LITMIR.BIZ

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been examined by palaeopathologists. His teeth were in a wretched state, apparently.’ She glanced around at Lily. ‘They used to grind up their grain with stone,’ she said. ‘Little bits of grit were always getting in the mix. Like eating sandpaper. All Egyptians of a certain age had worn-down teeth, but Amenhotep particularly so. He must have been constantly plagued by abscesses. Have you ever had a tooth abscess?’

      Lily winced sympathetically, touched a hand to her cheek. ‘Once,’ she said.

      ‘Then you’ll know just how much pain he’d have been in. No antibiotics, of course. You just had to wait it out. He’d almost certainly have drunk to numb the pain. Wine, mostly, though the Egyptians loved their beer. But there’s another possibility. According to something called the Ebers Papyrus, opium was well known to Eighteenth Dynasty medics. They imported it from Cyprus, made it into a paste and spread it as an analgesic over the sore area: the gums in Amenhotep’s case. Is it really too much of a stretch to imagine doctors prescribing opium for Akhenaten too, particularly if he was suffering from some disease, as you claim?’

      They reached the outside of Fatima’s compound. The gates were closed, so Gaille gave a short squirt of horn. ‘Maybe he got the taste for it. Opium was certainly used at Amarna. We’ve found poppy-shaped juglets there, with traces of opiates inside. The Minoans used opium to induce religious ecstasy and inspire their art. Isn’t it possible that Akhenaten and his courtiers did the same? I mean, there’s something rather hallucinogenic about the whole Amarna period, isn’t there? The art, the court, the religion, the hapless foreign policy?’

      Lily laughed. ‘You’re saying Akhenaten was a junkie?’

      ‘I’m saying it’s a theory that explains the Amarna era. One of several. As to whether it’s right or not …’

      ‘I’ve never heard it before,’ said Stafford. ‘Has anyone published on it?’

      ‘A couple of articles in the journals,’ said Gaille, as the front gates finally swung open. ‘But nothing major.’

      ‘Interesting,’ murmured Stafford. ‘Most interesting.’

      II

      ‘They’ve found something,’ said Knox, as he drove away from the Texas Society site. ‘They’re hiding it from us.’

      ‘What makes you think that?’ frowned Omar.

      ‘Didn’t you notice how their hair was matted with cobwebs and dust? You only get that when you’ve found something underground.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Omar gloomily. ‘But they’re archaeologists. They wouldn’t have been awarded the concession if they couldn’t be trusted.’

      Knox gave an eloquent snort. ‘Sure! Because no one ever took baksheesh in this country. Besides, didn’t you see the way that preacher glared at me?’

      ‘It was like he knew you from somewhere,’ nodded Omar. ‘Have you met him before?’

      ‘Not that I can remember. But I recognize that look. You remember Richard Mitchell, my old mentor?’

      ‘Gaille’s father?’ asked Omar. ‘Of course. I never got to meet him, but I heard plenty of stories.’

      ‘I’ll bet,’ laughed Knox. ‘You heard he was homosexual?’

      Omar coloured. ‘I assumed that was just malicious gossip. I mean, he was Gaille’s father, after all.’

      ‘The two aren’t incompatible, you know. And just because gossip is malicious, doesn’t make it wrong.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘The thing is, because I worked with him so closely, lots of people assumed I was his boy, you know. I never bothered to put them right. Let them think what they want, right? Anyway, most people in our business don’t much care. But a few do. You soon get to recognize a certain look in their eye.’

      ‘You think Peterson’s like that?’

      ‘The Bible’s pretty intolerant of homosexuality,’ nodded Knox. ‘People try to gloss it over, but it’s there all right. And some Christians exult in the opportunity to be spiteful in the name of God. That’s fine, up to a point. They’re entitled to their opinion. It’s just, if I’ve learned one thing in archaeology, it’s never to entrust a sensitive site to anyone who’s convinced of the truth before they start. It’s too easy for them to fit the evidence to their theories, rather than the other way around.’

      ‘I’ll call Cairo first thing in the morning. We’ll come straight back out.’

      ‘That will still leave them all night.’

      ‘Then what do you suggest?’

      ‘We go back now. We look around.’

      ‘Are you crazy?’ protested Omar. ‘I’m head of the SCA in Alexandria! I can’t go sneaking around archaeological sites at night. How would it look if we were caught?’

      ‘Like you were doing your job.’

      Omar’s cheeks flamed, but then he sighed and bowed his head. ‘I hate this kind of thing! I’m no damned good at it. Why on earth did Yusuf Abbas appoint me?’

      ‘Maybe because he knew you wouldn’t cause him any trouble,’ said Knox ruthlessly.

      A dark scowl flickered like a passing cloud across Omar’s face. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’

      III

      Gaille showed Stafford and Lily to their rooms, then went in search of Fatima. No surprise, she was at her desk, swaddled in blankets, looking cadaverous with exhaustion beneath her shawl. It was sometimes hard for Gaille to believe that so frail and shrunken a frame could house so formidable an intellect. Born just east of here, she’d discovered her passion for Ancient Egypt young, had won a scholarship to Leiden University in Holland before becoming a lecturer there, returning to Egypt each year to excavate at Berenike. But her illness had drawn her back here, close to her family, her roots. ‘I saw you were back,’ she smiled. ‘Thank you.’

      Gaille put her hand upon her shoulder. ‘I was glad to help.’

      ‘What did you make of our friend Mister Stafford?’

      ‘Oh. I really didn’t have much of a chance to get to know him.’

      Fatima allowed herself a rare laugh. ‘That bad?’

      ‘He’s not my kind of historian.’

      ‘Mine, neither.’

      ‘Then why invite him?’

      ‘Because we need funds, my dear,’ said Fatima. ‘And, for that, we first need publicity.’ She clenched her eyes and produced a blood-red handkerchief, the inevitable prelude to one of her violent coughing fits.

      Gaille waited patiently until she was recovered. ‘There must be other ways,’ she said, as the handkerchief vanished once more beneath Fatima’s robes.

      ‘I wish there were.’ But they both knew the reality. Most of the SCA’s constrained budget went to Giza, Saqqara, Luxor and the other landmark sites. So few people ever visited this stretch of Middle Egypt, it wasn’t considered an attractive investment, despite its beauty, friendliness and historical significance.

      ‘I don’t see how having Stafford here will help,’ said Gaille mulishly.

      ‘People read his books,’ replied Fatima.

      ‘His books are nonsense.’

      ‘I know they are. But people still read them. And they watch his programmes too. And some of them will no doubt be prompted to learn more, maybe even come here to find the truth for

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