Sphinx Read online

  We had finished our lunch and were now drinking coffee in the conservatory, waiting for the traditional dish of marmalade that completed the meal. Francesca and Hermes sat opposite, Francesca in a chair that was reminiscent of some eighteenth-century wooden baroque throne - one of the antiques she hadn’t been forced to sell. At eighty years old the matriarch still had the upright stance of a dancer and was the embodiment of classical European grace. She made me think of 1930s Rome - her dyed black hair sculpted into a short crisp wave, the creased olive skin suckered against the bones of a lineage bred for power and beauty.

  In contrast, Hermes lounged in a leather armchair. His hair was long, its silver roots merging into dyed purple-red locks that descended to his shoulders. He could almost have passed for an elderly woman, an illusion helped by a remarkable lack of facial hair. His eyes were golden brown with a tinge of yellow in the irises, indicating a curious ethnic mix somewhere in his ancestry. The shape of his face suggested the Sudan while the thinness of his lips gave him a European look. His hands, gnarled by arthritis, bore witness to his true age, which Isabella had told me was around seventy.

  A silver dish filled with marmalade was placed on the table, ten matching silver spoons curving out of the thick golden paste like swan’s necks. They represented the members of the family, most of whom were long dead. Aadeel placed four glasses of water on the pearl-and-wood inlaid table. Quickly, I washed the bitter-sweet taste of the marmalade down with the water, then reached for the small cup of viscous coffee.

  Isabella could not relax. She stood up, walked to the window and pulled open the shutters. Her agitation seemed a conductor for the lightning that flashed across the sky. The distant boom of thunder sounded out a moment later.

  Francesca sighed in exasperation. ‘You think you can wish away the weather, Isabella? Sit down. You are making me nervous with all this pent-up energy.’

  ‘Your granddaughter needs to be out there fighting the elements to find her holy grail,’ Hermes said with theatrical relish. ‘Archaeology is a noble calling. It defines the pioneer within us.’

  ‘Please, Hermes, don’t encourage her,’ I said. ‘At least not in this God-awful weather.’

  ‘Barry Douglas has dived in worse weather,’ Isabella said, still staring out at the darkened sky.

  ‘Barry Douglas is a self-confessed risk taker,’ I retorted. ‘He’s not interested in anything unless it’s highly illegal and involves sexual conquest.’

  Isabella stifled a laugh while Francesca glared at me disapprovingly.

  Barry Douglas was a mutual friend of ours, a flamboyant Australian who had lived in Alexandria for years. He restored archaeological artefacts - his speciality was anything made of bronze. When he wasn’t working he could be found in the bars, where I often joined him, his irreverent humour and earthiness a respite from the frenetic pace of the city.

  Francesca turned to me. ‘You must tell my granddaughter to abandon this ridiculous quest of hers. It’s exactly those kinds of obsession that destroyed my husband.’

  ‘Nationalisation destroyed Giovanni, Francesca,’ Hermes murmured.

  Francesca glanced nervously towards Aadeel. Even I knew Hermes had transgressed; it was dangerous to voice such opinions in a country still caught in the difficult transition from a past of colonial feudalism to a more democratic socialism. And lately President Sadat’s efforts to place Egypt into the free world market had caused food riots. Overnight, ration cards were worth nothing, and as it became near impossible to get rice, bread, even gas to cook with, the people revolted.

  ‘Shhh! I will not tolerate such radical beliefs in my house! I have the safety of my family to think about,’ she hissed.

  The open hostility between the two old associates was now palpable. Isabella intervened.

  ‘Basta! Nonna, this discovery is going to establish my reputation, you wait and see.’

  ‘It will finish you,’ Francesca replied ominously. ‘We should never have let you go to university.’

  I sensed an argument looming. Isabella had delighted her grandfather but appalled her grandmother by getting into Oxford to study Archaeology at Lady Margaret Hall; Francesca was traditional and had envisaged a prestigious marriage for Isabella. Instead, she’d got me.

  ‘So you would have been proud of me if I’d hooked a billionaire like my mother?’ Isabella snapped back.

  Francesca made a small spitting motion into her palm. She hated her daughter-in-law. ‘I suppose I should be thankful that at least you are married,’ she said. ‘The fact that he is English does not make me so happy.’

  She turned to me and said sharply, ‘You know the English interned my husband in a concentration camp out here in the desert during the war.’

  ‘Along with all the other nationalists who opposed the Allied forces, they had no choice. Grandfather would have volunteered to fight for Rommel; the English were protecting themselves. Besides, to call it a concentration camp is exaggerating, Nonna. After all, Grandfather was a card-carrying member of the Fascist party,’ Isabella interjected before I had a chance to respond.

  ‘He was a nationalist, he loved Italy, and, yes, he wore Mussolini’s shirt until Il Duce introduced those ridiculous race laws. They were the finish for the party here in Alex. We all knew each other then - Jews, Copts, Catholics, Greeks. It wasn’t a problem in those days.’ Francesca sighed deeply and visibly restrained herself from making the sign of the cross. ‘British and a non-believer as well. What did I do to deserve this?’

  ‘He is a scientist - of course he is an atheist, Francesca,’ Hermes cut in.

  ‘It was a conscious choice,’ I told her. ‘ You’d be pleased to hear that I was a bitter disappointment to my Irish-Catholic mother.’ Despite myself, I couldn’t keep the defensiveness out of my voice. There was a pause. Then Francesca spoke with an intensity I had never heard before.

  ‘Science cannot explain everything, Oliver. There are many mysteries in life.’

  ‘For once, Francesca is right.’ Hermes smiled at me, a charmingly open smile, almost like that of a child. It was hard not to trust the natural warmth of the man.

  ‘So this is where you inherited your mysticism from,’ I said to Isabella, nodding towards Francesca.

  The old woman leaned forward and gripped my arm with a surprising strength. ‘You are wrong. She inherited it from my husband. Giovanni was the mystic. I keep what little faith I have left for my postcard collection of saints.’

  She released me; her sharp nails leaving an echo in my flesh.

  ‘He was the magus, a visionary,’ Hermes added with a sigh, and for a moment a curious truce was drawn between the two old people, almost as if Giovanni himself had stepped into the room.

  Isabella turned back quickly from the window. ‘Careful, Nonna, I have sheltered Oliver from our darker family secrets. I don’t want him to think we are all crazy.’

  ‘But you all are,’ Hermes said, and they both broke into laughter.

  Ignoring them, Francesca turned back to me. ‘Oliver, this is Egypt. I’ve got my own god, but there are countless others. And sometimes the most rational people find themselves caught up in the inexplicable. Like my granddaughter and this quest for the impossible.’

  ‘She will find the astrarium, I know it,’ Hermes concluded.

  The statement was delivered with a prophetic smugness that irritated me. It seemed to have a similar effect on Francesca.

  ‘On the other hand, maybe Isabella’s search itself is a metaphor,’ I replied, before she could speak.

  ‘A metaphor for what?’ Francesca smiled wryly.

  ‘For her to find where she truly belongs.’

  There was an awkward silence during which I realised I’d stumbled upon a truth that resonated for everyone in the room. Suddenly Isabella sprang up again.

  ‘None of you understand how important this is!’ Furious at being talked about like a child, she began pacing. ‘Say they prove that the Antikythera Mechanism was able to track the o
rbits of the planets and the position of the Sun. Do you realise this will prove that the ancient Greeks knew that the Earth wasn’t the centre of the universe? Now imagine if I discovered an earlier prototype - say Babylonian or even Egyptian - that had the same function. My discovery would entirely change our view of antiquity! Not only would it force a complete revision of our understanding of ancient engineering, the existence of such a device would also change our notions of ancient navigation, and radically push back the date of our understanding of the first astrolabe. I could prove that the Dark Ages were in fact far darker than we imagine. But not only that, the astrarium could give us so many answers. It would be the discovery of a lifetime.’

  ‘Discovery or no, Isabella, you are a fool to keep diving in the bay,’ Francesca said emphatically. ‘Not only because of the weather, but sooner or later you will run into trouble. We are all watched everywhere we go - by the military, the secret police, the friend you thought you could confide in.’

  ‘Your granddaughter is experienced. She will be safe.’ Hermes put out a hand to reassure the elderly woman.

  Pointedly she ignored it. ‘No one is safe. Everyone suspects everyone else of being a spy. We publicly welcome Sadat’s open-door policy but inflation has made us all desperate. Remember that when people look at us, they still see the old order. Be on your guard, granddaughter. Don’t delude yourself - they are all watching, waiting for you to make one mistake.’

  ‘I know how to look after myself,’ Isabella replied dismissively. ‘Besides, my big strong husband is coming with me on the dive.’

  Isabella reached out and curled her fingers, a small fist of heat, into my hand. An amnesty.

  I turned to smile at Francesca, but she stared back in hostile indifference. ‘Oliver, it is foolish to think your oil money will protect you.’

  3

  Back at the villa, I lay on the bed watching Isabella undress brusquely with that characteristic efficiency of hers, as if clothes were an irritant she needed to rid herself of: it was both amusing and erotic at the same time, and I loved the way she seemed to battle her own femininity.

  I reached over, picked up a thrown stocking and handed it back to her. ‘Where did you meet this official you’re taking on the dive?’

  She sat down at the dresser. ‘At a lecture at the French Archaeology Society.’

  ‘He could be working for anyone. Why can’t you let yourself be supported by a proper team of archaeologists?’

  ‘Right, and let them steal ten years of research from under my nose? Amelia Lynhurst already suspects I’m diving for the astrarium. I’ve heard a rumour that she knows I’m close to finding it. She’d do anything to get her hands on it,’ she replied grimly. By now she was dressed only in bra and pants.

  Amelia Lynhurst, Isabella’s mentor when she began at Oxford, had lost a great deal of credibility after the publication of a controversial paper about a mysterious priestess of Isis who she claimed had lived in the time of the Thirtieth Dynasty, during the reign of the Pharaoh Nectanebo II. The paper was controversial because there had been little evidence that the priestess had ever existed. Despite this, Isabella had remained close to the Englishwoman until they’d had an irreparable falling-out during Isabella’s second year of university. She had never told me why they had argued.

  ‘Will you stop worrying?’ Isabella went on impatiently. ‘Faakhir’s cousin, who owns the boat, has got friends who work for the coastguard.’

  ‘Sweetheart, if you’re caught, it’ll be prison for Faakhir and his cousin and the end of your career here.’ I was trying to tread carefully to avoid yet another row.

  ‘We’re not going to be caught. I’m not hauling up a huge statue, just a very small bronze artefact. Besides, your work is far more dangerous than mine.’

  ‘My work is authorised exploration.’

  ‘Bravo, but you’re still blasé about the risks you take.’

  She was right - I was being hypocritical. The places my company sent me to were invariably dangerous terrain or in a state of political upheaval. But at least my presence was authorised rather than clandestine - I didn’t like the idea of Isabella falling foul of the dangerously fickle labyrinth of Egyptian bureaucracy. It could endanger both our careers.

  ‘Why not cancel for a few days?’ I suggested. ‘I could try to get some extra sonar equipment through GeoConsultancy—’

  ‘Oliver,’ Isabella interrupted. ‘This is non-negotiable. The boat’s been arranged. It has to be tomorrow! There’s no more time.’

  The fatalistic tone of her voice jolted me out of my exhaustion. Tensing up, I stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. Then a kernel of remembrance uncoiled in the back of my mind.

  ‘This isn’t about that prediction, is it? Isabella, you know it’s complete bullshit.’

  We’d had this debate many times before, dating right back to our very first meeting in Goa. Isabella had just come from seeing a mystic who, amongst other things, had given her her astrological chart, which included not only the time of her birth but also the date of her death. Through the years she remained convinced of its accuracy, despite all my arguments to the contrary. She’d never given me the exact date but it must be looming closer for her to feel this panicked.

  She broke angrily away from me. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? That Newtonian you carry around inside you refuses to believe that there might be other principles - less conventional, perhaps, but just as valid. At least I’m honest about my methodology.’

  I tried to stop myself becoming defensive; I hated it when Isabella slipped into what I perceived as irrational mysticism. Sensing my shift in attitude, she turned towards me.

  ‘Come on - I’ve seen you out there on the oilfield, in your bare feet, sniffing the air. It’s not just science you rely on, but you simply won’t admit it!’

  Now naked, Isabella threw herself down onto the bed beside me. I suddenly realised she was shaking. Horrified, I pulled her into my arms. ‘What is it?’

  There was a pause. ‘Tomorrow is the day Ahmos Khafre predicted I would die.’

  ‘You’re not going to die,’ I finally said warily. ‘It’s all superstitious nonsense. This dive is too dangerous, Isabella.’

  She stared up at me, thinking.

  ‘No,’ she finally replied. ‘This is my last chance to find the astrarium. We will dive tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m still coming with you,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not going to allow anything to happen.’

  Isabella rolled on top of me, her slim body pressed against mine as she stared solemnly into my eyes. I tried smiling but her face stayed serious, her gaze boring through any pretence, as if she were trying to look beyond the banter that had become the veneer of our relationship. I knew that I had no option but to support her. Isabella did not believe in compromise, emotional or otherwise. For her, this would have been surrendering to mediocrity. She threw herself recklessly from one experience into another. This impulsiveness was one of the reasons I had first been attracted to her. A characteristic so opposite to my own controlling nature, it had always provided a healthy counterbalance, but recently it had become something I couldn’t protect her from, as much as I longed to.

  ‘What is it, sweetheart?’ I asked, unnerved by her unblinking stare.

  She appeared to be on the brink of speaking, but then hesitated before kissing me instead, her long hair falling either side of my face in a wave of musk.

  I always wanted Isabella. I never understood why that was - maybe the differences between us created a space, a place I could eroticise. I couldn’t tell you how; it just worked. The touch of her lips, her fingers, the scent of her neck, made me stiffen. She was the first woman with whom I had truly understood the notion of desire, a thirst that was intensely emotional, not just physical. She was home to me; we made our own nation.

  I pulled her down to me and, finally, she smiled.

  I was woken an hour later by Isabella thrashing about in the bed. I shook her and she woke
up - her heart racing against my chest; her face veiled with sweat.

  ‘The same nightmare?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, except I don’t know if it’s a nightmare or a memory. This time it was clearer, more specific . . .’

  She faltered, staring into the distance as she forced herself to remember. I waited, knowing that, for her, part of the exorcism was in the telling.

  ‘There’s a platform,’ she said slowly, ‘with a group of people standing on it. They’re dressed bizarrely, like animals. ’

  ‘Maybe they are animals?’ I said.

  She waved the suggestion away. ‘No, they are humans, real people. There’s a man with the head of a dog - a jackal, I think - crouching by a large set of scales. Then a tall figure with the head of a bird, a big bird holding a quill, and a man dressed in white - he looks terrified. There’s blood on his robe. Another figure’s holding him - this one has the head of a falcon - and they’re in front of a throne. There’s a figure sitting on the throne - maybe the god Osiris . . .’

  ‘A ritual, perhaps?’

  She was silent for a moment, then suddenly clutched at my hand. ‘Incredible! I’ve just worked out what it is, after all these years. It’s the ceremony of the weighing of the heart, Oliver! I’ve shown you the pictures, remember?’

  The Ancient Egyptians believed that after a person died their heart was weighed by Osiris. Depending on the purity of the heart, the deceased was either allowed to pass into the afterlife or was denied entry - a terrifying concept for them. The idea of the ritual disturbed me, partly because of its sheer grotesqueness but also because it reminded me of my mother’s attempts to indoctrinate me with a notion of sin.