This was the first sign of the new attitude rapidly crystallising in Kit’s character: call it stalwart determination. Perhaps, at last, one could detect the vestiges of a sturdier, more robust backbone. Although it took little more than the form of a swiftly hardening resolve to discover the secret of the Skin Map, still, it was a beginning. Taking up the quest in dead earnest, he decided, would be the best tribute he could offer Cosimo and Sir Henry. They deserved that much, at least.
Whatever else could be said, they did not deserve to die like that: stricken down by the contagion of the tomb, some airborne plague germ or something-wasn’t that what killed Howard Carter and those other archaeologists who opened King Tut’s tomb? Whatever infested the tomb, dear old Cosimo and Sir Henry had succumbed to it, and if Wilhelmina had not turned up when she did, no doubt he and Giles would have suffered the very same fate. He wondered if he had caught the bug already. Truth to tell, he did not feel any too strong just now. What I need, he breathed to himself, is a good meal and a restful night’s sleep to see me right. That’s all.
Was that too much to ask? Kit did not think so.
With this thought in mind, Kit roused himself and, fortifying himself with another swig of water, started down the long meandering path into the broad Nile valley. Upon rejoining the rock-strewn way, the heat hit him anew and he considered taking off his shirt and wrapping that around his head turban-style. But that would just be trading a present misery for the future one of sun-fried shoulders. He would get a good hat at the first opportunity.
Picking his way over the shattered landscape, he dropped lower into the valley; the air grew slightly more humid the closer he came to the river. His progress, though steady, was not as swift as he hoped it would be. Distances could be deceiving in the desert, he knew, and for all Kit’s donkeylike progress he seemed to come no nearer his destination.
As the sun drifted lower and ever lower in the western sky, Kit watched his shadow stretch out before him over the rocky waste. Mesmerised by his ever-lengthening silhouette, he was brought once more to his senses when a chorus of barking dogs announced his arrival in a small riverside village.
CHAPTER 3
Turms the Immortal opened his eyes on the eight thousand and thirty-first day of his reign. Rising from his gilded bed, he bathed in the sacred basin beside the door, his lips moving in silent prayer as he laved perfumed water over his face and limbs. His ablutions finished, he dried himself on clean linen and drew on his crimson robe. A house servant appeared with his golden sash and tall ceremonial hat. Turms allowed the servant to belt the sash, and then put on the hat and went out to greet the crowd that had gathered with gifts and offerings to receive his judgement and blessing. He moved though the marble-tiled rooms of his lodge to the portico, stepped across the threshold, and passed between the sacred blue pillars and quickly down the three clean-swept travertine steps.
As he stepped onto the path, he chanced to see a small black pebble lying precisely in the centre of the path: a stone worn smooth and round by many waters, an almost perfect sphere. Beside the stone lay three long needles from the nearby pine trees; the three formed a neatly placed arrow.
The priest king of Velathri paused to contemplate this small marvel. The pebble, he knew, had come from the seashore a few miles distant. A bird had picked it up-a seagull, perhaps-and then flown inland to drop the stone before his door. The arrow of green needles directed his attention to the west.
It was an omen, a sign to him from the world beyond, the meaning of which came clear to him as he gazed upon the simple beauty of the pebble, for Turms could comprehend all manner of omens. The meaning was this: he would soon receive a visitor-a guest arriving by way of the sea from the west-a foreign visitor, then, whose friendship he would do well to accept.
Turms closed his fist over the pebble and thanked the gods for their continued blessing of his long reign. This little stone would be added to all the others in the jar of his days.
Tucking the omen stone into the wide sleeve of his robe, he continued down the long, sloping ramp of the artificial hill on which the royal lodge was constructed. He walked slowly down the cypress-lined path, enjoying the astringent fragrance of the tall trees. The early-morning sunlight deepened the colour of the soil to a rich rusty red that contrasted nicely with the brilliant blue of the sky. Down below, at the foot of the ramp, his attendants and acolytes waited: two apprentice priests and four temple servants. The latter each held a pole attached to a corner of orange cloth, the canopy beneath which the priest king would receive his faithful subjects. Upon the king’s approach the attendants, bare to the waist, stretched out the canopy, and Turms took his place before the small crowd.
Pressing the palms of his hands together, he raised his arms above the heads of the people and said, “May the blessings of this day be yours in abundance.”
Then he greeted them, saying, “It pleases me to receive your gifts on this most auspicious morning. Come near to me, for this is the acceptable hour. Who will be first?” He lowered his hands and looked around him at the hopeful faces of his subjects. He saw a young girl with blue cornflowers in her hair, holding a sprig of laurel. “You, little one, what is your desire?”
The girl, nudged forward by her father, stepped timidly closer. She did not dare to meet the gaze of the king, but kept her head bowed, her eyes upon the laurel clasped in her trembling hands.
“Is this for me?” asked Turms, bending near.
The girl nodded.
“I thank you,” he said, gently taking the laurel sprig, “and the gods thank you.” He placed a hand on her head and felt the gentle heat there. “What do you want me to do for you?” She hesitated, and he said, “Speak, child. All heaven stands ready to do your bidding.”
“It is my mother,” replied the girl, head low, her voice faint as a whisper.
“Yes? Tell me, what is in your heart?”
“She is very sick.”
“Your mother is sick and you would see her made well again-is that your desire?”
The little girl nodded.
Glancing up, Turms addressed the father, who was now standing behind his daughter. “How long?” he asked.
“Two days, my lord king,” replied the man.
Turms nodded. He straightened, raised his face to the sky, and covered his face with his hands. He stood in silence for a moment and then, lowering his hands once more, smiled and said, “There is nothing to fear.” He reached towards the girl and took her chin between his finger and thumb, lifting her head. “Your mother will be well. This illness will pass. In three days, her strength will be renewed.”
“Thank you, lord,” said the man, relief visible on his face.
Turning to one of the acolytes, Turms said, “Send one of the court physicians to this man’s house with a potion for sleep and the easing of fever.” To the man and little girl, he said, “Go in peace. The gods are pleased to grant your petition.”
Bowing from the waist, the man backed away through the crowd, drawing his daughter with him, thanking his king as he went.
“Who will be next?” asked Turms.
A man dressed in the short tunic and sandals of a day labourer stepped forward and went down on his knees. He stretched forth his hands, holding a heavy bunch of ripe purple grapes. “My lord and king, hear me. I am in need.”