Cosimo and Sir Henry descended the wooden stairs into the dry darkness, squeezed through a heavy iron gate at the bottom, and found themselves in a very small and cramped vestibule of a chamber hollowed from the living rock. Tav followed, but no sooner had he joined the others than Burleigh sent him away again, saying, “The generator, Tav.”
“Aye, sir.” He disappeared again, and a few moments later the distant sound of a combustion engine coughed, then started to hum.
“You’ll want to see this in all its glory, believe me,” said Burleigh.
Cosimo glanced at Sir Henry as their captor bent down and fumbled with a black box on the floor. There was a click of a switch, and a warm yellow glow emanated from the chamber beyond. “This way, gentlemen.”
He led them into the next chamber, larger than the first-a simple rectangular box devoid of either furniture or feature, save a blue-painted ceiling covered with white spots of stars. “Through here,” said Burleigh, moving through a doorway into a farther room.
Cosimo, his trepidation having given way totally to unfeigned interest, followed willingly. The room was empty save for a large granite sarcophagus in the centre of the floor and three naked light-bulbs affixed to makeshift stands. The sarcophagus was missing its lid, and the lights wavered gently with the irregular pulse of the generator.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” Burleigh said, moving quickly to the far side of the room, which was covered every inch, floor to ceiling, with incredibly lifelike and colourful paintings of life in ancient Egypt.
Sir Henry, experiencing his first exposure to the science of electricity, could not take his eyes from the softly glowing bulbs.
“If you will allow me to direct your attention to this particular wall painting,” Burleigh said, “you will, I think, find something of inestimable interest.”
Cosimo nudged his companion. “Not now, Sir Henry. I’ll explain later. Let’s see what this drama is all about.”
Burleigh stood next to a nearly life-size painting of a bald Egyptian dressed in the traditional knee-length linen kilt and heavy gold-and-lapis necklace. Although the figure was heavily stylized in the iconic manner of all tomb art, it was clear the painters had tried to give him a modicum of personality: his round face positively beamed with beatific serenity and humour; even in a two-dimensional rendering he seemed a pleasant, good-natured fellow.
“Allow me to introduce you to Anen, the high priest of Amun, in whose tomb you are now standing.”
“High Priest Anen, you say?” wondered Sir Henry. “I don’t believe I have ever heard of him-have you, Cosimo?”
“Oh, he’s a very interesting chap, as it happens,” continued Burleigh. “Brother-in-law of Pharaoh Amenhotep the Third and who, at the time of his death, had scaled the heights to become second prophet of Amun. He enjoyed an extremely powerful and influential position in Pharaoh’s court, as I think you can appreciate.”
“Very impressive, to be sure,” said Cosimo, “but what does any of that have to do with us?”
“Patience,” replied Burleigh with a smile. “We are getting to it.”
“Go on then.”
“Take a good look at him, if you will,” said Burleigh, indicating the somewhat stocky figure in the painting. “You’ll see him again just here.” He moved on to the next floor-to-ceiling panel, which depicted the priest Anen standing next to a pale-skinned man dressed in a long striped robe of many colours. The man’s robe was open at the chest to reveal a cluster of tiny blue symbols on his chest. Behind the two figures a vast building project was proceeding-the raising of a palace or temple of some sort-the site swarming with hundreds of half-naked workers. “Mark the man in the coloured robe?” said Burleigh.
“Incredible…,” breathed Cosimo.
Burleigh moved to a third panel. “Now then,” he said, “things grow more interesting. Here is our man, Anen-older now, as you can see, and what is that in his hand?”
“Good lord,” said Cosimo, stepping closer to the wall and squinting his eyes against the shadows. “Is that…? It can’t be!”
The picture showed the priest standing alone in the desert under a brilliant blue twilight sky. One hand was raised skyward, forefinger extended; in the other hand he grasped what looked like a ragged banner shaped roughly like a truncated human torso. This curious banner was decorated with the same symbols that had appeared on the man in the striped robe of the previous painting.
“Gentleman, I give you the Skin Map!” announced Burleigh in triumph.
“Good lord, indeed,” breathed Sir Henry. “Of all places… here!”
“As if there could be any doubt,” said Burleigh, obviously relishing the effect of his revelations, “I direct your attention to this particular cartouche.” He indicated a small lozenge-shaped panel decorating the border of the painting.
Cosimo bent near and, in the glow of the gently wavering electric light, examined the hieroglyphs contained in the cartouche, working out the meaning. “The man… who is… map.”
“Precisely,” confirmed Burleigh. “The Man Who Is Map-none other than Arthur Flinders-Petrie.”
“He was here,” breathed Cosimo in astonishment. “Graphic evidence that Arthur was here.”
“Moreover, the map was here,” said Burleigh.
“How do you know that?” asked Cosimo.
Burleigh gave him a sly smile. “Because I was here with Carter and Carnarvon when this tomb was opened. I held it in my hands.” He gave his turbaned head a rueful shake.
“You knew Carter?” said Cosimo.
“Oh, yes,” replied Burleigh. “In a former life, you might say.”
Stepping to the stone sarcophagus, he reached in and pulled out an ancient wooden chest and presented it to Cosimo. The pale yellow lacquer was dry and cracked, but the rounded top, on closer inspection, was seen to be covered with the same blue symbols as those represented on the wall painting. “The map was in one piece, and it was in here,” said Burleigh, tapping the lid with a finger. “Unfortunately, at the time I did not know what it was that I held.”
Cosimo carefully opened the chest. “Was here,” he said, examining the dusty interior. “Once upon a time.”
“Yes,” replied Burleigh, “but that is beside the point.”
“Then, pray, what is the point?” demanded Sir Henry, accepting the empty chest from Cosimo. “Come to it, man!”
“Patience,” chided Burleigh lightly. “We must tread lightly, for here we confront the elemental mystery.”
Moving again to the last painting, he said, “Consider what our friend Anen the high priest is doing in this picture.”
“Certainly, he’s holding the map,” volunteered Cosimo.
“Yes, as we’ve already established. But what is he doing with his other hand?”
Cosimo followed the raised right arm of the priest to the extended forefinger. “Why, he’s pointing into the sky…”
“He seems to be pointing at a star,” added Sir Henry.
“Indeed, he is!” replied Burleigh. “But not just any star.”
“No?” wondered Cosimo.
“Think where we are, gentlemen,” coaxed the earl. “Egypt-the southern sky, yes? And what is the brightest star in the southern sky?”
“Sirius,” answered Sir Henry. “The Dog Star.”
“Bravo!” Burleigh applauded, his hand claps ringing loud in the empty chamber. “High Priest Anen is holding the Skin Map and pointing to the Dog Star.” He turned a keen and questioning gaze upon his two captives. “Now, why is that, do you think?”
CHAPTER 31
In Which the Quality of Mercy Is Strained
A razor-thin line of daylight stole into the forechamber of the high priest’s tomb, broadening as it sliced through the darkness. The tomb, empty now, scoured clean, its costly objects duly catalogued and carted off to Luxor’s new antiquities museum, remained steeped in a centuries-old silence altered only by the early morning song of a desert bird perched on the high wall of the wadi, its pipping note echoing through the canyon.