THE HATHOR HOLOCAUST Page 5

  “Chambers,” I say.

  She sniffs.

  “Wait here. I’ll get your scroll.”

  After about an hour, she arrives with a roll of papyrus and places it on a stone shelf where I bend, Ineni holding a light over me.

  This is the Source Document, the source of the Nile’s mystery, the source of Egypt’s power, yet it does not so much glow as glower with a malefic potency.

  Just as the river is the source of life for Egypt, this scroll is the source of the magical inner life of the Egyptians and, if the ancients are right, then it is also the source of all the magic in the world.

  A quick technical evaluation of the medium, the fineness, firmness, whiteness and smoothness of the papyrus shows that it is in remarkable shape.

  I finally have my hands on the Scroll of Thoth, but not for long.

  One small hitch thwarts my plans.

  Rameses the Great.

  Before I can use my power source to organise a ticket home, my controlling father, Rameses the Great, appropriates the scroll for himself. I am still stuck in the New Kingdom.

  So close, and yet so far away from the twenty-first century.

  Now what do I do?

  I go to reason with Rameses and find him on his throne, dandling the Scroll of Thoth on his knees.

  “Let my scroll go,” I say to my father. “Please.”

  “Don’t start, Khaemwaset. I’ve had a tough day.”

  “It’s mine, I found it, I want it back.”

  “Don’t talk to your father like that,” Rameses says, “especially one who happens to be a god. My Majesty has other things on his mind. A pair of magicians from the desert turned up at the court today and have thrown down a challenge to Egypt’s power.”

  “Sorry, but I need my scroll.”

  “Haven’t you got enough to do? You’re supposed to be arranging another jubilee to follow on the heels of my last one. My Majesty does love a good jubilee. And then there are the colossi you’re supposed to be commissioning to be erected all over Egypt. Enough about the scroll. Right now there are more pressing matters on my mind. This magical challenge is a concern.”

  “Who are these magicians?” I ask.

  “An old man called Moses and his brother Aaron.”

  This is starting to sound familiar.

  “What did they say?”

  “’Let my people go, or there’s going to be hell to pay from our desert god.’ Let go of the workforce building the new city of Per-Rameses? Can you imagine it? You should have been there. The old charlatan tried to scare My Majesty. He tossed his staff to the floor of the hall and transformed it into a snake, the oldest trick in the snake charmer’s scroll, which the court magicians promptly matched, throwing down their staves and turning them into snakes too.”

  “I suppose our magicians used the old cobra trick,” I say to Rameses.

  “What trick?”

  “The trick where they make a snake go as rigid as a staff by cleverly pressing certain muscles at the nape of its neck, and then turning it back into a snake again afterwards.”

  “What are you suggesting, Khaemwaset? Certainly not. They employed the power of heka and turned their staves into snakes. It was a bit disturbing however when the snake of Moses turned around and swallowed ours, but the point was made.”

  “Please, the scroll. I need it back.”

  “Only if you help My Majesty withstand these magicians.”

  “You mean by hardening the heart of pharaoh again and again, despite all the plagues that Moses hurls down upon Egypt?”

  “There is a strange prophetic ring to your words, Khaemwaset. Who said anything about plagues?”

  “Listen, father. I’ll tell you in advance exactly how this affair is going to play out, so you’ll be prepared and you won’t have to capitulate to their demands out of fear. The old man will call down a string of plagues on Egypt, but don’t be fooled. They won’t be real miracles at all. There will be a perfectly natural explanation for all of them. The plagues will be the result of a chain reaction caused by the massive explosion of a volcano on the continent of Atlantis, an event that occurred just before the island sank.”

  “Explosion?” Rameses says. “My Majesty missed that one. And Atlantis? Missed that too. But go on.”

  “Okay, here’s how events unfold. Plague one, is a river of blood. The old man strikes the Nile with his staff and the whole thing turns to blood.”

  “Real blood? The sort that springs up from a Hebrew’s back under the lash?”

  “No, of course not. It’s toxic algal bloom. Physteria. Microcosms known as flagellates. They dissolve the still living fish, making the water toxic and causing quite a stink.”

  “So what happens next?” Rameses says.

  “Plague two: frogs. Or toads, to be precise. The ‘Bufo’ toad.”

  “A few Bufo toads never hurt anyone.”

  “There’ll be more than a few. The river will bring them forth abundantly. They shall go up and come into your house, into your bedchamber, on your bed, into the houses of your servants, on your people, into your ovens, and into your kneading bowls.”

  “Why such a plague?”

  “Bufo toads produce a prodigious number of spawn in a single laying. And the fish are dead, remember. So with no fish to eat the eggs, there’s an explosive leap in the population. And, because the water is toxic with algae, the toads have to leave it. Bulgy-eyed Bufo toads by the million hop out onto dry land, but not before they’ve gulped down the deadly brew. So they start to croak on the land, literally and figuratively, and now we have no toads left to eat the insects, so it brings us to the next plague.”

  “There’s another one?” Rameses says.

  “There’s a string of them. Ten in all.”

  “Ten?”

  “Yes, now come swarming lice, flies, snakes and stuff, a result of the toads. And then of course there’s a blight on the livestock.”

  Rameses wails.

  “Not My Majesty’s Royal Herds!”

  “Afraid so, but don’t worry, it won’t be the god of Moses at work. It’s simple cause and effect, the accelerated growth of bacteria and infections in the putrid decaying matter. It’s the stuff we advanced Egyptians deal with every day - epidemiology, entomology, herpetology, infectious diseases, tropical medicine, animal virology…”

  “I didn’t know our secret science was so advanced.”

  “Then we come to the boils.”

  “Boils are bad.”

  “A bacterial infection caused by the stable fly. Probably Glanders.”

  “And Moses thinks he can frighten My Majesty with this?”

  “It’s followed by fiery hail storms.”

  “Are you sure about hail?”

  “Positive.”

  “It’s just that we haven’t had a drop of rain for the entire period of My Majesty’s reign.”

  “The hail flattens everything.”

  “And fiery, you say?”

  “Fiery pieces of pumice fall to earth. But it’s all because of that exploding volcano.”

  “Ah, yes. The one My Majesty missed.”

  “Yes. So there’s an alternative explanation for everything. Did I mention locusts? They turn up next.”

  “You’re hopping around a bit, Son.”

  “After the plague of locusts, Egypt is plunged into three days and three nights of darkness.”

  “All nights are dark.”

  “Yes, but this darkness is so thick it can be felt. Moses will claim that it’s his god’s wonder-working power again, but it’s really just a Khamsin dust storm and that explains why you can feel it.”

  “The Breath of the Lioness? A dust storm would be quite unseasonal this time of the year,” Rameses says.

  “The worst is yet to come. Wait for it. Last of all, Egypt suffers the Death of the First-Born.”

  Rameses is aghast.

  “Not the firstborn – that would be young Prince Rameses, named after My Majesty! At le
ast One thinks it’s Rameses. It’s hard to remember with a hundred birthdays and their mothers get cranky when One forgets. Anyway it’s appalling news. It raises the prospect of a lonely old age, with just ninety-nine sons left for company!”

  “And counting down. Nearly all the princes will predecease you, I’m afraid, since Your Majesty will live to such an extreme old age. In fact, they’ll have to build a special tomb to hold all the princes, a structure the size of a multi-level car parking garage.”

  “You are turning into something of a Seer, my son. But My Majesty likes the bit about living to an advanced old age and the prospect of countless jubilees. Now what was the other thing you were saying? Ah, the death of the firstborn, that’s right. Awfully selective though, don’t you think? How can a volcano bring about such a specific result?”

  “It won’t literally be the death of the firstborn. Firstborn doesn’t mean firstborn in our times.”

  “Yes it does.”

  “No, it really means the ‘flower of Egypt’, the ‘chosen’. They die as a result of the bacteria caused by the chain reaction.”

  “Why pick on the chosen?”

  “As the privileged ones, they get to eat first from the food stores and there’s deadly mycotoxins in the food supply. It’s all easily explained.”

  “You had My Majesty worried.”

  And so it goes… the heart of Rameses is hardened like the carapace of a scarab beetle… and so the terrible plagues, fire, pestilence and death begin. Does our hero ever get the scroll back and find his way home? If he does, it will only be with great difficulty since Rameses has a reputation for not keeping his bargains.

  I’m still working on that one.

  Chapter 7

  THE MESSAGE from Alexia, when it arrived by email, was not quite what he expected. It did not give him permission to reveal his drawings and story. Instead, it gave him a warning.

  Anson, Things have gone seriously wrong with the plan. The interested party who came forward has turned out to be far more terrible than any lioness goddess of annihilation. Two of my friends have been shot dead in Egypt and I have narrowly avoided an attack on my own life. I am in hiding. Do not bother to answer this. I will be unreachable. Once, rather idealistically, you tried to save me from my future. Now I am returning the kindness. Be careful and keep away from Egypt. These people want to be rid of all who know about the discovery and that will include you. Remember, they have seen the two of us together, and so they know about you and you will be on their list. Love, Alexia

  Keep away from Egypt?

  It was time to do the opposite and put himself in the line of fire. But first he would have to keep a commitment to a lecture tour of America.

  Plaza, United Nations Headquarters, Manhattan Island, N.Y.

  THE androgynous pursuer walked with a man’s stride, but now, guided by a woman’s instinct, slowed.

  The quarry was stopping, a few dozen paces ahead. Alternative Egyptologist and theorist, Anson Hunter, drew up in front of an outdoor sculpture, a giant metal sphere in shiny bronze.

  The mirror surface flashed a warning to the pursuer.

  He’ll see me coming up behind him.

  The monumental sculpture sat in blazing sunshine on a promenade outside the United Nations Building on Manhattan Island, New York, titled ‘Sphere within a sphere’, a gift to the UN, created by an Italian sculptor. Was it a symbol of the earth, or of a brazen sun? Chasms in the shattered surface of the ball revealed glimpses of machinery inside, cogs, spikes, gears and wheels, like hidden forces at work in its core.

  The mirror curvature stretched the Egyptologist’s long-limbed figure and gave him an even more rake-like appearance as he stood there.

  Now, the pursuer thought. I can’t stay hidden any longer.

  In the mirrored surface an image grew of a rangy young man in a blue Mets jacket, face obscured by a baseball cap and dark glasses, moving in beside the Egyptologist to share his inspection of the sphere.

  “What do you think?” the pursuer said in a low voice. “Is this sculpture about the parts of a globe coming together or exploding apart?”

  “Good question. You could say the same thing about the Tower of Babel over there,” the archaeologist said, throwing a glance at the United Nations building. “I can’t quite decide whether that’s about a globe coming together or exploding apart, either.”

  “Good answer. Makes me a little sorry I’ve got to do this.”

  The pursuer dug into khaki cargo pants and left-handedly dragged out a silenced handgun.

  The Egyptologist said: “Oh, hell. Welcome to America.”

  Lean, clever face. Eyes with an obsessive light. A man in his late thirties, early forties.

  “A mugger,” the Englishman said. “Or are you possibly collecting for UNICEF?”

  “I’m not after anything.”

  “Just a mention on the evening news.”

  “Sorry, Anson.”

  “You know me? Then this is personal,” the renegade Egyptologist said, raising his eyebrows. “What are you?”

  The androgyne quivered.

  “What am I?”

  “Are you some disgruntled, mainstream Egyptology student? No? Maybe an irate long lost son? ”

  “Cute.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Your life.”

  “Are you sure? You wouldn’t like it. My life is just endless theorising about the esoteric powers of ancient Egypt. Endless controversy. No credit from my peers. No Christmas cards from academia. Am I making you feel sorry for me?”

  “Not enough.”

  “No? Then I advise you to look into the shiny ball right now - or you may be sorry,” the Egyptologist said, adding in a whisper: “See the reflection of two cops coming up behind you?”

  It was a change from the hoary ‘turn around and look behind you’ diversion and it was easy enough for the attacker to verify with a glance into the orb.

  A quick thinking lie, yet the momentary distraction gave the quarry enough time to swing his briefcase at the gun arm.

  There was something pretty heavy inside, probably a computer and the six odd pounds inside the case added to the impact and the thud went down to the bone and sent the attacker’s arm dead. The fingers parted and the weapon went flying. It scuttled under the silver ball like a cockroach taking cover under a refrigerator. The attacker swore and grabbed the arm in pain, hesitated, tongue coasting lips in a grimace.

  Go after the gun? Get out of here?

  The Egyptologist swung back the case for another blow.

  The attacker retreated, made an irregular, weaving dart across the promenade like a bird with a broken wing, casting a glance back.

  I hope I haven’t destroyed the PowerPoint presentation for my lecture tomorrow, Anson Hunter thought, looking down at the case.

  The attacker had vanished.

  Anson was still feeling shaky when a new arrival, a man he knew as ‘the Diplomat’ joined him in front of the sculpture. The greying, civilized man held out a hand in greeting.

  “Welcome to the UN, Anson.”

  “I’ve already had a welcome.”

  Anson told him about the attacker and pointed out the handgun lying snugly under the sphere in its shadow.

  The Diplomat bent and squinted.

  “I see it. Astounding.”

  “It’s my small contribution to global disarmament,” Anson said. “Hopefully it’ll inspire the Assembly.”

  “They could do with some help. Another vote on Iran today,” the Diplomat said with a sigh. “Do you want me to call in the law, Anson?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “Let it go. I’m afraid I haven’t time to spend in a New York precinct. Call a security guard to collect the gun when you go. I have work to do on my lecture for tomorrow and then it’s off to Washington for the next show.”

  “Forgive me for this, but I thought it would be a good place to meet and not just because I work in the building over there. This sculpt
ure always reminds me of the fiery, shining orb of Egypt’s sun god Ra. Very apposite. What do they call it? Synchronicity. Here you are, freshly arrived to launch your new theory about a holocaust sun and the return of plague, pestilence and fiery destruction from Egypt’s primeval past, and here is just such an image. What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to ask your advice. Have you heard anything about a find in Egypt? Something profoundly ancient and malefic. Something to do with Sekhmet-Hathor. There are murmurings on the internet.”

  The Diplomat was a secret black market collector of Egyptian antiquities and he kept his ear as close to the ground as any Interpol policeman.

  “Yes, there have been whisperings of unusual Egyptian pieces coming to light… but I can’t help you more at this stage. What’s on your mind?”

  “I believe there are dangers for the world that few can imagine. And apparently dangers for me, too, judging by today.”

  “I always enjoy your alternative theories, Anson, and the way you perplex mainstream Egyptology. What have you been doing to get yourself into trouble?”

  The attack by the young gunman outside the United Nations building left Anson edgy. It was time to drop a small spanner in the works and slow down his attackers.

  In his hotel room in New York, he posted a new blog.

  Anson Hunter’s Blog – The Other Egypt

  Curses of fiery destruction, plagues and pestilence have a long history. They go back much earlier than Jahweh’s curse upon Egypt in Exodus.

  The first occasion occurred when Ra, Egypt’s sun god, hurled an execration upon a rebellious humankind and, in a hot rage, despatched the scorching Eye of Ra to destroy them, a holocaust sun in the form of the goddess Sekhmet-Hathor, a marauding lioness, her breath spreading pestilence and plague and her claws bringing death as she swept through Egypt in an orgy of killing.

  The desert that on two sides hemmed in a land that was green and sweetly verdant - the oasis civilization of Egypt - was now like the sides of a coffin entombing a dying people. Too late, inhabitants fled to the hills to hide, but the scorching eye of destruction followed them there too, striking with claw and with fever, leaving some to die in their own blood, others in the rictus of plague.