Sphinx (40 page)

‘Just how did he think he was going to achieve that?’

Francesca’s head snapped up and she finally looked me in the eye, as if suddenly realising that she had already given away too much. ‘Enough! I have told you too much already; I will not betray my husband!’

‘I’m not asking you to betray your husband, just to save your granddaughter.’ My tone matched hers as we glowered at each other.

‘It is too late for that, Oliver. We have lost her, don’t you understand? We have both lost her.’

‘But is she at peace, Francesca?’

‘At peace? Don’t be an idiot. Look around you - I am surrounded by the dead, all screaming for retribution. When I die it will be the same.’

I slipped the book back onto the shelf. ‘I need to know the name of the priest who handled Isabella’s funeral,’ I ventured, more carefully now, unsure whether I’d lost her trust altogether.

To my relief Francesca answered my question. ‘Father Carlotto, at St Catherine’s. The parish has served the family for years.’

Her hand was a collision of delicate bones resting on my arm as I escorted her back to the study door. Once we were in the corridor, she locked the door and turned to me.

‘You cannot visit him tonight; tonight your duty is to me. You must accompany me to the opera house. The Bolshoi Ballet is visiting and they are putting on a production of Stravinsky’s
Orpheus
.’

Disturbed by her sudden fey tone of voice I thought she might have slipped back into the memory of some past event, but just then Aadeel appeared in the shadows. ‘Madame Brambilla would be most indebted if you could accompany her,’ he said. ‘Truly, it is the event of the year - everyone who matters in Alexandria will be there. And Madame must attend for the sake of the family’s reputation. ’

I fingered the cut on my forehead thoughtfully. There were advantages to being seen so publicly - it would be a defiant gesture to my pursuers and might force them out into the open. It occurred to me, somewhat disturbingly, that in this attempt to transform myself from the pursued to the pursuer, I was resorting to using myself as bait. A dangerous ploy but one that just might work.

The Sayed Darwish Theatre, known as the Mohammed Ali in its colonial heyday, was a small but ostentatious neoclassical building adorned with great sweeps of gold paint and peeling plaster. From the mid-nineteenth century until 1952, the European diaspora had kept it vibrant with visiting orchestras, ballets and singers. It had been one of the cultural centres of old Alexandria. But since the revolution, the venue had lost much of its original audience and had become a cultural anachronism in the newly affluent Arab-dominated society.

The orchestra struck up and I glanced down the row in which Francesca and I were sitting: it was an eclectic congregation - various European dignitaries, several Egyptian officials and a smattering of tourists. In the row in front of us sat Henries and his wife. Sensing my gaze, the consul turned and tried unsuccessfully to hide his displeasure at my presence.

I felt awkward squeezed into the tuxedo, starched shirt and cummerbund that Francesca had insisted I wear; all had once belonged to Giovanni Brambilla. The shirt prickled the back of my neck, the satin necktie knotted expertly by Aadeel pressed tight against my Adam’s apple. And it was hard not to be uncomfortably conscious of the cuts and bruises that still marked my face, drawing stares from members of the audience. I felt very conspicuous, but I guess that’s what I’d intended.

On stage, Orpheus, clad in a painted body stocking, sat before Hades and Persephone, the King and Queen of the Underworld, and plucked at a golden lyre. His solo of pirouettes and leaps - a desperate plea to allow him to lead his wife Eurydice out of Hades - was starkly emotional, full of grief and longing, and especially poignant for me.

A rustling to my left distracted me - Amelia Lynhurst, making a late entrance, whispered apologies as she pushed past those already seated to the empty space in my row. Thinking about my pursuers, I was more inclined to fear Mosry and, perhaps, Wollington, but Amelia Lynhurst was a wild card. And maybe her claiming the seat close to me was a sign that she was a force to be reckoned with. I had never trusted her after Isabella’s doubts, which were then confirmed by Hermes’s comments that she had ‘dangerous aspirations’ and possibly believed herself to be a reincarnation of Isis. There was the story of the key to the astrarium, too - how Amelia had found it and Enrico Silvio had stolen it from her. And Francesca obviously didn’t trust Amelia either - her disdainful words ‘scheming woman’ still rang in my head. I noticed the matriarch tensing up as she watched the approaching Egyptologist - a flitter of fear crossing her face before she turned rigidly back to the stage. Nevertheless, I knew I had to confront Amelia. During our conversation at Isabella’s funeral she had made it clear that she believed I had the astrarium; more importantly, she’d seemed to know a lot more about it than I did, even after my conversations with Hermes, Wollington and Silvio. Her opinion could be an equally significant piece in the puzzle, something that might bring me further towards a solution for the astrarium. But I needed to gain information from her without giving too much away, the mistake I had made with Hugh Wollington.

A musical crescendo interrupted my musings. Eurydice, clad in a diaphanous veil and echoing Orpheus’s dance steps with heartbreaking grace, followed her husband to the entrance of the cave that led out of the Underworld and into the living world beyond. Orpheus’s frantic yearning to turn and see his wife was evident in the half-spins he made, almost turning but not quite, the choreography teasing out the suspense, the terrible knowledge that if the poet did surrender to temptation he would condemn his wife to a second death and lose her all over again.

My whole body knotted in empathy, his longing mirroring my own desire to have Isabella alive again. And then, with a teasingly slow spin, Orpheus turned, arms outstretched, to embrace his wife as she stood on tiptoe, arched like a willow tree, at the portal between death and a second life - and so he lost her.

Embarrassing to admit, but I actually cried out loud when Eurydice collapsed lifeless again under the gaze of her husband. Mortified by my outburst, I watched on in silence while Orpheus, destroyed by his own desire, traced out his distress in a series of agonised leaps.

 

There was a reception being held in the foyer. I looked across the sea of people. Amelia was at the far side of the hall at the foot of a majestic marble stairway, half concealed by an aspidistra. I made my way past several Russian ballerinas who were mingling now with local dignitaries, past a table covered with brochures advertising package holidays to the Soviet Union. Without preamble I tapped the Egyptologist on her shoulder.

‘We should talk.’

I guided Amelia into a small alcove decorated with a marble statue of Mohammed Ali in his customary fez. ‘What do you know about the murder of Barry Douglas - or about my own interrogations, for that matter?’ I couldn’t suppress the aggressive tone in my voice. Looking slightly startled, Amelia glanced around, then leaned towards me.

‘I understand that Mr Douglas killed himself. As for your arrest, I did warn you and you failed to take heed,’ she answered in a low voice.

‘Barry didn’t kill himself and you know it. Why should I trust you? Isabella didn’t.’

‘Isabella was led into the wrong alliances. That was her tragedy, and now it’s yours.’

‘“Alliances” - like the sect you belong to?’ I said sharply.

To my amazement, she laughed. ‘Define sect.’

‘A group of people who believe blindly in the same philosophy or religion to the exclusion of all others,’ I replied without smiling back. ‘One might even call them zealots. Dangerous people.’

‘The future belongs to the zealot, whether we like it or not. But I don’t belong to any “sect”, as you put it.’

I changed tack quickly. I needed some answers and, judging by Amelia’s knowing expression, I was convinced she was withholding information that was crucial for me to move forward.

‘I want to know who killed Barry.’

‘If it wasn’t suicide, then I imagine it was the same people who were behind your arrests. All are actions that would require considerable influence with the Egyptian authorities. Think about it.’

I grabbed her wrist. ‘Did you know they violated Isabella’s body?’

Several bystanders turned at my raised voice, and I could see Henries talking furiously to Francesca Brambilla at the foot of the wide marble staircase. Amelia struggled to free her hand from my grasp.

‘I can help you, Oliver. You should know that, like Orpheus’s, Nectanebo’s is a great love story. Just imagine the clandestine nature of their love. Nectanebo had several wives, all of whom must have hated Banafrit. Banafrit was a secret love, a woman who had access to the all-powerful priest clans and who could spy for her lover and report back on any treachery brewing amongst them. She must have been extraordinary, intelligent, powerful and, by all accounts, beautiful. Both Nectanebo and Banafrit risked their reputations and, possibly, their lives by loving each other.’

‘No more myths, Amelia. I’ve read your thesis. What I want to know is why you want it, just like the others?’

‘The astrarium chooses its own keeper and it is my duty to protect that person. Like Orpheus, Banafrit was willing to go into the Underworld to save her lover. Just like you might have to, Oliver.’

‘I said enough riddles!’

Over Amelia’s shoulder I could see Henries making his way across the foyer towards us. I spoke quickly and quietly, my voice beaded with threat. ‘Then tell me, why didn’t the astrarium prevent Nectanebo’s demise?’

‘At the beginning of his reign Nectanebo suppressed a possible coup from the Delta. There was growing dissent within Egypt. Powerful priests claimed that Nectanebo had insulted Isis herself and that the only way to appease the goddess’s wrath and save Egypt was to build her an extraordinary temple and find a skybox that had been taken from Egypt hundreds of years before, stolen from Ramses III by the powerful Hebrew magus Moshe ben Amram ha-Levi.’

‘I know all this, Amelia. Get to the point.’ I said impatiently. I could see Francesca looking my way.

‘Isis was renowned for her magical abilities, so when Moses took it, it was seen not only as an insult to Ramses III but to Isis herself. The legend was well known in Banafrit’s time.’ After glancing around nervously, Amelia continued, ‘The skybox already had the reputation of being a great weapon and sacred object and when the priests claimed that Isis wanted it back Banafrit saw a chance to help Nectanebo by reconciling the skybox with the goddess. She found the astrarium and rededicated it to Isis. One powerful sorceress bowing her head to a goddess steeped in magical myths - it must have been an extraordinary ceremony. But there’s something else - a story inscribed on a naos that dates from about fifty years after Nectanebo’s disappearance.’

‘Professor Silvio’s naos?’

Amelia stared at me in surprise, then quickly recovered herself. ‘How is the professor?’

I wasn’t fooled by her casual demeanour.

‘Dying.’

Her eyes widened, whether theatrically or in genuine shock I couldn’t tell. ‘I’m sorry to hear that; he was once an honourable man. The naos that Professor Silvio discovered described the skybox’s prophesy of the Pharaoh’s death. After Banafrit rededicated it to Isis, it turned on Nectanebo. The astrarium developed a soul.’ At least there was one thing that she and Hermes agreed upon.

‘I’ve heard this theory before - it’s absurd. Inanimate objects don’t have souls, and why would the rededication trigger such an event?’ I retorted, determined not to be drawn into the foggy realm of mysticism.

‘Isis represents the unconscious will - the hidden desires. The function of the astrarium was to talk directly to the gods, therefore it became the embodiment of their will. So to the Ancient Egyptians it had a soul, whether you believe it or not. But if you want a prosaic practical explanation I can provide one, not that it’s going to help your predicament. Let’s just say that one day the astrarium was being transported, something struck it and deep within the mechanism a spring was loosened and the second pointer sprang out. An arbitrary accident takes on meaning - the Pharaoh’s death is written in the sky! This would be a deeply powerful and political directive and one that enemies of the Pharaoh might want to exploit. And, of course, it brings up the strong possibility that the magical powers of the astrarium are real and that it can actually be set for killing. But then, you have to be a believer - and you are not.’ She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘I tell you what, Oliver, I’m giving a lecture on this very topic tomorrow morning, at the Archaeological Society, at ten. It might be useful for even a diehard sceptic like yourself to attend.’

‘Could the astrarium have been used for Nectanebo’s assassination?’