Pharaoh

19

The Toyota bounced and jolted along the track towards the Nile, through growths of desert grass and plots of vegetables and fruit trees enclosed by low mud-brick walls. They were approaching the site of the wreck of the Abbas, some sixty kilometres south of the Semna cataract along the Nile towards Khartoum. The surrounding land was more low-lying than at Semna, more suited to agriculture, and every available area of sandy soil had been turned to arable. The track ran beside an irrigation channel that extended over a kilometre from the river; ahead of them on the bank they could see a pair of pivoting shaduf water-raising devices, the oldest and simplest equipment for getting water from the river into the channels, used since early antiquity. Two scruffy boys who had been operating the devices left them and ran up to the Toyota as it sped by, chasing it through the cloud of dust they left behind. Ibrahim turned to Jack and pointed at the window. ‘Keep it wound up,’ he said. ‘This isn’t a good place. When we get out, watch your pockets.’

Jack glanced at Costas in the back seat, and then kept his eyes glued ahead as they tore down the final few hundred metres of the track, coming to a skidding halt only a few cars’ lengths from the water’s edge. ‘Thanks, Ibrahim,’ he said.

‘Rocket man, that’s what I’m going to call you,’ added Costas.

‘Apologies for the speed,’ Ibrahim said. ‘It’s a habit you pick up around here. I learned to do it when I was with a Sudanese naval attachment in Mogadishu. You go fast everywhere there, and avoid stopping at all costs.’

‘So what’s the lowdown here?’ Costas said, peering out of the closed window beside him.

‘There’s a local warlord who runs this district. His boys belt around in “specials” like those we used to see in Mogadishu, openly carrying AKs. It shouldn’t happen in Sudan any more, but it does. Basically they’re a continuation of the tribal fiefdoms that dotted this territory at the time the British arrived here, concentrating especially on these precious cultivable patches of land. Back in the old days, they made their loot from the slave trade. When you see how these places are run, you can understand how General Gordon found it so difficult to stamp it out. These days of course it’s drugs rather than slaves, and that’s why you don’t look over those mud-brick walls. It’s mostly poppies, but high-grade marijuana too.’

‘How does al’Ahmed fit in with this?’ Costas said. ‘The new official who got us here.’

‘Officially he’s a special appointee to oversee enhancement of the historical and archaeological evidence for Sudan in the period immediately before British rule, especially the era of the Mahdi, which is celebrated by many Sudanese as a time of independence between the Egyptian and the British regimes. That’s why he’s summoned you here, as a convenient way of getting the world’s top archaeological diving experts to have a look at the Abbas site. And he’s secured this area by promising police if needed. But you won’t be seeing any of those when we arrive, because unofficially his family controls most of these drug-producing areas, providing protection from inter-gang warfare and an assured market in return for a substantial cream of the profits, usually eighty per cent. One word from al’Ahmed and these people bow to his will. Those shifty young men you can see sitting on the wall ahead of us, the two with Kalashnikovs, those are our police. But we have to remember that al’Ahmed wears his official hat too and he has the authority to call in the real police if he decides he doesn’t need us any more.’

‘Great,’ said Costas, staring at the children who were banging at the door of the car. ‘Why do I have a bad feeling about this?’

Jack pursed his lips. He had felt uneasy all the way from Semna, and now, seeing this place and sensing the atmosphere, he was beginning to question his decision to agree to a visit. He looked at the riverbank a few metres ahead. ‘How far out is the wreckage?’

‘The most likely site’s about two hundred metres out, and thirty metres deep,’ Ibrahim replied. ‘It should be a quick dive straight from shore to see whether there’s anything worth looking at. We can be in and out within two hours and back on the road to Semna.’

Jack tapped the dashboard. ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

‘Watch the kids.’

They all got out of the car at the same time, and were immediately swarmed by about a dozen children. Jack firmly pushed two boys away and prevented another from looping his finger around his watch. The two young men with Kalashnikovs sauntered over, and one of them raised his rifle in the air. There was a deafening crack and the children quickly dispersed, scattering into the irrigation ditches and alleys surrounding the fields. One of the men swaggered up to Jack and put out his hand, grasping Jack’s in an iron grip. ‘Hassid Saib told us to look after you, and we will. No more trouble from small boys, eh? Or we shoot them, see, like little pigs.’ The man aimed his rifle here and there, laughing, the other hand still firmly holding Jack’s. ‘You give us a little baksheesh, huh, and maybe we give you something from our fields, eh? You Americans always like our hashish.’

‘Nobody said anything about money,’ Costas said.

Ibrahim walked up to the man, and they spoke in Sudanese. He turned to Jack. ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t anticipated this. Can you do a hundred dollars to share between them?’

‘Then no more?’ Jack said.

Ibrahim spoke again to the man. ‘If any more men come asking for money, they will shoot them.’

‘That’s not exactly what I had in mind,’ Jack said.

‘It’s posturing. I’d give him the money from our cashbox, but it’s best that he sees you doing it. He knows you’re the boss.’

Jack produced a roll of notes from his back pocket and handed it over. The man released his grip, smiled, and took out an enormous spliff from his front shirt pocket, licking one end and putting it in his mouth, then lighting it. He took a deep drag and passed it to Jack, who patted his chest and declined. Ibrahim spoke to the man again. ‘I told him it’s the diving. You should never smoke before a dive.’

‘Okay,’ Jack said. ‘Let’s get moving.’ The two men sauntered back to their companions, split the roll of notes between them and resumed their seats on the wall, passing the spliff between them. Ibrahim opened the back of the Toyota and Jack and Costas quickly donned their equipment, then lumbered down to the shore and stepped into the muddy sludge on the edge. The river here was very different to Semna, more heavily silted and sluggish, and they were going to have a more difficult time seeing underwater. Jack pushed the men with guns from his mind and tried to focus on the excitement of being the first since 1884 to dive on the Abbas, with the possibility that they might find antiquities that had been left by the local salvors, who would have had little interest in them. He flipped down his visor, watched Costas do the same and then slipped into the water, swimming out on the surface until he reached a point close to the edge of a little island. The river bore little obvious resemblance to the descriptions of this place in 1884, when Colonel Butler of the river column had visited it and seen wreckage on the foreshore, but Jack and Ibrahim had compared a satellite image with the sketch maps from the time and estimated that a position about fifty metres off the southern tip of the island would land them on any wreckage, if it still existed.

He stopped in the water, gave an okay sign and a thumbs-down to Costas, and then raised his arm to signal their descent to Ibrahim on the shore. He could see that the men were now ranged along the bank; he watched as two more Toyotas hurtled into the parking place, screeched around and disgorged their occupants, all of them carrying guns. Jack remembered the murder of Colonel Stewart and his party on that fateful day when the steamer had run ashore here in September 1884, when a duplicitous local official had offered them hospitality and they had all been killed. Ibrahim was right. This was definitely not a good place. He turned to Costas, who was still on the surface, watching the shoreline as well. He clicked on his intercom. ‘Let’s get this done as quickly as possible. I want out of here.’

‘Roger that.’

Jack dropped below the surface. Seeing that the water visibility was no more than three or four metres, he swam close to Costas so that they were within visual range. He bled his buoyancy compensator and they quickly descended almost twenty metres to the river bottom, a dark brown bed of mud and sludge. ‘Compass bearing fifty-two degrees,’ he said, monitoring the directional readout data inside his visor. ‘We’ll do one transit for twenty metres, swim five metres south-west, do another transit, and call it a day if we don’t find anything.’

‘Let’s hope we do,’ Costas said. ‘I want to make this worthwhile.’

They began to swim slowly forward, three to four metres apart, scanning the riverbed for any anomalies. Almost immediately Costas sank down and pointed at a feature poking out of the sludge. ‘I may be wrong, but I think that’s a gun mounting,’ he said.

Jack swam over to take a look, suddenly excited again. ‘Probably a four-pounder, a typical deck gun for a steamer. That’s promising.’

‘Look ahead, Jack.’

Out of the gloom a large section of wooden planking came into view, curving round to a rudder and up to a railing that had rusty metal slabs attached to it, evidently armour plating. ‘That’s got to be it,’ Jack enthused. ‘Gordon had all of his river steamers armoured to the point where they became top-heavy, but it kept them pretty well protected from the Mahdi’s guns. You can see the dents of bullet impacts all over the place. This thing has really been through the wars.’

They swam through a gap in the frame and over the deck of the vessel. A good deal of planking had been removed and the deckhouse superstructure was largely flattened, but the vessel was in surprisingly good condition considering that it had been exposed to salvage at low water. Jack had to remind himself that he was no longer in seawater; that unlike the Beatrice in the Mediterranean this was a wreck where much of the wooden and metal structure could survive in the fresh water of the Nile in a good state of preservation. In the middle of the collapsed deck structure they swam over the large rotund mass of one of the boilers, collapsed sideways but remarkably intact. Jack stared at it, remembering how they had been a mixed blessing in 1884, providing steam power that made the boats the only screw-propulsion vessels on the upper Nile, but requiring such quantities of wood that they quickly outstripped the meagre local supply, forcing crews to demolish houses and even shaduf devices in their insatiable demand for fuel.

Jack sank down to the silt, leaving Costas to explore the other side of the boiler, and looked around. It was immediately apparent that any attempt to discover smaller artefacts and spilled crates would require a major excavation project, with airlifts and dredges to remove the overburden of sludge that had buried much of the wreckage. If there were antiquities from Gordon’s collection here, they were unlikely to find them today. He tapped his intercom. ‘I think we’ve got the result we want. We found the wreck, it’s in good condition and it could be excavated.’

‘Jack, come round here.’ Costas had gone head first into a corroded hole in the deck below the boiler, leaving only his fins protruding. ‘There’s something wedged under the boiler plate. It’s a large slab of stone. I think it might have markings on it. Come down beside me and see if you can help me push it out.’

Jack swam round and squeezed through the hole, coming upright beside Costas. The slab looked perhaps a metre by a metre and a half in area, and about ten centimetres thick. He pulled himself past Costas, and inspected it as closely as he could. The edges were coarse and uneven, as if the slab had been hacked away from a larger piece. But the few centimetres of upper surface he could see were smooth and polished. He pushed his hand in further, and felt incised lines and a definite cartouche. There was no doubt about it. This was from an ancient Egyptian wall relief, far larger than any other that he knew of this far south in the Sudan, from a major temple or other monument. It looked as if it had been packed in multiple wrappings which had largely perished, leaving a compacted mass of burlap and cordage jamming the slab firmly beneath the boiler.

‘I don’t think we’re going to move it, Jack,’ Costas said. ‘I think this was deliberately wedged in here, by someone who wanted to hide it.’

‘That could only be Gordon,’ Jack said. ‘He might have been fearful of something this large being pilfered or damaged.’

‘It’s certainly kept it free from looting until now,’ Costas said.

‘Let me try to get closer,’ Jack said. ‘There’s a hieroglyphic cartouche in there, and I may be able to make it out.’ He wriggled past Costas and put his hand further into the gap over the slab, feeling more of it. He found the cartouche again, and felt it as if it were Braille, his eyes shut. His knowledge of hieroglyphics was not that of an Egyptologist, but he had learned to identify this one. ‘It’s our old friend Akhenaten,’ he murmured. ‘Now where does Gordon get a slab like this with Akhenaten’s name on it?’ He had a sudden hunch, and felt the lines that extended around the cartouche, imagining in his mind’s eye how they might cover the entire slab and a larger original depiction. He remembered the carving he had seen in that fleeting second in the wreck of the Beatrice, on the slab inside the sarcophagus. He was certain it was the same pattern. Then he remembered the depiction of Akhenaten in the crocodile temple, the missing slab in the centre that he was convinced was the key to understanding these images, to seeing them for what they really were. He pushed his hand in to a point where he felt the centre of the image might lie, but it was completely sealed beneath the packing material. ‘We’re going to have to come back,’ he said. ‘This is really important. As big as anything we’ve found yet.’ He withdrew his hand and pushed back from the wreckage, and then rose alongside Costas out of the hole. ‘I’m not saying anything about this to al’Ahmed. We’ll tell him about the wreck, which is supposed to be his main interest. If we talk about antiquities, then this site will be stripped bare before we’re back.’

‘If he sends down divers of his own, they’ll find this anyway,’ Costas said. ‘Keeping mum would just be staving off the inevitable.’

‘If we play our cards right, it’ll be us doing the excavation,’ Jack said. ‘Then we can reveal this find first to the Khartoum museum, and bring it up under controlled conditions so that nobody else walks away with it. Antiquities like this are worth millions and are used to lubricate drug deals. And we know al’Ahmed has a special interest in Akhenaten. He may even know about this slab and just be using us to find the wreck and establish its existence. We need to play a very careful game.’

The high-pitched whine of an outboard motor approached at high speed from some distance away. When it was over their location, it turned round and idled. ‘Sounds like a Zodiac-sized outboard, sixty or eighty hp,’ Costas said. ‘The only guys out here I can imagine having those will be the police. That’s encouraging if they’ve finally arrived, though I don’t want to ascend into a revving outboard if they’re other people who don’t know we’re here. I vote we swim up along the riverbed to shore.’

Jack nodded, and they set off underwater. After about a hundred metres the riverbed rose to less than ten metres depth, and then it became too shallow to justify remaining submerged. The sound of the outboard was still some distance away, over the site, and it seemed safe to ascend. Costas gave the thumbs-up sign, and they both rose together, face to face, only a stone’s throw from shore.

Jack knew something was wrong even before they broke surface. Pulsating orange lights seemed to revolve in the water, and they heard a loudspeaker in Sudanese. Three police cars with flashing lights were parked beside the Toyota, and the inflatable suddenly revved up and gunned towards them, sweeping round dangerously close and coming to a halt. Two policemen in combat gear were sitting at the back carrying assault rifles, and in between them a Sudanese man in a suit and tie with a police badge on his belt stood up with his hands on his hips, staring at them. Jack flipped back his visor. ‘Do you speak English? Is there a problem?’

The man shook his head and motioned them to shore. Costas was already struggling out of the sludge, and Jack joined him. Unclipping their helmets, they walked into a blaze of lights. Jack shaded his eyes, spotting Ibrahim sitting in a car with a policeman taking some form of statement. ‘Ibrahim! What’s going on?’

A policeman moved up to him and raised his rifle, and Jack immediately put his hands up, followed by Costas. He felt his harness being roughly unclipped and his backpack drop to the ground. Someone grabbed one wrist and then the other, handcuffing them behind his back. He could see that Costas was receiving the same treatment, and they were both pushed forward into the glare. ‘What the hell is going on?’ Jack said angrily to the nearest policeman. ‘Why are we being arrested?’

Ibrahim appeared in front of him, followed by two policemen. ‘Listen to me, Jack. They’re not going to arrest me. I’m going to drive back to Semna immediately. They’ve stripped the car and taken your mobile phones, everything. I’ve seen this before. All you’ll get back when they dump you across the Egyptian border will be your passports. But I’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Why are we being arrested?’ Jack said. ‘What for?’

A policeman stood between Ibrahim and Jack, patting a truncheon, but Ibrahim spoke to him quickly in Sudanese and the man stepped aside grudgingly, a scowl on his face. Ibrahim turned to Jack. ‘I’m not supposed to be talking to you. You’re not supposed to have contact with anyone until you cross the border. Once you remove all of your gear they’ll blindfold you and take you in separate cars. Nobody will tell you anything. But you’ve been arrested for diving on an archaeological site without a permit, and for attempting to steal antiquities. That carries a statutory sentence of ten years. You’re getting off lightly.’

‘But we had a permit,’ Jack exclaimed.

‘We had permission, not a permit. There was nothing on paper. Everything was at the whim of al’Ahmed, and he’s clearly decided to revoke his support. It was always going to be a risk.’

‘We find it for him, and then he deports us,’ Jack said. ‘It was a setup.’

‘Be cool, Jack. And you too, Costas. Go with the flow and don’t provoke them. You can shout as much as you like after you’ve crossed the border. But one thing you can be sure of is that you won’t be allowed back in the Sudan while this man holds the strings of power in the antiquities department.’

20

Major Edward Mayne lay against the crumbling mud-brick wall of the fort, peering through his telescope over the Nile at the low buildings of the city some eight hundred yards away. He took a deep breath, then dropped his head down and swallowed hard to stop himself from retching. They had smelled the city from miles off, an occasional waft in the air, then a rancid backdrop that had tainted every breath, and finally the sickening, honey-sweet smell that assailed him now, a stench of decay combined with the fetid odour of the river, which was too sluggish to wash away the filth that oozed into it, leaving it mouldering and fly-ridden on the mudbanks that lined the shore. From a distance they had seen flocks of vultures wheeling over the city, and as they approached they watched the birds drop down and pull indescribable trophies from the river mud – lumps of gristle and strings of bones barely hanging together – and fly off with them to their desert feasting grounds to the west. Four weeks ago at the cataract he had mused on the fact that they were drinking water that had flowed past here, past Gordon, but now it made him sick to his stomach. He had known that Khartoum would be a city on its last legs, a place of starvation and disease and death, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

He lay still for a moment, listening out for Charrière’s return from the riverbank. The exposed riverbed was as wide as the Thames foreshore in London at low tide, but instead of hard gravel was a muddy effluvium that was already beginning to dry and crack; the river itself continued to flow through a narrow central channel, but on either side it was reduced to brown trickles and pools between mudflats. They had spotted one place where a boat crossing looked feasible, an irregular channel that ran past Tutti island some four hundred yards to the west and then towards the far shore, its waters visibly diminishing even in the short time they had been there. Charrière had gone half an hour ago to investigate a cluster of boats that had been drawn up nearby, their owners evidently awaiting the winter run-off from the mountains to the south that would once again cause the Nile to flood.

It had been a week since they had left the battlefield of Abu Klea, a week during which they had kept to their plan, staying one day ahead of the three steamers that were chugging the ninety miles up from Metemma. They had moved fast through the desert, keeping close to the course of the river but far enough away to avoid being spotted, travelling in the cool of the night under a full moon and hiding in rocky gullies during the day. If all went to plan, the steamers would arrive some twelve hours from now, soon after dawn tomorrow morning, providing they survived the barrage of artillery and rifle fire that the Mahdi’s men would undoubtedly throw at them. Even so they would only be able to come up the channel opposite the palace where the river still flowed, and would have to use duckboards and ropes to get across the mudbanks to Mayne’s present position in the fort, the rendezvous point where they would pick up Gordon. The plan had worked so far, but it had been a close-run thing. Had he and Charrière arrived a day later, there would have been no chance of getting a boat across, and his only hope would have been to mingle with the Mahdi’s men on the far shore of the White Nile and attempt to get into the city from there, a virtually suicidal venture as his Arab disguise was bound to be rumbled close-up. His mission still hung in the balance; everything about it had been a close-run thing.

He heard the croak of frogs, and the buzzing of mosquitoes. Away to the left an emaciated cow with its eyes sewn shut was circling round and round a wooden post, pulling a wheel that raised and lowered a shaduf water-lifting device over the bank of the river. The harness creaked and groaned, and the beast wheezed. Someone had taken pot shots at it, probably the Mahdist sharpshooters on Tutti island; it had two black holes in its upper flanks and a gaping hole in its stomach where a bullet had exited along with a string of entrails, now hanging from it and swarming with shiny fat flies. Yet still the beast lumbered round, the shaduf dipping into an imaginary river that had dropped below its reach many days ago. The ravenous people on the opposite bank must have been tortured by the animal’s existence, but it had been saved from butchery by the danger of crossing the river within range of Tutti island, and the torpor Mayne had seen through his telescope: of men and women too far gone to move, let alone launch a boat. Charrière had promised to dispatch it with his knife once the sun was down and it was safe to do so without being seen.

Around the cow lay stacks of sun-dried bricks and piles of mud, solidified masses that dotted the shoreline like collapsed termite mounds. Mayne realised that the shaduf had been used to bring up water for brick-making, and that the deep pit behind him inside the ruined fort had been excavated for its mud. Its bottom was a festering slurry, alive with hatching insects, and he felt his sandals dig into it now, the mud oozing between his toes. The caked layers of sweat and grime on his skin had kept the mosquitoes at bay, a lesson he had learned from the Mohawks in Canada, but Charrière had protected himself further by daubing his face and forearms with liquid mud from the pit; afterwards he had seemed barely visible, as if he had emerged from the banks of the river like some Nile wraith. Mayne had forgone the treatment, caring little about the discomfort of insects and the risk of fever. He needed to look half presentable if he were to stand any chance of getting past the gate guardians at the palace and being allowed to see Gordon.

He raised his telescope and studied the palace now. It was the only building of any grandeur, a low two-storey affair with twelve large French-style windows on each floor facing out over the river, and an external staircase on the left-hand side that led from an upper-floor balcony to a forecourt enclosed by a perimeter wall and the gate to the street outside. He stared at the front of the structure, scrutinising the approach from the river while there was still enough light. A retaining wall and low balustrade lay along the top of the riverbank; below that was a stairway leading down to a small dock. The present level of the river was some fifteen feet below that and fifty feet out, but duckboards had been laid over the mud from the stairs to the water’s edge. Anchored in the mud were a series of upright posts of indeterminate purpose, probably for mooring. He could see yet another reason why tonight was the only possible time to go. A gap had already appeared between the duckboards and the water, and another few hours would make it impassable, an expanse of ooze and quicksand that would terminate his mission within a stone’s throw of Gordon’s upper-storey windows.

He looked at them now. They were shuttered and dark. For a moment he wondered whether the whole exercise had been in vain, whether Gordon was in there at all. Then he remembered Buller telling him that Gordon slept during the day and was up during the night; despite getting dark, it was still only about five o’clock, and he might not yet have risen. And there was something else, clinching evidence. Mayne looked at the duckboards again, seeing how the planks had been laid alongside each other in threes and lashed over transverse timbers placed on the mud about four feet apart. It was exactly how they had been trained to construct them at the School of Military Engineering, practising on the tidal banks of the river Medway. He shook his head, remembering Buller’s catty remark about Gordon: ever the engineer. The lowest extension of the planking nearest the water had been built in the same fashion, so Gordon must have been out there supervising the work a mere matter of hours before. He must still be alive.

He scanned along the shoreline as far as he could to the east. He could just make out the ditch and parapet that enclosed Khartoum on its landward side, earthworks that Gordon himself had had built yet could have no hope of defending with his few hundred remaining Sudanese troops, many of them by now surely on the brink of starvation and reduced by disease and untreated wounds. Within the walls lay a straggling line of mud-brick huts, leading up to the more substantial residences close to the palace where the Egyptian and Sudanese officials and their families must be holed up, barely surviving on Gordon’s dwindling food supply, paralysed by fear.

He cocked an ear, thinking he had heard footsteps, but it remained unsettlingly quiet. His Dongolese guide Shaytan had told him that the Mahdi ordered his entire army to prayer just before dusk, and that the Ansar enforced it with an iron fist; anyone caught transgressing had their hands lopped off. A quarter of a million men had been down on their hands and foreheads facing Mecca, their chanting too far off to be heard. But now somewhere in the distance he heard the single beat of a drum, nothing more, as if one of the drumbeats from Abu Klea had been captured somehow on the wind and spirited here, an ominous portent of things to come. He heard the thump of artillery, the shriek of a shell and the whoomph as it fell somewhere beyond the palace, raising a cloud of dust that joined the pastel-red pallor lying over the city. A rifle shot rang out from the island to the right, and he saw a dark figure scurry for cover below the balustrade of the palace. It was the first gunfire he had heard, and was strangely reassuring. When they had arrived from the desert, it had not only been the deathly quiet he found unnerving, but also the absence of smoke and burning; it was only when he looked with his telescope that he realised the reason: that everything flammable in the city – the wooden frames of the mud-brick houses, the shaduf water-lifting devices that should have lined the shore, the thatched roofs, the palm and fruit trees, the barrows and carts – was long gone, destroyed in the weeks of bombardment or chopped up and used for fuel. It was a city reduced to a skeleton, where even high-explosive shells failed to make much impact, with nothing left to splinter and shatter other than the fragile human beings who still clung to life in the streets.

The few people he had seen were like the wretches he had once watched sifting through rubbish on the Thames foreshore on a foggy London morning, only here they were naked and there was no tide to wash away the filth of the river. It was as if the city had collapsed in exhaustion during the day, and what little energy remained – for scouring the alleyways yet again for anything edible, for raising ever more fetid water from the river – came out in a brief burst at dusk, before it dissipated again and the night-time bombardment of the city resumed. The people had been living in the shadow of death for too long to care what tomorrow might bring; they knew as Mayne knew that this day could be their last, that the arrival of the steamers with the relief force would surely provoke the Mahdi to order a final assault in which everything squalid would be cleansed, in which the city would be cleared of its suffocating pallor and the divine light would be allowed to shine through, in which all those who did not see it and who still clung to Gordon would be raped and mutilated and butchered.

He turned again to the foreshore, and spotted a group of women and children dragging two corpses down to the river; they left them in the mud and scurried back up the bank. He looked at the dark pool below the bodies, and wondered whether the vultures were the only ones here with a taste for human flesh. Shaytan had told him that the slave-traders had captured crocodiles from the Nile and kept them in special underground tanks, feeding them with those who had crossed them. Perhaps these women were doing the same, leaving offerings to beasts that had been set free in the river but still lingered nearby, expecting a feast of death. He remembered the underground chamber beside the cataract and the image of the ancient Egyptian crocodile god Sobek. Perhaps these people, in this place too shrouded in horror for the divine light to break through, had reverted to worshipping the beasts the ancients believed radiated the divine presence. He wondered whether Gordon had seen that too, when he had first come here, and whether his zeal to lift the shroud and bring light to these people had brought darkness down upon himself, a darkness that Mayne could now see swallowing up the city, leaving only the lights of the palace flickering in the gloom.

He put his hand on his forehead, feeling the sticky dampness his fingers had picked up from the mud-brick wall. Everything seemed to be covered in a viscous overlay, as if the city were decaying and its putrescence seeping out around the edges, over the Nile and into the desert beyond. He remembered what this place had been before: a city whose population were either slave-dealers or the slaves themselves, people who had either discarded morality or whose morality had been destroyed when they were put in chains. A city like that had been in a state of decay long before the siege had begun, its rotting core concealed perhaps by the bustle of trade and the thin carapace of civilised normality provided by the governor and his administration. With those gone it was as if the horror had been allowed to surface, the decay to ooze out. The darkness he saw now in the corners and alleyways was not merely shadows, but something more substantial, a malaise that would soon swallow the skeletal houses and leave nothing there at all, a decaying mound eviscerated of life, like the ancient city-mounds he had seen in the desert to the north.

Seeing the emaciated forms of the people had made him conscious of his own body, of the sparseness of muscle on his forearms, the gaunt cheeks beneath his beard. It was as if all that had hardened him, toughened him up for the desert journey, had in reality been preparation for Khartoum, reducing him to a state where he could be absorbed by the city and stand alongside others as a supplicant to the man who had arrived in their midst like a prophet. But the spareness of his frame scarcely registered against those he had seen on the other shore. This had been a city without food for weeks, apart from the dwindling supply of grain that Gordon must have kept for his own people. The only conceivable sustenance could have come from the corpses that mounted every day, dead through starvation or disease or gunfire; even so, their withered bodies could scarcely have provided palatable nourishment. He caught himself up, suddenly horrified by the ease with which he had assumed the worst. But contemplating Khartoum was like looking at one of the medieval paintings of hell that so fascinated Corporal Jones, where imagining the concealed horrors was worse than the visible images. He wondered how many other cities had gone this way, their inhabitants reduced to living without meaning, solely for survival, until they were mere shadows; and how many of the stark white ruins he had visited, places like Akhenaten’s capital Amarna, had ended their days not in quiet abandonment but in squalor and amorality and putrescence, reeking of decay.

He heard a footfall outside the wall, and Charrière slid alongside him and squatted down. ‘I’ve found a small reed boat, about the size of a canoe. I’ve used my knife to make you a paddle from a piece of plank. It’s crude, but it will do. The channel will take you to within a hundred yards of the island, so you will need to go without making a sound, just as we used to when we crept up on deer on the shore of our lake in the forest.’

It was the first time Charrière had spoken of their past. Mayne had a sudden vision of the two of them as boys half a lifetime ago in Canada, of the birch-bark canoe that Charrière’s father had made him, of the trust they had had in him that he had betrayed by leaving. He started to say something, to tell Charrière how much he wished they were back there now, how sorry he was for letting him down all those years ago, but then he looked into Charrière’s eyes, cold, hard, dark, and said nothing. He raised himself up, keeping below the level of the walls. ‘A reed boat is good. There will be no noise if I go over a rock.’

Charrière looked back out over the desert, scanning the gloom and frowning.

‘What are you thinking?’ Mayne asked.

‘There are no camels, but I sense it. There are others there.’

Mayne stared at him. ‘Our pursuers? There’s been no sign of them since Abu Klea.’

‘I have not been able to backtrack at night and look for them. We have been on the move continuously.’

Mayne looked around. ‘There might be others hiding here in these ruins, people who have made it across from the city.’ He remembered Shaytan telling him that on the way out from Khartoum on the steamer, he had spotted figures along the banks of the Nile, scarcely human forms with distended bellies and bulbous eyes crawling over the mud and catching fish with their bare hands, eating them raw.

‘When you have gone across the river, I’ll look around. If there is anyone here, I will find them.’ Charrière handed him a cut section of reed and pointed to the hollow inside where he had pushed out the pith. ‘If you are shot at while you are on the river, you can drop over the side and breathe through this. Bullets are stopped after only a few feet underwater. You will be safe.’

Mayne thought of the women and chidren he had just been watching, and of the crocodiles. He would rather lie on the boat and be like a crocodile himself, become one with this reed boat as he had once done with a canoe, slide stealthily below the line of vision of anyone watching until he reached the other side. He pointed to the case with the rifle he had laid beside the wall. ‘If I come back without Gordon, I’ll set that up. My job is to protect him until Wilson arrives with the steamers and gives Gordon a final chance to leave. Until then I am to shoot any Mahdists that attack the palace.’

Charrière peered at him, and then at the palace opposite, narrowing his eyes. ‘Kahniekahake will have his work cut out for him. He may be able to take down a few attackers, but if the Mahdi comes, he will not be able to save General Gordon.’

Mayne was stunned. It was the first time he had been called by his Mohawk name since he was a boy: Kahniekahake, Eagle Eye. He swallowed hard. Now of all times he needed to keep focused. He looked at Charrière. ‘A few may be all it takes. It may keep Gordon alive until the morning.’

‘You need to leave now,’ Charrière said. ‘By the time you reach the boat, it will be dark enough to cross.’

Mayne followed him out of the pit, keeping below the ruined wall of the fort and then behind a ridge of mud that lined the riverbank. He felt a surge of feeling he had never felt before, a sudden overwhelming need to pour out emotion he had kept bottled up since his parents had died all those years ago, a need to reach out to Charrière and tell him the truth. He took a deep breath, holding it, ingesting the smell and taste of where they were, the horror of it and of what he was about to do. He was letting Charrière down again: he had lied to him about the rifle, and about his mission. He remembered the slip of paper with the black spot that Wilson had given him. Should he be required to enact the ultimate directive, there was one final deed he must do, a deed that would require him to shut off his emotions entirely and never return to them. He remembered Wilson’s last words as they parted ways in London three months ago, words that had drummed at him over the past few days like a headache. Nobody must know.

They reached a narrow muddy creek in the foreshore opposite the island. A line of planks led over the mud to the water’s edge, and Charrière pointed to the boat pulled up alongside. It was made from a single bundle of reeds, about twelve feet long, lashed around every foot or so and ending with a slightly upcurved stem and stern. It was pristine, almost luminescent against the brown and black of the creek; Mayne knew he would need to slap some mud on it before he left. It looked like something that the infant Moses might have been launched in, and was identical to model reed boats he had seen in the Antiquities Museum in Cairo. Yet again the ancient world had caught up with him, like a hiccup from the past, unpredictable, unnerving. He stepped on the plank, swaying precariously for a moment as it decided whether to keep him on land or tip him towards the river, and then slid down it as it slapped into the mud, caught his balance and turned round.

Charrière reached over and handed him the paddle. ‘I’ll be waiting for you.’

Mayne nodded. ‘Before dawn. I’ll be back.’

Charrière turned and was gone. Mayne stepped towards the boat, then leaned forward and grasped it like a canoe, his left hand holding the paddle and one side of the boat, his right hand the other. He pushed off and brought his legs in, kneeling down and wobbling the boat to test its stability, then laid the paddle in front of him and reached down to splash mud over the reeds, darkening them to make the boat less visible, taking care to make as little noise as possible. After a few moments he straightened up and began paddling silently out of the creek, aiming for a window that had just lit up on the upper floor of the building on the opposite shore.

Now would begin the greatest test of his life.

21

Mayne let the boat glide silently towards the mudbank below the palace, crouching low and trailing the paddle with the blade held vertically to act as a rudder. For the last stretch of the river he had let the sluggish current take the boat by the stern so that he was crossing diagonally, minimising his profile both to Madhist sharpshooters who might be scanning the river from Tutti island behind him and to Gordon’s Sudanese guards watching from the palace ahead. He had seen the guards on the balustrade, openly patrolling now that it was dark and they were invisible from the island. And he thought he had caught his first glimpse of the man himself, at the upper-floor window that had lit up when he had set out from the opposite shore; the shutters had opened and a figure had stepped out on to the balcony, sharply silhouetted in the light from the room behind. It seemed cavalier in the extreme, the act of a man with a death wish, but then Mayne had seen the Sudanese soldiers below stopping and watching him, and had imagined the dervishes, too, treated to this spectacle night after night, coming to believe in the man’s invincibility.

For now, Mayne’s concern was his own vulnerability to fire from the Sudanese guards; had they spotted him, they would have seen him as an Arab in tribal dress crossing from the dervish-held shore, and would have shot him down immediately. But he had just passed under the line of sight from the balustrade, and he felt marginally safer. Once he landed, he would need to make his way along the foreshore and into the streets, where he could meld in with the locals and approach the palace gate inconspicuously.

The boat bumped into the bank, driving forward into the mud until the stem was about three feet from the end of the duckboards. It was a place that should have been swarming with rats, but then he remembered that they had long ago been chased down and eaten by the starving people in the city. He knelt as far forward on the reed matting as he could, then jammed the paddle handle-first into the mud and used it to pull himself forward, rocking the boat until it could go no further. He listened for a moment and looked up at the balustrade; seeing nothing, he launched himself on to the duckboards, feeling his holster slap against his thigh as he did so, catching his robe so it stayed free from the mud and quickly regaining his balance. The duckboards were well built, solidly anchored into the foreshore, and the boat would remain firm until he returned.

He stood upright and suddenly gagged, overwhelmed by a stench even greater than the fetid smell of the riverbank. He looked to his right, at the poles like tree trunks he had assumed were for mooring, and immediately saw the source of the stench. What he had taken to be a clump of rags hanging from the nearest pole was the corpse of a man, so putrefied that it looked as if it had been excavated from a wet grave. The right hand and left foot were missing, and it was held up by a rope around the neck. He looked at the other two poles, spaced a few yards apart with duckboards beneath them, and saw that they too held corpses. It was like a ghastly vision of the crucifixion ground at Calvary, on the mudbanks of the Nile. The corpse nearest to him had a placard around its neck and he could see that the others did too, with Arabic script he could not make out. They had clearly been placed there to be seen from the dervish shore. It could have been days ago, or more recently; he remembered the wretched people he had seen through his telescope in the city, already halfway to this state.

The corpse nearest to him was dripping, single drops of dark liquid that plopped into the mud, forming a small pool that had attracted a swarm of sand hoppers and cockroaches. Suddenly needing to be away from the place, he made his way swiftly up the duckboards until he had reached a point some twenty yards beyond the stone steps leading up to the palace. He stopped and sniffed, taken aback. Somehow, through the stench, he thought he had caught a familiar waft, of cherry tobacco. He had a sudden image of Burnaby, not the hideously wounded man in the desert but the languid man in the tent beside Wolseley, watching the smoke rings from his cigarette rise up into the ceiling. He shook away the image; the smell was probably a trick of the senses brought on by this place, and Burnaby a raw memory of Abu Klea. He quickly veered left, ducking beneath the level of the balustrade and making his way along the riverbank. He could see where the wall of the compound that normally abutted the river now led to a gap on the foreshore where the mud had cracked and dried. He made his way down and around it, climbing up the bank on the other side. He straightened his headdress and robe, knowing that the dirt of two weeks’ desert travel and a bloody battle would not look out of place here, then quickly strode up the dusty street ahead.

Seconds later he was at the wrought-iron gates of the palace, among a throng of people trying to get in: emaciated, shrunken bodies with hollow eyes, little different from the corpses on the poles. The women wore the tattered remnants of rainbow-coloured garments, the men filthy rags that had once been white jalabiya robes, any colour their clothing still had deadened in the wan moonlight, making them look like ghosts. Some wore only loincloths, some no clothes at all, the women with shrivelled breasts that could not have nursed for weeks; one carried a partly swaddled baby that had clearly been dead for days. They were like supplicants at the gate of a great church, beyond begging for food or alms but wanting divine intervention, to catch sight of the man whose touch they believed could elevate them from this horror and save them from the fate that was overtaking them as they stood there. Mayne had no choice but to push among them, pressing against their bones, moving with them as they heaved ever forward against the barrier, for a moment feeling as if his own fate were to be here forever amongst them, like the helpless supplicants in purgatory in Corporal Jones’ medieval paintings. Then he was at the bars of the gate and saw the Sudanese guards on the other side, three men wearing tarboosh hats and carrying Remingtons. He fumbled with the belt under his robe and pulled out his Royal Engineers cap badge, thrusting it through the bars, then ripped off his headdress and opened his robe at the neck to reveal his khaki tunic. ‘English,’ he exclaimed. ‘I am a British officer. I need to see General Gordon. I need to see Gordon.’

At the sound of that name, the people around him suddenly hushed, turning from the gate towards him, staring up at him with the eyes of those who had been rescued from certain death, yearningly grateful. ‘Gordon,’ said the nearest man, clutching him. ‘Gordon Pasha.’ Others took up the chant. Gordon Pasha. Gordon Pasha. Mayne realised to his horror that these people had never seen the man, or were too far gone to tell the difference; and that he was about to become their messiah, the saviour who would heal their illnesses and bring their dead children back to life and pour forth grain in abundance from his outstretched hands. For a split second he felt rage towards Gordon for bringing this on him, for not being where he was now. He began to struggle as the people tried to pull him away; he dropped the badge and clung to the gate with all his strength, feeling himself pulled back and lifted off the ground. ‘English,’ he bellowed at the guards. ‘I need to see General Gordon, now. Gordon Pasha.’

His shouting drove the people to an even greater frenzy, the women ululating and the men chanting, those at the back reaching over to touch him, others from the streets around running up to join in. He felt his strength falter, and his hand began to slip. The shortest of the three Sudanese, with a corporal’s stripe on his sleeve, sauntered over and picked up the badge, turning it over and staring at it sceptically. Mayne remembered something else; he scrabbled frantically with his free hand at his belt and produced a handful of gold sovereigns, spilling some and throwing the rest through the bars, then holding on with both hands. ‘There is more,’ he yelled. ‘More gold!’

The corporal perked up, quickly collecting the coins and weighing them in his hands, then signalled the other two guards to come alongside. Just as Mayne was about to let go, the gates opened; he was dragged in and they were shut again, the soldiers beating the people back savagely with their rifle butts. The ululations turned to a low moan that increased in a crescendo and then dropped again, like a terrible sigh. The two soldiers used the flat of their rifles to push Mayne roughly between them, and then one of them pulled at his belt so that the remaining coins spilled out. They quickly picked them up while the corporal stood in front of him, turning the badge over and over in his fingers. ‘I will take this to Gordon Pasha. If he will not see you, I will throw you back to the dogs, Turk.’

He spat out the last word, and Mayne was taken aback momentarily; it was a term the dervishes used for all foreigners, yet this man knew he was English. The corporal marched off towards the palace, past two more guards and up a staircase. Mayne had to contend with the other two men now, both evidently convinced he was concealing more gold. They pushed him more roughly between them, trying to pull off his robe, and one of them cocked his rifle. Mayne made a tactical decision. He could not allow himself to die for nothing so close to his objective. He whipped out his revolver and aimed it at the head of the nearer man, holding the grip with two hands and thumbing back the hammer. ‘Drop your rifle,’ he snarled. ‘Now.’ The man did as he was told; the second one followed suit, and they both backed off uncertainly, glancing up to the balcony. Mayne kept the pistol trained with one hand and shook off his robe with the other. He had no need of a disguise any more, and if he was going to die here he would rather die dressed as a British officer, albeit in sandals and the dirty cotton shorts he had worn under his robe. He straightened his crumpled tunic and Sam Browne belt and waited.

A minute or so later, the corporal came back down the stairs and across the gravel forecourt towards him. ‘You can put that away,’ he said, pointing at the revolver. ‘Gordon Pasha will see you.’

Mayne remained where he was, revolver trained. He was taking no chances. Then he saw that a figure had come out on to the balcony, too far off to be identifiable but unmistakably European and wearing a uniform. He paused for a moment longer, then lowered the revolver, holstering it. The two soldiers picked up their rifles and came up to him, but the corporal waved them off towards the gate. Then he grabbed Mayne’s tunic and pulled him close. ‘There is nothing for you in there, Turk. He has nothing left to give.’ He jerked his head towards the corpses hanging from the poles, visible beyond the balustrade. ‘Those men were Mahdi spies. The Mahdi is coming at dawn. The jihad will sweep all before it, and men like you had better join it or run. Otherwise you too will end up feeding the vultures and the crocodiles.’

‘Insha’Allah,’ murmured Mayne.

The man stared at him, his eyes dark, unfathomable, then pulled him close, so close that Mayne could smell his breath, and whispered harshly in his ear. ‘Forty thousand angels will join us. We will descend on the city like raptors. Join us, Englishman, and you too will rise to heaven, and the light of God will shine on you for what you do here today. Now go. Insha’Allah.’

He released Mayne’s tunic, turned him around and pushed him towards the stairs. Mayne reeled. Gordon’s gateman had gone over to the Mahdi, and would surely open the gates to the angels of death when they came swooping in. He knew he had no time to lose. He tripped over the edge of a flagstone and then regained his balance, stumbling forward. Over the river and around the palace he saw only blackness. Ahead of him at the top of the stairs was a blinding orange light. He remembered what the guard had said, about the coming of the Mahdi. He knew he had to be back across the river and in position before dawn. He reached the steps and began to mount them, his heart pounding. Everything hung on what happened next.

22

Minutes later, Mayne was ushered by a Sudanese guard along the upper-floor corridor of the palace and into the room he had seen lit up from outside. It extended to the back wall of the palace, but the open door and corridor beyond led to a balcony overlooking the river, visible from where he stood now. Beside the door was a Remington rifle on an elaborate wooden shooting stand, aimed in the direction of Tutti island; the action was open and Mayne could see that it had been carefully cleaned and oiled. He took a few more steps inside. The room was large, the size of an English country-house drawing room, and was lit at each corner by glass-topped oil lamps on stands, the walls and ceiling above them smudged with smoke. The centrepiece was a large Ottoman-style desk set close to the back wall, its surface covered with papers and notebooks and maps, a brimming ashtray on one side giving off wisps of smoke. The room smelled strongly of cherry tobacco, and he realised that this was the source of the smell that had wafted over the riverbank earlier. But the most striking feature was the mass of artefacts laid out carefully on the floor, enough to fill a small museum: elaborate tribal clothing, including a patched jibba of the Mahdists; an extensive collection of weaponry, from leaf-bladed dervish spears and curved swords to kurbash whips and ornate flintlock long guns; beautiful hand-made pottery, wood carving and beadwork; and an array of ancient Egyptian artefacts, including small statues in blue-green faience and fragments of masonry with carvings on them.

A voice came from the door. ‘The Mahdi keeps sending me gifts.’ Mayne turned and saw Gordon. He remembered him vividly from the lectures he had attended in London several years before, but close to he was shorter, more compact. He was wearing the evening uniform of an officer of the Royal Engineers, as if he were going to dinner in the mess, complete with the insignia of the Order of the Bath and his campaign medals for China and the Crimean War almost thirty years before. He looked pale, gaunt, his curly grey hair thinning on top, but his eyes were a brilliant porcelain blue, staring intensely. He reached over and picked up an Egyptian shafti statuette with hieroglyphics on the front. ‘Do you know that for the followers of Muhammad, it is not the meaning of the word but the shape of the symbols that has significance, as well as magical powers?’

Mayne nodded. ‘I had a Dongolese guide who gave me a hejab with the prayer wrapped around an ancient Egyptian scarab. I do not believe he ever knew the name in the hieroglyphics on the scarab, though I recognised the cartouche of Akhenaten.’

‘Akhenaten,’ Gordon repeated, pausing. ‘Are you a student of the ancient Egyptians?’

‘I have a passing acquaintance with hieroglyphics.’

‘What do you think of my collection?’

‘Fascinating, sir. I’ve seen your material from China in the Museum of the Royal United Services Institute.’ Mayne pointed to a fragment of wall carving showing the distinctive crown and snake symbol of a pharaoh. ‘I’m particularly interested in ancient Egyptian antiquities in the Sudan, as they are something of a rarity, I find. I’ve been tracing them from the Egyptian border along the Nile. I believe that the pharaoh Akhenaten mounted some kind of expedition into the desert. At Semna we found a temple with a depiction of him in front of the Aten symbol of the sun.’

Gordon looked at him piercingly. ‘At Semna, you say? Below the third cataract?’

‘A temple to the crocodile god, Sobek.’

Gordon glanced at his desk. ‘I must check my notes,’ he murmured. ‘My recollection is that Kitchener mentioned nothing unusual at Semna, other than the remains of pharaonic fortifications on either side of the river.’

‘Kitchener was intrigued when I told him, and intended to visit for himself.’

‘You’ve seen Kitchener? How is he?’

‘Champing at the bit. He wished it had been he who had been sent to make contact with you, but his face is too well known among the tribesmen, and he would have been at risk. He was with the desert column, but was sent back from the wells at Jakdul.’

‘Kitchener is a first-rate surveyor and archaeologist, and a most loyal supporter of mine,’ Gordon said. ‘Though I own he would be a handful for any general to manage, and I feel some sympathy for Wolseley on that front.’

Mayne paused, waiting, then offered his hand. ‘Major Edward Mayne, sir. You know from my badge that I’m a fellow sapper. Attached to the river column of the relief expedition.’

‘A relief expedition that has given me no relief at all,’ Gordon said with a tired smile. He shook Mayne’s hand strongly, and peered at his mud-spattered clothes. ‘You look as if you’ve been through the wars.’

‘A fair description, sir.’

Gordon put a hand on his own immaculate red tunic. ‘I apologise if you feel discomfited, but I dress to keep up appearances. I am sensible to the fact that I am still governor general of the Sudan, even though the territory over which I exert jurisdiction has shrunk from an area the size of France to these city walls, like Constantinople at the end of the Byzantine empire. At any rate, I still dress for dinner, though I dine alone, and apart from lime juice to fend off the scurvy and some carefully rationed bully beef, I eat the same as those poor people for whom I am responsible, that is to say biscuit and unleavened bread and water from the one remaining well in the city that has not become tainted.’ He paused, then picked up a decanter from a side table. ‘But I do have my small indulgences. They keep my mind from the hunger. Can I offer you a drink? I have brandy, Greek I’m afraid, so like firewater, though perfectly palatable after one’s throat has become numbed to it.’

‘No thanks.’

Gordon poured himself half a glass, then put it on the table. He peered at Mayne closely. ‘I know the name, but we haven’t met, have we?’

‘No, sir. My speciality is survey, and I’m in the field much of the time. But I took a refresher course at the School of Military Engineering while you were posted at Chatham, and I attended your lectures on the Sudan.’

‘Have you been out here long?’

‘Since July. With General Earle’s staff.’

‘Dragging whaleboats up the Nile? A scheme that would make Sisyphus in Hades glad of his own torment. And before that?’

‘I first came to Egypt in 1882, after our invasion.’

‘Correction,’ said Gordon, picking up a cigarette from a box on his desk and lighting it, sucking in deep and blowing out smoke. ‘Not invasion, but intervention. An intervention to prop up the Ottoman regime in Cairo, against the wishes of the Egyptian army and the Egyptian people, in order to secure our controlling interest in the Suez Canal and keep the investors happy.’ He tapped his cigarette. ‘Have you much desert experience?’

‘I carried out forward reconnaissance for the river column.’

‘Ah. You mean you are an intelligence officer. To whom do you answer?’

‘Lord Wolseley, sir.’

‘Not Baring, in Cairo? Or Colonel Sir Charles Wilson?’

Mayne was taken aback momentarily, too tired to keep up his guard. ‘They both have an interest, inasmuch as they have read my reports.’

‘Wilson is an old friend, though I have found him distant in recent years, but Burnaby works for him and keeps me abreast of affairs.’ He looked at Mayne shrewdly. ‘Apparently there’s a secret complex of rooms under Whitehall. There are operations afoot that even Burnaby is not privy to, and that Wilson only reports to the highest authority. But doubtless you know that.’

Mayne had recovered his poise. ‘Colonel Wilson at this moment is with the steamers that are heading upriver from Metemma towards Khartoum. My mission is to persuade you to leave so that they may take you off to safety when they arrive.’

Gordon leaned his head back, exhaled a deep lungful of smoke towards the ceiling and then looked back at Mayne, a smile on his face. ‘Correction. Your mission is to provide me with agreeable companionship on this night. I have my Sudanese soldiers, whom I love dearly, but there is little conversation to be had. Ever since Colonel Stewart left, I have been starved of friendship. I still weep at the thought of his vile murder when the steamer Abbas was wrecked, for which I hold myself responsible. I have missed his counsel dreadfully.’

‘Kitchener has seen you since then.’

‘Only once, when he came in disguise like you. But he had little time, and our conversation had a very particular course, as I shall tell you shortly.’

‘You know he holds you in the highest regard.’

‘Too high, in my opinion. His desire for revenge may lead him to murderous courses of action that will muddy the waters even further.’

‘Or lead him to glory. There is talk of him as a future sirdar of the Egyptian army, as the one who may lead a force big enough to crush the Mahdi.’

Gordon exhaled again. ‘Glory is nine tenths twaddle, wouldn’t you say?’

Mayne remembered Burnaby’s final moments. ‘For those who seek it, sir, yes. For those upon whom it falls, perhaps it constitutes that remaining one tenth and is a worthy thing.’

‘I believe, then, that Gordon of Khartoum is nine tenths twaddle and one tenth glory.’

Gordon grinned, then took a deep draw on his cigarette, holding the smoke in and exhaling it out of the window. He looked at his cigarette. ‘I do apologise. I’ve spent too much time alone, and have forgotten how to be civil. I should have offered you one of these. I smoke them to overcome the terrible smell of decay from outside.’ He offered Mayne the box from the table. ‘And they help further to suppress my appetite; that is, what taste is left after ingesting the stench outside. Would you care for one?’

Mayne declined, and Gordon put the box back on the table. ‘Perhaps you don’t enjoy the peculiar smell. It’s cherry tobacco, from Morocco. They were given to me as a birthday present by Burnaby, and I’ve become addicted.’

‘I fear I have some bad news for you, sir. The worst. A week ago, near the wells of Abu Klea, there was a fight between the dervishes and the desert column.’

‘I know of it. My Sudanese spies were there. A hell of a fight, by all accounts.’ Gordon paused, suddenly looking crestfallen. ‘They talk of a great bear of a man, fighting with the strength of twenty, finally being brought down by a dervish spear.’ He sat down dejectedly, letting his cigarette burn between his fingers. ‘Fred Burnaby?’

‘Your account tallies, sir. I saw him myself. He died as a soldier.’

‘You mean he died in great pain, with fearful wounds. I’ve been around glorious deaths in battle all my life. I know what it’s like.’

‘Before we left Korti, he passed on his best wishes to you. As did General Buller. They all did.’

‘Burnaby’s I accept, with sad pleasure. The others’ are hollow words. How many more men must die in this futile campaign? It is a campaign for the satisfaction of those who are running it, not for the purpose of relieving Khartoum. That is the sad lesson of war, one that we learn through bitter experience. The game of war has become as self-perpetuating for us as it has become for the army of the jihad, fuelled by the bloodlust of the warrior, where the fight and the holy crusade becomes an end in itself.’

‘Have you felt it, sir? That attraction?’

‘I am not a crusader, Mayne. I am not here to fight Islam. The Mahdi may not convert me to his cause, but I find little in Islam that would dissuade me from it, were I of a doctrinaire bent, and much to commend it. Yet I am regarded as a Christian warrior, and the evangelists hang on my every word.’ He picked up a thin volume from the table. ‘Reflections in Palestine, by Major General Charles Gordon,’ he said, and tossed it contemptuously back. ‘I went to Jerusalem three years ago with the perfectly sound intention of following up Wilson’s work there to identify the site of the crucifixion. My aim was to debunk all of those who have let their faith carry them forward into making spurious claims, and cloud their reason. And then my erstwhile friends go and publish a book without my sanction made up from the musings about religion I happened to have written in my notebooks while I was there. It reads like the worst sort of mysticism.’

‘I do not believe it tarnishes your reputation, sir.’

‘Speaking of my reputation, there is something I would like you to do.’ Gordon went over and sat down at his desk, then opened a folder and took out a sheet of paper. He quickly read it through, and then glanced up at Mayne. With his pale face and watery eyes he looked feverish, but he spoke clearly, with controlled passion. ‘There were many who believed that my cause in the Sudan was the abolition of slavery, and many who were dismayed when I allowed it to continue under my jurisdiction. Some thought that was the beginning of my decline; that I had become seduced by the trappings of despotism, removing myself from the decencies of British behaviour. Some even clamoured for my rescue in order to pluck me from the moral vacuum that I supposedly inhabited. My decline, Major Mayne, I can assure you, has been brought on by constant anxiety over the arrival of relief, and I am worn to a shadow by the food question.’

He put one hand to his brow, shutting his eyes for a moment, and then lifted the lid on a small brass inkpot and dipped a quill pen into it, raising it and touching it lightly to the side of the inkpot to let the excess ink drain out. ‘Anyone who knows this country should be perfectly aware that such a law could not be enacted definitively without so radically altering the way of life here that it would require us to occupy the Sudan as a province, to control every aspect of it and to create a new society and new economy. It is only now, on the eve of an extinction brought about by lack of British resolve, when all institutions in the Sudan have ceased to exist, that I can sign a law mandating the destruction of slavery. It is too late for the people of Khartoum, but I can only hope that those slaves who have been put in the front ranks of the Mahdi’s army will come to know of it, and will hereafter cease to obey their masters, who they will have seen slinking in the background, cowards both as fighters and as arbiters of human justice.’

He took the pen and held it poised to write. ‘The eighteenth of December was the anniversary of one of the most momentous events of our time, the proclaiming in 1862 by President Abraham Lincoln of the abolition of slavery in the United States. I drafted this document on that day, and it has been languishing since then as I have waited for a witness whom those who judge me will find credible. Will you be such a witness?’

Mayne stared at the document, then at Gordon. He remembered his mission, and Charrière waiting on the opposite shore. What Gordon was asking him to do now seemed unreal, impossible to digest. He swallowed hard, and nodded. ‘Of course, sir.’

‘I will tell you this. If Abraham Lincoln had been in my position today, or Lord Palmerston, who abolished slavery in the British Empire, they would not have left Khartoum or this life without proclaiming the emancipation of the slaves of the Sudan. As God is my witness, and Major Edward Mayne, a commissioned officer of Her Majesty’s Army in the Corps of Royal Engineers, I hereby bring this statute into law.’ He scratched his name on the paper and passed the pen to Mayne, who turned the paper to face him, leaned over and signed. Gordon blotted the signatures with his handkerchief, blew on the paper and held it to dry for a few moments, then folded it into a small square and passed it to Mayne. ‘Everything left in this room will be destroyed when the dervishes arrive. Have this, so that some may know of my final act.’

Mayne took the paper, holding it for a moment hesitantly. He had already entered a netherworld where the execution of his mission would prevent him from openly contacting Wolseley ever again, and a document like this would not be believed unless it were passed on by authoritative hands. He put the thought from his mind, and slipped it inside his tunic pocket. Gordon stood up, came round to the front of the desk and put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the open doorway with a view over the balcony. It was the dead of night, a heavy, overwhelming darkness that blocked out all the stars, allowing only a hint of moonlight to penetrate. Dawn was at least eight hours away, but the same thought was on both of their minds. Gordon gestured towards the river. ‘When it is time, I will tell my Sudanese guards to escort you to the steps leading down to the landing stage, so that you do not have to go out through the gates.’

Mayne suddenly remembered something. ‘The corporal at the gate. I believe he has gone over to the Mahdi.’

‘Indeed. But he has served a purpose, as the other guards tell me what he preaches. Doubtless you have heard that forty thousand angels will descend upon this place tomorrow.’

‘I believe those were his words.’

‘It’s from him that I ascertained with certainty that the Mahdi is attacking tomorrow. The man’s treachery is of little consequence now, but I have ordered my bodyguard to do away with him during the night. It means that when they fight to the death tomorrow, as they surely shall, they’ll know that they have a unity of purpose. They will fight and die as a band of brothers.’

Mayne could just make out his reed boat pulled up on the shore, beside the three posts with their macabre festoonings that looked so much like an image of the crosses bearing the three thieves on the hill of Calvary. He thought of asking, and then stopped himself. There was nothing untoward about executing miscreants in a place like this; it was part of Gordon’s job, and the Mahdi doubtless did the same on the opposite bank to those who had dissatisfied him.

Gordon followed Mayne’s gaze and then turned to him, his face spectral in the reflection from the river. ‘I would say this to the world. I stay here because I believe Jesus of Nazareth would have done as I do and not forsaken these people. But I am no messiah. I fear death as would any other man; even when it stares you in the face as it has done me for so long now, let me tell you, it is not something you welcome gladly. I do not want to die a lingering death with the Mahdi’s men goading me as the Romans did Christ with their spears. I want to die as a soldier, not like a martyr, and like all soldiers I would say that when it comes, I would like it to be clean and quick. Can you see to that for me?’

Mayne did not know what to say. Gordon walked across to the rifle on the stand by the window, leaning down and peering over the sights. ‘I’ve amused myself by taking pot shots at the dervishes on Tutti island. But our batch of ammunition is faulty; some of the cartridges have been overloaded with powder. The excess gas blowing back from the breech nearly blinded me a few weeks ago. It’s the reason I took to sleeping during the day. Even the hazy daylight in this place makes my eyes water uncontrollably.’

‘General Wolseley and his staff think you deliberately stand on your balcony at night in order to taunt the dervishes, and also to impress your own soldiers with your inviolability. The press have got hold of the notion, and there is even an illustration in a publication of the evangelical movement showing you on the balcony with your arms raised, illuminated by the sun, the people of Khartoum below eating the food that has poured from your hands, the bullets and shells of the Mahdi whizzing by you harmlessly.’

Gordon went to the open window and stared out over the river, lighting another cigarette and inhaling deeply. ‘I keep a telescope on the roof, in full view of the dervishes, I own you that. I used it to look out for the relief force, but I gave up on that long ago.’ He snorted. ‘But as for the proposition that I have become immortal, what tosh. What utter tosh. What kind of a man do they think I am?’

‘Some think you are a saint, sir, and others that you have become unhinged.’

‘A saint. Well, those poor wretches outside the gate believe I have barak, the life force, as some too believe of the Mahdi. But it’s just that we are both providers, and whether you offer food to the starving or a cause to the directionless, from their position at your feet you can appear very much larger than you really are. As for unhinged.’ Gordon paused, and took another drag. ‘Enraged, frustrated, enfeebled, exhausted, yes, but unhinged? I ask any of them to take my place and survive a siege of three hundred and thirty days, days of false promises, of a relief force that was never going to arrive. All they had to do was send a hundred soldiers and two steamers; that would have been enough to take off all of my staff and their families. I told Wolseley as much; I sent endless messages. In their absurd concoction of my character, they decided that I did not want to be rescued. And since then, the Mahdi’s army has increased many fold, making those hundred men of my plea an absurd proposition.’

He picked up a sheet from a pile on the desk. ‘There are forty thousand people in this city. Forty thousand starving wretches, most of them slaves for whom the only day of liberation in their lives is this one. They may see me as their saviour, yes, but it is because I give them food. That is what I spend my time doing here. I calculate the figures, and I work out how much is left; I give them just enough to stay alive. I keep the hospital running so that the few Arab doctors may relieve the sufferings of those diseased people who are not bound to perish. I own that what I am doing is merely giving sustenance to a dying man. The Mahdi will arrive, and these people will be slaughtered. I can do nothing about that, but I cannot leave them while I am still able to give them food. I cannot leave. If that is unhinged, then so be it.’

Gordon dropped the sheet, letting it flutter to the floor, and put his hands up to his face, covering his eyes. Then he ran them through his hair and let them drop to his sides. He looked pale, almost luminous, and suddenly fragile, and Mayne realised for the first time how emaciated he was. This was a man who chain-smoked to keep his appetite down, who had made it his task to distribute scant supplies of biscuit among forty thousand starving people, to make them last as long as possible. Mayne thought of the tedious hours they had spent in the School of Military Engineering learning about the economics of garrison management. This was hardly what the instructors would have had in mind, but Gordon was doing the job as he had been trained to do it.

Mayne pointed to the carefully laid-out jibba on the floor. ‘There are some who believe you have been influenced to convert to the cause of the Mahdi.’

Gordon passed his hand over his face, and then replied with an edge to his voice, as if trying to restrain himself. ‘It is true that I have a considerable correspondence with my friend Muhammad Ahmad. He is from a family of boatbuilders, you know, and he and I have a considerable shared interest in the technology of Nile watercraft.’ He gave a wry smile, and then went over to the desk and picked up another sheaf of papers, taking one and reading from it. ‘“In the name of God the merciful and compassionate, the Destroyer of him who is obstinate against his religion, blessings and peace be upon our Lord Mahomed and his successors, who have established the foundations and solid pillars of our faith.”’ He put the letter down. ‘It goes on in the same vein. My Sudanese clerk translates them for me. They invariably end with the Mahdi offering me sanctuary and an exalted place beside him if I see his particular version of the light. He cites the case of my friend and his prisoner von Slatin, pretending to believe that von Slatin’s conversion to Islam was not just an act of desperation to encourage his Sudanese troops before their final battle, and an act of expediency to save his life when he was captured. And he mentions our mutual interest in the prophet Isaiah, as if I would believe that Isaiah from on high would be instructing me to join a holy war and destroy all those who are obstinate against my religion.’

He pointed to the jibba. ‘As for the clothing of the Ansar, I studiously collect everything that comes my way, and let it be known that I want more, as I did during my time in China. Apart from my collection, there will be few other mementoes from this war, and none from Khartoum; the relief force will not arrive before the Mahdi occupies the city, and there will be no souvenir-hunting by our troops. But if Wolseley and his cronies so fervently believe in my imminent apostasy, then I have a mind to start wearing the jibba. It would be more comfortable in the heat.’

Mayne turned back to the rifle on the stand. ‘The Martini is a better rifle, sir, but I have seen dervish sharpshooters over the Nile use Remingtons to some effect.’

‘Are you a sharpshooter, Major Mayne? I had imagined so.’ Gordon looked at him, his blue eyes piercing. ‘What is your preferred rifle?’

Mayne paused. Had Gordon guessed? ‘A Sharps, sir. Model 1862, in 45/90 calibre. A thirty-four-inch octagonal barrel, made especially heavy.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Gordon, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘An American buffalo rifle. Aperture sights?’

‘They are the best, sir. I first used them at the Creedmore range near New York when I went there with a team from the Royal Military Academy.’

‘Stiff competition, I should think.’

‘I won, sir.’

Gordon looked out into the darkness towards the island, where the cooking fires of the dervishes could just be seen. ‘I believe an American soldier holds the distance record with a Sharps, during the Indian wars?’

‘One thousand four hundred and twenty-one yards over rough ground in the state of Montana, in the summer of 1874. His name was Private Ephrain Jones, sir. I competed against him at Creedmore.’

‘And you won.’

‘Sir.’

Gordon gestured outside. ‘Then I could do with such a rifle here, and such a sharpshooter. The first thing I did when I returned to Khartoum last year knowing it would come under siege was to make accurate measurements of the distances from the city to the far shore of the river, to allow my riflemen to find their range. It was a most interesting geometrical exercise. I had my Sudanese row a measured line across the river, and then took right angles from it to create a trigonometric survey of all the main points of the shore. Do you understand my reasoning?’

Mayne nodded. ‘Using triangulation you could thus calculate distances from any points of fire along the river shore.’

‘The Mahdi holds the island and all the shoreline to the west, but the fort and the adjoining riverbank to the east is dead ground, of no value to him because it’s too far away for his riflemen to shoot accurately, and his artillery is concentrated to the west and south where it can do greater damage to the entrances into the city. That fort provides good cover, though, and that’s where you’ve left your companion, isn’t it? I assume you have one. A spotter, perhaps. You’ve come here without your rifle and you would not leave that unattended.’

Mayne saw no reason to deny it. ‘Sir.’

‘What is your estimation of the distance to that fort?’

Mayne remembered Kitchener’s map. ‘Six hundred and fifty metres, give or take twenty.’

‘Six hundred and sixty-five metres. Bravo. You are good. Even at that range, with a cartridge that powerful a body shot could be a clean kill. Am I right?’

‘I’ve hunted deer with my Sharps at a thousand yards and dropped them stone dead.’

‘Have you ever hunted men, Major Mayne?’

Mayne swallowed, suddenly discomfited. ‘I’m a soldier, sir. Like you.’

Gordon stared at him, then smiled and slapped his shoulder. ‘Indeed we are. Soldier first, engineer second, dilettante fossicker down the byways of archaeology and geography and natural history third. That’s what they taught us. Isn’t that right?’

‘Sir.’

‘I know why you’ve come. And you know that I won’t leave with you. There’s nothing more I can do for the people here, but if the world knows the truth of why Gordon of Khartoum stayed to the end, then perhaps it will not be a pointless sacrifice. The Mahdi is coming at dawn. I will be on the balcony when they break through the gates. I will be in this full dress uniform, with a red tunic. You will not mistake me. I believe the sun will shine tomorrow, for the first time in days; I can sense it. You must choose your time well. For a few moments at dawn a sliver of light from the eastern horizon lights up the balcony and the mosque behind, but then as the sun rises it reflects off the Nile and obscures this place. I have seen it myself, from the fort on the opposite shore. And watch your back. There will be others with their eyes on you. Mark my words.’

Mayne did not know what to say. ‘Sir.’

‘Have I done my best for these people? For my country?’

Mayne looked into his eyes, and suddenly felt a flood of compassion, and a flash of anger towards those who had orchestrated all this. ‘For Queen and country, sir.’

Gordon put a hand on his shoulder, and then picked up a leather-bound volume from his desk. ‘Good. Now, before you go, I trust that you will allow a condemned man one final request. It is of the utmost importance.’

23

Gordon led Mayne to his desk, pointed him to a chair and sat down himself behind the writing pad. He opened up the book he had been holding, and Mayne could see that it was a journal, filled almost to the last page with closely lined writing. Gordon gave him a penetrating look. ‘When I dispatched Colonel Stewart to safety in the steamer Abbas, little knowing the fate that awaited him downriver, I sent with him the largest part of my archaeological collection as well as the latest volumes of my journal. All of that was lost when the Abbas was sunk and Stewart murdered.’

‘Kitchener mentioned your collection,’ Mayne said. ‘He told me you had an ancient stone slab packed beneath the boiler.’

Gordon nodded. ‘That was the day that Kitchener was here. Our discussion was almost exclusively concerned with archaeology. And the loss of that slab would have been an utter tragedy, had I not sketched the carvings on it.’

He opened the back page of the journal, and passed it to Mayne. An inked drawing filled the page, neat, precise, the work of a trained draftsman. But the image was bizarre, different from any other ancient depiction Mayne had seen in the Sudan, almost like something occult. He looked at it with a sapper’s eye. ‘It’s a map, a plan,’ he murmured. ‘Rectilinear interlocking lines of communication, perhaps trenches or tunnels. They all seem to originate from one opening at the bottom, like a maze, a labyrinth.’

‘And the Egyptian symbols?’

Mayne peered closely. The central part of the drawing was blank, in a rough square shape, presumably representing a missing part of the sculpture, but radiating from it over the rectilinear channels were long thin lines ending in shapes like closed hands. ‘That must be the Aten symbol, the rays of the sun,’ he said. ‘And the hieroglyphic cartouche to the right clinches it: that’s Akhenaten.’

‘And the other ones?’

Mayne stared at the individual hieroglyphs that appeared in several places on the image. ‘The crocodile beside Akhenaten’s name means sovereign, pharaoh. The other one’s a symbol of a rolled-up papyrus, and is most curious,’ he said. ‘It means wisdom, or knowledge.’

Gordon placed the book back on his desk with the page open. ‘I am going to tell you a little story. There was once a boy living beside the Nile north of Khartoum who was testing his first boat, a reed boat like the one you paddled over the river this evening. He had built it himself, cutting and collecting the reeds and bundling them together, and in the process had come to know all the creeks and byways of the Nile shore intimately. One day he came across something extraordinary: an ancient temple half inundated by the river, its upper surface revealed in a storm where it had lain buried in sand for thousands of years. He managed to squeeze inside, and discovered an ancient wall carving of remarkable form, not a depiction of battle or pharaohs but a cluster of rectilinear shapes that he did not recognise, that looked nothing like hieroglyphics or the Arabic script he had been taught by the Sufis. Do you remember when you arrived I showed you the lettering on that little shafti statue, and I said how in Islamic tradition the shape signifies more than the meaning? Well, the boy saw the shape and was terrified, thinking it was some ancient incantation, and quickly left. After the next Nile flood, the shoreline was banked over with sand and the temple once again buried. The boy continued to excel as a boatbuilder, but he had another gift, an ability to see visions that drew people to him, and he became a student of the Sufis. His family despaired of him, the last of generations of boatbuilders who had plied their trade on the Nile since time immemorial, but he was set on a different course. His name was Muhammad Ahmad’Abdallah.

Mayne stared at him, astonished. ‘The Mahdi?’

Gordon nodded. ‘Ten years ago, when I first came to the Sudan, his fame was already spreading, but he was no more than a Sufi mystic living on an island in the Nile. I travelled extensively along the river, and he came to know of me after I visited his family’s boatyard and drew sketches of their watercraft, showing them images of ancient boat models I had seen in Egypt and telling them of my interest in the antiquities of the Sudan. He had not forgotten his discovery as a boy and he invited me to his island. I recognised the hieroglyphs of Akhenaten from his description, and it was then that we discovered our shared passion for the Old Testament prophets, for Isaiah and also for Moses. We both believed that the pharaoh of the Book of Exodus at the time of Moses was Akhenaten himself, and that Akhenaten and Moses shared the same vision of one God, a vision that Muhammad Ahmad believed had come to them during an expedition to the southern desert. I became gripped by the idea, and spent much of my time on the search for proof, anything that might allow us to trace the expedition and find the place where we believed he had experienced his revelation. I persuaded my friend Heinrich Schliemann to take time off from Troy and join me in the desert, and I brought a few others into my confidence: Rudolf von Slatin; an American officer on my staff named Charles Chaille-Long; Colonel Sir Charles Wilson; and Herbert Kitchener. Wilson and Kitchener I knew I could count on because of their deep involvement with the archaeology of the Holy Land. And finally, you may be surprised to know, Prime Minister William Ewart Gladstone.’

‘Gladstone?’ Mayne exclaimed, remembering what Kitchener had told him. ‘But you have surely been at loggerheads with him over your insistence on remaining in Khartoum.’

‘His involvement has been kept in the strictest secrecy, because he has not wanted his name to be associated with a quest that some might see as mystical. But he has in truth been my staunchest supporter. He tried his damnedest to dissuade me from returning here, and his irritation with me has a genuine basis to it. He tried to persuade me that what I had sought could wait until the Mahdist revolt had dissipated and we could return to the Sudan peaceably, but I told him the revolt was never likely to end within our lifetimes, and the quest would be lost. I felt that if I could make a discovery that drew together one who was regarded as a Christian soldier and another an Islamist visionary, then there was hope for some unity of vision that might emphasise the singularity of our beliefs, not their differences, and make war less of a certainty.’

‘So you came out here for that purpose? For the archaeology?’

‘My purpose in coming out here was in truth as I have told you: to arrange for the safe passage of my staff and their families from Khartoum, and to do all I could for the people of this city. But my archaeological quest was not disassociated from my aim to lift the veil of conflict from this place, and to stem the jihad.’

‘Did you find the temple?’

‘Muhammad Ahmad showed me the place, and I set my people to work. The temple was deeply buried, and it took months of effort. By the time the inner chamber was revealed, Muhammad Ahmad was no longer part of the picture; he had become the Mahdi, and the centre of the whirlwind that envelops us now. It was only after I had discovered the wall carvings and brought them to the light of day, when his spies among my workmen reported back to him, that he understood what he had seen as a boy for what it was. It was not early writing or some ancient spell. It was a map.’

‘Did you show it to him?’

Gordon shook his head. ‘By then we were enemies. But he sent his followers after me, to try to take the carvings. I kept them here in the storerooms of the palace, hidden away, and eventually put them on the Abbas. To enthuse them, he let his followers believe that he was after gold, that I had found clues to some ancient El Dorado of the desert. Indeed, that is what the first pharaohs who came here thought too, seeking to extend the borders of Egypt beyond the desert but also hunting the oases and wells for evidence of an ancient civilisation, just as we do today. If they truly found their El Dorado we shall never know, for they were repelled by the warriors they called the guardians of the desert, savage fighters like the Ansar of the Mahdi today. In two places where Akhenaten went I have found depictions of battle against Egyptians in which these enemies are victorious, almost as if Akhenaten were leaving the images as a warning for others from Egypt not to follow him.’

Mayne thought for a moment. ‘The crocodile temple, where I saw the image of Akhenaten. It had just such a depiction of carnage in battle.’

Gordon leaned forward, his voice intense. ‘It was the hunt for ancient gold, treasure they believed I had hidden away for secret dispatch to Egypt, that led the Mahdi’s men to ransack the Abbas, diving repeatedly on the wreck to search for it. But little did they know that there was a far greater treasure concealed there, a treasure that the Mahdi had sent his emirs to discover when they waylaid and murdered Stewart and his men.’

Mayne looked at the crocodile symbol on the drawing, and suddenly remembered the channel that Lieutenant Tanner had discovered at the cataract, from the Nile to the crocodile temple. He studied the drawing again, seeing the interconnectedness of the lines, their origin at one source. ‘Do you remember at Chatham studying hydraulic engineering, looking at Venice and the island cities of northern India? This isn’t a labyrinth. It’s a complex of canals, some of them rising over the others. That entrance must lead from a water source, a river. I think the reason why this has never been found is that it’s underground.’

Gordon nodded. ‘Agreed. And I think the water source had to be a river, to keep enough volume flowing into a complex like this, and to keep it from stagnating.’

‘In this part of the world that can only mean the Nile.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Amarna, Akhenaten’s capital city?’

‘Schliemann and Chaille-Long explored the site exhaustively and found no evidence. They even employed divers using compressed air cylinders to inspect the edges of the river underwater, but they found no indication of a channel.’

Mayne was at a loss. ‘Somewhere out here in the desert?’

Gordon put his finger on the blank square in the centre of the drawing where the Aten sun-disc should have been. ‘Until we find that piece of the puzzle, we are floundering in the dark. I believe that there may have been something there, a depiction, a symbol, a hieroglyphic inscription, that might have given some indication. That’s what I’ve been out here searching for, scouring any site we find in the desert with connections to Akhenaten. That’s why Kitchener was so excited by your report of the crocodile temple. We believe there may have been clues in other depictions that Akhenaten had carved in these places. If this was his dream, then he would have wanted to indicate it somehow, his singular achievement.’

Mayne stared hard at the depiction. ‘But what was it, this place?’

Gordon’s eyes blazed. ‘A great city. An underground city.’

Mayne stared at the arms of the Aten. ‘A city of light.’

Gordon put his finger on the papyrus-scroll hieroglyph. ‘A city of knowledge. Schliemann and I spoke about it before he departed for Troy. He had a most remarkable suggestion. He posited that by doing away with the old priesthood, Akhenaten would have been liberating knowledge kept for countless generations in the temples of Egypt, written down on scrolls and passed on by word of mouth through the temple clerks, knowledge that the priests controlled and kept secret, knowledge that they could use sparingly when needed to enhance their prestige, to impress on the people the favour given by the gods to the priesthood. Schliemann is a student not only of Troy and Homer and the age of heroes but also of the very distant past, of the very beginnings of humanity before the first cities and the first priests. He believes that much knowledge of medicinal cures from those early times when humans lived close with nature had been lost by the time of the pharaohs, but not all of it. He thinks that Akhenaten may have wished to do away with the old temples, and to create one place that would be the only temple, one place to worship one God. And in it he would put all of that accumulated knowledge, a great compendium of it collected from the beginning of time.’

‘So not a city of knowledge,’ Mayne murmured. ‘A temple of knowledge.’

‘Do you see, Mayne? That is what I have been seeking. Here, in this city of the walking dead, whom I shall soon join.’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘Take my journal for the last days of Khartoum. It ends today; when I saw that you had arrived, I retrieved it from my bedroom and quickly finished it. See that it reaches Captain John Howard at the School of Military Engineering. Do you know him?’

Mayne nodded. ‘Kitchener told me he is to have charge of all the artefacts you send back.’

Gordon swept his hand around the room. ‘Sadly not including any of these. Everything here will be looted and destroyed. And the original carved panels are lost beneath the sands of the Nile.’

‘There may be hope one day,’ Mayne said. ‘When this land is free of the jihad, it may be possible to bring compressor divers to the spot.’

Gordon lit another cigarette, and exhaled forcefully. ‘This land might one day fall again under our jurisdiction, but it will never be free of those who believe in jihad. And for those whom the Mahdi has appointed as his successors, those of his closest circle who know the true wealth of our El Dorado, the quest for the temple of light will be all-consuming and never-ending, becoming in their minds like the light that shines through from the east as they pray. It is a discovery that we must hope does not become the domain of those who would use it to gather more supporters bent on destruction and jihad. Whomsoever among my people are able to continue this quest must know that they are not the only ones.’

‘Kitchener will surely take up the mantle.’

‘Perhaps. But he will be driven towards his own destiny. Schliemann cannot hope to finish Troy in his lifetime. Von Slatin is a prisoner of the Mahdi, and may never be free. And Chaille-Long I no longer trust. His theories of the location of this complex do not seem remotely credible, some as far-fetched as Atlantis. He has gone back to America and may not be heard from again.’

‘Then it is for archaeologists of the future.’

Gordon wrapped the journal in waxed brown paper, and tied it up with string from his desk. He passed it to Mayne, who reached into his tunic pocket and took out the folded paper containing Gordon’s edict abolishing slavery, and then slipped it under the paper and into the journal. Gordon took another drag on his cigarette, and tapped the package. ‘Have no fear: I’ve learned my lesson from Reflections in Palestine. This book contains no mystical ramblings, no musings about God. It’s the journal of a commanding Royal Engineer, full of facts and figures. But that’s what it’s been about, Mayne, when all is said and done. It is facts and figures that would have kept Khartoum alive, yet it is facts and figures, minutely calculated by Wolseley – daily average distances up the Nile, ideal tonnages of whaleboats – that have inhibited our rescue and will lead to the city’s destruction.’

‘I will see to it that it reaches Howard.’

‘One last request.’ He pointed to Mayne’s holster. ‘I wonder whether I might have a look at your revolver?’

‘Certainly.’ Mayne unholstered his pistol and passed it to him. ‘Webley Government model, .455 calibre. The latest improvements, bought this year. The best revolver yet available for campaign service, in my opinion.’

Gordon inspected it appreciatively, spinning the cylinder and breaking it open, careful not to eject the cartridges. ‘My problem is this.’ He took out his own revolver and placed it on the table. ‘Webley-Pryse, in .450 calibre. Perfectly serviceable, but lacks punch. I don’t think it would put down a dervish coming at me with forty thousand angels egging him on. If I’d had time to visit my agent in Piccadilly before coming out here, I’d have bought one of yours.’

Mayne took out the box of cartridges from his belt, handed them to Gordon and picked up the Webley-Pryse. ‘A straight swap. Your need is greater than mine. I just wish I could help you with a sword.’

‘I’m most grateful, Mayne. And not to worry.’ Gordon reached behind the desk and pulled out a Pattern 1856 Royal Engineers officer’s sword. He unsheathed it halfway, revealing the blade, immaculately polished and oiled. ‘When I was a cadet at the Royal Military Academy, a fearsome old quartermaster sergeant taught us swordplay, a man by the name of Cannings. Probably long gone by the time you were there.’

‘Quartermaster Sergeant Major Cannings, sir. Probably still there now. We all thought he was old enough to have been at Waterloo.’

‘Gentlemen,’ he would say. ‘These ’ere swords is not for display.’

‘And then he’d proceed to split a melon in half with it.’

Gordon suddenly gave Mayne a steely look, all humour gone. ‘Well, I intend to do Cannings proud. Only this time it won’t be melons. There will be people out there among my staff shooting themselves rather than be caught by the dervishes, and there will be others who will go over to the Mahdi. But if I get half a chance, I’m going down fighting. Soldier first, engineer second. You remember?’

‘Impossible to forget, sir.’

‘Will you see to that, Mayne? Will you give me that half-chance?’

Before Mayne could think of a reply, Gordon had walked over to the sideboard to pick up his brandy glass and take another cigarette from the box. He lit it and took a deep lungful, and then downed the glass in one, exhaling with satisfaction and pouring himself another. He took it and stood in front of Mayne, the pallor in his cheeks tinged with colour, then raised the glass and the cigarette. ‘And you need have no final qualms that I might go over to the Mahdi. He has banned alcohol and tobacco. I still need my creature comforts.’ Mayne thought he detected a twinkle in those brilliant blue eyes, a brief spark in a face haunted by what he had been obliged to oversee during the past weeks and months, and by what lay ahead.

Mayne held out a hand. ‘I must go. It will be light in a few hours.’

‘Of course. And thank you for coming. It has been most agreeable. I fear I’ve rambled, but I am a man not used to company, especially that of a fellow sapper with such congenial shared interests.’ They shook hands, and Gordon led him to the door. ‘And look after that diary. If there’s anything to be salvaged from this sorry mess, it’s in there.’

Mayne began to walk down the corridor. There was a chill in the air; the warmth of early evening had gone. He felt like a priest walking away from a condemned man’s cell for the last time, but it was worse than that; he was more like an executioner having sized up his victim. He felt nauseous, but perhaps because of lack of food and the terrible stench, and he was suddenly light headed, and blinked hard. His mind was reeling from what he had heard. He had to keep up his strength for what was to come next.

Gordon had remained at the door, watching him; now he spoke again. ‘And Edward?’

Mayne stopped, and turned around. ‘Sir?’

‘Godspeed, Edward.’

Mayne heard the words, and then he heard his own voice, disembodied and wavering, as if he were watching himself on a distant stage.

‘Godspeed to you too, sir.’

24

Mayne slid off the reed boat into the water and pushed it towards the bank of the creek, feeling his feet sink into the ooze as he clung to the stern. The water was cool and dark, and he tried not to think of the horrors he had seen floating in it off Khartoum or of what might lurk in its depths. The level of the Nile had fallen at least two feet since he had left the creek the evening before, and the plank he had laid on the bank was now just out of reach. With a final effort he hauled the boat as far as he could out of the water and used it as a support, holding on to it as he struggled up the muddy bank. He stopped for a moment, panting hard, and wondered what it would be like to fall backwards into the water, to kick off from the bank and let the river take him; whether he would be mired in the horror of this place or whether the current would find him and take him past Khartoum and the cataracts and out into the sparkling clarity of the sea, away from here for ever. He felt himself sinking, and snapped back to reality. He heaved his legs up, then squelched and sucked through the mud until he reached the plank and pulled himself up. He was dripping with ooze, but he no longer cared. All that mattered to him now was to get back to Charrière and set up his rifle before the break of dawn.

He remembered his conversation with Gordon, and patted the journal in his upper tunic pocket. Something had been nagging at him, and then he remembered: it was the empty square in the centre of the drawing Gordon had shown him, where the ancient sculpture had been missing a piece. Gordon had said that he and his companions had searched everywhere for clues to its appearance, in ruins from the time of Akhenaten across the desert. And then Mayne remembered the slab he had taken from the wall in the crocodile temple, the one that he had given Tanner to pass on to Corporal Jones for safe keeping. It had lines radiating from the edge where it had formed part of the Aten symbol, but it also had shapes on one corner, obscured under slime. He cursed himself for remembering too late to tell Gordon: it might even have persuaded him that there was a shred of reason left for staying alive, for coming across the river with him. But there was nothing to be done about it now. It was too late.

A few minutes later he was back at the edge of the mud-brick enclosure surrounding the fort. There was still enough moonlight to see a reflection off the fetid pool inside, its surface stilled by the cold. Charrière had been busy; the embrasures and crumbled openings in the wall had been filled with clumps of thorny mimosa bush, concealing the interior from prying eyes. Mayne whistled quietly, knowing that Charrière would have seen his wake as he paddled across the river, then peered over the wall and pushed aside a branch of mimosa, making his way inside. Charrière lay awake beside the embrasure overlooking the river, wrapped up in his grey army blanket, his face swathed in his Arab headdress. Beside him Mayne could see the khaki wrap containing his rifle. He crawled alongside, slipping down the edge of the muddy crater that led to the pool, seeing Charrière watching him. Mayne knew he did not need to say anything. He had come alone, without Gordon.

He took his telescope from on top of the bag and rolled in front of the embrasure, training it on the palace. Gordon’s light was still on, and he looked up to the roof where Gordon had positioned his own telescope. For a split second he saw movement, a flash as the distant lens caught a hint of moonlight on the surface of the river, and then it was gone. But it was enough to show that Gordon had been watching him, following his progress past Tutti island and the dervish sentries, seeing that he had made it back to the fort. Both men now knew that the die was cast.

Mayne lowered his telescope and looked at the island, sensing movement there too, and could just make out the palm trees swaying on the shore. He felt a prickle of wind on his neck, and then he saw another gust. It was barely perceptible, but it was as if there were some great beast slumbering under the river, building up its strength for dawn. Somewhere out there were a quarter of a million men of the Mahdi’s army, on the island, along the far shore of the White Nile. The thought of it made him feel light headed, as if all those men were sucking the oxygen from the air. Oxygen seemed in short supply here, like water in the desert, essentials of life that had been cut off from Khartoum weeks ago and were now dwindling by the hour.

The brush of wind made him think of his rifle, of the effect on a bullet flying across the river. He wiped his muddy hands on Charrière’s blanket, knelt up and unwrapped the bag, revealing the teakwood case inside. He unbolted the lid and opened it up. Everything looked pristine, unaffected by the jostling it had undergone over the past two weeks. Seeing the rifle quickened his pulse, excited him; he stroked his finger along the octagonal flats of the barrel and touched the forestock, smelling the gun oil. He used a small screwdriver to loosen the clamps that held the components rigidly in place, taking out the barrel and receiver and then the removable buttstock, and assembling them along with the breechblock. When he had finished, he tested the action, lowering the loading lever to drop the block and reveal the breech, drawing back the hammer, pulling the rear set-trigger and feathering his finger over the main trigger, knowing that the slightest pressure at full cock would bring the hammer down on the firing pin. He eased the hammer back to the half-cock safe position, opened the ammunition box in the case and took out one of the long brass cartridges; each contained ninety grains of the finest powder, hand loaded for him by his gunsmith in London, enough to propel the .50 calibre bullet out of the muzzle at over eighteen hundred feet per second. He carefully inspected it, then dropped the loading lever to open the breech, pushed the cartridge inside and closed the lever again, causing the block to rise into place behind the breech and the action to lock.

He lay forward and pushed the barrel of the rifle out of the embrasure in the wall, careful to avoid any mud or debris getting near the muzzle. He eased the butt into his right shoulder, flipped up the rear sight and then looked through it, shutting his left eye as he always did when aiming, seeing the cross-hairs of the front sight through the eyepiece aperture. He checked the elevation on the rear sight, six hundred and fifty metres, the nearest the setting would allow to the estimate he had made from the map measurements provided by Kitchener and the distance that Gordon himself had calculated, with a minute upwards adjustment that Mayne had made when he test-fired the rifle over a measured distance near the Nile south of Korti. He looked up from the sights, wetted the forefinger of his left hand and held it in the air, sensing nothing; the wind had gone. He eased the butt from his shoulder and propped it on his bag, leaving the rifle balanced on the embrasure. He was ready.

He lay on his back, looking around. The air seemed preternaturally still, unnervingly so. Somewhere in the distance he heard the cry of a tropical bird, a harsh, grating sound, perhaps what counted in this place as the dawn chorus; but the sky was still dark. He realised that the brickworks to the left had gone quiet, the place where the wounded cow had blindly circled round and round, groaning and wheezing. He saw that Charrière was cleaning his hunting knife, wiping congealed blood off the blade and leaving streaks of darkness on his blanket. Mayne gestured towards the brickworks. ‘You’ve been busy.’

Charrière said nothing, but finished cleaning his knife and laid it down on the edge of the blanket, its blade gleaming dully. It was a knife that Mayne himself had used years before to butcher deer, and one that Charrière’s ancestors had blooded through generations of hunting and war; its worn bone handle and the point of the blade, shaped through countless resharpenings and honings, seemed so perfectly fitted to Charrière that it had become an extension of himself, just as Mayne felt with his rifle. Charrière stared intently for a few moments at the rear of the fort, as if scanning for something, then turned to Mayne, his eyes unfathomable in the gloom. ‘The cow dropped dead. Something big came up and dragged it down into the river.’

‘A crocodile?’

‘I only saw marks on the ground. I was not here.’

Mayne looked at the knife, and thought again. ‘Our pursuers?’

‘I found three of them asleep in the desert.’

Mayne stared at him. ‘Identity?’

‘They were Sudanese, but each with different tattoos, from different tribes. They had English tobacco, and Martini-Henry rifles. I did not linger.’

Mayne thought hard, wondering who they might be. ‘Did you travel far?’

‘I took your rifle case on my back. I crossed the river at the point north of Khartoum where the White Nile joins the Blue Nile. I went far down the river, for several miles. I saw the steamers.’

‘You saw them?’ Mayne exclaimed, alarmed. ‘You’re sure they’re the ones? They shouldn’t be that close to us yet.’

‘I saw the turrets with gun emplacements, and the armour plating the sailors have built around the edges. They were anchored, but getting up steam. The soldiers had been ashore foraging for wood, chopping up water-lifting devices for fuel. The Nile is falling at a rate of three feet a day. They must have seen the mudflats, and decided to press on.’

‘That means they could be here very soon.’

‘They could be here shortly after dawn.’

Mayne thought hard, his mind racing. It was essential that he complete his mission before the steamers hove into view. He must be gone before any of the British soldiers or sailors saw him. He turned again to Charrière. ‘Did you see anything else?’

‘I walked through the Mahdi’s camp. I passed thousands of them, asleep on the desert floor. They have their spears beside them, polished and sharpened. Less than an hour from now this place will light up, in more ways than one. The artillery are positioned to blast at the main gates of the city. The main force will come over the river from the west, and others will attack the landward defences to the east. Khartoum will be overrun within minutes. The Ansar will be at the gates of the palace at dawn.’

Mayne thought for a moment. ‘Our pursuers. You said you found three in the desert. There were four when we saw them behind us at Abu Klea.’

‘He’s here.’

‘What do you mean, here?’

‘Don’t look.’ Charrière lowered his voice. ‘He followed us here yesterday evening. He’s an Ababda tribesman; he was their tracker and he’s good. He returned to their camp in the night and saw his companions with their throats cut, and now he’s come back here. He will make his move soon.’

‘Where is he?’ Mayne whispered.

‘I’ve been watching him while you’ve been loading your rifle. He’s been making his way around the wall to the entrance where you came in. When I laid those mimosa branches in the gaps after you left last night, I made it so that I can see out through them, but he will not be able to see in without looking over them. Don’t move. He’s there now.’

In a single lightning movement Charrière tossed off his blanket, picked up his knife and threw it past Mayne, the blade swishing through the air so fast he could barely see it. There was a shriek from behind the wall, and Charrière bounded forward, followed by Mayne. Charrière pushed through the branches and reached the man, pulling the knife out of his chest and preparing to lunge again. Mayne grabbed his arm and stopped him. ‘Let me question him first.’

The man had a grey robe but no headdress, and a wickedly curved knife lay by his side. He had the three slashed marks on his cheeks of the Ababda tribe. He was a warrior, but his eyes were full of fear, and the red stain from his chest was spreading over his robe, the blood pooling on the ground below. Mayne knelt down close to his head. ‘Who sent you?’ he snarled.

The man gargled, spitting out blood and foaming at the mouth, his eyes wide, his skin turning grey. He gave a death rattle, and his head slumped backwards. He had said something, two words, but Mayne had only heard the second clearly: Pasha, the Ottoman word for general. It could be any number of Arab leaders who sported that title; the Ottomans and their minions were masters of intrigue, and any of them could have spies and secret missions in the desert. But how could these men have known to follow Mayne and Charrière from Korti? Who else could have wanted them dead before they reached Gordon?

And then he remembered. The Sudanese used Pasha for the British too; he had even done it himself in Khartoum, for Gordon. It was how the doomed General Hicks had been known to his Egyptian troops. And there was someone else, someone who had been called that by his fanatical bodyguard.

His heart pounded.

Kitchener Pasha.

He looked up at Charrière. ‘It was Kitchener. I’m sure of it. He was suspicious of me, and must have guessed my role. He idolised Gordon, and couldn’t bear to think of what I might be planning to do.’ He rocked back for a moment, feeling overwhelming relief. For days now he had been nagged by uncertainty, wondering whether Colonel Wilson might have had him followed, or even Wolseley. But Kitchener would have acted alone; in the desert he followed no orders. Mayne remembered Burnaby’s dying warning: don’t trust anyone. Burnaby had been watching and listening during the Korti conference, and would have sensed the depth of Kitchener’s loyalty to Gordon. Mayne shut his eyes for a moment. He felt in control again, and a sudden need to be behind the sights of his rifle, focusing on what he did best.

A huge explosion rent the air, and a shower of light crackled and cascaded down on Khartoum. It was followed by another, and then a distant drumming of gunfire that came through the still dawn air as if it were right next to them, the reports echoing down the river. Mayne saw the city lit up by the explosions, its shattered whitewashed buildings collapsing into the ground like the carapace of some long-dead river monster, and then he turned around and for the first time saw a sliver of dawn above the eastern horizon. He looked at Charrière. It had begun.

They both moved quickly back through the wall and lay down at the embrasure. The distant gunfire had become a continuous crackle to the north-east, somewhere near the junction of the two Niles, and was joined by a distinctive thudding of artillery that sounded like British nine-pounders, the guns that had been mounted on the steamers. They must be coming up through a gauntlet of fire from the Mahdi’s forces on either side of the river. Mayne looked at the pastel orange light that was now spreading over the city, diffused by the smoke of the explosions. If the steamers survived the barrage, they would be rounding the corner of Tutti island in less than half an hour.

They suddenly heard an extraordinary sound, a noise that Mayne realised must be the stomping of feet, the sound they had heard at Abu Klea but magnified here a hundred times, accompanied by thousands of tom-toms and a quarter of a million men shrieking and chanting, screaming death to the unbelievers. A cloud of dust rose over the landward end of the city and he saw thousands of dervishes spilling over the defensive ditch and into the streets. It was like a tidal wave smashing through a coastal town, drowning the streets and tossing everything aside as it surged forward. It was all happening astonishingly quickly; twenty minutes earlier, the city had been dead quiet. He whipped up his telescope and watched the dervishes run screaming towards the palace, in a matter of seconds reaching the residential quarter where the officials lived. He saw a man in a tarboosh and robe hurriedly lead a woman and five children out to the riverbank; he shot them all in the head with a revolver, six rounds, then flung the empty gun at the advancing dervishes, one of whom cleaved his head with a sword, sending the top half spinning off in a spray of blood and brain into the Nile. Seconds later the first dervishes reached the gates of the palace, pressing against them as Mayne had done a mere eight hours before.

He panned the telescope to a point just above the palace that he had spotted when he had lain here looking at the city the afternoon before. He had needed to find a feature he could see with his naked eye, a point of reference he could aim at before dropping the sights to the balcony; it would help to give structure to a scene whose details might be less easily visible this morning but which he had memorised, that he could see as clearly in his mind’s eye as if it were a photograph. He found it now: the conical roof of a mosque that rose behind the palace, just above and to the left of the balcony. He put down the telescope and tried sighting the rifle, placing the cross hairs on the roof and then dropping them infinitesimally below and to the right, where Gordon had said he would be when the Mahdi’s army arrived at the gate.

He looked at the palace gate again, at the horde of dervishes that must by now number in the thousands, filling the streets and alleyways, with more of them pressing in every second. And then he saw Gordon on the balcony above the compound, exactly where he had said he would be. Mayne had expected it, but it still sent a shudder through him. Gordon was wearing dress uniform with a red tunic, his sword in one hand and Mayne’s revolver in the other. Mayne felt a sudden surge of something like pride: an officer of the Royal Engineers was not going to go down without a fight. He fervently hoped that Gordon would have the chance to dish out some death before he was taken down. Then the gates collapsed in a crescendo of noise and the dervishes stormed over the soldiers who had been in the courtyard, reaching the bottom of the stairs and beginning to clamber up them. The soldiers in the upper-floor windows were firing as fast as they could reload, more steadfast than Mayne had expected, given the certainty of death. And then he saw Gordon in action too, laying about him with his sword, firing the revolver point-blank at dervishes coming up the stairs, kicking them back into the mass below, shouting orders to his Sudanese riflemen shooting from the windows beside him.

Mayne whispered under his breath: please God finish him now. A single bullet, a single spear; there were enough of them flying around. But still Gordon was there, untouched, standing with his feet planted apart facing across the river, facing Mayne. The dervishes had fallen back in a wide arc below the stairs in front of him, their spears raised, standing their ground even while the remaining Sudanese soldiers still fired into them, until they too went silent, their ammunition presumably expended. Then Mayne saw why the dervishes had stopped: two emirs on horseback had ridden through the throng, and stopped below the balcony. They seemed to be reading something to Gordon, talking to him. Mayne felt himself stop breathing. They were trying to take him alive.

He was going to have to do it.

He put down the telescope and raised the rifle, cocking it and setting the trigger. He peered down the sights, finding the mosque, dropping infinitesimally below and to the right until he found his mark. He could no longer see detail, but he was aiming at what he knew was there, a tiny splash of red, drawing his mind towards it as if he were looking through the telescope.

His throat was dry, and his stomach felt cavernous. He realised that he was shivering, that he had not registered the cold. But it was more than that. He had suddenly lost focus. This had never happened to him before. He knew that it was Gordon, that he should never have gone to see him, should never have allowed himself to know his target as a human being. And they had got it all wrong: Gordon was no messiah, nor a martyr in waiting. He was a man who had come back to Khartoum to find something, and who would not leave until he had discovered it. The Gordon he had been sent to kill was a fantasy in the minds of others. When he returned he would tell them, and that false Gordon would be extinguished, and his mission would be done.

Charrière had picked up the telescope. ‘He’s in full view,’ he said urgently. ‘The steamers are coming. Take the shot now.’

Mayne felt himself tighten up again. They were hunters, and he had the deer in his sights, just like the first time as boys when Charrière had talked him through it, settled his nerves. He closed his eyes for a split second, sending himself back to that day beside the lake in the forest, then opened them, seeing nothing but the tunnel of the sights and the target beyond. And then in his mind’s eye he saw Gordon as he should be, Gordon as he might be right now, never allowing himself to be taken prisoner, lifting his revolver and firing his last round at the emir, then charging down the stairs with his sword raised, hacking and stabbing until he was cut down.

He touched the trigger. The rifle jumped, there was a crack and the report echoed down the Nile. He dropped it, and pushed away from the wall, sitting up on his knees and shutting his eyes. He slowly exhaled, feeling as if he would never need to breathe again. He felt the thirst he had first felt in the desert with Shaytan, the thirst that felt like dust in the throat, only this time he did not want to quench it; he wanted the desert to be part of him. He began to breathe again, shallow breaths, barely perceptible, and he opened his eyes. On the horizon over Omdurman to the west he saw the strip of orange widen, wavering and shimmering between sand and sky. Gordon had been right: the sun would shine today. The noise that he had somehow blocked out since aiming the rifle suddenly came back in full force, a din of shrieking and musketry and claps of artillery fire. The city was heaving with dervishes, and he could no longer see the steps of the palace. He looked down the Nile; the steamers had not yet appeared. He and Charrière would be able to leave before Colonel Wilson arrived, before anyone on the boats saw him and his rifle. It had all gone according to plan.

Suddenly the wind was knocked out of him and he was held in a vicelike grip from behind, his neck pinned back and his right arm pushed up in a half-nelson. He struggled, kicking his legs, but his arm was pushed up further. He felt the breath against his neck, and then saw that the forearm around his neck was brawny and scarred, wearing a braided bracelet. He relaxed, and let himself fall back against the man holding him: it was Charrière. ‘Do you remember how we used to wrestle as boys?’ he said. ‘You always won.’

‘That was when you were my adopted brother, Kahniekahake.’

‘And now?’

‘You have earned that name again today, Eagle Eye. And now you will join our ancestors. Your spirit will fly like a swift arrow towards the sun.’

The grip tightened. His arm was pushed up further and pinned hard against Charrière’s chest, allowing him to release his right arm. Mayne heard the sound of a blade being drawn, and he felt a hard flatness against his own chest. He felt numb, too exhausted for games. ‘What are you doing?’

‘My job.’

Mayne tried to struggle. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Nobody must know. The final words Wilson spoke to me.’

‘That’s what he told me. And nobody will know. Especially if we leave now, before the steamers arrive.’

‘They are two days downstream. I didn’t see them last night. The gunfire we heard was a small Sudanese garrison in the fort of Omdurman under siege.’

Mayne shut his eyes: this was real. He should have expected it. Wilson would arrive too late. Gordon would be dead, killed by the forces of the Mahdi. Wolseley would withdraw honourably, British prestige saved. People would for ever remember the glorious battle of Abu Klea; Gordon would become a saint.

And nobody would ever know the truth.

He swallowed hard. ‘And why not you? If you know, how can you live too?’

‘Nobody believes an Indian. Especially one living the rest of his life alone on a lake in a forest.’

‘Why?’ Mayne said, suddenly too tired for it all. ‘Why do it?’

‘General Wolseley was always good to my people. And Wilson came to me after my wife and child had died.’

‘Wolseley? Was he in on this?’

‘It was he who presented the plan to Wilson. You were the right man for the job. But even you they could not trust to talk one day.’

Mayne shut his eyes. He realised how little he knew, and how this theatre of war was in reality a play of personalities, twisting and encircling each other like weeds in a current, using history as their stage just as the pharaohs had once used the Nile. There were a few good men: Fred Burnaby was one; General Charles Gordon was another. And there were some who once drawn in would never be allowed to leave, whose price for believing that their cause amounted to something greater was to be left forever as detritus of war.

What he would not tell Charrière was that he had been given the same mission. It was why he had tried to persuade Wolseley to let Charrière go home with the other voyageurs. His revolver, the one he had exchanged with Gordon, was meant to be used against Charrière: it was to be at a time of his choosing, at some place on the return journey where Charrière had ceased to be of use to him. Neither of them was meant to come out of the desert alive.

He could not see Charrière, would never see him now. But he remembered the cold dark eyes, the eyes of a hunter, like his own. He should have known it would end this way. It could only end this way.

‘The bowstring has been released, Charrière. The arrow that will take your spirit is already flying. Soon it will pass between us and you will see the sun.’

He felt himself lifted bodily, felt his gorge rise, a tightness below his chest. He gasped, and then remembered something. ‘My tunic pocket,’ he said, his breathing short. ‘Gordon’s diary, his drawings. Captain John Howard, School of Military Engineering. Will you send it to him?’ He felt the feeling go from his limbs, and his voice weaken. ‘My servant, Corporal Jones … 8th Railway Company. Tell Howard to find him. He’s got something of mine. An artefact. Will you do that for me?’

‘I will do that for you.’

‘And Charrière my blood brother…’

‘What is it?’

Mayne could barely whisper it. ‘When you get to our lake in the forest, watch out for strangers coming on the water. They will try to silence you too. Trust nobody.’

Charrière held him tightly. He suddenly felt terribly cold. He would need to drink and to eat, to shake off the chill. He would go to the wells of Jakdul. An oasis in the desert. Nobody would find him there.

He convulsed, and coughed blood. He saw his blood pool on sand, become the desert. Then all he could see was an enclosing constriction, a narrowing tunnel. He relaxed, knowing what it was. He was looking down the sights of his rifle, excluding all else, seeing only his target, utterly focused. It had always felt good.

Then he saw it: a flash of light, burning like the sun, searing down the walls of the tunnel like outstretched arms, reaching out to envelop him.

He knew what Gordon had seen.

Then nothing.

25

Jack sat in his study in the old family house at the IMU campus in Cornwall and stared at the portraits of his ancestors on the walls, feeling as listless as at any time in the forty-eight hours since he and Costas had been forcibly evicted from Sudan. A few hours ago he had received more bad news, that Hiebermeyer and his team had been escorted across the border into Egypt from their site at Semna, apparently also under orders from al’Ahmed. The only consolation was that the finds from the site, including the golden sceptre, had been taken secretly by Aysha’s cousin to the Khartoum museum, where they had been placed in the vault. One day it might be possible to return to the Sudan, but for the time being it was a closed shop. Jack looked at the two old envelopes he had taken from Seaquest II, the one from Lieutenant Tanner and the other from Corporal Jones, and wondered where the contents had gone. He had taken a jolt, but he was not going to give up on this trail. He needed time, maybe a few days away. He knew he should pick up the phone and call Maria. And he knew he needed sleep.

Rebecca knocked and came into the room, bringing him a cup of coffee. ‘You should drink this. And you need to get away for a day or two. Then you’ll see everything in perspective. As Uncle Costas says, everyone takes a few knocks down the road, and what’s a risk without bombing out from time to time. It’s all part of life’s rich tapestry. Anyway, everyone knows that working in the Sudan is a game of chance, with this kind of thing likely to happen whatever you do. And you did nothing wrong. You went to the site in good faith believing you had a permit, and you were trashed by one of the trickiest customers in the Middle East.’

‘I let Maurice and Aysha down. They should never have had to leave the site at Semna the way they did. It was virtually a one-hour evacuation.’

Rebecca shook her head. ‘Maurice called me because you’re not picking up when he calls. They’d already made the decision to leave. They’d had bandits show up at night, and Aysha’s cousin, the guy acting as their guard, had become really afraid. Aysha said that as soon as she realised that, she knew she had to get out. There was no way they were going to stay there with the baby. And anyway, the Egyptians are topping up Lake Nasser again, so the whole site’s going to be inundated in a couple of months.’

Jack picked up a small object from his desk, the greenstone scarab he had found inside the crocodile temple, and stared at the cartouche on the base. He wondered who had lost it there, and when. It had been with him since he had borrowed it from the Sudan, and now he felt he wanted to return it, not to a museum but back to the shimmering sand inside the temple where it could then spend another eternity.

‘You know the Muslim tribesmen of the Sudan pick up old scarabs and use them as good-luck charms,’ Rebecca said. ‘They wrap prayers around them and put them in little bags around their necks. That thing seems so close to Akhenaten, a scarab of his wife Nefertiti, but it might have been lost in there a lot more recently and have a completely different significance. It’s what you told me about artefacts that survive between different eras and cultures taking on new meanings.’

Jack put down the scarab and stared at it. ‘I also told you I didn’t believe in good-luck charms.’

‘You said you believed in yourself.’

Jack took a deep breath. ‘Okay. I’ll talk to Maurice. But I still feel I have to make it up to him somehow. Something big in Egypt.’

‘Dad, you found him a pharaoh’s golden sceptre. And not just any pharaoh, but his favourite, Akhenaten. That takes some beating.’

‘Maybe I can do something to help at the pyramid of Menkaure. After this I might take a rest from diving for a while. I could do some work on land.’

‘Dad, you didn’t say that. Get over it.’

‘That sounds like Costas talking. He doesn’t have to face the board of directors tomorrow.’

‘Actually, he does. He volunteered to go along to make sure the record was straight. Anyway, let’s face it, you run this place. You created the board of directors.’

‘When I created the board, I relinquished my control over IMU to them so that I would just be another employee. I’d seen too many institutions run like tinpot dictatorships.’

‘They’re hardly going to fire you, Dad. Come on. Anyway, I’m going back up to your great-great-grandad’s archive in the attic. One of those boxes is going to have that letter from Lieutenant Tanner, I’m sure of it. It might just give us the clue we need to whatever was in that other envelope. We don’t have to go back to Sudan to tie up that story. And get on the phone to Maurice, Dad. You’re his best friend. You owe it to him.’

Rebecca marched out, and Jack put his feet up on the corner of his desk, staring again at the portraits on the wall: the first Jack Howard, an Elizabethan sea dog who had made his fortune as a privateer plundering Spanish treasure ships, and then fought the Armada under Drake and Raleigh; beside him Captain Matthias Howard, who had traded in tobacco from his estates in Maryland and Virginia before turning his attentions to the east, where he had put his money into an East Indiaman and doubled the family fortune, allowing him to build the present house; and on the opposite side of the door Colonel John Howard, Royal Engineers, Jack’s great-great-grandfather, who had served with distinction in India before disappearing on a quest into Afghanistan, one that Jack and Costas had finally brought to resolution almost a hundred years later. They were all there in Jack’s mind, not just those three, but the many men and women in between who had given him his sense of identity, had made him feel that he was part of the tradition of exploration and adventure and risk-taking that was in his blood.

He knew he did not have to live up to any of them, only to the ideal he had set himself. And since Rebecca had arrived in his life it had not just been about him, but about her too, about how he could help her to feel that same urge that had always driven him forward, a relishing of the voyage of discovery as much as a yearning for the destination, for the prize that sometimes remained elusive. If there was anything he had learned from being an archaeologist, it was this: that too often the treasure at the end of the quest was an illusion, an ever-receding mirage, and the real discoveries were the ones made along the way, revelations of ancient and present lives, voyages of self-discovery and friendship.

Perhaps chasing Akhenaten’s quest had been like that. They had made fabulous discoveries. A whole chapter of Victorian history in the desert had opened up in a way that Jack had never anticipated. And he now understood better what made men tick who had gone off by themselves in search of revelation, men like Gordon, men like himself. He had a hunch that somewhere within those months in 1884 and 1885 was a man who still could not be found, a void at the centre of the story, yet who was somehow inextricably tied up with the fate of Gordon; it was a void that Jack had found himself trying to occupy, as he struggled to imagine what had really gone on. He stared at the portrait of Colonel Howard in his uniform, wishing yet again that he had been able to talk to him, but feeling closer now to understanding what it was that had motivated the explorers and archaeologists of that generation. For Jack these were discoveries of significance. Perhaps the story of Akhenaten’s quest, of his fabled lost city of light, could now be finished, a book to be shut.

He thought about what Rebecca had said, and about those things that had so excited him about his ancestors: exploration and adventure and risk-taking. He had taken a risk in going to the site of the Abbas, and it had not worked out. Risk-taking was all about accepting the possibility of failure. Perhaps he had been too lucky during his career, and needed to learn humility. Rebecca was about the future, and that was where he needed to put his mind now. He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Sitting in the middle of his desk was the press release from Sofia about the Beatrice, waiting to be read. He might not be able to tie up all the loose ends in the Sudan, but the discovery of the Beatrice was a fantastic result and he would do everything in his power to make sure that the project put IMU in the best possible light. He pushed back his chair, put his feet down and picked up the report, feeling better already. He remembered what Sofia had called their submersible, Nina, after Columbus’ ship, and how she had wanted IMU to go to the Americas: maybe she was right. It had been almost eight years since he had taken an IMU team to Canada and then to Mexico, on the trail of crusader gold. For several years now, while there was so much going on elsewhere, he had resisted pleas from their US representative to start a new project in America. That was where he would go next. He needed a fresh start, new horizons, like Columbus. He would talk about it tomorrow morning when he had the meeting with the IMU board of directors to explain the Abbas incident, so that he could end the grilling on a positive note. And he would get Hiebermeyer to call in to outline his plans for returning the sarcophagus of Menkaure to its rightful place inside the pyramid at Giza.

He thought of that word: pyramid. It triggered something, a very distant memory. He put down the report and picked up the brown envelope that Corporal Jones had sent to his great-great-grandfather, the envelope that he thought had contained some kind of artefact. He looked at it again, tracing his fingers over the careful handwriting of the address, and then glanced at the portrait of Colonel Howard. That was it. He remembered now. His pulse quickened, and he sat upright, thinking back forty years. It had been in this very room; he and his grandfather had been standing in front of that very portrait. His grandfather had been telling him how as a young boy he had been allowed once a week to go upstairs into the attic where his own grandfather had lived, to see his stamp collection. It had been during the few years of Colonel Howard’s retirement before his final quest into Afghanistan, and he had lived not here but in a cruck-framed half-timbered cottage in a remote village in Herefordshire, a secluded place where he could get on with his writing projects without distraction. His daughter and grandchildren had lived downstairs. But it was not the stamp collection that had so intrigued the little boy. It was an ancient artefact, a square stone with carvings all over it, sitting in a niche in the old timbers of the wall. His grandfather had remembered it so clearly all those years later because the big timbers of the cruck frame came together to form an inverted V shape in the attic, just like a pyramid. And that was what he had seen on the ancient stone: a pyramid. Colonel Howard had told the boy that he had been sent it from Egypt, and that it had once been in an ancient temple.

Jack was suddenly coursing with excitement. Could it still be there? The cruck-framed house was still in the possession of the Howard estate, lived in by one of Jack’s elderly aunts. He pulled out his phone, scrolled through the address list and made a call. There was no reply, and he left a message. He drummed his fingers against the desk. He could make it up there today, and return in time for the meeting tomorrow morning. It would be a long drive, but he could do with it. And if there was a result, it would be something else he could throw in front of the board of directors.

Rebecca came bounding through the door, holding a small brown parcel that looked about the same vintage as the envelope Jack had been looking at, though hers evidently still held its contents. Jack knew there would be numerous interesting items among Colonel Howard’s papers, and this package was too big to be Lieutenant Tanner’s letter. She was flushed with excitement, but Jack held up his hand. ‘Before we get distracted by anything, I may have made a breakthrough. I remembered something your great-grandfather told me years ago about an ancient Egyptian artefact shown to him by his grandfather, Colonel Howard. It’s just possible that it’s the artefact that was once in the envelope that Corporal Jones sent him. And I think I know where it might be. We might have to drop everything and go on a long drive.’

‘Hold it right there, Dad. First, this.’ She took a single sheet of old letter paper out of the package she was carrying, cleared her throat and stood upright. She sniffed, and Jack realised that she had been crying. ‘What’s wrong? Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘It’s just this,’ she said, holding up the letter. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She cleared her throat again. ‘This is the final page of the letter from Lieutenant Tanner at Semna to Howard. It’s very affectionate; they seem to have been great friends. Tanner was in love with Howard’s sister-in-law, and was planning to marry her when he returned from Egypt. I think the letter was written somewhere dusty, not at a desk. He’d been doing something grim, burying some comrades, and the tone of the letter is as if he’s making the best of a bad situation, taking his mind away from it.’

Jack leaned forward, suddenly riveted. ‘That would be the sangar, and the grim business would be the burial of the two soldiers killed there by the Mahdist sniper. Incredible. This really gives the story behind Maurice and Aysha’s discoveries.’

‘He mentions the crocodile mummies,’ Rebecca said. ‘As an archaeology enthusiast he must have recognised them for what they were, as the soldiers were digging through them to make the graves.’

‘Read out the entire page, Rebecca.’

She took a deep breath, and began:

‘As well as the extraordinary crocodile mummies, there is another remarkable archaeological discovery here that I’d love to tell you about but it will have to be another time, when I can sit down undistracted and do it justice – suffice to say that Edward Mayne was here with us, and went with the major of the Canadian contingent and myself into the underground temple, through the barest of cracks at the top of the door – that really gives the game away to you, doesn’t it, but it’s not fair to keep you on tenterhooks, until I write next time; at any rate Mayne took a small stone slab with carving which he instructed me to give to his servant, Corporal Jones, who you will remember from the Rampa expedition when he was a sergeant, and I instructed Jones to send it on to you if Mayne should be killed. It may be merely of passing interest to you, I fancy, but as I believe you have been appointed curator of Gordon’s antiquities – for which my congratulations – it would make sense for you to be its recipient. Corporal Jones, incidentally, is for the Railway Company, to keep him out of mischief and away from any fights, though I fear we may all be in line for that in due course, with the Mahdi’s army growing daily. Mayne is for headquarters at Korti and some secret mission, I know not what. He has being doing reconnaissance out here. (You will remember that he instructed us in sharpshooting when we were juniors at Chatham; he has his rifle out here, I believe it is a Sharps, tho’ he keeps it concealed. It was he who used one of our rifles to pot the Mahdist sharpshooter who killed our two poor soldiers.)

My dear John, I am fed up with war already and would wish nothing better than to take up an appointment like that held by Kitchener in Palestine and carry out archaeological survey, or perhaps back in India. Egypt is now crying out for archaeologists as will the Sudan if we can finish this infernal war and get Gordon out alive. But if I were to be an archaeologist in Egypt, then your sister-in-law, darling Maria, would have to live in Cairo, and I would wish that on no English woman on account of the cholera, certainly no English woman wishing to bear children. I would not wish my wife to endure the sufferings of your own dear wife Georgina when your poor boy Edward died in Bangalore. Perhaps if there is no survey post I will find a position at the School of Military Engineering and we can communicate not by letter but daily and in person. I should like that above all things.

I am called by General Earle to the river. More anon.

Your most affectionate friend and fellow archaeologist,

P. Tanner, Lieutenant, Royal Engineers, at Semna, November 24th, 1885’

Rebecca looked up, and put the letter on Jack’s desk. ‘I was sad because you said he was killed only a few weeks later. It seems such a waste. I almost think of him as still being there, at that date, waiting for a life ahead which would never be fulfilled. You can say what you like about Gordon, but this was the cost.’

Jack took the letter and looked at it. Now he knew the name of the sniper: Mayne. He quickly walked over to the cased book collection that he had inherited from his grandfather, and pulled out several volumes of the Army List for the 1870s and 1880s. ‘Here it is,’ he murmured. ‘Edward Mayne, commissioned into the Royal Engineers in 1868, captain 1878, major 1884. Served in the Red River expedition in Canada in 1871. Always a survey officer, or on secondment. This is interesting. He disappears completely from the list after 1885. Missing, whereabouts unknown.’

‘Killed in the desert campaign?’

‘If so, not on official operations, otherwise it would have been recorded. But it wasn’t unknown for men to ride out and disappear without trace in the desert.’

‘And did you notice? Tanner mentions the plaque.’

‘Yes,’ Jack said excitedly. ‘I’m sure it’s the square slab that was missing from the carving on the wall in the temple. It might, just might, contain some clues as to the meaning of the image in the carving. Even if I can’t go back to Sudan, we might at least be able to wrap that one up.’ His phone flashed, and he picked it up, reading the message. ‘Yes,’ he exclaimed. ‘Your great-aunt Margaret is back at home. Told me off for leaving an answerphone message instead of sending a text. That’s a modern eighty year old for you. That’s where we’re going. She’ll be delighted to see us this afternoon. We’d better be on our way.’

‘Not before you see what else I’ve found. We can read it in the car.’

‘Okay. Let’s be quick about it. Fire away.’

She held the brown parcel in front of her. ‘This was at the bottom of the first box of Howard’s papers. It was sent to him at the School of Military Engineering in Chatham from a remote location in Ontario through the Canadian Department of Indian Affairs. It seems to have taken a long time getting out of Canada, as no postage was put on it. You can see that on one part of the envelope it’s marked “Veteran”, and the Canadian Department of Veteran Affairs seems to have decided to cover the costs. Beside “Veteran” it says “Nile, 1884–5”. But the postmark from Ottawa is the twenty-fifth of January 1925.’

‘That’s almost fifteen years after Colonel Howard died.’

‘It was unopened. It must have been forwarded by the School to his last known address, and someone stashed it with his stuff.’

‘Do we know who the sender was?’

‘His name was Henri Charrière. I remember you talking about Canadian Mohawk Indians on the Nile, and I looked him up in a book you recently ordered for the library on the subject. He’s in it, though there are few details. He served in the Red River expedition, like Mayne. The two men must have known each other, because Charrière was with the voyageur contingent on the Nile on that day in 1884 when Tanner wrote his letter. Unlike the other Indians, there’s no record of when he went back to Canada, and he didn’t return to live in their communities. There’s a note saying that a man with his name with a veteran’s pension was living in 1922 in a cabin beside Lake Traverse in Algonquin Park, a wilderness area in Ontario. He must have been at least eighty years old by then. How he ended up with what’s in this package, and why he sat on it for so long before deciding to send it to someone in authority, is a mystery.’

‘Show it to me while we walk out.’

‘You might want to stay sitting just for this bit. I opened it to see the cover, but I thought you might want to be the first one to open the actual book.’

Jack took the package from her, glancing at the grubby envelope covered with stamps and nearly illegible writing, and he admired Rebecca’s tenacity in deciphering it. He slipped the volume out, and weighed it in his hands. It was a ruled notebook, a diary or a journal. He realised that he was looking at the back cover upside down, and he flipped it over. There was a hand-written title on the cover. He read it, and then read it again, barely taking it in. He coughed, and read it out loud: ‘“The Journal of Major General Charles Gordon, CB, Garrison Commander at Khartoum, 14 December 1884 to 25 January 1885”.’

He sat back, stunned. It was the lost final volume of General Gordon’s diary. He could scarcely bring himself to open it. This would surely at last reveal the truth of those last days in Khartoum. He pressed the journal against his chest, and then put it carefully back into the envelope, handing it back to Rebecca. ‘Yours for safe keeping. That may be the most extraordinary treasure of this whole quest. You can begin reading it to me in the car.’

Four and a half hours later, Jack pulled off the main road and drove down the narrow lane into the village where his great-great-grandfather had lived. It seemed a world away from the desert of Sudan and the war against the Mahdi, but these villages were the idealised image of England that many of the soldiers dreamed of while they were on campaign, and today they were often the places where the last residues of undiscovered papers and artefacts from those years were to be found. He had not been here for a long time, but he remembered the route through the picturesque village square and up the side lane to the row of half-timbered cottages, the rolling summits of the Brecon Beacons looming a few miles behind. He stopped outside the front gate, switched off the engine and enjoyed the silence after the drive, letting Rebecca sleep for a few minutes longer.

It had been an extraordinary few hours of revelation as she had picked her way through the diary. Gordon’s last entry on the morning of the day he died was a neatly written statement that Jack could remember now from memory: Major Mayne of the Royal Engineers has arrived, with a companion. He is to have this journal for safe keeping, so that it may be published and known to the world. Now I know I am to die. I have stayed with the people of Khartoum to the last.

Everything about it was astonishing. Now Jack knew where Major Mayne had gone. He and Rebecca were certain that the companion had been Charrière, as that would explain how he came to have the diary. Why it had taken him so long to return it, beyond the lifetimes of most of the players in those events, remained perplexing. Mayne himself must have died for Charrière to have ended up with the diary, perhaps during that final apocalyptic day when the Mahdist forces overran the city. What Mayne was doing visiting Gordon in his final hours was a mystery. There was no other mention in the historical records of a British officer reaching Gordon so late in the day. It must have been a covert mission, top secret. The phrase that repeated over and over in Jack’s mind was Gordon’s final sign-off: now I know I am to die. Had he simply become resigned to the inevitable, to the inescapable outcome of the Mahdi’s attack? Or had he known something else? Jack had remembered Lieutenant Tanner’s letter mentioning Mayne’s rifle, and he had begun to think the unthinkable. Had a British officer been sent in secret in a last-ditch attempt to persuade Gordon to leave, to ensure that he was not captured by the Mahdi and paraded in front of the world? Had that officer been chosen because he was also one of the army’s most skilled marksmen, with instructions to deploy that skill should Gordon refuse to leave? He had remembered the iconic image of the death of Gordon, standing fully exposed on the balcony of the palace; using satellite imagery, Rebecca had determined that he would have been within range of a sharpshooter with a high-powered Sharps rifle on the opposite side of the river, shooting to ensure that he was killed yet leaving no evidence that his death was anything other than that of a soldier fighting to the last against an overwhelming enemy.

And then on the last page of the diary they had seen a diagram of an archaeological discovery that Gordon had made somewhere along the Nile, a stone plaque that he had sent away in the Abbas, and Jack had realised that it must have been the one that he and Costas had so nearly recovered, and which must now be in the hands of al’Ahmed and his family. It was a precise illustration of parallel and intersecting lines that Jack recognised from the carving that they had found inside the sarcophagus of Menkaure. Gordon had labelled it with the same term that Captain Wichelo of the Beatrice had used to describe the plaque in the coffin: the City of Light.

The pieces were suddenly falling together. Listening to Rebecca read the journal, Jack had realised that the archaeology from thousands of years ago and the history from little more than a century ago were inextricably intertwined; if it had not been for the archaeology, he would not have embarked on the quest to find out more about Gordon in his family papers, and Rebecca would never have made the discovery. The journal had allowed him to see Gordon as if he himself had opened the door to that room in the palace at Khartoum in 1885, just as Major Mayne must have done; and he had seen neither a mystic nor a messiah, but a man to whom the desert had given a clarity of vision that made compassion for his fellow human beings the guiding force in his life, for those in Khartoum who had come to rely on him for daily survival. He wondered whether Akhenaten too had been misunderstood by history, whether it was not the location of his revelation in the desert that was the discovery they should be seeking but rather the place he had turned to next, where the clarity of vision he too had experienced might have led him to create something tangible, something of benefit to humankind, not in the desert to the south but in the heartland of the civilisation along the Nile from which he had sprung.

And now there was one final piece of the puzzle to find, a piece that might provide the detail needed to bring those images of Akhenaten’s city from abstraction to reality, to a place that might at last be within the possibility of archaeological discovery that had eluded Gordon and others on this trail for so long.

Rebecca woke and rubbed her eyes, looking blearily at the cottage. ‘We’re here. Look, there’s Great-Aunt Margaret.’ She opened the door and got out, and the neatly dressed old lady who had come down the path welcomed her with open arms. Jack followed, giving her a hug too.

‘It’s lovely to see Rebecca doing so well,’ she said. ‘She’s more amazing than all your adventures put together, you know.’

‘Well, she’s part of them now.’

Aunt Margaret led them through the beautifully tended garden towards the front door; Jack had to stoop to enter the cottage. At the bottom of the stairs she turned around and faced them. ‘Now, before we have tea and Rebecca tells me all her news, I know you’ll want to see what I found after you told me what to look for, Jack.’

‘You didn’t have to, Great-Aunt Margaret,’ Rebecca said. ‘We don’t want you hurting yourself.’

‘Oh, there’s a bit of the adventurer in me too, you know, Rebecca. I don’t know how much your dad has told you about me, but I’m not called Howard for nothing. When you told me you thought it might have been plastered or painted over, I took my basket of garden tools up there and set to. I haven’t had so much fun since I broke into the fifth High Llama of Llora’s tomb in the Karakorum Desert and got away with his sacred prayer roll, almost.’

Rebecca coughed politely. ‘You did what?’

Jack coughed a bit more loudly. ‘Aunt Margaret has, um, a certain history. She worked for MI6. She’s classified up to the hilt.’

‘Oh,’ Rebecca said. ‘You mean like Miss Moneypenny?’

‘No, I mean like “M”,’ Jack said. ‘She’s actually Dame Margaret Howard, though she never calls herself that.’

‘Such a silly title,’ Aunt Margaret said. ‘Use it outside Britain and they think it means you run a brothel.’ She hesitated at the foot of the stairs, and looked at Jack. ‘Before we go up, lest I forget, your friend Costas has been on the phone.’

‘Really? What about?’

‘Do you remember when he and I first met, more than ten years ago? It was at the inauguration of IMU.’

Jack paused. ‘I remember the two of you talking at great length about poetry, about the Arthurian legends. You’d just retired, and you were going to return to your undergraduate passion from Oxford days and write a book about the Holy Grail, about how the legend influenced generations of explorers on their own quests.’

Aunt Margaret reached over to a small table beside the front door and picked up a brown paper parcel tied with string. ‘When Costas called me this morning, he said that the desert had made him think of T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, and then of the Holy Grail quest that was the inspiration behind the poem. He said that the place beside the Nile where you found the crocodile temple reminded him of the Fisher King, the wounded warrior who guarded the Grail, yet whose kingdom was turned to waste as he did so. And then when you were forced to leave the Sudan he thought of the fragmentation of the Grail quest, about how it had become an aimless journey with no beginning and no end, like the march to nowhere of the characters in Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot. And then he remembered how there was one who through it all was destined to achieve the Grail and heal the wasteland.’

‘We studied the legend in school,’ Rebecca said. ‘You mean Sir Galahad.’

Aunt Margaret handed her the package. ‘Will you see that Costas gets this? It’s a Victorian edition of Malory’s Morte d’Arthur, rather tatty I’m afraid. It was owned by Colonel Howard; he loved this kind of stuff and apparently used to spend his evenings by the fire here reading Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley novels and Tennyson and anything in Old English and Norse literature on quests and adventure.’

‘Maybe it was an escape from the fear of those years in the lead-up to the First World War,’ Rebecca said, holding the book tight.

‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But I think many like him at that time saw their lives in those terms, and for them the lesson of the Grail story was that the quest was as important as the destination, a treasure that might remain always out of reach. Colonel Howard had one last quest to fulfil, one that had begun in his early years with a discovery in the jungle of southern India, and perhaps reading this fired him up to resume the journey that gave his life excitement and meaning.’

Jack cocked an eye at her. ‘This story is really for me, isn’t it?’

Aunt Margaret smiled. ‘I don’t need to be telling you it, do I?’ She jerked her head up the stairs. ‘I told Costas he really didn’t need to worry. You’ve made it here. You’re back on the quest again.’

Jack glanced at Rebecca. ‘With a little help from my daughter.’

Aunt Margaret gave him a steely look. ‘Oh no. You made it here because you wanted to. Jack Howard is not designed to wander about in the wasteland. You’re here because it’s in your genes. It’s in mine too, so I know it.’

Jack grinned. ‘All right. Point taken.’

‘Come on then,’ she said. ‘Chop chop. Tea’s getting cold. We can’t be talking all day.’

She led them up the creaking stairs past the first floor and into the attic. Jack stooped low through the entrance, and followed her past boxes and crates to the massive cruck timbers that gave the cottage its name. ‘This is where Great-Grandfather used to work,’ she said. ‘When I arrived here after retiring, his desk was still there, but I’ve moved it down to my own study. It’s a little dusty up here.’ She pointed up to the apex of the crux, where fragments of plaster and chips of paint were spread all around. ‘There you go. It looks a bit like the image on the Khedive’s Star, don’t you think? Those pyramids. I’ve got the Star awarded to Great-Grandfather for service in Egypt.’

Jack stared. In the hole was a square stone block about fifteen centimetres across, covered in incised carving. He knew without hesitation that it was the missing piece from the wall carving of Akhenaten in the crocodile temple. It had the arrangement of lines that he recognised, including several from the sun symbol of the Aten in the top corner of the chamber wall that terminated just beyond the block. He also recognised the arrangement from the diagram in Gordon’s journal, the image of the labyrinth complex that Gordon had retrieved from the riverside temple.

That had been expected. He had been as close to certain as he could be that the block came from the wall. What he had not expected was the image in the centre.

It was not one pyramid, but three, an image known the world over, one of the iconic views of archaeology: the three pyramids at Giza. The smallest of them, the pyramid of Menkaure, where Vyse had found the sarcophagus and the plaque, had a line drawn from the centre of it down into the complex of lines below, as if it were somehow joined to them, like a portal.

Jack reeled with excitement. Now he knew where Akhenaten’s City of Light had been. Not in the depths of the Nubian desert, not in the place where Akhenaten had experienced his revelation, but in the very heart of ancient Egypt, in the oldest and most sacred place possible, where Akhenaten could have envisaged himself ruling Egypt for all eternity.

And he knew that others might know of it as well, al’Ahmed and his followers, whose ancestors had known of Gordon’s quest and who might by now have seen the plaque from the wreck of the Abbas and could be on the same trail. Suddenly time was of the essence.

Jack looked at Rebecca. ‘Do you know where Costas is?’

‘With Sofia,’ she said. ‘Showing her the engineering department.’

He pulled out his phone, clicked the number and waited. After another attempt Costas replied. ‘Jack. I’ve been meaning to call.’ Jack could hear the rumble of machinery in the background. ‘I guess this is about the board of directors tomorrow. We need to get our story straight.’

‘The board of directors can wait. I need you to be on a flight with me this evening, with all of our dive gear prepped.’

‘Just give me a moment to square it with Sofia.’

‘That’s a new one,’ Rebecca whispered.

Aunt Margaret nudged him. ‘Go for it, Jack. I don’t know where you’re going and what you’re doing, but give ’em hell.’

Costas was back on the phone. ‘Jack.’

‘What’s your status?’

‘Where to?’

‘Egypt. We’re going to a pyramid. We’re going to dive inside a pyramid. This is as big as it gets. You good with that?’

‘You bet. Good to go.’

26

Two days later, Jack stood by himself on the Giza plateau outside Cairo, dwarfed by the huge mass of the pyramid of Khufru to his right. Twenty minutes earlier he had used the special pass supplied by Aysha to make his way through the heavy police cordon that had blocked off the plateau for weeks now, part of an unprecedented programme to improve security and allow essential safety and conservation work to be carried out. For Hiebermeyer and his team it had been a godsend, a unique opportunity for sustained exploration inside the pyramids. On this occasion Aysha was not the permit-issuing authority; control of the site had been taken over by the Egyptian Ministry of Defence. The temporary one-day permit she had engineered the week before to send a robot into the pyramid of Menkaure had been extended for a week. Jack had called Maurice from England to tell them of their extraordinary find of the pyramid depiction on the stone slab, and had been on the plane the next day to join Seaquest II on her way back from Spain and organise the airlift by helicopter to Alexandria of the equipment that he and Costas would need for today’s excursion. It still seemed an extraordinary plan, but it was exactly what Jack needed. After long days of soul-searching after their eviction from the Sudan, he was thrilled to be in the field again.

It was still only early afternoon, but the sun already had a reddish hue to it, the light filtering through the dust and low cloud that obscured the desert horizon to the west.

Jack checked a quick text message from Rebecca, who had flown back for her final term at school in New York, and then looked up at the pyramid beside him, shading his eyes against the glare of the sun. He remembered once asking Rebecca to imagine that the pyramids had never been built, and then trying to persuade people that structures of that scale had existed in antiquity; it would be met with flat disbelief. Looking at them today, he recalled the pyramid-shaped basalt outcrops he had seen in the Nubian desert from Semna, and found himself wondering whether the idea for these extraordinary structures had been imported from the natural landscape of the desert homeland of the ancestors of the ancient Egyptians. He made a mental note to try it out on Maurice, and then trudged forward beside the massive blocks at the base. It was curiously unsettling being here at a place normally visited by thousands every day, in a landscape whose features were entirely man-made and yet seemed so implausible that the mind rebelled against the idea. He tried to see them instead as natural extrusions of the limestone substrate jutting out of the desert floor. It made the human presence seem oddly ephemeral, the same feeling he had experienced in the Sudan thinking about the Gordon relief expedition, as if the imprint of all those people could be swept away by a breeze across the sand like the tide of the sea cleansing a foreshore.

After another ten minutes of brisk walking to the south-west, he had passed the second pyramid and was within sight of the pyramid of Menkaure, only one tenth the mass of the great pyramid but at sixty-five metres still a huge monument, the height of the dome of St Paul’s in London. In front of the entrance he could see a pair of Toyota four-wheel-drive vehicles and a tent, and several people busily carrying boxes and gear around. As he approached, he spotted the distinctive form of Hiebermeyer in his shorts and battered cowboy hat, and beside him the even more distinctive form of Jacob Lanowski, inscrutably wearing a lab coat in the desert. Lanowski was hooked up to a contraption that looked like an early one-man rocket platform, and was walking it forward like a Zimmer frame. Aysha and Sofia were photographing something among the tumbled masonry fragments in front of the pyramid, and Costas was nowhere to be seen. Hiebermeyer spotted him and bounded up, his face wet with perspiration despite the cool November air. ‘Good to see you, Jack.’ He shook hands vigorously. ‘We haven’t got any time to lose. Your equipment is due in half an hour. Who knows when they might revoke our permit.’

Jack watched Lanowski. ‘I won’t ask.’

‘Geophysics. Some kind of sonar contraption. Says it can detect water as well. I haven’t seen any result from it yet, but the other stuff he’s brought has been pretty good.’

As they reached the vehicles, there was a familiar honking and snorting sound behind them, and then a very large tongue wrapped itself around Hiebermeyer’s face, making him splutter and push it away. Jack looked round and saw a camel looming between them. Costas was on top, in full Lawrence of Arabia gear but with aviator sunglasses. He peered down at Hiebermeyer. ‘You know, camels really do seem to like you.’

Hiebermeyer wiped his face, grumbling. ‘Aysha says I’m like a salt lick.’

Jack looked up at Costas. ‘You seem to have overcome your aversion to camels.’

‘Just needed time to get my desert legs,’ Costas replied, jumping off and patting the animal affectionately on the neck. ‘Just as long as you stay away from its rear, everything is all right.’ The camel emitted a strange blubbery noise, and an indescribable smell filled the air. ‘Well, almost all right.’

They moved away to give the camel some space, and Jack gestured over at the two women. ‘Here they come now.’ Lanowski had also spotted them, and was struggling out of his contraption. Hiebermeyer waved them towards the pyramid. ‘Come on. I’ll talk as we walk.’

‘Akhenaten,’ Costas said, struggling to keep up. ‘Why we’re here.’

‘Right,’ Hiebermeyer replied. ‘First we find that Akhenaten inscription at Troy about the frontier defences, mentioning Semna. Then you and Jack finally decide to find the sarcophagus of Menkaure. High time, if you ask me. On the back of that, I decide it’s time to have a look at this pyramid again. Meanwhile Aysha begins excavating at Semna, and we start to find evidence of Akhenaten’s expeditions into the Nubian desert. I never thought there would be any connection between Akhenaten and the pyramids. But I should have known better. He was a consolidator, not an expander. He wanted not to export his vision like the jihadists, but to bring it back to the Egyptian people. And not to the Egyptian royal capital where he had grown up – Thebes, a place he had left in disgust, with its priests and falsehoods – but to an older, purer place, where the Aten could be seen every day shining through the forms that had been created by his ancestors, that would take on a new meaning under his control. To the pyramids at Giza.’

Costas was almost running alongside him to keep up. ‘But before Jack found that plaque from the Akhenaten depiction with the pyramids on it, what gave you the connection with this place?’

‘It’s what I always tell my students. It’s what I told Aysha when she first came to me. Always go back to the original texts. And I don’t mean the ancient texts. I mean the books and manuscripts of the first European explorers in Egypt, since the eighteenth century. A huge amount has been lost since then: wall paintings destroyed after tombs were opened and exposed to the elements, inscriptions hacked away and looted. The journals of the first archaeologists are a unique resource, often recorded in meticulous detail.’

Jack peered at him. ‘Colonel Vyse?’

Hiebermeyer beamed, stopped, took three worn volumes out of the satchel he was carrying and laid them side by side on the sand. ‘Operations Carried on at the Pyramids of Gizeh in 1837.’

‘The book that contained the clue to the sarcophagus of Menkaure,’ Costas said.

Hiebermeyer nodded enthusiastically. ‘Jack and I dreamed of discovering that sarcophagus when we were at boarding school. It was something we could both be passionate about, me as a budding Egyptologist, Jack as a diver. And then our Cambridge tutor Professor Dillen gave me this first edition of Vyse’s work as a graduation present. I pored over every word of it, but then set it aside and only returned to it earlier this year when Jack told me about that tantalising note about the wreck of the Beatrice slipped into the edition of the book he had been shown in England. I knew that something about those books had been niggling at me since I’d started to think about Akhenaten again at Troy, and as soon as I opened them I realised what it was. Vyse hadn’t just investigated the pyramids at Giza. He’d travelled extensively up the Nile as far as the great temples at Abu Simbel, and much of the first volume is taken up with an account of his discoveries. What I’d completely forgotten was that he went to Amarna.’

‘Akhenaten’s new capital,’ Costas murmured.

Hiebermeyer opened one of the volumes to a bookmarked page. ‘At that date Amarna was scarcely known. After Napoleon had invaded Egypt, his Corps de Savants visited the site in 1799, and Sir John Gardner Wilkinson first surveyed it in 1824. But Vyse gives us a unique record of tomb inscriptions he found there several years later. That was what had been niggling at me. When I read it again, I could barely contain my excitement.’

‘Spill it, Maurice,’ Costas said.

Hiebermeyer pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat. ‘Vyse tells us that the interior consisted of three small apartments, and appeared to have been covered with paintings, by then almost entirely defaced.’ He put a finger on a section of text and read it out. ‘“Processions of prisoners of a red complexion, but with the features of Negroes, were amongst the figures that could be made out; also a solar disc with rays, like that over the entrance, and beneath it the figures of a king, and of a queen dressed in high caps; the whole being surrounded with various hieroglyphic inscriptions.”’

‘That sounds very like the imagery in the crocodile temple,’ Jack said.

‘Wait for what comes next,’ Hiebermeyer said. ‘“Over the door of this tomb, a solar disc was inscribed, from which rays with hands at their extremities extended as from a common centre; two figures, one of them apparently that of a king, were represented as worshippers in a kneeling position; and on each side hieroglyphics, and circles, or discs were introduced.”’ He pointed to a small drawing that Vyse had included in the text, showing the image he had just described. ‘Take a look at this. The lower part of that depiction, below the kneeling worshippers, forms a truncated pyramid, like a large altar. But if you extend the sides upwards, they reach the Aten symbol and you have a complete pyramid. Seeing that, I worked through all of the known pyramids of Egypt. By Akhenaten’s day, many of the lesser pyramids would already have been crumbling, and were a long way from the main administrative centres. So it had to be one of the Giza pyramids; it would have been entirely consistent for Akhenaten to choose one of them to celebrate his new god, in the centre of the most sacred ancient site in Egypt. And I doubted whether it would have been one of the two larger ones, which were still associated with the cult of Khufru and his son and would have been far more difficult to modify to Akhenaten’s purpose. So it had to be the pyramid of Menkaure.’

‘And that was confirmed for you when we found that slab packed inside the sarcophagus showing Akhenaten,’ Jack said. ‘Something that Vyse may well have taken from inside the burial chamber too, from a wall sculpture that has since disappeared.’

‘Yes, but that wasn’t my only clue.’ Hiebermeyer bounded to the edge of the pyramid, and put a hand on one of the huge slabs of stone cladding the lower courses of the structure. ‘You see these?’ he said. ‘Granite, brought all the way from Aswan near the border with Sudan. Each slab weighs at least thirty tons. An incredible feat of transport, bringing them all the way downriver and then dragging them across the desert to this place, more than four and a half thousand years ago.’

‘But the cladding was left incomplete,’ Costas said.

‘The standard view is that the cladding was abandoned at Menkaure’s death, but the exterior was then completed in mud brick before the pyramid was dedicated to his father.’

Jack peered at Hiebermeyer. ‘I know that look. You have another theory?’

Hiebermeyer stared at him. ‘Where else is there granite in this pyramid?’

Jack paused. ‘If I remember correctly, the core of the pyramid is built of local limestone quarried here on the plateau, except for the cladding and some stone around the burial chamber, which is also Aswan granite.’

Hiebermeyer slapped his leg in excitement. ‘Exactly. And that’s where I made my great discovery. While you two and Sofia were in your submersible finding the sarcophagus that once lay inside the pyramid, I was taking Little Joey for a sniff around the antechamber. You’ll be astonished at what I found, Jack. Astonished.’ He turned to Lanowski. ‘Jacob, can we see the 3-D isometric view?’

Lanowski pulled an iPad from his bag, tapped it and handed it to Hiebermeyer, who pointed at the image on the screen as they crowded around. ‘Here you see the entire known complex inside the pyramid; known, that is, until today,’ he said with a glint in his eye. ‘Up here in the entrance shaft you can see the triple portcullis, the three massive granite slabs placed there as deterrents to tomb robbers at the time when the chamber was sealed up with Menkaure’s mummy inside. Now look at this.’ He tapped an icon and another image appeared, a close-up photograph of a slab of stone. ‘Do you recognise this?’

Costas peered closely. ‘Well, it’s granite. Red granite from southern Egypt. And it’s got hieroglyphs on it. That’s the crocodile, isn’t it? We’ve seen that before. It means pharaoh.’

‘Good. We’ll make an Egyptologist of you yet. And the others?’

Jack stared at them. ‘That’s the cartouche of Akhenaten.’

Hiebermeyer beamed at him. ‘And guess where Little Joey found that? She extended her miniature camera into a crack behind one of the portcullis slabs.’

‘Good God,’ murmured Jack. ‘That cartouche is a standard royal quarry mark, isn’t it? That means this was quarried at the time of Akhenaten.’

‘It means that the granite slabs around the interior of the chamber don’t all date to the time of Menkaure after all. It means that over twelve hundred years later, the pharaoh Akhenaten ordered those chambers to be sealed like Fort Knox, using the hardest stone available in Egypt and building a portcullis that would have taken a team of masons months to chisel their way through.’

‘Do you think this pyramid was reused, that it was Akhenaten’s tomb?’ Jack said incredulously. ‘I thought they’d pinned that down to the Valley of the Kings.’

‘That’s only ever been guesswork,’ Hiebermeyer said. ‘And I think this was more than just a tomb. Jacob, your results?’

Lanowski cleared his throat. ‘I brought our deep-penetration radar here, the one we used to find your crocodile temple in the Sudan. The Giza plateau has been criss-crossed numerous times by geophysics teams, but nobody’s used equipment with the penetration depth of ours. A run over the desert immediately to the east of the pyramid, in the direction of the Nile, revealed the usual mass of tombs and quarries in the bedrock beneath the sand. But underneath all that was the faint shadow of something else, at about the level of the river. It looked like large rectilinear structures, rock-cut channels or canals.’

Hiebermeyer glanced at Jack. ‘Colonel Vyse noted that in many places the ground seemed hollow. And all he did was bang it with a metal rod. See what I mean? The clues were there in his book, in the first accounts of this place. But Lanowski’s data were incredible. Our IT people at the Institute at Alexandria are refining it now, to make the image clearer. It looked like a ghostly outline of part of the image we’ve already seen several times, the one that Akhenaten is shown inspecting in the slab from the sarcophagus you saw underwater, and the maze-like image drawn in Gordon’s diary from the slab in the wreck of the Abbas.’

‘A mortuary complex?’ Jack said. ‘A city of the dead?’

‘That’s what I’d have guessed,’ Hiebermeyer said. ‘The ultimate preparation for the afterlife, like King Tut’s tomb but on a grand scale, a labyrinth of chambers under the pyramids. But I think it was more than that. I think Akhenaten envisaged the site of the pyramids as the main temple to the Aten. I think this underground place wasn’t shrouded in darkness like a lost tomb. I don’t think this was a city of the dead. I think this was a city of the living. A city of light.’

‘How do we get to it?’ Costas asked.

‘Do you remember the image of the smaller of the three pyramids on Corporal Jones’ plaque? It showed a line descending from the centre of the pyramid into the ground. As soon as Jack sent me that image from his aunt’s house, I was back here like a shot. I realised what something else I’d discovered while I was looking at those granite cartouches was all about. Or rather, something else that Little Joey discovered.’ He pointed to the tent set up beside the parked vehicles. ‘Follow me.’ He led them over, glanced at his watch, and then scanned the plateau in the direction of Cairo to the east. Jack knew that he was looking out for the telltale pall of dust from an approaching vehicle; they needed it to be their IMU equipment arriving from Alexandria and not a security convoy from the Egyptian authorities.

Hiebermeyer ducked inside the tent and Jack followed, the others coming behind. He gestured towards a laptop open on a table surrounded by a jumble of wiring and control panels. The screen showed a frozen image of an interior space, with a dark cylindrical shape in the background and a metallic articulated arm in front. Costas leaned forward, staring. ‘That’s Little Joey!’ he exclaimed.

Lanowski beamed at Costas. ‘I stripped her down so that she could get into the really narrow spaces. The way you’d configured her, she wasn’t going anywhere we wanted.’

Costas turned his head slowly and stared at him. ‘You did what?’

Lanowski beamed at him again. ‘This is a previously unknown passageway. I found it using the echo-sounder, and then we unblocked it and sent in the robot.’

‘It’s a shaft that lets in sunlight to the antechamber,’ Hiebermeyer added, his voice tinged with excitement. ‘It was when I saw the intensity of the beam and its direction that I realised we were on to something new. It shone down on to a slab of granite on the floor, one that Vyse seems to have left undisturbed, distracted perhaps by the discovery of the sarcophagus chamber. Little Joey triggered something and the slab slid aside. It’s like a well, with perfectly smooth sides, and the beam of light reflected off a polished surface and then far down into the depths. At the bottom is water, Jack. Water. That’s why you’re here. I believe that whatever lies below us was not only lit up by the light of the Aten, the beam of the sun streaming through the temple, but was also a place of underground canals linked to the Nile and therefore to the Nile’s source, the place in the desert far to the south that Akhenaten saw as the birthplace of the sun god.’

‘We’ll need climbing gear for that shaft,’ Costas murmured.

‘We’ve set up a wooden frame with a fixed belay rope to allow a descent. If you can get down there with diving equipment, we can see what lies at the bottom.’

Jack stared at the screen, his mind racing. ‘What about Little Joey? She can operate underwater, can’t she?’

Hiebermeyer coughed. ‘We’ve had a slight hitch.’

Costas reached over and wiggled the control handle. The image on the screen remained frozen. He narrowed his eyes at Lanowski. ‘You’ve got her stuck, haven’t you?’

Lanowski opened his arms. ‘If I hadn’t streamlined her, she’d never have got into that passageway and we wouldn’t be here.’

‘And she’d never have got jammed.’ Costas stared at the jumble of cable around the computer. ‘I knew I should never have trusted anyone else with my toys. It’s going to take me a while to sort this out. The first thing is to get inside and try to free her physically.’

‘No time for that now,’ Hiebermeyer said. ‘I’m expecting a visit from the Egyptian security chief any time. As far as they’re concerned, we’re just doing a visual evaluation of the new passageway. I need to get you and Jack into that pyramid with your equipment before they arrive.’

‘How did you get the security people to keep their distance until now?’ Jack asked.

‘I told them that Little Joey found a keg of gunpowder rammed into a crack above the entrance to the antechamber.’

‘Gunpowder?’ Costas said incredulously. He pointed at the cylindrical shape visible on the screen. ‘Is that what that is?’

‘It’s covered in black dust, the exuviae of insects and bats,’ Hiebermeyer said. ‘But the wood of the barrel’s perfectly preserved.’

‘Standard early-nineteenth-century excavation technique,’ Jack said. ‘That’s how Vyse explored the interior of the pyramids. He blew his way through them.’

Costas gestured at the vertical gash up the north side of the pyramid, and then at the fragmentary remains of blocks tumbled below on the desert floor. ‘Looks like someone had a good go at it there.’

Hiebermeyer nodded. ‘You’re right, but not using gunpowder. That was the sultan Saladin’s son in the twelfth century, at the time of the crusades. He ordered the pyramids to be destroyed, but this was as far as they got before giving up.’

‘Why destroy the pyramids?’ Costas asked.

‘Same reason the Taliban ordered the destruction of the Bamiyan Buddhas in Afghanistan,’ Hiebermeyer replied. ‘Saladin’s son decided that the pyramids were against Islam. There’s been a threat from extremist groups in Egypt to carry on where he left off. The Egyptian government are taking it seriously.’

Costas looked sceptically at the pyramid. ‘That would take a small thermonuclear bomb. One for each pyramid.’

Hiebermeyer nodded. ‘It’s a well-known fact that extremist groups by now have collected enough fissile materials from the former Soviet Union to make several devices big enough to do this kind of damage. It may seem like an extravagant waste of resources when they could bomb London or New York, but the analysts I’ve spoken to think otherwise. Destroy the pyramids and you destroy Egypt’s tourist economy. The radioactive fallout over the suburbs of Cairo wouldn’t necessarily turn the Egyptian people against the extremists, but with the right rhetoric it might make them feel that they had suffered the wrath of Allah for not having bowed to the cause before now. Egypt is already tottering towards becoming an Islamist state, and this could make it a fundamentalist one. With Egypt gone, the next in line would be Sudan and Somalia, and then Libya and Tunisia and Algeria. There would be a nuclear war in the Middle East, and Israel would be obliterated. The extremists would therefore gain far more for the cause of jihad by blowing up the pyramids than by setting off their bombs in a Western capital.’

‘Got you,’ Costas said. ‘So that explains the new perimeter fence being built around the plateau.’

‘It also explains why this is the last chance we’re ever likely to get for a look inside the pyramid. The whole of the Giza plateau is coming under the jurisdiction of the Department of Defence, rather than the Antiquities Authority. From now on, it’ll take an act of God to allow anyone to ferret around in places where a bomb might be concealed.’

‘What about our friend al’Ahmed from the Sudan?’ Costas asked. ‘He seemed to be after the same thing that we are. Jack read me a passage from General Gordon’s final journal volume about how the Mahdi as a young man found a temple by the Nile with that plaque of Akhenaten inside, the one that Gordon took and we located in the wreck of the Abbas. If al’Ahmed’s knowledge of the plaque goes back to the Mahdi, and if his divers manage to get it out of the wreck, he may by now have seen a depiction of the pyramid similar to the one that brought us here.’

Jack pursed his lips. ‘I think the depiction in the crocodile temple and the one in the Nile temple found by the Mahdi were identical. The clue for us was the missing slab from the crocodile temple that showed the pyramid, whereas the other temple depiction may have been intact. If that also showed the clear image of the three temples at Giza, then al’Ahmed would be hot on this trail as well.’

Aysha looked at Jack. ‘Ibrahim flew out from Wadi Halfa this morning to help get your gear together on Seaquest II for today’s dive. You wanted to get him out of the Sudan, and we did it in the nick of time. The IMU Lynx did a covert pick-up near the border and was chased by Sudanese police helicopters. I managed to collar him at Alexandria before I drove here, and he said that as of yesterday there had still been no diving on the Abbas, but that a team was being assembled. They’d needed to find Sudanese navy divers who were competent with the IMU equipment they confiscated from you. So I don’t think al’Ahmed is on our trail yet, though it can only be a matter of time. His family business is based in Egypt and he can pull strings here as well. It’s another reason why we wanted you and Costas here as quickly as possible, before someone in the Egyptian government who al’Ahmed can bribe decides to pull the rug from under us.’

‘But he’s not a fundamentalist,’ Costas said. ‘He’s not going to want to destroy this place.’

‘He’s an Islamist, and would ally himself with extremist groups if it furthers his interests,’ Aysha said. ‘But his focus is the same as ours. He wants to find Akhenaten’s City of Light. And we want to get there before he does. There may be something there just as potent for the future of world order as the fate of the pyramids, and we want to make sure it stays out of his control. We need to see what lies underneath the pyramid now.’

‘One question,’ Costas said. ‘What about that keg of gunpowder?’

‘I managed to uncoil the fuse, which is hanging down into the antechamber. You can still smell the sulphur on it.’

Lanowski put a finger up, said, ‘Ah’, and then poked around in his lab coat pocket, producing a cheap orange lighter. He tested it, and threw it to Costas. ‘I bought this off a little boy at the entrance to the site. I felt sorry for him. I knew it would have a use.’

Costas lit it and stared at the flame. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Jacob?’

‘Well, Colonel Vyse did pretty well with it, didn’t he? Found a lot of stuff. Maybe he was on to something in that passageway.’

Costas took his thumb off the lighter, thought for a moment and slowly nodded. ‘I’d have to get Little Joey out first, of course. What do you think, Jack?’

Jack glanced at Sofia. ‘I don’t expect anyone’s mentioned it to you. Put Costas anywhere within sniffing distance of explosives and he’s gone.’

Sofia marched up to Costas, took the lighter and tossed it back to Lanowski. ‘I have a better idea,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you use this to light the barbecue we’re going to have on the beach when this is all over. The party that Jack always promises Costas.’

‘The party that never happens,’ Costas said glumly. ‘Because there’s always some other fabulous treasure to discover.’

Two Range Rovers came barrelling down the track towards them in a cloud of dust, pulling to a halt at the end of the walkway into the pyramid. Jack saw Ibrahim get out of the first vehicle, and an IMU helicopter crewman he recognised from Seaquest II. He put his hands on his hips and turned to the others, a steely look in his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘The gear’s arrived. Let’s get this show on the road.’

27

‘Jack! Hold tight!’

A huge thud resounded through the burial chamber of the pyramid, shaking the condensation off the stone walls of the shaft where Jack was suspended precariously on a rope. He spun crazily around, kicking off the walls to stop himself from crashing into them, holding on to the rope that tethered him to the wooden frame they had set up over the top of the shaft. He raised the visor of his helmet and looked up, tasting the moisture in the air and seeing the wavering beam of Costas’ headlamp almost twenty metres above him. ‘What the hell was that?’ he yelled, his voice booming up the shaft.

‘It was in the entrance tunnel,’ Costas called down. ‘A giant stone slab dropped into it about five metres up from the burial chamber. It was deliberate, an ancient booby trap. One of those devices to deter tomb robbers. You must have triggered something on the way down.’

Jack tried to slow his swinging, and looked at the curious arrangement of stone slabs about five metres above him that stuck out of the sides of the shaft like the spokes of a wheel, leaving an aperture in the centre just big enough for him to drop through. He remembered feeling a slight give in the stones as he stood on them. He had studied the elaborate traps that the pyramid builders had set around the burial chambers; it was conceivable that those stones had triggered an alignment in the masonry that caused the slab to drop. But this trap was not simply to deter tomb robbers. He stared down, his headlamp beam reflecting off the smooth walls that dropped to a shimmering pool of water some ten metres below. It was to protect access to something infinitely more valuable, to a treasure that made the adrenalin course through Jack as it did when he knew he was on the brink of a great discovery.

He stared back up. ‘So we’re trapped?’ he yelled.

‘You got it. That slab must weigh ten tons. And the light shaft above the chamber isn’t even wide enough to let in a pigeon.’

‘At least nobody can follow us inside.’

‘That’s great, Jack. Really reassuring. Makes spending the rest of eternity entombed like a mummified pharaoh really worthwhile.’

‘Keep focused,’ Jack shouted back. ‘We’re doing what we came here to do. This shaft must lead to some other access point.’

He looked down again, searching for the glow from the chemical lightstick he had dropped into the water at the bottom of the shaft, but it was gone. He pulled another out of the thigh pocket on his e-suit, cracked it and dropped it, watching the green glow tumble down and then splash into the water, revealing the shimmering sides of the shaft and then disappearing too, somewhere far deeper. He looked at the electronic display inside his helmet, checking that the air supply in the streamlined console on his back was still full, and monitoring the temperature inside his suit. He had told Costas to focus, but he was the one who needed to focus more, and Costas knew it. The intercom had failed to work inside the shaft, and when he had shut his visor he had been sealed off completely. He realised how much he had come to rely on Costas beside him, his companion for more than twenty years on countless dives into caves and mine shafts and other enclosed spaces. But this time Jack would have to confront his greatest fear on his own, his fear of being closed in, of finding no way out.

He felt his heart pound, and his breathing quicken, and he stared down again into the water. There was nothing visible yet, nothing to confirm his hunch. All he had to go on was instinct born of years of luck and intuition. He had to summon up all of his determination and keep going down the shaft until he knew the truth. He concentrated on that objective as he looked down, feeling the belay clamp on his harness, jigging his body up and down to test his weight against the rope. As his beam played on the surface of the water, he saw something bubble up, like a ghostly exhalation from three thousand years before, a waft that made his nostrils tingle. It was a familiar odour, a recent one, but he could not pin it down.

Costas shouted from above. ‘You smell that?’

‘It’s come up through the water,’ Jack yelled back. ‘Must be some kind of natural gas, methane maybe. We should use our breathing gear.’

‘It smells just like the Nile,’ Costas yelled back.

Jack remembered. Of course. It was the distinctive smell of the Nile through Cairo, a river whose man-made canals had once lapped the pyramids, but which was now almost three kilometres distant. He suddenly remembered the story of the wild man who had appeared out of nowhere in the streets of Cairo in the 1890s, with hair and beard down to his chest like a holy man, showing everyone who would listen to him a Royal Engineers cap badge and a corporal’s chevrons, claiming that he had been a British soldier captured by the Mahdi; he said that he had escaped and come to Cairo with knowledge of an ancient underground city beneath the modern streets, but had become trapped there and survived for years eating scraps of ancient mummies and rats and fish from the river. Could it be true? Jack thought hard: fish from the river. Could the water below be an ancient channel from the Nile? If so, it was their way out. And it was the way to a discovery that would astonish the world.

He shouted up the shaft. ‘Oh, by the way. My aunt Margaret has a book for you. A copy of Malory’s Morte d’Arthur.’

‘I know,’ Costas bellowed down. ‘Rebecca gave it to me.’

‘You didn’t need to be worried, you know. About me, I mean. But I appreciate it.’

‘It’s what friends are for.’

Jack looked down, dazzled by the glare. ‘I’m not so sure now, though.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, about the quest. This looks like it might be a one-way ticket.’

‘Come on, Jack. It can’t be as bad as that crocodile pool. That was the entrance to the underworld. This is the City of Light. And you’re about to go diving again. You love it.’

Jack looked down, feeling his heart race with excitement. It was true. He loved it. He looked up at Costas. ‘Okay. I’m going in. Open the slab to let the light in.’

‘Close your visor,’ Costas boomed back. ‘It could be dazzling. Good to go?’

‘Good to go. See you on the other side.’

‘You better.’

Jack pulled down his visor and locked it shut, and then activated the polarising filter to reduce the brightness. On the way down he had seen a series of highly polished obsidian slabs built into the wall at alternating heights, and Costas had realised that one of the narrow sunlight shafts built into the side of the pyramid was angled into the burial chamber such that the light would strike the upper panel and reflect down to the pool below. A stone cover over the first panel pivoted back to expose it, but they had decided not to experiment in case the light dazzled Jack on his way down. But now, with only a few metres to go, it was time.

Jack heard the scraping of the stone cover being moved. Then it was as if he were staring into the flash of a camera, shocked and dazzled. The light from the sun was magnified by the panels and seemed to burn like fire at each stage down the shaft until it hit the water. The pool acted like a lens, focusing the light down on another mirror far underwater that reflected off into the unknown, in the direction of the Nile.

Jack suddenly realised what had happened. He was seeing what Akhenaten had seen, the light of the Aten; he was bathed in it, as Akhenaten had been. He remembered all the images that had brought him here, the clues in the carvings: the extraordinary image of the pharaoh and the labyrinth of channels and tunnels, the arms of the Aten spreading over it all. Akhenaten had not just built a new capital city at Amarna beside the Nile; he had come here, to the heart of Egypt, to the pyramids of Giza, to a place that all his energy and the light from the Aten would illuminate: a place where the wisdom of the ages and the knowledge of the world would be under his aegis, where he would reign for ever as one with the Aten, as king of kings.

There was a sudden jolt. The radiating slabs of rock above had snapped together, cutting Jack off from Costas and severing the rope. He fell, splayed out and spinning, managing to right himself so that he was falling feet first, and then he hit the water and fell far under, deep into another world, his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, he knew that he was about to make the greatest discovery of his career, one that could change the course of history.

He had found Akhenaten’s City of Light.