The Exodus Quest. Will Adams

a gentle hummock of limestone, almost completely bare of soil, useless for farming and untouched by industrialization or property development. If people had lived here in ancient times, there was a fair chance traces of them would have survived. He looked up at the scuff of footsteps. Two middle-aged men emerged from behind the cabin, their clothes and hair grey with dust and cobwebs. ‘Mister Tawfiq,’ said the first, thrusting out his right hand, revealing a dark crescent of sweat beneath his armpit. ‘I understand you’re the new head of the SCA in Alexandria. Congratulations.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Omar. ‘I’m only interim head, you know.’

      ‘I met your predecessor, of course. A terrible tragedy to lose such a good man so young.’

      ‘Yes,’ agreed Omar. He turned to Knox. ‘And this is my friend, Mister Daniel Knox.’

      ‘Daniel Knox?’ asked the man. ‘Of Alexander’s tomb fame?’

      ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Knox.

      ‘We are honoured,’ he said, shaking his hand. ‘I’m Mortimer Griffin. Chief archaeologist of this excavation.’ He turned to his companion. ‘And this is the Reverend Ernest Peterson.’

      ‘An excavation with its own chaplain?’ asked Knox.

      ‘We’re really a training dig,’ explained Griffin. ‘Most of our crew are very young, you know. Away from home for the first time, a lot of them. Their parents feel better knowing they have moral guidance.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Knox. He offered to shake Peterson’s hand, but Peterson just stood there, his arms folded, staring back with a granite smile.

      ‘So what can we do for you gentlemen?’ asked Griffin, pretending nothing had just happened. ‘All this way without an appointment. It must be important.’

      ‘Yes,’ agreed Knox. ‘I’m beginning to think it might be.’

      III

      Stafford sighed loudly as Gaille pulled to a stop by the barriers. ‘Don’t tell me we’re lost!’

      ‘I had to get us away from the station,’ said Gaille defensively. She leaned forwards. Late afternoon sun blurred like a headache on her dusty windscreen. There was no indication of when the march might end and the barricades be removed. Nothing for it: she pulled an awkward five-point turn in the narrow street, headed back through the bazaar and emerged onto the square outside the crowded train station, the traffic and emerging passengers forcing her to slow almost to walking pace as she worked her way through the crowd.

      Two men were laughing good-naturedly as they tussled over a straw hat. ‘That’s mine!’ scowled Stafford. He lowered his window, grabbed for his hat. The two men danced off yelling cheerful insults, bringing the Discovery to general attention. People walked in front, forcing Gaille to a stop. ‘What are you doing?’ protested Stafford, raising his window back up.

      ‘I thought you wanted your hat.’

      ‘Get us out of here.’

      Gaille pressed her palm on her horn, revved her engine until the throng reluctantly parted, allowing her to squirt through a gap and away. But the traffic lights ahead turned red, a three-wheel van blocking their escape. Gaille glanced back. A tall youth was swaggering after them, swinging his shoulders, probably only wanting to impress his friends; but the seconds passed and the lights didn’t change, and he drew closer and closer, so that Gaille knew he’d have to do something or look ridiculous. She checked to make sure the doors were all locked, looked around again. The man stooped, picked up a stone the size of an egg from the edge of the kerb, threw it hard. It clanged on their roof, skittered off down the street. Others began to near. A clod of earth exploded on their back window, leaving an ugly brown smear. The lights finally turned. The three-wheeler struggled to get away. Suddenly they were surrounded, people banging on their windows. A man reached beneath his robes just as an explosion, like a firecracker, made Gaille’s hands jump on the steering wheel. A wisp of smoke leaked apologetically from the three-wheeler’s exhaust as it finally picked up speed. She stamped her foot down indignantly and accelerated away.

       FIVE

      I

      ‘Well?’ said Griffin. ‘Won’t you tell us why you’re here?’

      ‘I was offered an artefact in Alexandria this morning,’ replied Knox. ‘The seller said it was from an excavation south of Mariut.’

      ‘You shouldn’t believe what those people tell you. Anything for a sale.’

      ‘Yes,’ agreed Knox.

      Griffin’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of artefact exactly?’

      ‘A storage-jar lid.’

      ‘A storage-jar lid? You came all this way for a storage-jar lid?’

      ‘We came all this way because we think antiquities theft is a serious matter,’ said Omar.

      ‘Yes, of course,’ nodded Griffin, suitably chastened. ‘But you must realize there used to be a substantial pottery industry out here. They made jars to transport grain and wine all around the Mediterranean, you know. Good wine, too. Strabo commended it highly. So did Horace and Virgil. They even found some amphorae of it off Marseilles, would you believe? Walk along the old lake-front here, you’ll find great heaps of ancient pottery fragments. Anyone could have picked up your lid from one of them. It didn’t have to come from an excavation.’

      ‘This lid wasn’t broken,’ said Knox. ‘Besides, it was … unusual.’

      ‘Unusual?’ said Griffin, shading his eyes from the sun. ‘In what way?’

      ‘What exactly is this site?’ asked Omar.

      ‘An old farm. Of no great interest, believe me.’

      ‘Really?’ frowned Knox. ‘Then why excavate here?’

      ‘This is primarily a training excavation. It gives our students the chance to experience life on a real dig.’

      ‘What did they farm here?’

      ‘All kinds of things. Grain. Vines. Beans. Madder. Papyrus. You know.’

      ‘On limestone bedrock?’

      ‘This is where they lived. Their fields were on all sides.’

      ‘And the people?’

      Griffin scratched beneath his collar, beginning to feel the pressure. ‘Like I say. This was an old farm. They were old farmers.’

      ‘What era?’

      Griffin glanced at Peterson, but found no help. ‘We’ve found artefacts from the Nineteenth Dynasty on. But mostly Graeco-Roman. Nothing later than the early fifth century AD. A couple of coins from 413 or 414, something like that. There seems to have been a fire around that time. Luckily for us.’

      Knox nodded. A good blaze would put a carbonized shell over a site, protecting it from the worst ravages of time and weather. ‘The Christian riots?’ he suggested.

      ‘Why would Christians burn down a farm?’

      ‘Why indeed?’ agreed Knox.

      ‘Perhaps you could give us the tour,’ suggested Omar into the ensuing silence. ‘Show us what you’ve been finding.’

      ‘Of course. Of course. Any time. Just make an appointment with Claire.’

      ‘Claire?’

      ‘Our administrator. She speaks Arabic, you know.’

      ‘That’s good,’ said Omar. ‘Because