The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [113]
The night is black. Atum-hadu’s solution to the Tomb Paradox—the solution that has so far choked me with dust and claimed a foot—is so elegant and yet still out of my grasp. Hidden doors. False dead ends to throw off robbers. There is more, something I cannot see. What did he decide under these stars? One must put oneself in his place.
He walks the illuminated, nearly abandoned halls of his Theban palace, throws himself in restless agitation from golden throne to carved couch. Does His Lordship wish to see acrobats? I do not. Does the incarnation of Osiris seek company? I do not. Does the celestial lover of Ma’at wish to ride a camel, feed a tiger, flay a prisoner, swing from the hanging bars, play on an elephant’s trunk, caress the giraffe? I do not. My royal concerns tonight overwhelm me and deny me my sleep. Tonight, after only a few minutes considering my predicament, Horus extracts his tribute with more cruelty than usual. It is an anagram in the language of my future friend: Horus demands hours, hours spent clutching my aching belly, burning in shame and fiery solitude, unapproachable, precious hours of my dwindling mortal span, for which my falcon-headed protector will repay me how? How can my final journey be made? It is coming soon, no question, seen off either by Hyksos arrows or by the poisoned blade of one of my crumbling court’s proliferating traitors or by this crocodile growing every day inside my belly, who will at last eat my stomach if I have not secured it in an underground jar in time.
Now I have awoken to the setting sun; I have lost another whole day to my injury and exhaustion. My foot weighs one hundred pounds. My head is pinched between a giant’s fists. My stomach roars in fury, and several minutes doing its bidding do not suffice in placating its rage.
It is dark before one of my loyal idiots thinks to check on me. They have spent the day sitting in the Empty Chamber gossiping. A day has passed, they were paid and did not find my absence strange. I send the man back to assure a guard is kept on Atum-hadu’s tomb all night, and to have the men ready at dawn tomorrow for a final push into the last chamber and our just reward. He also has a letter he collected from my poste restante. From my fiancée, dated 2 November. The crossing of letters in the post is a particularly cruel game.
Nov. 2
My dear Ralph,
I will be brief. I need a letter from you very soon. I’m worried by things here, and I need to hear you telling me everything will be fine and explaining everything.
The snoop is still here. For a while I thought he was harmless and even some fun. He’s not a bad dancer and he kept me company. And I know he’s taken a shine to me, and that’s some fun in this gray weather. I can manage fellows like him. But there’s a problem. He’s told Daddy things that I’ve heard, and he’s told me things. He makes it sound like he’s just talking, but I know he’s trying to tell me something about you. He asked me about Oxford, and I told him easily a hundred times that you were there with Marlowe and you left to go fight for Democracy after your M.A. but before your Ph.D., and Oxford said that was OK. Ferrell asked for a picture of you and Marlowe together, and I showed him the one you gave me, of you boys in your digging duds, with your arm around his shoulder, you grinning and Marlowe pretending to look all serious and above-it-all, but this Ferrell just says, “Of course.” He’s a little ratty, if you ask me. I hope you’re not cross about the picture.
I don’t feel very well lately, Ralphie. I don’t want you to worry, it’s just that I don’t feel very well, like things are getting the better of me again. I always think of you as the one who makes me feel healthy, and that’s true, it’s just that you’ve been away a long time, so it’s hard. I miss you a lot, but some days you feel so far away, like you can’t help me, so I might as well be sick. So don’t worry, it’s nothing, it’s just that, that’s all, that I miss you.
Ferrell’s gone in to talk to Daddy in Daddy