The Spirit Well

CHAPTER 24

The death of Arthur Flinders-Petrie could not have come at a worse moment. The land was in upheaval, and it was all Pharaoh’s fault. If the crisis did not pass soon, the kingdom would descend into civil war.

“You had the misfortune to die at a very bad time, my friend,” Anen sighed, then smiled ruefully at the foolishness of his own thought. For the young and healthy, death always arrived at a bad time, did it not?

As senior priest of the Temple of Amun he had scores of minions at his command, yet Anen took charge of the funeral preparations himself out of respect and honour for a friendship that had spanned decades. In his mind, there was no question but that Arthur’s body would be embalmed and a suitable tomb made ready. The embalming procedure-from the ritual washing of the corpse with water from the Nile to its nitre bath and the final anointing with oils and swathing in linen-would require seventy days. Under the circumstances, it would not be possible to build a tomb in such a short time; therefore, an extension of Anen’s personal tomb would be carved out and painted, and a wooden sarcophagus constructed to hold the earthly remains of the late Arthur Flinders-Petrie.

This would also give time enough for young Benedict to return to his home world and break the sad news of his father’s decease to his mother. The two of them could then return to attend the grand funeral ceremony and oversee the entombment. As head of the Flinders-Petrie family, Benedict would host the funeral feast. This is how it was done. This is how it had always been done since time out of mind. Observing the rituals of life and death in proper order-including the time-honoured rites of embalming and entombment-brought order to the affairs of men, which in turn led to order in the universe.

Satisfied that he had thought of everything, he summoned the boy and, through the use of signs, communicated to Benedict all that must be done in the days ahead. Benedict appeared to understand, whereupon Anen ordered a mild sleep-inducing herbal infusion to be prepared and commanded his personal servants to see the grief-stricken lad to his rest. He then turned his attention to readying Arthur’s corpse for transfer to Per-Nefer, the House of Embalming, to begin the process of readying it for life in eternity. As the shroud was being wrapped to secure the body for transport, however, commotion erupted in the courtyard-accompanied this time by angry voices from beyond the wall.

Anen stepped from the House of Wholeness and Healing; the moon was high and bright, spilling light into the sacred enclosure. In the moonlight he saw priests and temple soldiers milling about the gates. He hailed one of the servants just then hurrying past. “What is the reason for this uproar?” he demanded. “I was given to understand that the mob had gone away.”

“They dispersed, my master,” answered the servant. “The temple guards drove them back to the river.”

“Well?” demanded Anen, as if this should have been the end of the matter.

The servant lifted his palms. “They have returned.”

With a flick of his hand Anen sent the impertinent fellow on his way and proceeded to the gate, where a group of priests and servants had gathered. “Where is Tutmose?” he demanded, scanning the crowd quickly for the commander of the temple guard. “He should be dealing with this breach of the peace.”

“Commander Tutmose is out there,” explained the nearest priest. He turned and saw that it was Anen who addressed him. He bowed low. “My master, I did not know-”

“Outside the gates?” he said, cutting off his subordinate’s instinctive apology.

“He went out to talk to them,” said the priest. “To find out why they are doing this and demand that they leave us in peace.”

Anen cocked his head to one side, listening to the hubbub of voices from over the wall. “Tell the commander I wish to see him as soon as he returns. I will await him in my chamber.”

The priest bowed low, and Anen took his leave, returning to his rooms in the palatial Prophet’s House. He bathed and dressed in a clean robe, then lay down on his bed. He had just closed his eyes when he heard swift footsteps in the corridor outside his sleeping chamber. His housemaster came padding into the room an instant later, saying, “Loath as I am to disturb you, my master, Commander Tutmose has returned with word of the uprising.”

“Bid him enter.” Anen rose and stood ready to receive the chief of the guards.

“The wisdom of Amun Ascendant be yours, master,” said Tutmose, entering on the heels of the servant. He bowed and waited to be addressed.

“What news?” said Anen impatiently. “Come, man. Speak.”

“We are besieged by a rabble of common labourers from Akhenaten’s city,” said Tutmose. “They are demanding that the temple be closed.”

Anen stared at his commander. “Impossible! Are they insane?”

“It is likely,” affirmed Tutmose. “But they say they possess an edict from Pharaoh himself.”

Anen gaped in astonishment. “Such a thing has never been known.”

“I do not say it is true,” Tutmose added, “only tell you what they themselves have told me.”

Anen gazed at his chief of guards and saw that he was bleeding from a cut on the side of his face; blood also trickled down his leg from a gash in his thigh. “You are injured, commander,” he observed. “They did this to you?”

“They refused to show this decree to anyone but you, master. They demand an audience at once.”

“Do they!” sneered Anen. He drew himself up. “I will speak to them. But by the power of Horus, I will not have them run riot on holy ground. Tell them, ‘Thus says Anen, Second Prophet of Amun, you are to choose four from among your number to represent you. These four representatives and these alone will be admitted to the temple courtyard after morning prayers. We shall sit down with the High Priest and discuss this matter like civilised men.’ This is what I have decided.”

“So shall it be done, master.” Tutmose bowed and hurried away to deliver Anen’s message.

Before Anen could return to his rest, the commander was back with word that the workers refused to enter the temple precinct because they considered it an unclean place. “They insist that you come out to them,” Tutmose reported.

The demand was so audacious, Anen could only stare in disbelief at his commander. That this should come to pass so swiftly after their confrontation with the workers at Akhetaten could not be a coincidence. It was a deliberate act of aggression. But why send mere labourers? It made no sense. Pharaoh commanded armies; he had only to whisper a word, and his royal bodyguard would march into the sea at his behest. Either the mob was lying about the edict- which seemed only too likely-or there was some darker purpose at work that he did not yet perceive.

“My master?” asked Tutmose, stirring him from his thoughts. “What is your will?”

“This rebellion must end. I will go out and speak to them.”

Tutmose inclined his head. “The temple guard stands ready to attend you.”

“No,” countered Anen. “I go out alone. They should not feel threatened by a solitary priest. Return to your troops and see they are armed and stand ready behind the gates. If anything should happen to me, you are to march on them.” He began removing his robe and collar. “Go.”

A few moments later Anen emerged, dressed in the simple shendyt and belt of an ordinary priest. At his approach those gathered at the gate bowed. “Open the door,” he commanded.

The gatemen pulled, and the gates swung slowly open. Anen stepped forward and was instantly confronted by a crowd of swarthy men who, at sight of him, began shaking fists and tools and shouting abuse. He held up his hands to quiet them and waited to be heard. After a moment a grudging silence came upon the throng, and he said, “Who speaks for you? Who among you is leader?”

A long-haired fellow moved out from the rabble; bearded in the Habiru fashion, dark from long hours in the sun, muscled arms crossed over his massive chest, he carried a hammer in his thick hands. “I speak for my people and carry the demands of Pharaoh that this temple be closed and the priests dispersed. The stones of these walls and buildings are to be carried off to Akhetaten.”

Anen regarded the fellow with a dubious expression. He paused to let his gaze travel around the close-packed ring of angry faces. “If that is so, how is it that I have heard nothing of this until now?”

“I bring an edict from Pharaoh,” the labourer proclaimed loudly, glancing around at his men, some of whom shouted in support of this assertion.

“May I see this edict of yours?”

The man nodded to one of those behind him. A papyrus scroll was passed forward into the hands of the priest.

Anen calmly unrolled the papyrus and read the contents. What he saw there brought the blood to his head. It was much as the Habiru labourer had said-by decree of Akhenaten, the temple was to be dismantled and used for building stone at Akhetaten, Pharaoh’s new city. Anen took a deep breath and forced himself to answer calmly, “If this is truly from Pharaoh’s own hand, it will have to be studied and verified. I will take possession of it and begin an inquiry.”

The belligerent fellow snatched back the scroll. “We have come to begin the work of tearing down this temple.”

“That is over-hasty and premature,” Anen told him, his voice flat. “No one will be permitted to begin anything until we have made petition for clarification and received confirmation from Pharaoh’s own lips.” He paused and added, “For all I know, that is a false document-a fraud and a forgery.”

“By the Living God!” swore the labourer. His fellows muttered dangerously, “You dare accuse us so?”

“I make no accusations,” Anen replied coolly. “I only state a simple fact. Since I was not present when Pharaoh made this proclamation, I cannot be certain it carries his true intent.”

This argument might have continued some considerable time, but the mob, having heard enough, began shouting that the temple must be pulled down at once. Someone threw a stone, striking Anen high on the chest. The priest staggered back, bleeding from a gash below his collarbone. The angry crowd surged forward.

The commander of the guard, having seen enough, drew his sword and dashed to Anen’s side. Raising his shield, he thrust his master behind him and backed away as the crowd began hurling paving stones ripped from the street with picks and pry bars. “Close the gates!” shouted Tutmose, and the gatemen leapt to obey as the stones smashed against the massive timbers.

“What will you have us do, my master?” asked Tutmose as soon as the doors were sealed and barred once more.

“If any of them should try to get inside the temple precinct,” said Anen, “they are to be resisted-by force, if necessary.” He hurried off to have his wound dressed. Halfway across the courtyard he paused, changed direction, and proceeded to the guest lodge instead.

Benedict was asleep, but lightly, and woke when the priest came bustling into his room. “Trouble has come to the temple,” Anen announced, knowing the youth could not understand him. He gestured for Benedict to rise and follow him; once outside, he cupped a hand to his ear and said, “Listen.”

The young man heard the sound of voices raised and paving cobbles rattling the gate beams.

“We must get you safely away from here,” said the priest; he pointed to Benedict and mimed the action of a bird flying away.

Benedict caught the meaning on the second repetition and replied, “I understand. It would be best for me to leave.” He mimed the birdflying motion, nodded, and pointed to himself. “I am ready.”

Anen turned and called for one of his senior priests to attend him. “You must take our guest from here by way of the hidden gate. Accompany him to the Sacred Road and see that he departs in safety.”

“As you command, my master, so shall it be,” replied the priest. He turned to the young man, bowed, and gestured for him to follow.

Benedict thanked Anen for his care. The priest put his hand on the young man’s chest over his heart, and then pressed it to his own heart. Benedict returned the gesture. “Farewell, Anen,” he said, and in that moment was a boy no longer, but a man with alliances and responsibilities. “Until we meet again.”

The senior priest put a hand to Benedict’s arm and started to lead him away. Benedict hesitated. The priest gave his arm a tug, urging him to follow, pointing at Tutmose, who was waiting to conduct them out of the temple by way of the hidden gate.

“Wait!” Benedict said, making a flattening motion with his hands. “There is something I must do.” He turned back and called to Anen. “I am sorry, but I cannot leave without copying my father’s map.”

Anen regarded the youth quizzically.

“My father’s map — see?” At this, Benedict opened his shirt and began drawing symbols on his chest with his finger in imitation of Arthur’s many tattoos. He then pantomimed drawing them. “You see? I must copy the map.”

Understanding broke across Anen’s broad features. “You want the skin,” he said, placing his own hand against his chest and making little curlicues with his finger.

“The map, yes.” Benedict nodded, confident that the priest had understood.

“This will take time.” Anen pulled on his chin and frowned. “But we must get you away from here now before the fighting starts.” He turned and spoke a rapid command to the priest he had placed in charge of Benedict’s safety. “A new command-take him to the servant’s precinct beside the river. Go to Hetap and tell him to watch over our guest until I send for him. He will be rewarded.”

The senior priest bowed in acknowledgment of the command, and then beckoned Benedict away. The young man hesitated. “You will bring me the copy of the map?” he asked, retracing the symbols on his chest.

Anen smiled and pantomimed the symbols, then made a motion with his hands as if folding a cloth, which he then presented to Benedict.

“Thank you, Anen,” Benedict repeated. “I am in your debt.”

At the far end of the temple in a dusty little corner was a small door-large enough to accommodate a goat or dog, or a man on hands and knees-and after withdrawing the bolts and catches, Benedict was led out into the night-dark streets of Niwet-Amun. Once away from the temple, the city remained placid and quiet, the people asleep in their homes. They walked through a district of large houses-the homes of the wealthy nobility-and progressed by degrees through neighbourhoods of more modest means until they reached the humble mud-brick huts of the servant class that lined the river. Here there were people awake and already working: hoeing or watering their gardens, tending their chickens, sitting at looms, repairing tools, and other chores-labouring for themselves before going off to serve in the houses of their masters.

They stopped at a house with a neatly tended garden and approached a squat, fat old man sitting on a stool outside the front door. The senior priest bowed and spoke to the man, then indicated Benedict. The fellow rose, bowed, and made a lengthy reply to the priest, then bowed again. Turning to his charge, the priest indicated that Benedict was to remain with the man.

The priest departed then, and the old man addressed his guest. “Hetap,” he said, placing his fingertips against his pudgy chest.

Benedict repeated the name, then said his own, whereupon the old temple servant took him by the hand and led him into the house to meet his wife, a plump, grey-haired woman with a ready, dimpled smile. Benedict was given the only chair in the house and, as the sun rose on a new day, he was fed figs, slices of sweet melon, and flat bread fried in palm oil and dipped in honey. Then he was shown where he could sleep.

All this was accomplished with simple sign language and an impressive dose of goodwill. At each transaction, Benedict thanked his hosts and hoped they would be richly rewarded for their kindness to him, a stranger who could not even speak their language.

He lay down a little while, but could not rest. Thoughts of his father’s last moments crowded out all other considerations. It was still difficult for him to accept that his father was dead. He continually relived the awful moment, and wondered how he would break the news to his mother. What would she do when she learned her husband of so many years would never return to her? How would she bear it?

Bereft, lonely, grieving, unable to understand anyone or make himself understood save for blunt gestures that passed for sign language, Benedict spent the day in misery, watching the road for any sign of Anen bringing the copy of his father’s map. But the priest did not come. Toward the end of the day he saw a barge approaching on the river; as it passed the village, he saw that it was filled with soldiers. This he took as a sign that the trouble at the temple had come to the notice of the authorities and the situation would then be resolved.

By the end of that first day, he went to his rest feeling certain that the map would arrive the next day and he would soon be on his way.

The second day dragged by, and though Benedict rarely took his eyes off the road, no one came from the temple. The third day passed similarly-the only change was that the commotion in the city seemed to be spreading. The villagers were becoming restive, and many seemed fearful; there were furtive discussions amongst neighbours and everyone was wary.

Almost beside himself with frustrated impatience, the young man determined that he would not wait another day but, come what may, would return to the temple to see for himself what was happening. Obviously, something had gone wrong. How long did it take to make a simple copy of the tattoos on his father’s chest? Benedict berated himself for leaving without insisting on making the copy himself-much as he would have dreaded the task, at least it would have been done. He spent a last restless night and rose at first light the next morning to set out; Hetap and his wife attempted to prevent him, but he remained adamant. He thanked his guardians for taking care of him and departed.

He was halfway through the village when he saw a chariot speeding towards him. He waited, and as it drew near he recognised Tutmose. The chief of the guards had clearly been in a battle; he wore bandages on his right arm and left leg just above the knee, and his eye was black and discoloured from a nasty blow.

Tutmose halted the horses and stepped from the chariot. From a bag on a strap over his shoulder he produced a parcel wrapped in papyrus and bound with a band of linen dyed red. The commander greeted Benedict and placed the parcel firmly in his hands.

“Thank you,” said Benedict. The parcel, flat and decorated with a row of hieroglyphic symbols in black along one side, was so light as to weigh almost nothing.

As Benedict tugged at the red band to untie the bundle, the commander reached out and prevented him, saying, “Rewi rok.”

“No?” asked Benedict.

Tutmose shook his head and indicated that he was to get into the chariot at once. Clutching the parcel, Benedict climbed into the vehicle, and with a jolt the horses clattered out of the village. Soon they were speeding past fields of beans and barley, heading up into the hills and out into the desert.

By the time he had mastered his balance in the swerving, jouncing vehicle, the long avenue of ram-headed sphinxes came into view. But a few moments later, the chariot was drawing up at the end of the avenue where the sacred way leading to the temple commenced. Tutmose gestured for Benedict to get out, then turned his team and, raising his hand in farewell, sped off once more, leaving Benedict to make his departure alone and unseen.

It was early yet. The sun was just rising above the line of hills to the east. Benedict knew which sphinx to mark in order to make the leap-his father had taught him well. But first he had to look at the map copied from his father’s tattoos. Kneeling down where the stone pavement ended, he carefully untied the red linen band and unwrapped the papyrus.

What he saw caused him to jump to his feet and take two involuntary steps back. He stared at the parcel on the ground, amazement and revulsion churning through him in waves that made him gasp and fight for breath.

For on the ground before him was no mere copy of the map made by the temple scribes, but the map itself: his father’s skin made into parchment. His inability to communicate had led to this monstrous misunderstanding. No mere copy, the embalmers had preserved the original. The horror of the deed overwhelmed him, and Benedict retched into the dust at his feet.

When the dry heaves subsided, he stood gazing at the ghastly artefact, wondering what to do. He could not bear to take it, neither could he leave it. Caught in a spiral of indecision, he stared at the grisly thing-a roughly rectangular piece of near translucent integument covered with the blue symbols applied during the life of its owner- knowing he must decide, and quickly. The sun climbed higher above the hills. Time was fast approaching when the ley would cease its activity and he would be forced to spend another day in this hateful place.

Benedict swiftly reached the conclusion that he had only one option. He knelt down and gathered up the ends of the papyrus, carefully folding them back into their original shape and retying the red band. Then, tucking the packet into his shirt, he turned and stepped to the centre of the Avenue of Sphinxes outside the half-finished temple. He walked to the fifth sphinx from the end, stopped, cast a last look around at the unforgiving desert, and, with the even, measured pace his father had taught him, began making his long way home.