Shortly before midday they came to a mud-brick wall and passed through a wide gate into a town brimming with life. His escort was forced to push its way through the crowded streets lined with farmers selling their produce on blankets or palm-frond mats laid out on the ground. The smell of exotic spices and human sweat filled the air.
On a hill at the town’s centre stood a temple, built of sandstone, with a tapered tower protruding from its northern end. As they approached it Vespasian could see that rows and rows of tiny figures were carved into the stone walls.
‘What are they?’ Vespasian asked Ahmose, his curiosity outweighing his antipathy.
‘They are hymns to Amun, lists of priests and records of kings who have visited since the temple was built over seven hundred years ago.’
‘That’s writing?’ Vespasian was amazed that these strange depictions of animals and curious signs could be strung together to form coherent sentences.
Ahmose nodded as they mounted the steps leading to the temple’s door together, leaving their escort at the bottom.
The temperature drop was considerable as they entered the building. Symmetrical rows of columns, three paces apart, supported the lofty ceiling, giving the impression of an ordered stone forest. From a few windows, cut high in the south wall, shafts of light, with motes of dust playing within them, sliced down at a sharp angle through the gloom of this interior, petrified grove. The musky residue of incense and the cloying smell of ancient, dry stone replaced the fresh scents of woodland in bloom. The clatter of Vespasian’s hobnailed sandals resounded off the flagstone floor.
A raised, disembodied voice in a language that Vespasian did not understand stopped them by the first row of columns.
‘Ahmose, your fellow priest of Amun,’ Ahmose replied in Greek so that Vespasian could understand.
‘And who accompanies you?’ the voice continued, switching to the same language.
‘The Bennu flew last night.’
‘We do not understand the reason for its coming here. We heard it pass over the temple and have checked the records; it is exactly five hundred years to the day since it was last seen in Egypt but it is five times that number since it was seen so far in the west here in Siwa.’
‘This man felt the heat of its fire and the downdraught of its wings.’
There was silence.
Vespasian looked around; there was no sign of the source of the voice.
Presently he heard the soft patter of unshod feet on smooth stone and two priests appeared in different directions from the depths of the forest of columns. Both were dressed similarly to Ahmose except that they each had two long feathers stuck into the tops of their tall hats.
Walking side by side down a straight, columned path they stopped in front of Vespasian and examined him closely with wide-eyed wonder. He felt very uneasy under the close scrutiny of the priests, one of whom was, now that he could make out their features in the gloom, very old indeed; yet he had the bearing of a young and healthy man. The second priest was in his twenties.
The old priest who had spoken spread his hands, palms up and called to the air. ‘Thou wilt find him who transgresses against Thee. Woe to him that assails Thee. Thy city endures, but he who assails Thee falls. Amun.’
‘Amun,’ intoned the second priest and Ahmose.
‘The hall of him who assails Thee is in darkness, but the whole world is in light. Whosoever puts Thee in his heart, lo, his sun dawns. Amun.’
‘Amun.’
‘If this man did not indeed feel the Wind of the Bennu and bathe in the light of its fire, Amun, the inapparent and apparent, the omniform, will not speak to him and he will be banished from His sun and see no more the dawn. And you, Ahmose, will share his fate.’
‘I saw it with these eyes, may they be taken from me if what I say is not true. He knelt in the light of the Bennu’s fire and then was blown by a wind so strong as the Bennu passed over him that he was cast down into the sand. Amun, whose name is not known, will speak to him.’
‘Very well,’ the second priest said, ‘we will prepare for the Oracle.’
CHAPTER IIII
‘Hail to you, who brought Himself forth as one who created millions in their abundance. The one whose body is millions. Amun.’
Vespasian knelt before the surprisingly small statue of the god set upon an altar in a chamber, lit by two flaming sconces, at the heart of the temple; the three priests surrounded him chanting their hymn. The statue represented Amun seated; in his right hand he held a sceptre, in his left, an ankh; his face was that of a man, the mouth was open and hollow. Across his legs was laid a sword in a richly decorated scabbard of great antiquity. The smoke of pungent incense wafted through the room making Vespasian feel very light-headed and euphoric.
‘No god came into being prior to Him. No other god was with Him who could say what He looked like. He had no mother who created His name. He had no father to beget Him or to say: “This belongs to me.” Amun.’
Vespasian felt himself being lifted to his feet; oil was poured on his forehead and left to trickle down his face. He felt at ease and smiled.
‘You who protect all travellers, when I call to You in my distress You come to rescue me. Give breath to him who is wretched and rescue me from bondage. For You are He who is merciful when one appeals to You; You are He who comes from afar. Come now at Your children’s calling and speak. Amun.’
‘Amun,’ Vespasian found himself repeating.
The word echoed around the room.
Then silence.
Vespasian stood staring at the god; around him the priests were motionless.
The room became chill. The smoke hung, still, in the air. The flames in the sconces died down.
Vespasian felt his heartbeat slow.
He heard a soft breath emanate from the statue’s mouth and in the dim light he could see the smoke begin to swirl around the god’s face.
Another breath, more rasping this time, moved the smoke faster; the low flames flickered.
‘You come too soon,’ a voice whispered, billowing the smoke around the statue’s mouth.
Vespasian’s eyes widened in surprise; he leant forward slightly to assure himself that the voice came from the mouth.
‘Too soon for what?’ he asked, wondering if some elaborate trick was being played on him.
‘Too soon to know your question.’
If the smoke had not moved again Vespasian would have sworn that the voice was in his head.
‘When will I know?’
‘When you can match this gift.’
‘That gift?’ He looked down at the sword placed across the statue’s knees.
‘Equal it.’
‘With what?’
‘A brother will understand.’
‘When?’
‘When you need him to.’
‘How will I…’ he began.
A whistling drawing of breath sucked the smoke into the statue’s mouth in one continuous funnelling gulp; the flames sprang back to full strength.