R. LaFevers - Theodosia and the Serpents of Chaos

I rummaged through my kit until I found a small sliver of malachite, a green, semiprecious stone used by the ancient Egyptians to invoke regeneration and healthy life. (You’d be surprised how many artifacts, in spite of our best efforts, crumble and disintegrate when handled. When that happens, I scramble to collect the tiny bits and slivers that no one else bothers with. They come in very handy at times like this.)

I placed the sliver of malachite in the center of the wedjat eye and carefully folded the linen over it until it was a tiny little wad. Next, I lit a candle stub and let the wax drip all over the linen to seal it. While the wax was still warm, I pressed it onto the pebble.

While that was cooling, I grabbed a length of gold-colored wire — to invoke the power of the sun god — out of my bag and began twisting that into the shape of an ankh. Ankhs are the Egyptian symbol for life and wearing one is thought to lengthen one’s life. I looped a thin cord through the top of it, then slipped it over my head.

Then as one last means of protection, I took four white threads (purity), four green threads (life and regeneration), four yellow threads (representative of the sun, which was eternal and imperishable), and four red threads (fiery protective power of the Eye of Ra) and plaited them together. I tied it off in a knot, then added six more knots (to form a barrier through which hostile forces cannot pass). It would make a lovely bracelet. Perhaps I could even talk Mother into wearing it.

Now properly armed, I put my supplies away and hurried toward the short-term storage down by the loading dock.

Something felt different as soon as I stepped into the room. It was in the air, as if the elemental particles had been disturbed. It felt as if the invisible threads that wind themselves through the atmosphere had been snarled.

Something had tangled these invisible threads into a twisted mess.

Ignoring the familiar punch of nausea, I went over to the closest box of shabtis.

Once again, they had changed. They were now exquisitely detailed little statues and they lay in their crate in a jumble, not all nicely laid out as we had left them.

Bother. Had the shabtis got up and moved around on their own? Like they had in my dream?

My stomach did a somersault at that thought. It made perfect sense that Amenemhab would have included these small clay figures as part of his curse. He’d included every other possible thing — why not these? Perhaps they were to rise up and help bring the downfall of Thutmose and Amenemhab’s enemies from the inside out. Sort of like an Egyptian version of the Trojan horse.

It seemed perfectly logical, in a black magic, revengey sort of way.

I moved on to the next crate and saw a dozen shabtis scattered on the floor around it. Was this the crate Henry had been using for soldiers? Had he carelessly left them out? Or had they climbed out on their own? No, surely one of the curators moved them. Probably Fagenbush had come down here, sniffing around.

Except even Fagenbush treated artifacts with the utmost care. The jumble of nerves in my stomach grew larger.

Looking for answers, I crossed over to the worktable where most of the stele had been laid out. I stood for a bit, studying the grisly images. The pharaoh’s army lined up in endless rows, armed with spears and swords and daggers, grim expressions on their faces. Beheaded enemies lay at the pharaoh’s feet, clearly the handiwork of these soldiers. Was that part of the whole plan? Were these shabti figures to rise up, not in the true afterlife like most shabtis, but whenever someone disturbed the tomb?

Words from Amenemhab’s Art of War came to mind.

But let them remember, to be afraid, even after his death. Let them remember how he smote his enemies in two, renting their skulls asunder as they wished to lay your land. Let them remember that his retribution was swift and terrible, as it will always be through all eternity.

Something touched my shoulder. I jumped, nearly dropping the stele.

“Theo?” Mum’s voice sounded above my pounding heart. “Whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing, Mother,” I said, clutching my heart to make sure it was still in my chest. “I just hadn’t heard you come in. That’s all.”

She eyed me dubiously.

Anxious to get her concerns off of me, I pointed to the stele I’d been studying. “Mum, look here for a moment. You brought home nearly everything pictured in this stele.”

“Hm. Yes, I did, didn’t I? How clever of you to figure that out.”

“But you didn’t bring this,” I said, pointing to a scepter the pharaoh held in his hand. “The Was scepter, according to the rubbing you gave me. Amenemhab speaks about it quite a lot, actually.”

What he said was that whosoever holds the Was scepter in their possession shall be assured wealth and prosperity for their land. I was thinking poor Britain could use a bit of that right now. Plus, if I made it sound enticing enough, Mother might decide it was worth going back to Egypt sooner rather than later.

“Really? I never saw anything like that on our excavation or I would certainly have brought it home. I’ll look for it next time, won’t I?”

“When do you think that will be?”

“Darling, we just went over this last night. Not for a while yet.”

I nearly screamed in frustration. Wigmere had no idea what he was asking. I thought about telling her that the very fate of Britain hung on her decision. That her actions had launched a series of events that could topple the kingdom. I thought about explaining the curse and its repercussions. But in the end, I stumbled upon the one thing that would spur her to action.

“When Henry and I were over at the British Museum the other day,” I said, glancing out of the corner of my eye to make sure I had her full attention, “we heard that Snowthorpe chap talking to one of his flunkies. He was trying to set up an expedition specifically to find this Was scepter. Seemed to think it was nearly as valuable as the Heart of Egypt.”

Mother rose up, full of indignation. “But that’s our dig! They can’t just barge in there because they want something.”

Then I played my trump card. “Has that ever stopped them before?”

As she stared at me, I could see the wheels and gears churning inside her head. She glanced over toward the stairs. “Well, I just came to check and see how you were doing down here, darling,” she said brightly. “I really must go back upstairs.”

To Father’s workroom, I hoped.

Where, with any luck, she would soon talk him into a quick jaunt to Cairo.

I spent the rest of the afternoon studying the steles that had been laid out on the table. They told the exact same story that the Art of War rubbing told, only in pictures. With vivid detail.

We beseech you, oh gods, that whosoever should take his heart from this land, shall bring upon themselves the agonies of a thousand deaths. May their actions bring pestilence upon their land, eating away at their bounty as their actions have eaten away at the glory of our land. May famine bring them to their knees, hollowing out their bellies and weakening their bodies. May all the power of the Nile fall from the sky, flooding their lands until all shall float away on a sea of destruction and death.

They showed pictures of emaciated people, who bore an uncanny resemblance to the haunted faces I’d seen in the Seven Dials. One stele showed people with a revolting pox on their faces, writhing on the ground.

Then, oh gods, may plagues rise up to eat away at the people, may pustules and sores erupt over their bodies, marking them for all to see as destroyers of Egypt. May your retribution upon these enemies of Thutmose be swift and terrible, may Sehkmet devour their hearts, and Ammit feast on their heads. May all the lands run red with their blood until they return the Heart of Egypt to its rightful resting place, and lay it back at your feet, so that Thutmose’s glory will be whole once more.