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stela but the artist, in true Amarna period style, had been trying to represent
the area realistically. The lines representing the cliffs formed a rough map.
Using that, it would be easy to track down the Graffito.
And anything else Ace might have left behind her.
Benny stood up. She had no way of reaching back through time to her
stranded friend. All she could do was try to find out how Ace had fared. Who
knew, there might even be a tomb.
There was a footfall outside the chamber. Benny stood up. I told you to
wait outs
There was a flash and a tremendous shove against her left shoulder. Sud-
denly Bernice found herself sitting down with her back to the wall.
She swung the torch around. There were two men in the doorway, squinting
in the unexpected brilliance of the beam.
The man with the gun crouched down. His friend was holding a flickering
torch. Tall and short, both in black. You were at the tavern, she said. Her
voice had gone all high-pitched and wobbly. She dropped the torch, put her
hand to her shoulder. It was soaking wet. Oh, cruk!
Give me the book, he said.
Benny didn t move. The man reached up and plucked the battered notebook
out of her lap. There was a large ring on his finger, with a glittering, oval green
stone.
Why? breathed Bernice. Why do you care about finding it?
The man hesitated, spoke in halting French. We will find Sutekh by follow-
ing . . . his footsteps? His footprints. The trail he has left for us. This is how it
was written.
Oh, the Osiran site at Sheta-Khu u, murmured Bernice. Are you lot in for
a surprise.
The tall man ignored her. Our ancestors fought to sustain the religion of
Sutekh. The sacred writings mention this picture. He pointed at the wall.
The other man was holding a shovel. Now he smashed it into the wall and
started levering off chunks of plaster. Benny shouted, No! but in minutes the
illustration was gouged out of the wall, falling in a rain of dust and shreds
onto the floor.
We do not know what we will find there, the first man said. Perhaps the
hidden prison of Sutekh.
He stood up, put the gun away. The handlers, said Bernice. He shook his
head.
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Don t leave me, she breathed, as the shock started to muddle her thoughts.
She tried to rise, but fell back hard against the wall, the pain making her heart
skip a beat.
This tomb shall be yours, said the Setite.
Every storm, Ace said, begins with something small.
They had walked to the edge of the city, where Akhetaten faded into the
desert. The rocky Red Land, Set s land, stretched away to the north and west.
The boundary stela was cut into a limestone cliff, twelve feet high, columns
of hieroglyphs dangling from an illustration of Akhenaten and his family wor-
shipping the Aten, the disc of the sun. Two of the Setites held a ladder against
the cliff as Ace climbed up it, clutching a chisel in her mouth like a pirate
biting on a dagger. She had tied the mallet to a rope, strung it around her
shoulders.
She climbed until she was face to face with the stone Pharaoh. You know
something, mate? You have an ugly mug.
He insists the artists make him look like that, called Sesehset.
Can t think why.
It s the new style. Another change.
The ladder shook as she chipped away at the inscription. First she hacked
out the sun disc, rough strokes digging into the soft limestone. Then she came
down two rungs. You ll have to read it out, she called down to Sesehset.
The priest flicked his eyes over the columns of hieroglyphs. Well, it s a
dedication, promising the Pharaoh won t move the city from this site or extend
it beyond the boundaries.
No, she said, word for word. She pointed with the chisel at the top of
a row of hieroglyphs. The Priest peered up. The Good God that means
Pharaoh sole one of Re, whose goodness Aten has created
Stop there, said Ace. That says Aten in the oval shape?
The cartouche marks a divine or royal name, said the priest.
Right. Ace picked up her mallet once more, and slowly and carefully dug
the Aten s name out of the stone. Tiny chips fell to the bottom of the cliff. And
here as well, she said.,
Who exalts Aten, makes his name great Sesehset had begun to read, but
already Ace was chiselling out the cartouche.
Heh, she said. I ve rubbed him out. That ll do for now.
She clambered down the shaky ladder. The Setites were glancing around
in the reddish dawn, nervously. Ace clapped Sesehset on the back, laughing.
one more thing before we go-go, she said.
Just
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The priests watched anxiously as she scraped a series of curves and angles
into the cliff, just above the height of her head. It took nearly half an hour to
make a proper job of it. She was sweating in the sunlight when she d finished.
Right. Now we can leave.
Is it writing? said Sesehset. I don t recognize the language.
It s for the twentieth century, and Ace raised a hand to her mouth, snicker-
ing like a child. That ought to give them something to think about.
The priests fled the white cliffs, running for the safety of Senef s estate.
In letters three feet high, in a language that would not be spoken for thou-
sands of years, the cliff shouted: ACE WAS HERE
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Chapter 9
Raiders of the Lost Akhetaten
Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do.
(G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy, 1908)
M Thierry s house was a modest twenty-eight room affair near the Bois de
Vincennes, a little outside Paris. It was separated by a wide lawn and a pond
from the orchard, with its rigidly defined rows of trees stretching off into the
distance.
The lawn had not been cut for months, and weeds grew thickly between
the trees. There was a crater of dried earth and grass where a stray shell had
come down. The pond was slick with decay. I ve eaten the fish, commented
Thierry dryly, leading them in through the servants entrance.
The kitchen smelt of must and dust. My servants have left me to fend for
myself, joked the tall Frenchman. There is plenty of room for visitors, as
there are only the three of us.
As if on cue, the littleboy came through the kitchen door. He was holding
a mouse-trap, turning it over and over in his hands, looking up at them with
pale, incurious eyes. Thierry watched the Doctor watching the child. Won t
you come and have some déjeuner? he said. I m afraid a shell hit the dining-
room.
Kadiatu steered the Doctor around the littleboy and to the kitchen table.
From somewhere, a skinny woman in a grey dress emerged; despite the sum-
mer warmth, she had a black shawl wrapped around her narrow shoulders.
She brought cutlery, glasses, the remains of a leg of lamb. Kadiatu started
removing great slices of meat from it while their hostess set down plates and
a bowl of apples.
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