Benedict came awake with a start. “Oh!” He flushed. “Sorry, Father.”
“No matter,” said Arthur. “You are tired.” He nodded and spoke a command to the servant. “Itara here will take you to our lodgings. I will follow shortly.”
Benedict rose, and with a respectful bow to his host said, “Thank you for the wonderful dinner. I enjoyed it very much.” He then wished his two elders good night and followed the servant from the room.
“You must be very proud of him,” Anen observed when Arthur had translated his son’s thank-you. “He has grown into a fine young man since I last saw him.”
“Indeed he has,” Arthur said. “I am very fortunate.”
“It is good for a man to have a son to carry his name into the world and continue the work he has begun.”
“That, my friend, is my fervent hope—that my son should succeed me one day.”
“We must hope that day is long in coming.” Anen rose, and instantly a servant stepped forward. The priest waved him away. To Arthur, he said, “Come, let us walk around the pool a little before we go to our beds.”
Anen led his guest out into a private garden. The balmy air was sweet with the fragrance of jasmine and hibiscus. They strolled the garden lit by the lambent glow of candle-lit lanterns set along the paths around the sacred pool, which seemed radiant with the reflected light of a ripening moon and a bright spray of stars.
The garden, with its scented air and glowing pool, the blue, starfilled sky, and even the presence of Anen himself put Arthur in mind of that fate-filled night years before when, ravaged by fever, his dear, lovely wife, Xian-Li, succumbed to disease and died. The presence of his visitor must have brought the event to mind for Anen too, because after the two had walked awhile in silence, he asked, “Do you ever think about what happened?”
Arthur smiled. “Every time I look at Xian-Li.” They walked a little farther, and he added, “I think I mentioned Benedict’s troubled birth?”
“I seem to recall something about it, yes,” replied Anen. “You took him to Etruria to be born—because the physicians in your country had not the skill to effect his birth.” He thought for a moment and added, “In this Etruria, the High Priest is also king. Not so?”
“That is so,” confirmed Arthur. “One day you will be High Priest. Think where you would be if you lived in Etruria.”
Anen laughed gently. “I would not want to be king—too many wars, too much fighting all the time. It is not good for the soul.”
“I agree. Yet somehow Turms has been able to thrive, and his people with him.”
“Have you ever returned to the Spirit Well?”
“The Well of Souls?” Arthur nodded. “Two or three times. There is a mystery there I have yet to penetrate.”
“The secret of its life-giving spring?” wondered the priest. “Do not be forgetting—you have promised to show me this marvel one day.”
“I have not forgotten,” Arthur assured him. “One day I will solve the mystery—but until then, I think it best it remain a secret known to a trusted few—as few as possible.”
“I understand.”
Two days later the delegation of priests departed for the Holy City of Aten, some distance north of the High Temple at Niwet-Amun. They travelled by barge—five of them: two for the priests and three smaller boats for the servants and attendants. While those around him tended to their business—the priests to their discussions and the servants to their chores—Benedict sat perched on the wide, low rail with his legs dangling over the side of the barge. For hours he watched the panoply of life unfold along the greatest river in the world. The slow progression of the boats was mesmerising; the river world seemed to glide effortlessly by, revealing wonders around every bend: tiny islands filled with snow-white birds; basking crocodiles the colour of jade; buffalos being washed by brown-skinned boys; lazy, grey hippos waggling their ears and yawning; towering palms with golden branches laden with shiny black dates . . . and on and on without end.
Owing to the sluggish summer current, it took three days for the wide, flat boats to reach the pharaoh’s new city. The servants and minions disembarked first to prepare the landing place; they were followed by the priests in order of rank. The High Priest, a wizened old man named Ptahmose, who to Benedict’s eyes appeared as wrinkled and dried up as a walking mummy, came last, assisted by Anen, his second-in-command.
Dressed in simple kilts of starched white linen and the broad, multi-leaved collars of gold that were a symbol of their office, they walked up the avenue lined by their servants, some of whom held banners while others carried trumpets; still others bore cloth-covered baskets on their heads. As the delegation approached the low, whitewashed walls of the city, the trumpeters began to sound loud, rousing blasts on their instruments, heralding the arrival of their masters.
Arthur and Benedict, as guests of Anen, walked directly behind. Workers in the fields outside the city walls paused to watch the procession as it passed. At the gates they halted and waited while the guards hurried to push open the huge cedar trunks that formed the entrance; bound in iron and painted red, each of the two enormous doors took five men, straining at the rings, to open.
Once the way was clear, the parade resumed its stately progress. The stone-paved streets of the new city were wide and straight, the buildings low. The inhabitants on the streets paused to watch the spectacle; others came out of their dwellings to see what was happening. The streets were soon lined with curious onlookers.
As the priests made their way deeper into the new city, it became obvious that construction was still at an early stage: most of the structures, while roughed out in mud brick and plaster, had yet to be finished in stone. Only the temples—of which there were several of varying sizes—were complete; even the royal family’s residence waited to receive its gleaming white façade.
Nevertheless, work seemed to be hastening on. Builders swarmed the various construction sites—hundreds of them, organised in gangs, each with an overseer. The squat, swarthy labourers were all stripped to the waist, oozing sweat as they chiselled or plastered or carried bricks to and fro, with a cloth headdress the only concession to the pitiless sun. The appearance of the workers was so unlike that of the taller, more graceful Egyptians, Benedict guessed that these must be the Habiru that Anen had mentioned.
That they were skilled masons and artisans was clearly seen in the reliefs and statues and paintings that appeared at regular intervals along the streets of the royal city. Everywhere Benedict looked, there was an image of Pharaoh: Akhenaten with his wife, the beautiful Nefertiri; Akhenaten with his children; Akhenaten receiving the life-giving rays of the sun; Akhenaten mediating his god’s justice to the people of Egypt. Some of the statues appeared grotesque and misshapen—Akhenaten with big, blubbery lips, a round pot belly, and spindly bowed legs—absurd caricatures of the strictly codified official portraits.
“Look there,” he said, nudging his father with a discreet elbow. “The pharaoh’s face looks like a camel. Did they do that on purpose?”
“Apparently,” Arthur whispered back. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“Is he sick?”
“Perhaps, but I think we’ll soon find out.” He nodded past the priests leading the parade as into the street ahead swept a chariot with a phalanx of spear-carrying soldiers trotting easily behind. Drawn by two white horses with ostrich-plume headdresses, the chariot gleamed golden in the bright sunlight.
The procession halted as the speeding vehicle came hurtling headlong towards them, its iron-rimmed wheels clattering on the pavement. The driver lashed the horses to greater speed and drove on, his long black hair streaming in the wind.
As the vehicle closed on them, the leading line of priests broke ranks and moved aside. At the point of collision, the servants threw down their banners and ran. Suddenly the decorous procession was a mad scramble as priests fought to get out of the way. Arthur and Benedict, some little distance apart, beat a
quick retreat to one side and watched the mayhem. With a clatter of hooves and a whirl of dust, the chariot skidded to a stop. The priests, outraged at their treatment, began shouting and calling down curses upon the belligerent driver—who merely put back his head and laughed, his teeth a flash of white behind the rich black of his braided beard.
The soldiers came pounding in, their heavy sandals slapping the stones. The commander, an imposing fellow in a plumed helmet of gleaming bronze and a chest plate made of overlapping leaves of bronze scales, called an order, and the soldiers formed up, coming to attention with a smart crack of their spears on the pavement.
“This is an outrage!” shouted one of the senior priests, shoving forward, his robe in disarray and smudged with dust. “A curse on your house!”
The chariot driver merely gazed down, grinning through his beard. Benedict edged closer for a better look. He saw a compact, well-made man in the prime of life, clean-limbed and clear-eyed, his skin bronzed a robust hue from the sun—the symbol of the god he served. He had a high forehead, strong jaw, and fine white teeth that fairly gleamed through the dark forest of his beard.
This only served to enrage the priest all the more. Spitting with anger, he shook his fists in the air, threatening, “Your reckless behaviour and thoughtless treatment will not go unpunished! Pharaoh will hear about this!”
The charioteer laughed again, then passed the reins to his commander and climbed down from the vehicle. As he came around to face the angry priests, he raised his hand to reveal that he held a rod of gold and lapis. The mere sight of this implement brought gasps from the assembled priests, who instantly bowed from the waist, the palms of their hands extended at the knee.
“Pharaoh, I think, has already heard your complaint,” said the cheerful charioteer.
“O Mighty King, forgive your servant’s intemperance.” The priest bent low and remained in an attitude of extreme supplication. “Forgive me, my king. I did not know you.”
“You did not know your king?” wondered Pharaoh mildly. “How is that? Is not my image engraved upon your heart?”
“Great of Renown, it has been so long . . . ” The priest, flustered now, began backing away, mumbling as he went. “You have changed, my king. I did not . . . ”
Benedict’s eyes grew round. “That is Akhenaten?” he gasped under his breath.
“So it would seem,” whispered Arthur.
“What are they saying?”
“Shh! I can’t hear. Be still.”
Now the High Priest, on the arm of Anen, moved forward. The priests around him moved aside to open a way for the old man. He came to stand before the supreme king and, after the merest pause, bowed and then rose.
“Mighty Ruler of Two Houses, Supreme Son of Horus, Heavenly Warrior, Life-giver of Nations—the First Prophet of Amun greets you,” he intoned in a thin, reedy voice.
At this Akhenaten’s smile dissolved, and his features took on a stony cast. “I know who you are, old man.” He cast a glance at Anen. “Who is this?”
“Great of Glory,” said Anen, bowing nicely, “I am Anen, Second Prophet of Amun.”
“Two prophets,” observed the king with a snide curl of his lip. “It seems I am doubly blessed today.” Gesturing to the assembled priests who had quickly gathered around, he said, “And are these all prophets of your god as well?”
“O Wonder of the Visible World, may you live in health forever—” began the High Priest.
Pharaoh cut him off with a flick of the rod in his hand. “Why are you here?” he demanded.
“Mighty King,” said Anen, “we have come with gifts for you.” He signalled to the servants carrying the baskets. They came forward to offer their gifts, but the king raised his hand and halted them.
“Do you think Pharaoh desires anything you have to give?” he demanded. “Am I one of your gods that you can placate with trinkets and sweetmeats?”
“By no means, Wisdom of Osiris,” replied Anen smoothly. “We give you but your own from the largess your enlightened rule has ordained and made manifest.”
“Humph!” sneered Akhenaten, turning away. He walked back to his chariot and climbed in. “Priests of false idols, hear me!” the king called, his voice loud in the silence. “This place is holy to the god Aten, the Only Wise Supreme Creator and Ruler of the Heavenly Realms. If you have come to forswear your worship of lesser gods, you may stay. If you have come for any other purpose, you are no longer welcome here.”
“If our presence offends you, Great One, allow us but a word, and we will depart in peace.”
“Be gone!” roared the king, gathering the reins in his hands. He levelled a cold gaze at the High Priest, who stood openmouthed in disbelief at his insolent dismissal. “Remove these people from my sight.”
Upon Pharaoh’s command the commander of the soldiers raised his spear and shouted an order to his troops. The soldiers levelled their weapons and, spear tips glinting bright in the sun, they all moved forward as one.
The priests and their attendants fell back. With much grumbling and muttering, they turned and began making their way to the city gate.
“Come, Benedict,” said Arthur; he tugged on his son’s arm, pulling him away. “Stay close to me and keep your wits about you. If anything should happen, run for the barge.”
Fuming with frustration and humiliation, the priests retreated, pursued by the soldiers who, not content with compliance, began calling taunts and threats to provoke a response. The jeers were taken up by the citizens lining the streets, growing more angry and aggressive with every step. Though Benedict could not understand the insults, he knew trouble when he saw it—and this was trouble pure and deep. Looking neither right nor left, he kept his head down and walked quickly behind his father.
As they came into sight of the city gates, they saw that the way was blocked by a gang of Habiru workers. The procession slowed and then juddered to a stop. The priests demanded to be allowed to pass. The labourers refused to move and make way for the priests. Some waved their fists and some, holding hammers and mallets, began pounding on the ground.
The first stone sailed up from the ranks of onlookers, striking a priest in the front of the procession. He let out a startled cry, clutched his shoulder, and whirled around to see who had thrown the missile. Those next to him began demanding that the perpetrator be punished.
Arthur moved to Benedict’s side and took his hand. “Hold on,” he told him. “Whatever happens, hold on to me.”
Even as he spoke, another rock struck a nearby priest, who crumpled to the ground. This missile was followed by a brick from one of the building sites. It hit the pavement hard and shattered, scattering chips and fragments. The crowd cried its approval, and more stones and bricks swiftly followed.
Anen pushed his way to the fore rank; with his arms raised above his head, he called on the Habiru to cease their assault and let them pass. When this failed to elicit a response, he turned to appeal to the commander of the soldiers to halt the stone throwing and allow them to depart in peace. His pleas went unheeded. More stones followed, coming faster now as the crowd took encouragement from the lack of intervention by soldiers, who merely stood by and watched.
“We’re going to have to run for it,” Arthur advised his son. “Don’t let go of my hand.”
Anen was struck next, receiving a grazing blow to the side of his head. Blood oozed from the wound, drawing a cheer from the crowd. Priests, frightened and confused, charged the labourers blocking the way. Some of the workmen stood aside—only to strike at the holy men as they passed. Others challenged them outright, shoving them or swinging hammers and fists.
The retreat became a rout. Everyone ran for the gate and the barges waiting at the wharf.
“Now!” shouted Arthur, pulling Benedict with him. “Run!”
Dodging and weaving through the angry throng, they scrambled. The mob closed in behind them, pelting the fleeing priests with stones and bricks. They gained the gates and, pushing past the l
ast of the workers, were free. Once beyond the city walls, they paused to wait for Anen and the High Priest.
When they failed to emerge, Arthur pulled Benedict close. “Go! Get on board,” he ordered. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
“I won’t go without you.”
“Obey me, son. Go!”
Arthur released his son and pushed him towards the barge. He had only just turned and started back into the crush at the gates when a brick sailed out and with uncanny accuracy struck him on the left temple. The blow spun him sideways and he fell, unconscious when he struck the ground.
“Father!” shouted Benedict. He ran to his father’s side and knelt, taking the wounded head onto his knees. There was little blood. The brick had barely broken the skin, but already an ugly red-blue welt was rising.
“Father, wake up!” urged the youth, cradling the wounded head. “Can you hear me? Father? Can you hear me? Wake up.”
Priests were running past them. Benedict called out, “Help!”
One of those running past stopped.
“My father is hurt!” shouted Benedict. “Help me!”
The priest realised instantly what had happened; he snagged one of his fellow priests and, with Benedict’s help, lifted the unconscious Arthur and dragged him to the barge, where they laid him carefully on the deck.
The next events would always be something of a distant confusion to Benedict. He remembered other priests joining them on the deck, and Anen himself taking command and directing the wounded man to be carried to the roofed pavilion in the centre of the barge and laid upon the cushioned platform there. When Benedict looked around again, the barge was already under sail and the royal city receding into the distance.
CHAPTER 9
In Which Wilhelmina Pursues a Mountaintop Experience
With Lady Fayth’s timely warning to crystallise her thoughts, Wilhelmina decided her best course of action. She had been itching to put the new model ley lamp through its paces and discover its full potential; leaving Prague for a few days was the perfect excuse she needed and, having made a clean breast of it with Etzel, she was now free to travel whenever she pleased: much as before, of course, but now without the nagging guilty conscience for misleading her partner, her champion.