Sphinx (46 page)

Rachel nodded. She left minutes later, with a letter for Ibrihim and some money that I’d borrowed from Abdul.

When she had gone I unwrapped the astrarium. Sections of bronze gleamed dully in the candlelight, and it was hard not to be spellbound by the sheer antiquity of the device. I didn’t dare touch it now; it felt as if it were a living creature, imbued with all the power of those who had believed in it before - Moses, Banafrit, Cleopatra - and all those who had died for it. A dangerous seduction, I thought to myself. Amazingly, it was intact, the magnets still whirling. I sat there for a moment, hypnotised by the spinning mechanism. The biggest pointer was still firmly pointed to my birth date. Nothing else had happened. Odd, I thought: Gareth’s death date had appeared almost immediately. Was it still deciding? Suddenly I thought I saw a light flicker behind me and spun around, half-expecting to see Banafrit’s shadow stretched across the wall and ceiling. There was nothing.

 

The face reflected back in the sliver of mirror propped up against the wall was almost unrecognisable. For once my Celtic heritage had paid off. My beard, thick and black, covered most of my chin, and with the suntan I’d got at Abu Rudeis only my blue eyes gave me away as English. The robe, shirt and black priest’s cap that Father Carlotto had given Rachel fitted me perfectly. It was disturbing that I, a fervent atheist, could take on the appearance of a cleric so convincingly. It was, however, the perfect disguise.

‘Wow! You look totally legit.’ Rachel stared at me, amazed. ‘Even I wouldn’t have recognised you.’

I reached into the bag packed by Ibrihim, pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. ‘And now you wouldn’t even suspect I was European.’

Rachel had had to negotiate the police barricades set up around the city centre and the Sheraton, but had managed to slip by with some hefty bribes. When she’d arrived at the villa Ibrihim had been almost hysterical. The night before, while he’d been visiting his mother, the villa had been broken into, my bedroom and study searched, and Tinnin the Alsatian poisoned. Mosry’s men were getting closer. I was terrified but furious also. How dared they terrorise Ibrihim and then vandalise the villa again? I found myself determined to protect the astrarium from these assassins.

‘What else did Ibrihim say about the break-in?’ I asked.

‘It was hard to get much out of him - he was very nervous. He did tell me he’d fired the night guard. He was convinced the guy had been paid off.’

‘Better that than murdered. Was there much damage?’

‘They’d smashed up some of the furniture, your clothes and books were all over the bedroom, and some of the wall panels had been torn off. Ibrihim told me you should stay invisible for at least another week and keep away from anywhere you’re known. Promise me you won’t take any unnecessary risks?’

‘Promise.’

I looked at Rachel. It felt like a lifetime since we’d made love early that morning, but now, despite the regrets, despite the guilt over Isabella, despite the bruises and scratches I’d collected during the morning, the memory of that lovemaking echoed under my skin.

 

Rachel left shortly after. She’d taken a room at the Cecil Hotel and was hoping to file a story on the bombing before New York woke up. Within a span of a few hours we had become a team and without her I felt a lot lonelier and, frankly, scared. The fate of Sadat’s peace initiative was at stake, together with a lot of other things - my life, for one. I felt the responsibility threatening to overwhelm me; the astrarium had claimed enough lives. I couldn’t take Rachel where I had to go - I needed to complete the task alone. It was safer that way.

Ibrihim had followed my instructions perfectly: apart from the sunglasses, he’d packed several changes of clothes, a few of Isabella’s reference books, a work diary, money, passport and a knife, which I now slipped into my belt. There was also food: the local Domiati cheese and a hunk of bread. Outside I could hear a street cleaner singing as he went about his work. I had to stay in hiding for the time being, until I had a sense of Mosry’s next move and I couldn’t carry the astrarium with me. I looked around the small room. In the corner stood a male mannequin that looked as if it dated from the 1940s, a dingy black toupee perched on its shiny plaster pate. Halfway down its torso I noticed a hairline join, as if it might unscrew at that point. I would hide the astrarium until I had figured out where the device’s final resting place should be.

Wrapped in cloth, the astrarium fitted perfectly into the hollow torso. ‘Stay sleeping,’ I found myself saying out loud as I carefully twisted the two halves of the mannequin back together.

I stood in front of the window, eating, still dressed in the priest’s cassock. Shoppers and workers eager to return to their families were milling in the street below. Just then, a group of older Arabic women, their shopping piled high in baskets carried on their shoulders, passed beneath the barber’s shop. Weaving her way between them was a slim European woman with black hair down to her waist. My heart jolted in recognition: Isabella. If not her, then her double. She glanced blindly up at the window and I stepped back out of sight. When I looked again a moment later, I could see her face clearly. I was convinced it was her, and despite my rational mind telling me that it couldn’t possibly be every molecule in my body screamed out for confirmation. She turned and began pushing through the crowd, with that distinctive way of walking I knew so well. Without thinking about the consequences, I reached for the priest’s cap and ran down the back stairs of the shop.

I pushed through the crowd after her, but each time I got close she darted on ahead, leading me away from the centre of the city and out towards the old Arab district. Occasionally I caught her half-profile, the strong nose and chin discernible in the fading light. The crowds dropped away, the streets became narrower and more ancient: low mud-brick buildings and the labyrinths of street markets replaced high-rises, neon and the occasional petrol pump. She ran ahead, her long hair tumbling around her shoulders. I followed as closely as I could as she slipped from shadow to shadow, always frustratingly just out of reach.

The gates of the catacombs of Kom el-Shugafa - the catacombs that Father Carlotto had mentioned - appeared in front of us. I called out, but the girl stepped through a side door and was gone. Without hesitating I followed.

The air at the bottom of the central shaft that led down to the catacombs was chilly and damp. The limestone walls dripped with moisture and I was thankful for the electric lights strung up in the corners. I glanced back at the spiral steps I’d climbed down into the shaft, bewildered to find myself suddenly underground. It was almost as if I’d fallen under a spell; how on earth had I allowed myself to be lured into this godforsaken place?

I spun around, staring into the shadows, looking for the woman I thought was Isabella. It couldn’t be her, I knew that now, but either way it seemed impossible for a human being to have disappeared so quickly. Was she human or some crazy projection of my own mind? Perhaps the guilt of my night with Rachel was combining with my shattered nerves to play tricks on me.

I tried to gather my rationality around me like armour, scouring my mind for facts I knew about the catacombs that would help me navigate them. I knew they dated from the time of the Roman emperors Domitian and Trajan, when Alexandria was already a Roman colony. The dead had been transported to their tombs via this main shaft, which also provided the necessary ventilation for the mourners, who returned on holy days to celebrate their deceased.

Ahead lay a room called the triclinium - a small square hall with stone benches and a stone table permanently in place - built especially for these subterranean picnics when figs, grapes and cheese would be laid out on the cold stone table top while children and family gathered around, drinking wine and exchanging anecdotes about their dead. Better that than the secret shame we’d made death into in the twentieth century, I couldn’t help observing.

My movements were hindered by the long skirt of my cassock, so I stepped out of it and stored it in an alcove; I’d collect it when I left. Now dressed in just jeans and T-shirt, I continued feeling my way. A noise behind me made me jump and I swung around to confront the woman. Instead, a rat scurried past; now I was thankful for the small hunting knife hidden in my belt.

Where was she? I moved forward, stepping carefully over the broken paving stones at the entrance to the catacombs. The doorway was framed by two pillars, with a bas-relief either side showing the Ptolemaic two-tailed cobra god Agathodaimon, the divine guardian of second-century Alexandria. One tail was coiled around the wand of Hermes, while on his head he wore the shield of Perseus that showed the snake-haired head of Medusa. I examined it - here was my first clue. Isabella’s double had led me exactly to where the Isabella of my dream had wanted me to be, but why? Was it a trap?

Repressing my fear, I moved cautiously further into the chamber, my heart pounding, wondering if she was now hiding behind one of the stone funereal statues waiting to jump out, perhaps to attack me?

There were two niches on either side of the tomb’s entrance. In the left one stood a statue of a woman, while in the niche opposite was her male counterpart, eerily serene in his stance. It felt ominous to me, this timeless preservation. Neither statue bore any inscription but they seemed to be husband and wife: a marriage immortalised. Over the entrance was a carving of the sun disc of Horus, flanked by the wings of the royal falcon. There was mixed allegory everywhere, a reflection of a culture in flux, a hybrid aristocracy seeking legitimacy from both the Pharaonic past and a Hellenistic present, and looking forward towards the Roman future while terrified of insulting anyone - a culture in fear. It reminded me of all the dictatorships in the region, of Majeed and his puppet kingdom. I lifted my head. Had Mosry followed me? The silence was noisy somehow; a thousand ghostly wings seemed to beat beneath the stillness. Thinking that the girl might be hiding behind one of the reliefs, I stepped into the tomb.

Carved into the wall were two reliefs of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of mummification. In one, the grinning jackal’s head sat atop the body of a Roman legionary, his muscular torso clad in a leather kilt, one arm holding up a spear, the other resting on a shield. The realism of the statue seemed more sinister than the stylised Egyptian iconography. It was a poignant illustration of how a dictatorship could assimilate local religious beliefs to reinforce its own power. I could almost hear the soldier-jackal breathing, a low growl that threatened violence.

I shivered; it was as if the dead hovered in the chilly air, waiting for some indication of approval of the splendour of their last place of residence. Suddenly I felt something tickling the top of my ear. Startled, I swung around and found my face covered in the thin mesh of a spider’s web, the large arachnid now perched on my cheek, its furry legs itchy against my skin. Quickly I brushed it off, then watched it scuttle away into the shadows. Again, the oppressive stillness of the place enveloped me, along with the growing sensation that I was being watched. But how and by whom? Suppressing my panic I moved forward.

In the centre of the burial chamber was the main sarcophagus. It held the body of a woman and was decorated with carvings of floral garlands and Medusa heads. The bas-relief above it showed the Ancient Egyptian burial rite, the embalmed body lying stiffly on the funerary bed. A priest of Anubis stood over the dead woman, and at her head I recognised Osiris, king of the Underworld, wearing his Atef crown and holding the traditional crook and flail.

I reached out and touched the worn features of one of the Medusas, undoubtedly carved there to scare off grave robbers. She seemed to embody many of the characteristics of the women I was attracted to: fearlessness, curiosity, a beauty that had been frozen into a fierce intellectualism. But where were the other clues that Isabella had pointed out, the bull and the fish?

I heard scurrying. Catching a breath in my throat, I pressed myself against the wall. Sudden silence. It must have been rats, I tried to convince myself. I peered around the dimly lit chamber: nothing moved. Not even the hanging lights or the shadows of the statues.

To my right was a side sarcophagus with a bas-relief above it that featured Apis the sacred bull, a goddess stretching out her wings to protect him. So there was the second symbol. Now I needed the final clue - the fish, the secret sign of the early Christians.

Just then the sound of murmuring voices came from the stairs leading down into the central shaft. My heart felt as if it were a trapped bird flapping wildly as it thudded against the bars of my ribcage. I stepped back out of the light, my hands touching the concealed knife I had in my pocket. I hid in a niche behind a statue as the footsteps grew louder - it sounded like a group. There was a rhythmical beat to their footfalls, almost a ritualised tempo, and I could smell the strong fragrance of burning incense. They were moving towards the burial chamber, towards me.

I held my breath. The footfalls stopped inches away, followed by the noise of stone scraping against stone. Then came the sound of the group descending as each footfall grew fainter - almost as if they had disappeared somewhere subterranean. I was paralysed, frozen against the damp stone. Pulling together every last ounce of my sanity, I exhaled soundlessly, then, hidden by the statue, peered out. To my astonishment, I saw a figure carrying a blazing ceremonial torch and dressed in the pleated robe of an Ancient Egyptian priest - the last of the group. But what was most startling was the ibis mask that he wore. I knew it represented the god of knowledge, Thoth, its curved beak symbolic of the moon’s crescent.

The figure descended into an opening in the stone floor - the scraping noise I’d heard was the cover being pushed aside. Curiosity won over fear, but as I moved to see more clearly I kicked a small rock. The Thoth figure swung around at the noise, the bird’s head staring blindly towards me. I fell back into my hiding place and breathed silently, with all my mind willing Thoth to move on.