But this was not the time for joking, least of all about the gods. Piay needed Khonsu’s protection as a matter of life and death.

  The sun was at its zenith and the people on the streets of Thebes were as hot as loaves in an oven when Piay, Hannu and Myssa reached a crossroads in the centre of the city. Myssa looked around, trying to get her bearings. Then she pointed up a road and said, ‘I think I have to go that way.’

  ‘Have a good time with those dusty old scrolls,’ Piay said, knowing that Myssa was getting down to work on the research that Taita had outlined for her.

  ‘Give my regards to your god,’ she replied.

  Myssa had no more desire to offend the heavens than anyone else, but the only Egyptian deity she recognised was Bast, and then only because of her cat. Myssa’s true divine lord was the ram-god of Kush.

  Piay watched his lover until she was lost in the bustle of a city coming back to life after decades of defeat. Then he turned to Hannu, pointed in another direction and said, ‘This way.’

  The interior of the Temple of Khonsu was blissfully cool after the sweat and dust of the city. Hannu stood guard by the door, his sword drawn, facing the outside world, as Piay walked into the centre of the building and bowed before the statue of Khonsu that stood at the far end.

  The spicy scent of incense hung in the air, and a lantern hanging from the roof cast a glow over the crystal orb of the moon that was placed atop the statue’s human head. The god’s face was painted green, as were the hands that emerged from the white-painted bandages in which his body was wrapped. He wore a necklace – blue beads dotted with contrasting beads of red and gold – and the was-sceptre, flail and crook that he held in his hands were also decorated in the same colours.

  If Taita was the mortal man whom Piay considered his second father, then Khonsu was his immortal equivalent. Khonsu had been Piay’s companion through his many adventures and kept him safe from harm each and every time. He had come to Piay in his dreams on so many occasions, always appearing with the head of a falcon, that Piay was certain the god had chosen him for some task. And then one night, came the experience that bound Piay to Khonsu forever.

  During the long march up to Egypt from the south, they stopped by a vast lake, from which the waters of the Nile itself were said to flow. The elephants stepped into the lake waters to wash themselves and slake their thirst. The Tumisi tribesmen speared fish to be wrapped in leaves and baked in the embers of an open fire. Piay and Myssa ate their fill and then, as they lay together on the grass beside the lake, Myssa said, ‘There is magic in the air. Can you feel it?’

  Piay sensed something, and so, too, did the elephants. They all stood still, silently looking out across the waters. Piay offered up a silent prayer to Khonsu, asking for his protection in the dangerous days to come.

  Then, in a vision which he alone experienced, Piay saw Khonsu coming towards him, with his falcon head, seeming to glide over the surface of the lake without ever touching the water. Khonsu held out his hand and conferred his blessing on Piay, and in the presence of his god, the young Egyptian had felt overwhelmed, terrified but also filled with awe and wonder at the gift he had just received.

  Who could know the minds of the gods? Not even the priests who claimed to divine the purposes of those higher powers. But in his heart, Piay had come to believe the struggles of those beings were played out on earth, and that Seth, that dark god of the desert, and Khonsu, the god of the cool night, were in opposition and that they had chosen their mortal champions to do battle.

  Now, Piay fell to his knees and asked for Khonsu’s blessing once again.

  ‘Protect me upon my travels,’ he said softly, bowing his head, ‘and guide my hand in the struggles that lie ahead.’

  The interior of the temple was dark, lit only by a few openings high up in the walls, but now it seemed to Piay that a shaft of moonlight lanced across his eyes. He blinked and, when he opened his eyes again and looked up at the statue, he thought he saw a faint white glow.

  ‘You are here with me, my lord,’ Piay said. ‘And as far as I journey, I will always be with you.’

  A

  breeze had picked up as Myssa passed through the gateway of the precinct that surrounded the Temple of Amun, causing the dust to whirl and eddy around her ankles. Bast was walking beside her. Her pet’s reappearance at a temple made perfect sense to Myssa. It was only natural for a cat with the soul of a goddess to wish to be among her own kind.

  The people of Thebes worshipped Amun above all other gods, and his temple complex was therefore much bigger than his son Khonsu’s. The sound of chanting priests, somewhere in the depths of the sacred space, was just audible as Myssa strode across the courtyard and skipped up the limestone steps that rose to the temple itself, but she paid it little heed, for as the woven straw bag she carried indicated – containing as it did a roll of papyrus, a bottle of ink and three pens made of reed stems – she was a woman on a mission.

  ‘I need you to do two things for me,’ Taita had told her, when they had spoken together in his tent. ‘First, I need you to learn everything you can about Imhotep, his architecture and all that is known about the riddle. Most of the information you need will be in Memphis, but you need not be idle while you are waiting here in Thebes. When the Hyksos barbarians first approached Thebes, so long ago that I was still a young man, the ancient records of the Upper Kingdom, dating back hundreds, even thousands of years were deposited for safekeeping in the Temple of Amun. So start your work there, but be sure to tell some other story to cover your true actions.’

  ‘I imagine that great works will be planned to celebrate the victory of the people of Egypt over the Hyksos,’ Myssa said. ‘Doubtless you would wish your servants to consult the records of previous projects, the better to avoid any mistakes that might have been made.’

  ‘Indeed I would,’ Taita smiled, ‘so you have the great advantage of being able to tell a false story that in fact has a kernel of truth. Now, there is one more favour that I ask. Piay has the heart of a lion but he can be . . .’ Taita paused for a moment, as if unwilling to criticise a man in front of the woman he loved.

  Myssa had no such scruples. ‘Rash, headstrong, too convinced of his own abilities, prone to act first and think second?’ she suggested.

  Taita smiled. ‘An excellent summary, which I only tolerate as it comes from someone who cares for that young man as much as I do.’

  ‘She does, yes,’ Myssa said.

  ‘Then you must strengthen him where he is weak. Use your knowledge, your intelligence and your intuition to provide the clear-eyed guidance that will steer this vital mission to its rightful conclusion. Above all . . .’ Taita placed his hands on Myssa’s shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. ‘Look after Piay for me. He is heading into terrible danger, and there may . . . No, there will be moments when he risks himself to help others, where men with cooler, more calculating heads would put their own safety first. Be that cool head, that word of caution in his ear. He will not be grateful to you for it, as a proud Egyptian man, but be assured, I most certainly will.’

  ‘I will do as you ask, but if I am to go into your people’s greatest sacred places and examine their most precious archives . . .’

  Myssa paused just long enough to allow Taita to see where her words were leading.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Of course. I quite understand. Come with me.’

  M

  yssa revelled in the tasks with which Taita had entrusted her. He was not the first wise man to have spotted her gifts. Even when she was a girl, barely past her first moon, she had served as an advisor to the chieftain of her tribe. But then her people had either been slaughtered, or, like her, sold into slavery. Piay had given her back her freedom. Taita had renewed her sense of purpose. She was not going to let either of them down.

  A priest wandered out of the depths of the temple – a shrivelled, desiccated old man. He was fresh from his daily ablutions, smelling of the fragrant unguent he had applied after washing, his head freshly shaved, his linen robe perfectly clean and white, the leopard skin of his class slung across his scrawny shoulder.

  Bast looked at the priest and hissed in his direction.

  ‘What brings you to these far lands?’ he asked Myssa officiously.

  ‘I have been sent by the Pharaoh’s advisor, Taita, to study the records for the reconstruction that is to come. I seek admission to the House of Books and for the Keeper to guide me in my understanding.’

  Myssa had spoken with an air of calm, confident authority, but the priest was not impressed. The way he looked her up and down, his nose twitching, made Myssa feel as though she were back in the slave market once again. The priest barely saw her as a human being. She was just another object to be traded. The shame and fury of the memory cut her to the very core.

  ‘From Taita, you say?’ the priest said. ‘No, I think not. You are a woman and, what is more, as black as a Nubian. Why would a man as wise as the great Taita choose an underling who is inferior on two counts for a task that should surely be conducted by a true-born child of Thebes?’

  Myssa swallowed her anger and showed a sweet face.

  ‘Truly you are wise and perceptive, holy one. I am, indeed, both female and a Kushite. But I assure you that Lord Taita has nonetheless seen fit to enlist me to do his bidding.’

  ‘No,’ the priest snapped before she could continue. ‘I cannot believe a word you say. Away with you.’ He waved a hand and turned. ‘If you return here I will have you taken away and beaten.’

  The priest stalked off into the depths of the shadowy temple.

  Bast aimed another angry hiss at the cleric.

  ‘Good girl,’ Myssa murmured.

  She felt humiliated, infuriated and sorely tempted to scream in sheer rage, right there in the middle of the temple. But Taita had shown his faith in her capacity to keep her mind calm and her wits sharp. And they had both anticipated the possibility that – given the undeniable facts of her race and sex – problems such as this might arise.

  Myssa thought of the confidence with which Bast had walked among the elephants. Now it was time for her to draw on her own inner goddess. She drew herself up to her full height and raised her head high, then she hurried after the priest.

  He sped up, hearing her behind him, coming as close to a run as his feeble frame could manage.

  With her long legs and cheetah’s stride, Myssa swiftly caught up with him.

  ‘Stop! Please! I need to show you something!’ she called, but the priest paid no attention.

  Myssa was close enough now to touch him. She reached out, intending only to tap him on the shoulder, to make him turn and look at her, but as she did so she felt her fingers close around a handful of his spotless robe.

  The unexpected contact was enough to cause the priest to lose his balance. His sandals slipped on the shiny stone floor and he fell backwards, his arms waving, before landing hard on his bony backside.

  The priest gave a yelp of pain.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Myssa said, bending over him and holding out her hand to help him get up.

  The priest stared at the tall, strong woman with blazing eyes looming over him, and pushed himself away, wailing.

  ‘Help! Sacrilege! A barbarian has assaulted me!’

  ‘It was an accident,’ Myssa said.

  ‘Help!’ the priest repeated. ‘A woman has violated our sacred space!’

  For a moment nothing happened, but then Myssa heard the slapping of sandals on stone floors. When she looked up she saw half a dozen men in clerical garb all rushing from various corners of the temple.

  The scrawny priest allowed his colleagues to help him to his feet. Then he glared at Myssa, jabbed his forefinger at her and began a lengthy account of what had happened, in which his civilised, perfectly reasonable behaviour was contrasted with the primitive savagery of the woman who stood before them.

  Myssa said nothing. She just looked from one man to the other, wondering which of them would be the first to forget that he was a servant of the gods and become just another violent man attacking a lone woman.

  Then she heard more footsteps. They were heavy, steady, confident.

  Good, Myssa thought, the headman is approaching.

  As he got nearer, and she could see him properly, Myssa could tell from the sheer size and glittering gems of the man’s ceremonial collar that he must indeed be the high priest.

  ‘What in the name of Amun is going on here?’ the newcomer asked.

  The scrawny priest told the story of the brutal assault he had suffered.

  ‘She attacked me here, in the god’s house. Amun has been insulted and defamed. She must be made to pay . . .’ He looked at Myssa with barely hidden glee. ‘And the penalty for such blasphemy is death!’

  Other priests chimed in with their own observations, all to the effect that the priest and Amun alike had been abused, and that death was the only fitting verdict. The chill grip of fear began to clutch at Myssa’s guts as the men began shouting and waving their fists. It would take very little to tip them over the edge into attacking and killing her.

  The high priest watched for a moment, then held up his right hand.

  ‘Silence!’ he called.

  The noise abated. The fist-waving stopped. But the hunger for violence in the eyes of the priests who surrounded Myssa was as fierce as ever.

  The high priest looked at her. ‘Did you lay a hand on a man of god, within this holy place?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘There is no “but”. You have admitted your own guilt. Proof has been provided. The case is closed.’

  Now injustice was being piled upon insult. But Myssa refused to give in.

  ‘Proof of what?’ she asked. ‘Proof that you do not allow an innocent woman to defend herself? Or proof of your own deafness and stupidity?’

  ‘By Amun, I will not be insulted in this way!’ the high priest bellowed.

  By now, the commotion had attracted people from all over the temple. Worshippers, other clerics, even temple guards had gathered, forming an audience to the drama in which Myssa and the high priest were now taking the leading roles.

  ‘Then, for your own sake, you had better listen to what I have to say. Your position, and even your life, may depend on it.’

  Myssa looked the high priest right in the eye. He stared back at her. Neither spoke.

  The high priest cracked first. Affecting a lordly, untroubled air, as if he were merely humouring her, he waved a hand and sighed.

  ‘Oh, very well, then. Speak, if you think it will do you any good. But be brief.’

  Myssa reached inside her bag and pulled out a papyrus, tied with a black linen bow. But it was not the one that she had set aside for her notes.

  ‘I told the man who now accuses me that I was working for Lord Taita, the victor of yesterday’s battle, whose standing is second only to the Pharaoh—’

  ‘And I paid no need to such babbling, because it is plainly nonsense!’ the old priest interrupted.

  ‘It is so, and it explains why I hurried after you – for your sake, and for the sake of your master, the high priest.’

  The first traces of concern crossed the high priest’s face.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Myssa handed him the papyrus. ‘Perhaps you should read this,’ she said. ‘And it might please you to read it aloud, so that all can hear that justice has been done.’

  The high priest untied the bow and unrolled the document. His eyes widened in horror as he read it. His mouth opened, but he could manage no more than a long, ‘Aaaahhh . . . Yes . . . I see . . .’

  ‘I can easily recite the message from memory, since I was with Lord Taita when he wrote it,’ Myssa said. ‘It reads, “Myssa the Kushite is my trusted servant and messenger, and the work that she is conducting on my behalf is of the utmost importance. She is to be given every possible assistance by all who read this parchment.”’

  A gasp went up from the still-growing crowd of onlookers, and the priests began exchanging nervous, cowardly looks.

  ‘Do you agree that I have recited the message accurately?’ Myssa asked the high priest.

  He nodded.

  ‘And is Lord Taita’s seal imprinted upon the bottom of the message?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Then perhaps your holiness might consent to do as the words suggest . . . if it pleases you.’

  A short while later, Myssa was in the temple library, being conducted along row upon row of scrolls, some dating back a millennium to the time of Imhotep himself. But though the high priest had been forced to relent, and the librarians were fawning over her as if she were a queen – even fetching milk and scraps of meat for Bast to feast upon – she had been given a hard lesson by the priests of Amun.

  Piay will do anything for me because he loves me, she reflected. Hannu will fight for me, because he is loyal to Piay. Taita will support me because he loves Piay, too, and also because he is a good and wise man, who values and respects me. But they are only three men among a multitude, and I am still an imposter in this land, and an outsider to those who inhabit it. And all the messages and seals in the world are never going to change that.

  D

  ays passed as arrangements were made. Piay waited for a messenger from Taita, but none came, though news drifted back among the Nile boatmen that the siege of Memphis was underway. King Khamudi had abandoned the city’s ancient port of Peru-nefer and burned all the vessels moored on the banks of the Nile. So, for this reason, the flow of trade to and from the great capital of the Lower Kingdom had ceased, and the waters of the great river were being left to the fish and the crocodiles.

  Every morning Piay would hurry down to the riverside to catch any scraps of news that had floated back from the Lower Kingdom. One day it was said that Taita had set his men burrowing under Memphis’ walls. Then came reports of hundreds of refugees who had fled the doomed city, laden with their valuables, only to have their prize possessions relieved from their grasp by Hurotas’ men.