“Wait,” said Arthur. “I meant to say Benjamin.”
Turms’ smile grew broad, and he put back his head and laughed. “And yet you did not.”
“But-” Arthur started to object.
“It is done, my friend,” the king told him. “And it is right. The name you have given is what was chosen for him. All is as it must be.”
Arthur gave in to the decision with rueful acceptance. They all walked back to the palace to eat a celebratory meal in honour of the newly named infant, retracing their steps along the sacred way, passing the silent tombs. They mounted the steps and, upon reaching the top, the rising sun broke above the horizon, for a moment dazzling them. Arthur felt as if, having spent the night in the tomb, he was rising to new life.
On the way back up the hill, Xian-Li leaned close to her husband. “Why Benedict?” she wondered. “What does it mean?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” confessed Arthur. “Blessing or blessed one, I think-something like that.”
Xian-Li smiled and held the infant up before her to look at him. “He is our blessing,” she decided, and the awkwardness of the mistake dissolved. In that moment, the world settled into place once more.
CHAPTER 14
A few scrawny cats and a beggar scrabbled among gently smouldering heaps of rubbish. A swirl of black vultures circled overhead in lazy loops, keen-eyed for anything dead or dying. The naked sun slammed down like a hammer upon the poor anvil that was Kit’s throbbing head, smiting through the thin cloth of his sweat-soaked turban. “My kingdom for a straw hat,” he muttered, blinking in sunlight so hot it dried his eyeballs in their sockets.
An endless avenue of pale, human-headed sphinxes stretched before him, its end lost in the shimmering heat haze. Somewhere in that wavering mirage lay the ruins of one of the ancient world’s wonders: the Great Temple of Amun. It was somewhere in the temple complex at the end of the avenue, Kit had been informed, that he would find the man he had come upriver to meet. Squinting his eyes against the glare bouncing up from the white-paved street, he started walking. After only a minute, he was wishing he had not been quite so hasty in rejecting Khefri’s suggestion that he hire a donkey for the journey. “It’s a straight shot to the temple, right?” he had said. “How bad can it be?”
To take his mind off the heat, he tried to imagine why Wilhelmina had been so insistent that he meet this man. What did Young know that could help them? He also wondered how much Wilhelmina had told this fellow about the quest they were conducting, and consequently how much he might risk saying. That, Kit decided, would be the first thing he must discover.
After a leisurely boat ride down the Nile, and a brief stop to haggle for the turban, Kit and Khefri had shaken hands and parted company at the steps of the Winter Palace hotel. “ Shukran, my friend,” Kit had said. “If I have need of a boat, I will come looking for you.”
“May God be good to you, Kit Livingstone,” replied the young man. “Farewell.” The last Kit had seen of him, the young man was hurrying back to join his cousin in the boat.
Following Wilhelmina’s instructions, he had presented himself to the concierge at the reception desk and asked for the parcel that, all being well, was waiting for him. The concierge, a robust Egyptian in a black frock coat and fez, disappeared into an office, returning a moment later with a package. He held it in his hand and regarded Kit dubiously. “Could this be the parcel, sir?”
“Why, yes, I believe so.”
The fellow hefted it in his hand, but made no attempt to deliver it.
“May I have it, please?”
“Do you have anything for me?”
“Ah, no,” answered Kit slowly. “I don’t think so.”
“Nothing at all?” wondered the fellow.
“No. Nothing at all. Why? Was I suppose to have something for you? I was not given anything-”
“A small gift, perhaps?” He regarded the parcel in his hand.
“Oh!” said Kit, as understanding broke upon him. “Yes, I see.”
The concierge smiled.
“But I am terribly sorry,” Kit offered. “I don’t have any money. I’ve been in the desert, you see.” He turned out an empty pocket. “Nada. Nothing. Sorry.”
With a shrug, the fellow handed over the small packet, and Kit wandered into the lobby to open it. About the size and thickness of an old-school exercise book, it was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string; a small hand-lettered note had been stuck in where the ends of the string were tied in a neat bow, and it was addressed to him. It read: Kit: Do not open this package. Take it-unopened-to Dr. Thomas Young at the Karnak temple dig just outside Luxor. You will find him there from late spring to early autumn. The parcel will serve as your letter of introduction. He will know what is to be done. Remember, DO NOT open this package. Not even a little!
He turned the parcel over. The folded flaps were sealed with a blob of old-fashioned sealing wax. Beside the seal was a message: Do not even THINK about opening this package!
“Okay! Got it,” muttered Kit. “Sheesh, what a nag. I won’t open the stupid package.”
Tucking the packet under his shirt, he had then made his way to the old temple. When he finally arrived at the shattered remains of the temple gate, he was perspiring from every pore, the sweat drying almost instantly as it hit the dry desert air. The huge blocks of the fabled pylons-the great slant-backed walls flanking the temple entrance-lay tumbled on the ground, though the parts of the wall extant rose to the height of several stories. Many of the courses still bore their original paint, and the colours glowed in the fierce light. Through the now-empty gate he could see collapsed pillars and more jumbled heaps of rubble across a very lumpy landscape, most of which was covered with low acacia bushes, stunted palms of various sorts, and coarse, scrubby saw grass. More beggars reclined idly in the broken doorways, while in the shadows he could see the furtive shapes of feral cats.
Kit wiped beaded sweat from his face, put his hand to the cargo he carried beneath his shirt, and started into the temple courtyard, climbing over a heap of rubble and into what had once been an immense expanse of gargantuan columns shaped like bundles of papyrus; some of these stood upright, proudly supporting their connecting lintels as if bearing the weight of the clear blue sky above. His presence was quickly seized upon by the more enterprising beggars, who hobbled to greet him with toothless whines and filthy palms outstretched. “La, shukran,” he told them as firmly and politely as he could.
“Sir! Sir!” one of the beggars called in English. “You need a guide, sir?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Kit did not even look up, since to do so would only encourage the fellow. “Thanks all the same.”
“You are looking for someone, maybe?”
At this, Kit glanced around to see a wizened Egyptian in a very dirty kaftan and skin like creased leather standing perfectly still a little apart from the importuning gaggle of his comrades in rags. “You are looking for someone,” the man repeated. “I think so.”
“Yes,” admitted Kit, instantly regretting his lapse. “I am looking for someone-an Englishman, actually.”
“You are looking for Dr. Thomas Young, perhaps,” suggested the bold fellow.
“The very man,” confirmed Kit, pulling up short. “Do you know him?”
“I know him, sir.” The Egyptian raised his voice and shouted a single word of command, and the others promptly ceased their mewling and silently drifted away. To Kit, he said, “Your friend is not far.”
“Thanks,” said Kit, much relieved. “But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. If you could point me in the right direction, I’d be much obliged.”
The man smiled, his teeth a flash of white in the tangle of his matted beard. “It is no trouble. Please, follow me.”