document – a letter, say – then we look for other clues. Maybe a line of text that runs from one fragment to the next. If we’re very lucky, multiple matching lines, putting it beyond doubt. More usually, however, we’ll put similar themes together. Two fragments on burial practices, say. Or two episodes about a particular person. Failing that, fragments are, by definition, damaged. Is there a pattern of damage? Imagine rolling a sheet of paper into a scroll, burning a hole through all the layers with a cigarette, then ripping it up. The burn-holes won’t just help you reassemble the scroll, they’ll also tell you how tightly it was rolled in the first place, by the steadily decreasing distances between them. And scribes often scratched guidelines on their parchment to keep their writing level. We can match those scratches from one fragment to the next, by tiny variations in the gaps between them, like checking tree rings.’

‘And there are similar indications with talatat, are there?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Gaille. ‘Though they tend to be more elusive. For example, talatat are made either from limestone or sandstone. Limestone talatat typically go with limestone; sandstone with sandstone. And the composition of the stone is useful, too, because walls were often built with stone from a single quarry. But you can’t rely too heavily on that. Paint residue can also be helpful, as can weather-damage. Maybe the bricks have been sun-bleached. Or maybe there was a leaky pipe nearby, and they’ve got matching water stains. Anyway, once we’ve done what we can, we try to reassemble them into scenes. Talatat are typically decorated either on their long side, which we call “stretchers”, or on their short side, which we call “headers”. Egyptians used alternate courses of stretchers and headers. That really helps. After that, it often really is a case of putting heads on torsos. Fortunately, many of the scenes are duplicates of each other, or of scenes that have already been reconstructed from talatat found elsewhere, so we know what we’re looking for.’

Lily’s ears pricked up. ‘But not all?’ she asked shrewdly.

‘No,’ acknowledged Gaille. ‘Not all.’

‘You’ve found something, haven’t you? That’s why you brought me down here.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well? Aren’t you going to tell me?’

‘Oh,’ said Gaille, dropping her eyes. ‘I think Fatima wants that pleasure for herself.’

II

Knox picked up one of the shrivelled ears. The tissue had a slight sheen to it where it had been severed from the body, suggesting the cut was recent. He checked the loculi, quickly found a mummy missing its right ear, then another. He frowned, baffled, before belatedly remembering he was on the clock. His self-imposed deadline had already passed. He needed to get out of here.

He hurried back to the atrium, up the steps, was about to rush away when he heard an engine, and suddenly the pick-up reappeared over the rise, its headlights sweeping the shaft’s mouth like a lighthouse beam, so that Knox barely had time to duck out of sight and retreat back down to the atrium.

Griffin and his crew were storing everything in the catacombs, so he headed the other way instead, down the right-hand passage. He soon reached another chamber, a huge mosaic on its floor, tesserae bright from a recent clean, though rutted from ancient footfall. A grotesque figure sat naked in the lotus position inside a seven-pointed star surrounded by clusters of Greek letters. He took a photograph, then a second, before hearing a grunt from back along the corridor, someone struggling with a box – and coming his way. He hurried deeper into the site, a confusion of passages and small chambers, the walls decorated with colourful ancient murals: a naked man and woman reaching up in supplication to the sun; Priapus leering from behind a tree; a crocodile, dog and vulture sitting in judgement; Dionysus stretching out on a divan, framed by vines and ivy leaves and pine cones. He was photographing this last one when he heard footsteps and turned to see Griffin approaching down the passage, squinting through the dappled gloom as though he needed glasses.

‘Reverend?’ he asked. ‘Is that you?’

III

Inspector Naguib Hussein was writing out his report at the station when his boss Gamal came over. ‘Don’t you have a wife and daughter to get home to?’ he grunted.

‘I thought you wanted our paperwork up to date.’

‘I do,’ nodded Gamal. He perched on the corner of the desk. ‘Word is, you found a body out in the Eastern Desert.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Naguib.

‘Murder?’

‘Her head was bashed in. She was wrapped in tarpaulin and buried beneath sand. I’d say murder was a possibility.’

‘A Copt, yes?’

‘A girl.’

‘Investigate, fine,’ scowled Gamal. ‘But no waves. This isn’t the time.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You know how I mean.’

‘I assure you I—’

‘Haven’t you learned yet when to speak and when to shut up?’ asked Gamal in exasperation. ‘Don’t you realize how much trouble you caused your colleagues up in Minya?’

‘They were selling arms on the black market.’

‘I don’t care. There are crimes we can solve and crimes we can’t. Let’s deal with the ones we can, eh?’ He gave a companionable sigh, as though he didn’t like the way things worked any more than Naguib did, he was just more realistic. ‘Haven’t you been following what’s going on down in Assiut?’ he asked. ‘People out on the streets. Fights. Anger. Confrontation. Just for a couple of dead Coptic girls. I won’t risk that spreading here.’

‘She may have been murdered,’ observed Naguib.

Gamal’s complexion was naturally dark. It grew darker. ‘From what I understand, no one has reported her missing. From what I understand, she could have been there years, maybe even decades. You really want to provoke trouble at a time like this over a girl who may have been dead for decades?’

‘Since when has investigating murder been a provocative act?’

‘Don’t play with me,’ scowled Gamal. ‘You’re always complaining about your workload. Concentrate on some of your other cases for the moment: don’t go chasing off into the desert after djinn.’

‘Is that an order?’

‘If it needs to be,’ nodded Gamal. ‘If it needs to be.’

NINE

I

‘Reverend!’ said Griffin again. ‘A word please.’

Knox turned sharply and hurried away along the corridor, glad that the gloom evidently made his white shirt look sufficiently like a dog collar against his dark polo neck to fool Griffin.

‘Reverend!’ cried Griffin in exasperation. ‘Come back. We need to talk.’

Knox continued walking as fast as he dared. The passage straightened out, hit a dead end some twenty paces ahead. Just before that, there was a high heap of ancient bricks and plaster fragments and a gaping hole in the wall, through which he could hear Peterson reading from the Bible; though, from the accompanying hiss, it sounded more like an old recording than the real thing.

‘“And there came two angels to Sodom; and Lot sat in the gate of Sodom: and Lot seeing them rose up to meet them.”’

Knox reached the hole, glanced through. There was a large chamber on the other side, young men and women kneeling on dustsheets cleaning the walls with sponges moistened with distilled water and soft-bristled brushes. The men had the standard crew-cuts, the women short-bobbed hair, and they were all wearing the same cornflower-blue and khaki livery. They were too intent on their work to notice him step through into the chamber. Only once inside did he see Peterson to his left, deep in earnest discussion with a young woman, while his voice incongruously continued to declaim scripture on the portable CD-player in the centre of the chamber.

‘“Behold now, I have two daughters which have not known man; let me, I pray you, bring them out unto you, and do ye to them as is good in your eyes.”’

Griffin was still approaching down the corridor. Knox had only one possible hiding place, the baptismal bath. His foot slipped as he hurried down the wide flight of stone steps so that he had to fight for balance, but he found the shadows even as Griffin poked his head in. ‘Reverend!’ he said. Peterson gave no sign of having heard him, however, so he said it again, louder this time, until one of the young women turned the volume down on the CD-player. ‘Why on earth did you walk away from me?’

Peterson frowned. ‘What are you talking about, Brother Griffin?’

Griffin scowled but let it go. ‘We’ve emptied the magazine,’ he said. ‘It’s time to close up.’

‘Not yet,’ said Peterson.

‘It’s going to take hours to fill in the shaft,’ said Griffin. ‘If we don’t start now we’ll never finish before—’

‘I said not yet.’

‘But—’

‘Have you forgotten why we’re here, Brother Griffin?’ blazed Peterson. ‘Have you forgotten whose work we’re doing?’

‘No, Reverend.’

‘Then go back outside and wait. I’ll tell you when to start.’

‘Yes, Reverend.’

Footsteps faded as he walked away. The young woman turned the volume back up.

‘“For we will destroy this place, because the cry of them is waxen great before the face of the Lord; and the Lord hath sent us to destroy it.”’

Knox waited a few moments before risking a glance over the rim of the baptismal bath. Everyone was once more concentrating on cleaning their section of wall, bringing an array of scenes back to life: portraits, landscapes, angels, demons, texts in Greek and Aramaic, mathematical calculations, signs of the Zodiac and other symbols. Like a madman’s nightmare. He photographed the ceiling, two sections of wall, then Peterson and the woman examining a mural.

‘“The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven.”’

‘Reverend, sir!’ said a young man. ‘Look here!’

Knox ducked down, but not quite quickly enough. One of the women saw him as she turned. Her mouth fell open in shock. She pointed at him with a trembling finger and began to scream.

II

Meals with Fatima were notoriously frugal affairs usually, but tonight the table was laden with a colourful and fragrant spread of dishes in honour of Stafford and Lily: ta’amiyya, fu’ul, hoummos, beans, tahina, a salad of chopped tomatoes and cucumber seasoned with oil and garlic, stuffed aubergines, chicken dressed in vine leaves, all looking succulent in the rippling candlelight. There were even two bottles of red wine, from which Stafford poured himself a liberal glass that he drained and immediately refilled. For all Gaille’s dislike of him, she had to admit he was looking rather dashing, wearing a borrowed galabaya while his own clothes were being washed in readiness for the morning.

Lily was looking nervously at the food, as though apprehensive both of local etiquette and cuisine. Gaille gave her a reassuring nod and helped herself to some of the safer dishes, allowing Lily to emulate her, which she did with a grateful smile.

‘Will you be in Egypt long?’ asked Fatima, as Stafford sat next to her.

‘Amarna tomorrow, then Assiut the day after for an interview. Then off to the States.’

‘You’re packing an awful lot in to two days, aren’t you?’

‘We were supposed to be here for the best part of a week,’ he shrugged. ‘But then my agent got me on the morning shows. I could hardly turn that down, could I?’

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘It’s the only market, the States. If you’re not big there, forget about it. Anyway, we’re only filming a short section here. We’re coming back later in the year to film in …’ He caught himself on the verge of his indiscretion, smiled as though she’d almost wheedled great secrets out of him. ‘For the other sections of my programme.’

‘Your programme, yes. Won’t you tell me a little more about it?’

He took another swallow of wine as he considered this. ‘Will you give me your word that you won’t repeat what I tell you?’

‘Of course. I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone your theories, believe me.’

‘Because it’s explosive, I assure you.’

‘It always is.’

Stafford’s cheeks pinked, as though he’d only just realized she’d been having a little sport with him. He lifted his chin high, giving himself a swan-neck for a moment. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. He waited for silence to fall around the table, for them all to be still. Then he waited a little longer, building the suspense. An old storyteller’s trick, yet effective all the same. When finally he had their complete attention, he leaned forward into the candlelight. ‘I intend to prove that Akhenaten wasn’t just another Eighteenth Dynasty pharaoh,’ he said. ‘I intend to prove he was also founder of modern Israel. That’s right. I intend to prove beyond doubt or argument that Akhenaten was Moses, the man who led the Jews out of Egypt and into the Promised Land.’

III

Heads swivelled to see what had made the woman cry out. A shocked and frozen silence fell as they saw Knox crouching there in the baptismal bath, camera-phone in his hand. But it was Knox who acted first. He raced up the steps, dived headlong through the hole in the wall, crashed onto the passage floor outside.

‘Stop him!’ thundered Peterson. ‘Bring him back!’

Up to his feet, sprinting through islands of lamplight, yells behind, Knox glanced around as an athletic young man, face contorted with the joy of duty, flung himself into a tackle, taking his legs. He went down hard, grazing his palm and elbow on the rough stone, wind punched from his lungs, but twisting around, throwing the young man off, up and away towards the atrium.

Griffin and one of the young men appeared in the doorway ahead, standing shoulder-to-shoulder to block his escape. No way could he fight past both of them. He reached down and yanked the electrical flex from the generator, plunging the passage into sudden darkness, then shoulder-charged Griffin flat onto his back, fought his way through his flailing arms into the atrium then up the steps. The two other young men were coming across, summoned by the commotion. Knox cut the other way, over a low ridge, running headlong until he crashed into the wire-mesh fence of the neighbouring power station.

He ran alongside it for a couple of hundred metres, trying to work out where he was, how best to get back to Omar and the Jeep. But his efforts were taking their toll, a stitch worsening in his side, his breath coming short and fast. He glanced back, silhouettes all around, shouting exhortations and instructions to each other, the moonlight too strong and the terrain too bare for him to go to ground. He gritted his teeth and kicked again. But his legs were growing heavy and his pursuers were gaining all the time.

TEN

I

‘Ah,’ sighed Fatima. ‘Akhenaten as Moses. That old chestnut. I can’t tell you how many first-year students of mine have come to the same conclusion.’

‘Perhaps for a very good reason,’ said Stafford tightly. ‘Perhaps because it’s true.’

‘And you have evidence to support such a bold claim, I assume?’

‘As it happens.’

‘Won’t you share it with us?’

Lily bowed her head and looked uncomfortably down at her plate. This wasn’t the first time she’d been ringside when Stafford had launched into one of his lectures. She hated it, not least because it always seemed to be down to her to smooth things over once he was done.

‘It’s not so much that I’ve discovered anything new,’ he acknowledged. ‘It’s just that no one else has put the pieces together in quite the right way before. After all, even you have to admit some link between Akhenaten and the Jews, if you’re honest with yourself.’

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’

‘Everyone knows that Egyptologists have their heads buried in the sand when it comes to the Exodus. It’s too sensitive an issue for a Muslim country in this day and age. I’m not criticizing you for this—’

‘It sounds that way to me.’

‘I’m only saying I understand why you’d look the other way.’

‘Quite a feat, what with my head already buried in the sand.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yes,’ said Fatima. ‘You believe I’d distort the archaeological record for personal convenience or professional advancement.’

‘Forgive us,’ said Lily hurriedly. ‘Charles didn’t mean that. Did you, Charles?’

‘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?’

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