“My father’s map — see?” At this, Benedict opened his shirt and began drawing symbols on his chest with his finger in imitation of Arthur’s many tattoos. He then pantomimed drawing them. “You see? I must copy the map.”
Understanding broke across Anen’s broad features. “You want the skin,” he said, placing his own hand against his chest and making little curlicues with his finger.
“The map, yes.” Benedict nodded, confident that the priest had understood.
“This will take time.” Anen pulled on his chin and frowned. “But we must get you away from here now before the fighting starts.” He turned and spoke a rapid command to the priest he had placed in charge of Benedict’s safety. “A new command-take him to the servant’s precinct beside the river. Go to Hetap and tell him to watch over our guest until I send for him. He will be rewarded.”
The senior priest bowed in acknowledgment of the command, and then beckoned Benedict away. The young man hesitated. “You will bring me the copy of the map?” he asked, retracing the symbols on his chest.
Anen smiled and pantomimed the symbols, then made a motion with his hands as if folding a cloth, which he then presented to Benedict.
“Thank you, Anen,” Benedict repeated. “I am in your debt.”
At the far end of the temple in a dusty little corner was a small door-large enough to accommodate a goat or dog, or a man on hands and knees-and after withdrawing the bolts and catches, Benedict was led out into the night-dark streets of Niwet-Amun. Once away from the temple, the city remained placid and quiet, the people asleep in their homes. They walked through a district of large houses-the homes of the wealthy nobility-and progressed by degrees through neighbourhoods of more modest means until they reached the humble mud-brick huts of the servant class that lined the river. Here there were people awake and already working: hoeing or watering their gardens, tending their chickens, sitting at looms, repairing tools, and other chores-labouring for themselves before going off to serve in the houses of their masters.
They stopped at a house with a neatly tended garden and approached a squat, fat old man sitting on a stool outside the front door. The senior priest bowed and spoke to the man, then indicated Benedict. The fellow rose, bowed, and made a lengthy reply to the priest, then bowed again. Turning to his charge, the priest indicated that Benedict was to remain with the man.
The priest departed then, and the old man addressed his guest. “Hetap,” he said, placing his fingertips against his pudgy chest.
Benedict repeated the name, then said his own, whereupon the old temple servant took him by the hand and led him into the house to meet his wife, a plump, grey-haired woman with a ready, dimpled smile. Benedict was given the only chair in the house and, as the sun rose on a new day, he was fed figs, slices of sweet melon, and flat bread fried in palm oil and dipped in honey. Then he was shown where he could sleep.
All this was accomplished with simple sign language and an impressive dose of goodwill. At each transaction, Benedict thanked his hosts and hoped they would be richly rewarded for their kindness to him, a stranger who could not even speak their language.
He lay down a little while, but could not rest. Thoughts of his father’s last moments crowded out all other considerations. It was still difficult for him to accept that his father was dead. He continually relived the awful moment, and wondered how he would break the news to his mother. What would she do when she learned her husband of so many years would never return to her? How would she bear it?
Bereft, lonely, grieving, unable to understand anyone or make himself understood save for blunt gestures that passed for sign language, Benedict spent the day in misery, watching the road for any sign of Anen bringing the copy of his father’s map. But the priest did not come. Toward the end of the day he saw a barge approaching on the river; as it passed the village, he saw that it was filled with soldiers. This he took as a sign that the trouble at the temple had come to the notice of the authorities and the situation would then be resolved.
By the end of that first day, he went to his rest feeling certain that the map would arrive the next day and he would soon be on his way.
The second day dragged by, and though Benedict rarely took his eyes off the road, no one came from the temple. The third day passed similarly-the only change was that the commotion in the city seemed to be spreading. The villagers were becoming restive, and many seemed fearful; there were furtive discussions amongst neighbours and everyone was wary.
Almost beside himself with frustrated impatience, the young man determined that he would not wait another day but, come what may, would return to the temple to see for himself what was happening. Obviously, something had gone wrong. How long did it take to make a simple copy of the tattoos on his father’s chest? Benedict berated himself for leaving without insisting on making the copy himself-much as he would have dreaded the task, at least it would have been done. He spent a last restless night and rose at first light the next morning to set out; Hetap and his wife attempted to prevent him, but he remained adamant. He thanked his guardians for taking care of him and departed.
He was halfway through the village when he saw a chariot speeding towards him. He waited, and as it drew near he recognised Tutmose. The chief of the guards had clearly been in a battle; he wore bandages on his right arm and left leg just above the knee, and his eye was black and discoloured from a nasty blow.
Tutmose halted the horses and stepped from the chariot. From a bag on a strap over his shoulder he produced a parcel wrapped in papyrus and bound with a band of linen dyed red. The commander greeted Benedict and placed the parcel firmly in his hands.
“Thank you,” said Benedict. The parcel, flat and decorated with a row of hieroglyphic symbols in black along one side, was so light as to weigh almost nothing.
As Benedict tugged at the red band to untie the bundle, the commander reached out and prevented him, saying, “Rewi rok.”
“No?” asked Benedict.
Tutmose shook his head and indicated that he was to get into the chariot at once. Clutching the parcel, Benedict climbed into the vehicle, and with a jolt the horses clattered out of the village. Soon they were speeding past fields of beans and barley, heading up into the hills and out into the desert.
By the time he had mastered his balance in the swerving, jouncing vehicle, the long avenue of ram-headed sphinxes came into view. But a few moments later, the chariot was drawing up at the end of the avenue where the sacred way leading to the temple commenced. Tutmose gestured for Benedict to get out, then turned his team and, raising his hand in farewell, sped off once more, leaving Benedict to make his departure alone and unseen.
It was early yet. The sun was just rising above the line of hills to the east. Benedict knew which sphinx to mark in order to make the leap-his father had taught him well. But first he had to look at the map copied from his father’s tattoos. Kneeling down where the stone pavement ended, he carefully untied the red linen band and unwrapped the papyrus.
What he saw caused him to jump to his feet and take two involuntary steps back. He stared at the parcel on the ground, amazement and revulsion churning through him in waves that made him gasp and fight for breath.
For on the ground before him was no mere copy of the map made by the temple scribes, but the map itself: his father’s skin made into parchment. His inability to communicate had led to this monstrous misunderstanding. No mere copy, the embalmers had preserved the original. The horror of the deed overwhelmed him, and Benedict retched into the dust at his feet.
When the dry heaves subsided, he stood gazing at the ghastly artefact, wondering what to do. He could not bear to take it, neither could he leave it. Caught in a spiral of indecision, he stared at the grisly thing-a roughly rectangular piece of near translucent integument covered with the blue symbols applied during the life of its owner- knowing he must decide, and quickly. The sun climbed higher above the hills. Time was fast approaching when the ley would cease its activity and he would be forced to spend another day in this hateful place.