CHAPTER 3 The Phoenician ship was a poor choice, but at short notice it had to do, for she could not afford the time waiting for a more suitable vessel. The summons was silently explicit in its urgency, and she wanted to be back before Miah returned. Everything was packed and arranged without her help. Asif, as always, had seen to the travel arrangements, and he appeared years younger as he waited for her on the Quayside. She had sent messages to the clients of her dance school explaining her absence on business. Debts were settled to date, and funds provided to last her household several months. Asif, with his usual caution had arranged for Beksheba to draw further funds from a local merchant with whom he had an arrangement, should they be delayed beyond the time of their anticipated return. Their belongings had been packed into two of Muralsu’s travelling trunks and stowed on board. Standing near the ship, Muralsu looked resplendent despite the plainness of her white dress, and Asif was grinning widely, leaning on his stick. Isis looked nervously at the ship and clutched a bundle to herself containing a change of clothes and a few personal items, whilst the marmoset entangled her in its red leather lead. Gold was exchanged, and the three climbed aboard, and settled down for the first part of their journey. The crossing to Egypt was without incident, and they were then quickly transported up the Nile by river craft. They disembarked in Thebes and took up lodgings in one of the better inns that made a goodly trade from travellers up and down the river. Muralsu was dressed in a bright yellow costume and her wrists and ankles flashed gold and turquoise. She had Isis carry an umbrella to shade her, which was purely an affectation considering the darkness of her skin. Her head was swathed in an elaborate turban the same colour as her dress. With her towering height and striking looks, she turned the heads of all who saw her. Her gold secured them the accommodation adjoining an inn, consisting of a room for her own comfort, and the luxury of a further room the size of a cupboard for her servants. Such was her regard for the old man that she would have shared her room with him, but he would have none of it. Despite his familiarity with her, he always afforded her accommodation of her own, and insisted she acted as a lady at all times. In any event Muralsu could see that he had no objection to squeezing into the small room alongside Isis. The rooms had the added luxury of access to a garden area at the rear of the inn. It was poorly attended but at least offered some privacy. It was late afternoon, and Muralsu had given Isis leave to go for a stroll along the quayside, warning her to be careful and to return before dark. She sat in a cushioned chair, and Asif perched himself on one of their travelling trunks whose top was padded to double as a seat. “If we are here secretly to answer Nefertiti’s summons,” asked Asif, “why do you arrive so openly, making a show of yourself? I swear that all work on the docks halted as you disembarked. One poor porter gaped too long and fell in the water.” Muralsu laughed, it was low and warm. “Asif, I am black as the night sky and well over six feet tall. How can I secretly disembark? No. It is better to appear to be visiting openly and without inviting any comment but that which would be normal. Tomorrow we shall pay some visits and buy some things. It will appear that we are seeing old friends, and tomorrow night I shall slip out and – see to our business. We can then pick up some souvenirs and arrange a boat home.” They spent the following day as Muralsu had said, but kept their visits to the common folk, not wanting to cause gossip in the upper classes, where news might reach the ears of those it may be best to avoid. In the dark hours, a shadow slipped out of the rear door of the inn. She wore little beneath a black cloak, her own skin colour the best disguise against the night. She had removed all her jewellery and her undressed hair formed a dark halo about her head. A long thin dagger nestled against her inner thigh, and a smaller knife was tucked into the plaited belt that secured her only other garment, a dark blue knee-length kilt. She made her way along several alleys before flitting across a wide street, where she ducked into a corner beneath some stairs. She strained both her eyes and ears for some tell tale sign that she was being followed. There was nothing but silence. The night was not too cold and she huddled her cloak about her and sat, back against the wall, her knees drawn up. She waited a full half hour to see if an unseen watcher would become concerned that he had lost her and betray his presence. Finally she stood up and with one further glance into the impenetrable darkness, she left her hiding place and hurried down the street. She repeated the process once more and only when she was sure that she was not being followed did she head back the way she had come but by another route. The old warehouse was shuttered and locked. Muralsu took a key from around her neck and inserted it into the lock. It didn’t fit and was obviously too small. She cursed, but it had been many years since she had last used this door, and it was no surprise that the lock had changed. She did not want to break in and leave evidence of her presence and this meant picking the lock. She had however, brought no tools for such a purpose and inwardly cursed herself. It was evidence that she had grown lax and was ill prepared. It would never have happened in the old days. She could see nothing in the darkness, but hanging the key about her neck again she slipped the slim dagger from its sheath and inserted the needlepoint into the hole in the lock. With surprising ease the tumbler turned and Muralsu gave a snort of derision. What was the point of fitting a lock that a child could pick? She swung the door open slightly, lifting its weight so that it made no sound as the hinges slid against each other. She slipped inside and shut it again and was immediately enveloped in the heavy rich smell of grain. Her outstretched exploring hands made contact with sacks that were stacked higher than her own head. Moving slowly forward, she bumped against the sharp edge of an earthenware jar. Her groping hand felt the rim, and the leather thong with which the lid was secured. At last she found the rear wall and followed it, negotiating various obstacles as she made her way to where she wished to be. Cursing, she found yet another stack of sacks, but was relieved to find that these were only waist high. She soon heaved them aside and grasped what she sought, a ring set in a trapdoor in the floor. She pulled, but it obstinately remained shut. Placing her feet either side of the wooden door, she again grasped the ring and pulled as hard as she could. The muscles in her legs were hard as metal and she felt that her arms would be torn from her shoulders. With her strength ebbing she gave a mighty jerk and the door moved slightly with the sound that seemed like thunder in the silence. She stood back and caught her breath. She then hitched her kilt up into her belt and placed her fingers beneath the crack and lifted. The hinges screamed the first few inches then giving up the struggle and the door banged easily back against the wall. Very carefully she put her foot out and felt for the ladder that she hoped was still there. It was, and she very gingerly put her full weight on it, for fear that after all these years it would have rotted. However it was solid and she climbed to the bottom without mishap. At first she thought that she would have to continue her journey in darkness but her eyes grew accustomed to the blackness, and she could make out a glimmer of light far away down what she knew was a narrow tunnel. She moved forward but cried out in pain as her head struck something. She stood still, hand to her forehead where a small lump was forming. Satisfied that she had caused no real damage she put out her hands and felt broken brickwork where the tunnel had evidently been sealed at some time. A narrow gap had been opened up and she squeezed through but her kilt caught on a sharp stone and the sound of tearing material echoed about her. “By the eye of Anubis, I’m too old for this,” she swore, tugging at the material, succeeding only in ripping it further. She could now better make out the light ahead, and walked along the passage without fear of further injury. She was forced to stoop as the passage could not accommodate her height, and as she reached the first lamp she saw how dirty and dusty her legs and feet had become. One sandal strap had broken and was further evidence of her lack of planning. Only a fool, she thought, would have set off on such an errand wearing such flimsy footwear. That the tunnel was now lit was evidence that she was expected, and she wondered how the Queen had known that she would come this particular night. She then remembered that Nefertiti was dead, and who knew what she could see and do? She shuddered at the thought, and felt an unpleasant tightness high in her stomach. She then realised that the passage had probably been lit every day and night against her eventual coming. This rational explanation however, did nothing to calm her fears. The passage ended abruptly, and the dim light showed a rickety ladder that vanished up into the darkness. Muralsu could see nothing in the blackness beyond the lamp’s glow, and so placed a foot on the second rung of the ladder and grabbing hold, tested it. It sprang slightly but appeared safe enough, and so again tucking up her kilt, she began to climb. Every so often the ladder ended at a small stone platform where she could catch her breath, before ascending the next one. At last she reached the final landing, but stopped short, her head level with its floor. The landing was narrow and closed off from what lay beyond by two doors, the seams of which danced with a golden light from the room beyond. Muralsu remained still, listening intently. Were anyone to fling open the doors, she had only to duck down. She waited, waited until her feet protested as the narrow rung bit into her soles. She then waited even longer, and then having satisfied herself that no one had heard her assent, she climbed the last few rungs and lay full length on the floor. The climb had made her sweat and she felt the cold of the stone against her hot body. After a while she felt chilly and so cracked open the doors slightly and peered inside blinking at the intensity of the light. The room was unoccupied but for the flood of memories that washed over her. Had it really been so long since lasts she was here? The room seemed exactly the same as far as she could recall. There were the same wall paintings, the same furniture, and she fancied she could detect a hint of the long dead Queen’s perfume. Cat like she bounded across the room to the opposite wall and crouched down, her dagger now held before her, her eyes searching for a hidden trap. There was a movement and Muralsu tensed ready to spring. A girl entered the room from a doorway on Muralsu’s right. She did not seem at all surprised at the apparition of a half naked giant female facing her, dagger drawn. “Her majesty bids you welcome again,” the girl said with a small bow. Muralsu stared at her, trying to see if she recognised her as one of the Queen’s attendants. However, she realised the girl would be no more than sixteen and would have only been a small child when Muralsu last saw the Queen. She wished that she had not come. It was always bad facing unseen enemies, but this meeting with the dead began to paralyse her with fear. “Is it Nefertiti?” It was all she could force through her lips from a parched throat. The girl laughed pleasantly, the sound calm and pleasing, and so at odds with Muralsu’s feelings. She suddenly realised how foolish she looked, dirty and dusty, crouching in a corner, dagger drawn facing a defenceless sixteen year old girl. “She sent you a message. It is she you have come to see is it not?” The girl smiled. Muralsu stood up but did not replace the dagger, merely dropping her hand to her side. “The Queen is dead,” she said as she carefully watched the girl. She still referred to Nefertiti as The Queen despite the fact that after her husband’s death, she had changed her name to Smenkhara and ascended the throne in her own right as Pharaoh. The girl smiled again, but it seemed automatic, insincere and was switched on each time she began to speak. “She lives forever with our Lady the Divine Isis,” she said it as if she were making a common day observation. This time the smile remained. She really was quite pretty although heavily painted. Muralsu looked at her closely. When the dead were entombed, figurines were placed with them that would magically come alive in the afterlife, and continue to serve the deceased for all time. If this was such a Shabti, then she was a credit to whoever carved and painted the original. She seemed to glow with health, her olive skin smooth and unblemished. She was dressed plainly in a white shift but the jewellery at her neck and wrists looked bright as well as costly. “She said you would be cautious. Please make yourself more comfortable before I present you.” She gestured with an open hand to a table and chair. Draped over the arm of the chair was a clean robe, and Muralsu noted that it was her favourite shade of green. That was curious in itself, for most ordinary dress was plain white as the Shabti wore. On the table was a bowl full of scented water and an array of oils. There was also a golden cup and jug that Muralsu judged held water or wine. She swallowed at the thought, her tongue sliding over her lips. So like before, thought Muralsu, and so like the Queen to think of her comfort. She would have known that the passage would be dirty and the long climb exhausting. “Are you always with her?” Muralsu asked relaxing slightly “Please,” repeated the girl again gesturing to the table. She then moved away from Muralsu and turned to the doorway. “I shall return in a moment – to give you time.”