‘You mean here? In Alexandria?’
Knox grinned. ‘Have you ever heard of the Therapeutae?’ he asked.
III
The Reverend Ernest Peterson surreptitiously dabbed his brow. He didn’t like being seen to sweat. He didn’t like showing any sign of weakness. Fifty-two years old, ramrod straight, grizzled hair, fierce eyes, a hawk’s nose. Never without his copy of the King James Version. Never without his preacher’s livery. A man proud to show through his own unyielding purpose a faint glimmer of the irresistible strength of God. Yet the sweat kept coming. It wasn’t just the humidity in this cramped, dark underground labyrinth. It was the vertiginous sense of what he was on the verge of achieving.
Thirty-odd years before, Peterson had been a punk – a petty thief, always in trouble with the law. Under arrest one night, dozing on a police bench, glancing up at a Heinrich Hofmann print of Christ hanging high up on the wall, his heart suddenly starting to race crazily, like the most violent panic attack, but which suddenly dissolved into the most intense and serene vision of his life, a blinding white light, an epiphany. He’d stumbled from the bench after it was done, searching for a reflective surface in which to see what imprint it had left upon him: bleached hair, charred skin, albino irises. To his astonishment, there’d been no physical change whatsoever. Yet it had changed him, all right. It had transformed him from within. For no man could look upon the face of Christ and remain untouched.
He dabbed his forehead once more, turned to Griffin. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then do it.’
He stood back as Griffin and Michael heaved a first block of stone from the false wall to reveal the open space behind that had been indicated by their probes. Griffin reached in his torch, twisted it this way and that, illuminating a large chamber that flickered with shadow and colour, provoking murmurs and gasps from his young students. But Peterson only nodded at Nathan and Michael to continue dismantling the wall.
It said in the Good Book: The Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh upon outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart. The Lord had looked upon his heart that night in custody. The Lord had seen something in him that even he hadn’t realized was there.
A sufficient gap had been created for Griffin to step through, but Peterson put a hand on his shoulder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going first.’
‘It should be an archaeologist.’
‘I’m going first,’ repeated Peterson. He rested his palm on the rough crumbled mortar, stepped through into the new chamber.
He’d not merely been transformed that night; he’d been given purpose. Of all God’s gifts, perhaps the greatest. It hadn’t been easy. He’d wasted years on the medieval make-believe of the Turin Shroud and the Veil of Veronica. Yet he’d never once doubted or contemplated giving in. The Lord didn’t hand out such missions on a whim. And finally he’d found the right lead, had followed it relentlessly, was now within touching distance. He felt it. He knew it. The time of the light was coming, certain as sunrise.
He shone his torch around the chamber. Thirty paces long, ten wide. Everything covered in dust. A deep bath embedded in the floor, a wide flight of steps leading down into it, divided by a low stone wall, so that community members could descend unclean down one side and emerge purified from the other. Walls plastered and painted in antiquity; pigments dulled by neglect, cobwebs, dirt and wormcasts. He brushed an area with his hand, shone his torch obliquely at the revealed scene. A woman in blue with a child on her lap. He had to blink away tears.
‘Reverend! Look!’
He glanced around to see Marcia shining her torch up at the domed ceiling, painted to represent the sky, a glowing orange sun near its apex, constellations of yellow stars, a creamy full moon, red coals of planets. Day and night together. Joy effervesced in his heart as Peterson stared up. He fell to his knees in gratitude and adoration. ‘Let us give thanks,’ he said. He gazed around until all his young students had fallen to their knees. And then even Griffin had to follow, compelled by the power of the group.
‘I know that my redeemer liveth,’ cried Peterson, his voice reverberating loudly around the chamber. ‘And that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.’
Yes, he exulted. In my flesh shall I see God.
IV
Naguib Hussein was on his way back to the Mallawi police station to make his report when he decided it might be as well to make a detour to Amarna, ask the people there if they’d heard anything about a missing young girl, if only to take the opportunity of introducing himself.
A tourist policeman was fooling around on his motorbike, gunning his engine, braking sharply, spraying huge arcs of dust and sand with his back wheel: entertainment for his officer and two comrades drinking chai on wooden benches beneath a makeshift sunshade. Naguib braced himself. Relations between the services were strained around here, each looking down on the other. He waited for the officer to acknowledge his arrival, but he continued to ignore him until Naguib’s cheeks grew warm. He scowled and walked across the officer’s line of sight, giving him no choice but to notice him, though he still didn’t get up. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
Naguib nodded at the eastern crescent of hills. ‘I’ve just come from the desert,’ he said.
‘If they’ll pay you for it.’
‘One of the guides took some tourists out last night. They found a girl.’
‘A girl?’ frowned the officer. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean they found her body. Wrapped in tarpaulin.’
The officer set down his glass, stood up. A tall man, beautifully presented, razor-cut hair, manicured nails, a silken moustache, making the most of his uniform. ‘I hadn’t heard,’ he said, suddenly earnest, offering his hand. ‘Captain Khaled Osman, at your service.’
‘Inspector Naguib Hussein.’
‘Are you new here, Inspector? I don’t recall seeing you before.’
‘Six weeks,’ admitted Naguib. ‘I was in Minya before.’
‘You must have done something pretty bad to get posted here.’
Naguib gave a wry grunt. He’d been investigating military equipment on the black market, hadn’t dropped it even when the trail had led him to the top, not even after he’d been warned off. He hated Egypt’s culture of corruption. ‘They told me it was a promotion,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Khaled. ‘They told me that, too.’ He glanced around. ‘You’ll join us for some chai?’
Naguib shook his head. ‘I need to get back to the station. I just thought I’d ask if you’d heard anything.’
Khaled shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll ask around, if you like. Keep an ear to the ground.’
‘Thank you,’ said Naguib. ‘I’d be most grateful.’ He returned to his Lada feeling cheered. His wife always said that a drop of courtesy could solve a world of ills. She knew what she was talking about, his wife.
I