Mahmoud said, 'The air's a lot fresher there, near the water and in the shade of the trees,' and he started looking for a place to sit in the shade, which he found on a stone at the bottom of a wall that stood close by me. He sat, rested his back against the wall, and repeated his question.
'When will you begin, Catherine, so that we can get back to the house before…'
'Before your Friday prayer appointment. I know.'
I took a deep breath and made an effort to control myself. Then I said, 'I'm working now, in fact. I'm thinking and reviewing the information I have before looking at these remains, which time, earthquakes and the search for treasure have ruined.'
Taking my books from my bag, I went on, 'But wouldn't you like first to hear what Herodotus said about the "Spring of the Sun", whose air you like so much? Do you know Herodotus?'
'Of course. We learnt in school that he said, "Egypt is the gift of the Nile."'
'Correct. He was the world's first historian, and he visited Egypt before writing his book. They call him the "Father of History".'
'And he really, mentions this small spring in his book?'
Smiling, I said, 'In no uncertain terms! He says, my dear, that the water of this spring is warm in the morning, then cools gradually and becomes very cold at noon, when the gardens are being watered, and then the coldness disappears during the day and at midnight the water in the spring boils fiercely. Then the wonder is reversed and it slowly gets cooler again as dawn approaches.'
Mahmoud looked at me, amazement growing in his eyes. He let out a loud laugh and said, 'Did he really write that?'
I waved the book in my hand. 'Do you want me to read it to you?'
'No,' he answered, still laughing. 'Now that's what I call historical scholarship! I've been past the spring at night, at dawn and in the afternoon, and I've drunk from the well and washed in it, and I've never seen the water "boiling fiercely", or even slightly, at any of those times.'
To provoke him, I said, 'Perhaps that's how it was in Herodotus's day.'
He continued as though he hadn't heard me, 'The Father of History, indeed! Why not, when things I saw with my own eyes only a few years ago are now being recounted in the history books exactly the wrong way round? Father of History! History, it seems, truly is a bastard!'
I looked at him as he bent his head, the water dripping from the handkerchief with which he'd covered his head. His tone was sad. His mood had turned gloomy, as I'd feared.
My eyes roamed over the temple and fell on the boy lying on the ground opposite me, who had spat on the image of Isis, and I said to Mahmoud with a little laugh, 'Poor history! It has no friends today.'
I thought, there may well be lies. Certainly there are lies. But by what method are we to know the truth if not that of searching for it?
Suddenly we heard loud clamouring and shouting from the direction of the spring. Ibraheem appeared, hurrying as usual, bent down to speak to Mahmoud and said something to him in a low voice. Mahmoud replied by asking, 'After the Friday prayer? We'll be there.'
Then he got ready to leave with Ibraheem, telling me, 'I'll leave you to hasten your work a little and go back to the spring with the boiling water. Ibraheem says we have to give our condolences to the agwad because one of them has died.'
Ibraheem continued, 'It's Sheikh Mi'bid, God rest his soul and those of all our dead. Still, his death has spared the oasis a war that was just about to break out between the Easterners and the Westerners. God, glory be to Him, has His wisdom.'
They went off together, so I took out all the old pictures I had with me and compared them with what I could see around me. The pictures of the nearby wall and its writings didn't concern me. Most of them showed the ceremonies to make the dead speak the truth on the Day of Judgement that some call the Book of the Dead. Usually they're found in tombs, rarely in temples. Anyway, they were an indication that this was a funerary temple, made for the final orations over and immortalization of a king or other important person who worshipped the god Amun. There was nothing here to do with any search for Alexander, whose visit occurred after the building of the temple. Since we were here, however, we might as well work. I would begin by copying what was on the walls and correcting the mistakes to be found in the books. Luck might be mine, and I'd chance on a more recent text. Who knew?
Alexander's successors, in the shape of the Greek Ptolemies, ruled Egypt for centuries, and many of their nobility lived in the Oasis of Amun and were buried there. Could they really have left no trace that would be of use to us? A small temple, a shrine, or even a commemorative plaque inside a temple that spoke of their divine Alexander and might add to the sum of our knowledge about him?
Would that the spirit of Alexander might help me! I have that book on conjuring up spirits with me. Should I use it? On the other hand, I don't believe in the conjuring of spirits, and I even have questions about the spirits themselves. Enough silliness. To work!
I went towards the wall, then suddenly stopped.
Wait a moment, Catherine! What do all these signs mean?
The conjuring up of spirits, the funerary temple and the Book of the Dead on the wall. Isn't it all leading you to something? Think for a moment. Perhaps what you should be looking for is Alexander's death, not his life! Something that has to do with his death. Yes!
The only person who could have understood me at that moment was my father. He could have helped me too.
But he was helping me!
Everything around me brought to my mind a discussion we had that had ended with a passing phrase that now seemed like a message. It was as though I'd been going round and round this message without realizing. That evening he was talking to me about Alexander and reading to me from Plutarch's book on his final days, and I interrupted him to ask with some bewilderment, 'Isn't it strange that all talk of Alexander's mausoleum in Alexandria, which was the most famous of its landmarks and the objective of all who visited the city, comes to a sudden halt after the fourth century?' My father answered, 'You are right. The question has often bothered me too. What might have happened? Did the sepulchre sink into the sea? Was it destroyed in an earthquake? Was it demolished by the Romans, who demolished so many pagan monuments after embracing Christianity?' He was silent for a moment. Then, thinking out loud, he said, 'Or did some of them take the sepulchre to another place? Did the worship of Alexander continue and did he still have faithful devotees who might have considered how to save the mortal remains of their divinity?'
Why not? If my father were alive, I would persuade him that if his supposition were true there could be no more suitable place than the Oasis of Amun to which to remove the embalmed corpse and sepulchre. Wasn't Alexander's last request that he be buried here, in this oasis, next to his father Amun?
If his supposition were true and if my interpretation were correct. Mere guesswork, there being no indication in history that the sepulchre was moved. No evidence, not the slightest sign.
It was an insane idea, an insane intuition. But every discovery ever made began with this kindness of insanity, didn't it? I would hold my tongue, then, and let my goal be to prove my intuition, to find some evidence, even the slightest evidence, that might lead others to search and dig, and then I'd have some credit for the greatest discovery in the history of the world.
If I succeeded, it would make up for everything I'd had to endure in this oasis. It would give my life the meaning I've been searching for. The important thing, though, was to be patient.
I had less than three hours remaining now in the temple, so I must try to do something useful.
The time passed quickly and made me forget even the heat.
As I was gathering my papers and books together, I said to myself, 'Not a bad harvest. I've corrected some of the mistakes of the books and copied down a prayer to Amun in late Egyptian. However, the miracle of stumbling across a text written in Greek that might lead me to Alexander, alive or dead, did not materialize. No matter. We spoke of patience.'