Dream Boat

Chapter Thirty-two

Like other rites and rituals practised by the Brothers of Horus, the Festival of Lamps was another mishmash of Egyptian heritage blended and jumbled so effectively that they emerged at the other end as a single hybrid. A chimera. Like the sphinx, the ceremony was part this, part that, part something else, until eventually it took on its own identity.

Claudia was in danger of losing hers.

Marcus was not where he was supposed to be. Junius was not where he was supposed to be. Flea — am I repeating myself? — was not where she was supposed to be (because Claudia would have staked her life Flea would have headed straight for Doodlebug), and Flavia, bless her little cotton socks, was nowhere to be found.

So much for organisation!

Under the oppressive clouds, no moon shone down. The wooded hills stood black against the sky. Implacable. Remote. In the lampglow, the ceremonial pool shone like molten copper and around it women clutching burning brands huddled close, their bodies stiff with prayer, as the High Priest stood, hands outstretched and raised, entreating that this holy water receive the blessing of the sun god, from whom all life is made.

Resurrection. Regeneration. Fertility and potency. Powerful stuff, Claudia thought, powerful stuff the brothers were brewing.

And these Pyramidiots guzzled every last drop, their tongues even hanging out for more. How weird can you get, believing the sun's propelled by a bloody boat? For gods' sake, the sun's the sun! Apollo might look after it, but he doesn't drive the damn thing.

More and more lamps were lit, until thousands of tiny flames flickered in the blackness, many stationery but others moving, tiny torches carried in the hands of individuals. A honey glow surrounded white-robed acolytes as they swung flaming censers outside the temple doors, others rolled a blazing hoop between the alabaster sphinxes, and still more carried shallow dishes of flames which dangled on triple-chained stems. You'd think that so many lights would make it bright, but in this twinkling maze Claudia couldn't see a sausage, much less recognise anybody, and frustration frayed her temper. Around now, Min would be keeping his appointment for their amorous liaison behind the House of Life. She smiled a wicked smile, and wondered how erotic itchy loin cloths were to him.

'Nasty place to have a rash, old chap. Why don't you take a dip in the heated indoor pool, followed by a long lie down?'

This was midnight, where the hell was everyone? Claudia had checked out the yard behind the storehouse. No Marcus. She'd hung around the stables. No Flea. She'd waited for Junius in the temple compound, and been handed a small lighted stick by a sanctimonious priestess. The torch was handy, because it was easy to become disorientated in this labyrinth of lamps, but surely five sensible adults could contrive to meet up at an appointed place?

Five. The number made her flesh crawl. Five men, one a certain killer, while who knows what hideous deeds the others might have perpetrated. They all had the capability. She shivered as she recalled Neco's fury when she'd burst in on his bout of self-flagellation. With his front-toothed whistle, he had reminded her of a striking cobra as he had reared up on his knees and hissed for her to get the fuck out of his room.

His venom clung. Long after she'd left the wing, long after the sun had set, oh how Neco's venomous whistle had stayed with her.

Despite the throbbing heat, the rasp of the cicadas, the flicker of the flames, Claudia felt a chill run through to her bones.

And felt the breath of evil on the breeze.

Four men responsible for the daily running of the commune listened to the High Priest's chants and did not hear the words. Each man's thoughts were turned inwards, and their thoughts were turned on hell.

One saw it as a vision — literally the hell on earth spies and traitors must endure before they walk the Path of Righteous to the Fields of the Blessed in the Afterworld. The Ordeal of the Lakes. In his mind, he heard again and again the terrible screams of a youth, trussed like some sacrificial beast, roasted slowly over an open fire. That, the overseer thought, was bad, but the animal screeches when the poor kid was thrown into the boiling cauldron had haunted his dreams ever since. They made him fractious. Jumpy. Each day thereafter, he had relived the boy's execution, knowing in his heart of hearts that it had been wrong. Wicked, even, but although he held a powerful office in the commune, no one could overturn Mentu's decision once it was decreed. Therefore, each day had become a living hell, as he feared for fate of the next unfortunate…

For the second overseer, hell was something far more personal. He had fled his previous life because of the scandal which had been about to erupt, expecting to put it all behind him in the peaceful running of this commune. Hoping that, by immersing himself in daily commerce here, he might forget: pretend that he was normal; convince himself that he was just like any other man. Oh, how quickly he'd found out! How soon he'd realised he could not leave this dreadful thing behind! Each day he was tormented, each waking hour — yes, each and every minute plagued him. Forced him to resist his natural urge. From the corner of his eye, he watched a young man's muscles ripple in the lamplight. And by all that was holy, lusted after him. The overseer's fists clenched with his pain. To his eternal mortification, he knew he had not left his hell behind. It sat with him, on his back. Always. And cursed him…

The third overseer's hell was equally carnal. It involved him and an older woman, making love. Perverted love, at that. That's why he'd left her and come here. To get away from her, from the things she'd made him do. He didn't mind so much that she liked him to tie her up and whip her, but other times she made him do things… things he couldn't talk about, couldn't bear to even think about. Degrading things. And the tragedy of it all was that the woman was his mother…

Hell for the fourth overseer was no less agonising, but it was at least wide-ranging. Lately he had come to believe what he had suspected for some time. Not so much that the reincarnation was a sham — Mentu had told him from the start that his health would not stand proving his immortality with such regularity, that on some occasions he'd have to pull a stunt and he'd need help. That was not the problem; the fourth overseer could live with that. But recently it had come to his knowledge that the contributions to the Solar Fund were not going to the upkeep of Ra's holy barque and temple. In fact, he was not convinced there even was a Ra. Lately he had come to believe this whole commune was a con. A means of making money from a lot of trusting innocents and, if this was true, what on earth was he do to? There was no one to confide in. It was hell.

The fifth overseer's thoughts were as far from the abyss as human thoughts might be. The night was hot, his blood was up.

He was having fun…