Reflections in the Nile (58 page)

“What? What do you see?”

Then, like a discoverer before her, she said, “Gold. Everywhere the glint of gold.”

With some extra chipping at the ceiling, they got Cheftu through. They sat there, struck mute by all they saw. A few more torches showed them they were in a long corridor: the corridor of a great pharaoh's tomb.

It was haphazardly done, though, not intended for use any time soon. The walls were drawn, but only half painted. The sky that stretched the length of the ceiling was painted blue, but only in one corner were the gold stars picked out. Carved into the sandstone were columns, one-sided versions of the HatHor-headed columns at Hatshepsut's mortuary temple in Deir El-Bahri, the-Most-Splendid. The same graceful sweep of ramp, building up into the rock above, proclaimed Senmut as architect.

Gold was everywhere, a pharaoh's ransom. It looked as though someone had dumped off her belongings: gilded chairs and small tables, heaped with painted and enameled trunks, filled with the clothes Hat had worn since birth.

They continued up the passageway, stopping before an enormous wall painting, fully finished and beautiful in its longing. A man and wife stood in their garden, his arm around her waist, holding a lotus to her nose. They looked out at gamboling children playing with geese and monkeys, their youthlocks swinging in the breeze of the garden. A huge sycamore wrapped all the way around the garden, from the waterfowl in flight to the delicately painted fish swimming in the pool, protecting and embracing. It was from the heart of a man who had had everything except a family life with the woman he loved. Hat was dressed in a fluted, transparent linen sheath; only the ankh in her long fingers and the vulture headdress atop her finely braided black hair gave clues to her position.

Senmut had painted himself with enormous modesty, allowing for the age around his eyes and the slightly peasant features of his face and ears. He was dressed finely, but it was his jewelry that was the most detailed. He wore a long pectoral, and by holding the torch high, Chloe and Cheftu could read the words painted by the side of the Eye of Horus: “Protect my brother from harm; save his soul on the Shores of Night; that which he did wrong, he did for me. Weigh his heart and find it pure.”

“She took eternal responsibility for his transgressions,” Cheftu whispered. “She loved him for all time, into the hereafter.”

“I bet that necklace is here,” Chloe whispered, her throat choked with tears.

“Aye,” Cheftu said, drawing her close. Breaking away from the enchantment of the painting, they followed a short flight of stairs up to the burial antechamber. It was mostly empty; a lot of the drawings were done but still unpainted. Cheftu estimated they were slightly aboveground, inside the rock. “This is incredible,” he said. “I knew Senmut was brilliant, but this is genius, pure genius.”

They hit the jackpot.

Turning away from several still uncut false trails, they entered the burial chamber. For the first time in her life, Chloe understood the madness of gold. Her pulse increased, her eyes burned, and for a few minutes all she thought was about how much she could
take.
Cheftu positioned the torches, and they stared. Life-size statues stood in each corner. One was Anubis, his collar a mass of precious stones and his body carved from obsidian with such delicacy that the tendons in the jackal's shoulders were visible. Amun, HatHor, and Hapi stood in the other corners—Amun golden, HatHor in granite, Hapi of greenstone. Each was draped with jewelry and linen so fine that it looked spun from cobwebs.

At the opposite end of the room stood the gold-plated sarcophagi covers, each waiting for the granite one that would carry the body, before it was sealed inside the other and sealed inside again and again, like Chinese boxes for giants. There were at least twelve full-size ushabti, their bodies covered in gold, their eyes onyx. There were altars covered in enamel, gold, and electrum. The dressing table that had been Hat's when she was a princess stood to one side, covered with makeup pots and dolls, flanked by matching stools.

Then they saw
it,
the object that if found, could set the modern world twirling like a gyroscope. Cheftu sat down, suddenly, in one of the many chairs. “She must have hidden it away from Thutmosis the First in his great anger and purge,” he murmured, stunned.

Chloe knelt before it, reading the deeply etched cartouche at the base: “Hail, Horus-in-the-Nest, Prince Ramoses, Makepre, Mighty Bull of Ma'at, He-Who-Brings-Light, Favored Son of Aa-kheper-Ra Tehutimes, Thutmosis the First, Pharaoh, Living Forever! Life! Health! Prosperity!”

She looked into the face of Moshe, prince of Egypt, deliverer of Israel. She touched the gold arm, each muscle hammered in carefully, the dark eyes rimmed in black, the collar of turquoise, lapis, and gold resting, a separate piece, on the broad golden shoulders.

He was life-size, taller than most men, stepping forward with his left leg in perfect pharaonic style, his left hand grasping the Ankh of Life, his right holding the Feather of Truth. He wore the blue helmet of the army, the cobra and vulture jutting forward proudly, defending the body of the Hope of Egypt.

The artist had been true to Moses’ form; his nose was sharper than most Egyptian sculptures, the chin more pointed, the eyes deep-set.

Since the statue itself was gold, the kilt was inlaid lapis lazuli, each piece fitting exactly with its partners, laid at varying degrees and angles to give the illusion of pleats. The sash was an actual gold leather strip, its edges embroidered and beaded. The tassels on the ends were uneven, but the cartouche of his name was beautifully stitched. Chloe touched it and, marveling at its softness, turned it over. She gave a shocked squeak. Cheftu joined her, and together they stared at the childish hieratic note embroidered inside: “To my half-brother, Ramoses. May the gods bless you and please remember to feed my pony.” And then, meticulously written out in full hieroglyphs: “Hatshepset, Second Princess of the Great House.”

“She must have almost died when she saw him in Avaris,” Chloe whispered, unable to take her eyes off the statue.

Cheftu led her away, and they walked through an aisle between heaping piles of treasure: throwing sticks, arrows, and bows; quivers inlaid with precious stones; game boards with faces painted on the pieces, some ridiculous, some endearing; fans, flails, whisks, sandals, makeup boxes, trunks of linens; baskets filled with dried foods; dates, raisins, waterfowl jerky; cases of beer and wine, the cartouche and date from Senmut's house.

Before them was an enormous bed, with graceful lotus cut into the feet and posts, draped in linens so soft that they felt like tissue. Two headrests lay on it, one in ebony, engraved with the cartouche of Hat, one in simple wood, unadorned but well used.

It was like a honeymoon after a plane crash—the lovers were gone. The things were beautiful but unused full of futile hopes. For hours they wandered through, picking up things, admiring the handiwork, and then laying them down. The bodies, for which Hat and Senmut had so carefully prepared were gone. Their souls might still wander, but this artistry was pointless.

It was too much, too poignant.

She met Cheftu's teary gaze. “Out?”

Taking torches, they walked back the way they'd come; squeezing through the tight holes barring their return. At last they stood in the bare chamber, clean and empty except for the extra rock on the floor and the empty water jugs. They crawled back up the ladder, breathing deeply of the clean air, and were more than a little surprised to see the sun up and blazing.

Cheftu was last out, and he doused the torches with sand then threw them back down, closing the passage behind them. The sun was hot, but the heat brought sweat, and with a stab Chloe realized it felt good—after being in a place of pointless death, it was a comfort to feel moisture on her skin … the dead didn't sweat. They retreated in silence to the shade, content to hold and caress each other as they watched the life of the desert. Thief rolled in the sand chased the few birds, and then ran to the nearby grasslands, seeking his supper.

Chloe leaned against Cheftu's chest, feeling the cement of their skin together, watching the brilliant blue of the sky, listening to the seven-toned cry of a hawk as he plunged to the earth, grabbed some small animal in his talons, and wheeled away, higher and higher into the blue. The days were much cooler, the colors sharper, than a month ago.

“What day do you suppose it is?” Chloe asked, laying her head against Cheftu.

“I do not suppose, I know. I have kept count since the day we left Imhotep. It is Tybi, about October the eighth or ninth. Time for planting.”

“So we leave the drawings here and go to Noph?” she asked, hoping not to get an answer.

“Exactement,”
he said, kissing her hair. “We must be careful; the
rekkit
are returning to rebuild after the Inundation, and there will be a lot of scribes counting to ascertain what the people will pay for taxes.”

“How do they know before the harvest?”

“By the level of the Nile. There are elaborate charts that detail how much yield from each field in each province, and also what they will plant next season.”

“Do you miss your home?”

He kissed her head again. “What? Miss sleeping on a couch clean kilts, a steam shave, bathing, and fresh food? Whatever for?”

She joined his rueful laughter. “Nay, I meant working with the grapes, or with medicine, those kinds of things.”

He sighed. “I have not thought about it. It would be torture to long for that which you cannot have,
haii?
”

They sat silently, watching the day come to a close, the sky darken to a deep lapis, the calls of the animals as they either woke for the night or settled into sleep.

“What will you do when you return?” he asked quietly.

Chloe tensed. She didn't want to return, not anymore, not without Cheftu. However, she had been told clearly
to
return, and Cheftu had not volunteered to join her. “I… do not know. My sister must have been so upset this past year; I am afraid it will even be more disturbing to have me back. I wonder how I will change back to the way I really look.”

“You do not look like this?” Cheftu asked, startled.

“Nay. I look about as different as HatHor from Sekhmet.”

“Haii?
Like what?” His words were casual, but he was tense with curiosity.

Chloe responded as if automatically. “Oh, you know. Long gray hair, hook nose, little piggy eyes, and a hunchback. Not bad for an eighty-four-year-old woman.” She spoke in English, and laughed aloud when Cheftu's mental translation was complete. Poor man, he was trying to decide whether or not she was serious.

“This is a farce, correct? Besides, you cannot be older than mid-twenties, which is still pretty old.” He sounded nervous.

She laughed in indignation and turned to him. “Twenty-four is not old. You, however, are what, thirty-one?”

“Aye, but I am a man. What did you look like?” he said, dismissing her huff at his sexist comment.

“My coloring is different, that is all. I have the same features, the same body …”

“Assst,
well, I am very glad about the body,” he said, touching his more favorite parts. “Were you a blonde, a brunette?” he whispered as he nuzzled her neck.

Chloe gasped out, “A redhead, actually….”

“With skin like ivory….”

“White, definitely white.” More like a dead chicken, she thought.

“May I introduce a new flavor?” he whispered into her ear.

Blood pounded through her as she turned in his arms to kiss him. “I think we might go for a sundae.”

“A Sunday?”

She nipped his earlobe. “Not the day of the week. It is an ice-cream special.”

“What makes it special?”

She gasped at the feel of his hands, rough against her bare skin. “Three flavors, syrups, and nuts.”

“Three?” He pulled back, startled.

“Of course if you cannot—?”

“Of course I can,” he commented, folding her legs. “I just clarified. I can do three.”

“Cheftu? I, oh, I want them all to be … different.”

The days at Hatshepsut's empty mausoleum were like a honeymoon. They sat in the sun in the morning, holding hands and enjoying the peace of life, no one pursuing them, no wounds, not starving. It was a nice change, to put it mildly. They made love in the heat of the day and slept away the afternoon. At dusk one or both of them went hunting with Thief, then shared their dinner over the fire. There was a nearby pride, and sometimes Thief hunted with them, trailing behind the lioness and her cubs.

Lost weight was regained, energies restored; and then the day came. They had to leave. Together they walked through the tomb once more, marveling at Hatshepsut's beautiful things, standing in awe before the statue of Moses, then down and into the entry room. They sealed over the opening, and Cheftu pressed his private seal as an
erpa-ha
of Egypt into the wet plaster. Chloe tried to remember what Cammy had said about how the scrolls were found, and when they walked past two enormous water jars in the hallway, she knew that the final piece was in place.

They looked through all the drawings again, and Chloe wondered if, or under what circumstances, she would see them again. With silent prayers they rolled up the scrolls, leaving the largest wrapped around the back, making it the easiest to unroll. The Exodus scroll. They leaned the jars up, brushed away their footprints, and ascended into the light once more.

As Cheftu disappeared over the top of the makeshift ladder, Chloe told him to wait a moment Taking the last torch, she went to the opposite wall, the passageway up to where Hatshepsut's treasure house was. Kneeling in the dust, she painted her fingertip with kohl and drew her cat logo and a ladder. Ladders on tomb walls were common; they symbolized climbing to Osiris. They also meant “to move upward.” Maybe it would be the proof she'd need in the twentieth century. “Look up, Cammy,” she murmured.

Once she was out, Cheftu moved the rocks back to hide the opening, and they took their lightened baskets and began the walk toward Waset.