Sphinx (28 page)

‘Fascinating.’ Holding up a magnifying glass, he bent over the device. ‘The first thing I notice are the cartouches - the royal insignia.’ He pointed at two lines of hieroglyphs one above the other, both enclosed by rounded borders - a little like long imprints of seals. One, I noticed, contained the hieroglyph of the royal falcon. Wollington continued eagerly. ‘The distinctive ostrich-feather motif suggests the astrarium belonged to Nectanebo II. The second cartouche, which theoretically would have been that of the original owner, is that of Ramses III. See here, the heiroglyphs reading “Usemaat-re mery Amu”.
Re is powerful in truth, beloved of Amun, Ramses, ruler of Heliopolis
. Of course, adding a cartouche is common practice in the attempt to make fake antiquities look authentic. Two cartouches is over-egging the cake, so to speak. But back to the device itself: a mechanical ephemeris to navigate destiny might be a good way of defining this artefact. Although, in truth, the existence in Pharaonic time of a sophisticated object such as an astrarium is highly unlikely. Egyptian astrology was considered a sacred science to be kept out of the hands of the uninitiated, which means that most of what we know of it today is only surmised - educated guesses based on the belief systems of contemporary cultures. Unfortunately, we have no other points of reference.’

‘So I’m discovering when it comes to my own ability to suspend disbelief,’ I joked.

‘Easier for some than for others; it really depends on your own spirituality. But you must remember that Nectanebo II believed absolutely in his own mystical powers, as did his followers. In fact, in his own time and in the generations to come, he was considered one of the greatest sorcerers and astrologers ever to have existed. Of course, his mysterious disappearance only added fuel to the myth. Some say he still lives to this day.’

I was a little shocked to see not a trace of irony on Wollington’s face now.

He smiled as if to reassure me, and continued: ‘If the myth of immortality is to be believed, that is. It is extraordinary what lengths humanity will go to in the search for eternal life. There was a huge export industry in mummies between the twelfth and seventeenth centuries - Europeans believed that drinking a concoction containing powdered mummy would make them live longer. It proved such a profitable export that the Egyptians resorted to sending over far more recent desiccated corpses.’ Wollington smiled ghoulishly. ‘Even now, American tourists spend large amounts of money bribing tomb guards to allow them to sleep overnight in the pyramids in the belief that this might extend their lives. An astrarium like this, a machine that could control one’s destiny, might also have been assumed to confer immortality - such an idea would certainly have seemed reasonable in Ancient Egypt.’

I sensed a change in his attitude towards me - a definite coolness underpinned by something else: a concealed arrogance. Now I was almost starting to suspect that he might be concealing his real personality under an assumed eccentricity.

‘I have heard of the existence of the astrarium before,’ Wollington went on. ‘It has become something of a holy grail amongst certain archaeologists, not only for your wife.’

He walked over to a filing cabinet and after rummaging around finally pulled out a facsimile document. ‘This letter, dated 1799, was sent from Alexandria by Sonnini de Manoncour to Napoleon. It details how although he failed to find the Ramses/Nectanebo skybox, he had the good fortune to find a section of an inscribed stone tablet which he was convinced was of great religious and magical value. As you can see, the letter was bequeathed to the British Museum by the Coptic Egyptologist and mystic Ahmos Khafre.’

I realised this had to be a copy of the very letter that Isabella had seen all those years ago in Goa. Fascinated, I tried to make out the ornate archaic French script, but Hugh Wollington all too quickly put it back into the cabinet.

‘So Ahmos Khafre was reputable?’ I asked, trying to sound casually interested.

‘As an Egyptologist, his reputation was impeccable. As for his other beliefs, I’m not one to pass judgement. But the letter has been proved authentic.’

‘How did the museum get hold of it?’

‘Khafre bequeathed all his possessions and writings to us - some were more useful than others. Interestingly, he told the museum exactly when to expect them.’ He paused, perhaps for effect. ‘He predicted the date of his own death, you see - to the hour. Amazing.’

I frowned, as much because of the smug glee in Wollington’s voice as the actual morbidity of the matter.

Wollington pulled on white cotton gloves and lifted the astrarium to examine the underside. ‘It’s always amusing to see how these fakes work.’

I was startled back to reality. ‘Fake?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry to tell you this is probably a forgery - possibly seventeenth century. Most likely constructed for an alchemist as part of his collection of tricks to convince prospective clients. Any object that could be associated with Nectanebo II, the great Egyptian magician Pharaoh, would be marvellous for setting the scene.’

I stared at him. I knew he was lying. The question was why.

‘I tell you, I was there when my wife excavated it from the sea floor.’ It was hard to disguise my anger at Wollington’s superciliousness. Through the glass partition I could see other museum officials looking up from their desks at the sharpness in my tone.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. I didn’t say it wasn’t an
expensive
forgery. Besides, as I said before, it is ridiculous to think that something of the Pharaonic period, and as complex as this, would be in such pristine condition.’

His tone of voice had become distinctly patronising, and only served to convince me further that the artefact was genuine. So he wanted the astrarium as well. But why the clumsy attempt at deception? Even if he managed to persuade me of its worthlessness, surely he couldn’t believe I’d leave it with him?

‘As a geophysicist, I can tell you such preservation is rare but not unheard of,’ I said. ‘Sometimes the mud on the ocean floor is so dense that oxygen can’t permeate it. It also appears that the mechanism might have originally been preserved in oil, which would have created a watertight seal.’

‘Mr Warnock, you are clutching at straws,’ Wollington said, his smile a grimace. ‘Naturally I understand you are upset, given the circumstances of its discovery.’

His earlier wry humour appeared extremely disingenuous now, a fake benevolence designed to both make me trust him and lower my guard. Instead, a steely and thinly disguised aggression now ran under his voice and I noticed that his whole body had tensed up as if he were preparing to fight. I moved back behind the chair, my mind switching to an animal instinct, the prey preparing to run from the hunter.

‘Well, if it’s a worthless fake, I’ll just take it home,’ I said in a deliberately casual manner, stretching out my hand to take the artefact. Unexpectedly, his own hand shot out and closed around my wrist. I yanked it back but Wollington was surprisingly agile for a man of his bulk.

‘Actually, as I warned you earlier, there are protocols to be observed, even for fakes.’

Wollington’s whole tone had changed and I caught a glimpse of the soldier beneath the academic - a quiet but palpable violence. I felt momentarily intimidated and my anxiety mounted. For a moment we struggled. Then, just as quickly, he reverted to a neutral friendliness, releasing my arm.

‘Look, it won’t take long. If you don’t mind waiting here?’

He smiled, an open, reassuring smile now. Reluctantly, I sat down. Perhaps I was being paranoid. I watched through the glass partition as he entered the adjoining office and approached an officious-looking colleague. They exchanged a few words, then looked at the partition. Their gazes didn’t connect with mine and I guessed it must be one-way glass. They appeared to be arguing. The older man reached for the phone but Wollington grabbed his arm, preventing him from picking up the receiver.

Wollington’s shirt sleeve rode up, revealing a tattoo. Then, just as quickly, he gestured and the tattoo disappeared. Although it was hard to be sure from that distance I thought I recognised the distinctive shape of a Ba, a tattoo similar to Isabella’s. The unexpected congruence of images hit me with a jolt.

The sound of a door slamming nearby galvanised me into action. I put the astrarium back into my rucksack and left the office as fast as I could without attracting attention.

 

The museum’s entrance hall was milling with tourists. I stood at the foot of the broad marble stairs. On the far side of the hall I noticed a museum official scanning the crowd. I ducked behind a pillar. Just then a lift door opened and five security guards, serious in their intent, stepped out. At the orders of their superior they separated and began pushing their way through the tourists and museum visitors. I could see they were looking for someone. I glanced around wildly; nearby a heavily pregnant young mother with a small child was struggling with a stroller. The child had just begun bawling. Lowering my head I made my way across and offered to help. Without waiting for a reply I soothed the child, strapped her into the stroller and escorted both mother and child towards the exit. Pushing the stroller, I walked right past the guards as I smiled and chatted to the thankful woman - we must have looked like the epitome of a young family. No one gave me even a second glance. But as we walked past the reception desk a phone rang. A young girl answered, then looked over in my direction. Mustering all my acting abilities I ignored her. I must have been a foot from the revolving glass doors when she called the guards over. Without a word, I handed the stroller back to the mother and exited as fast as I could without panicking. Outside I broke into a run, flagged down a taxi and jumped inside.

As the cab swung around the corner I caught sight of the security guards racing out of the building. I ducked down in my seat.

That night I lay in bed torn between exhaustion and the fear of having another nightmare about Isabella. My body was rigid with tension. Eyes wide open, I watched the shadows on the ceiling. It was impossible to relax. I’d bolted the front door and actually pushed a cupboard against it but it had felt like a ridiculous attempt to keep out the inevitable raid I was expecting. Surely Hugh Wollington could trace me to the apartment if he really wanted to. Suddenly an unearthly howl sounded outside. I jumped, terrified, steeling myself for some supernatural visitation. The howl was followed by a low growling and a miaow - cats fornicating. Relieved, I laughed at myself, then glanced at the alarm clock. I was amazed to see it was already five in the morning. Abandoning the bed, I decided to distract myself. I needed to find out if Isabella had left any clues amongst her London papers. Knowing how extensive her research had been, I was hoping she might have jotted down some notes indicating to whom and where the astrarium belonged, if found. I couldn’t carry the device around for ever. I needed to get rid of it as soon as possible. While I was reaching up to a top shelf for a box file, a book became dislodged from a lower shelf and fell onto the carpet. It was a collection of English poetry. As I picked it up, an inscription on the inside cover caught my eye:
For Isabella - all my love, Enrico Silvio, Oxford 1970.

Slipped between the pages was an old black-and-white photograph. A group of people stood poised in front of an archaeological dig, a strange formality to the composition as if they were members of a travelling group or club. In the front row, crouching down and smiling into the camera, was a very young Isabella. Her hand rested on the knee of the woman seated behind her - Amelia Lynhurst. To my surprise Amelia had once been quite attractive. Seated next to her was Giovanni Brambilla, Isabella’s grandfather - I recognised him from the family photographs. He wore a safari suit and an embroidered fez, and looked authoritarian even in his eighties, his deep-set eyes and heavy eyebrows scowling at the camera. Standing behind him was an effeminate-looking man with long hair who stood in profile - a younger Hermes Hemiedes. On his other side stood a strangely familiar figure, a man in his late thirties with a mop of unruly hair and a piercing gaze. He wore a British army uniform and the facial features stood out immediately despite the unfamiliar framing of hair - Hugh Wollington. So he had known Isabella, but not from some conference. I paused. I felt somehow like a voyeur, reaching back into Isabella’s past, more so here, surrounded by the objects she’d lived with. I glanced up. The room was beginning to fill with the bluish light of dawn. Again, the unsettling feeling that I was being directed, that I was only part of a puzzle, the shape of which remained obscure. I shivered, filled with a sense of foreboding. I’d escaped the threat in Egypt, or at least I thought I had, but now, after the incident at the museum and while I stared down at the photograph of Hugh Wollington’s face, the net felt as if it was once more closing in.