Liz shook her head. “The linkage, from the ‘gods’ point of view, seems to be having believers in both universes. Whoever or whatever is running this show seems to be able to ignore or override that.”
Lamont, as usual, was quick on the uptake. “So. Aren’t there any gods in common?”
Jerry pursed his lips thoughtfully. “In a way, there are. In the latter days of Egypt, the Greeks identified numerous of the Egyptian gods as being the same as their own. Bastet was considered to be one with Artemis. Anubis with Hermes, Nepthys with Nike, Osiris with Dionysus or Hades. Isis got identified with Demeter, Hera, Selene and even Aphrodite.”
Liz sighed. “Great. So the only two I’ve taken to, are so confused they don’t even know who they are. Anyway, Osiris is off to face the judgment. Then he will be going to preside over the weighing of souls. We have been invited. You can ask as many gods as show their faces in the halls of the dead.”
“I just can’t wait,” said Mac.
Liz gave him a wry smile. “Well, you’ll just have to. We must stay here on the floating isle of Chemmis until a ship is sent for us.”
“I do not like the sounds of that,” said Henri, doubtfully.
Liz shook her head at the Frenchman. “And just how do you propose to go elsewhere?”
It was a good question. They’d been guided there in the dark, through a maze of twisty papyrus channels. Of course they could—in theory—navigate by the sun. Mac looked at the curving channel. The landmarks were occasional tufts of trees. All remarkably similar to each other.
A small Egyptian in a loincloth came up and bowed. “Buto has ordered us to set food for you, foreigners. Barley beer, bread, lentils, onions, cucumber, fish, pigeons and ducks, lotus root and pomegranates. My lady apologizes for the inadequate fare, but supplies have been disjointed of late.”
A second servant approached. “Toiletries await: oils, unguents and kohl for the ladies to darken their eyes. Cones of perfumed fat for your heads are prepared. Fresh garments of pleated linen are just being starched. Collars of faïence and coiled gold.” He took a long look at the men. Shuddered. “Bronze-bladed razors and tweezers await the lords, for the removal of unwanted facial hair.”
* * *
“Are you sure you don’t want that cone of perfumed fat to melt slowly into your hair?” asked Lamont innocently.
“Are you sure you want to live until nightfall?” retorted Liz, her eyes darkened with kohl and her ears adorned with large golden earrings. Around her neck was a fine-woven gold collar. “And no, I wasn’t prepared to shave all my hair off and wear a wig either. Or wear a thing that exposed one breast!”
Jerry swallowed. No point in letting your imagination run away with you. “It’s a mishmash. They don’t all come from the same era . . . ”
His explanation was interrupted by McKenna.
“All right. Out with it! Who told them to do this?” McKenna descended on them snarling. He was wrapped in a shred of linen and still dripping. He was incandescently angry. He was also clean-shaven. Entirely clean-shaven. Well, they’d left his eyelashes. But otherwise not a hair on his head or chin . . . or armpits. “Who told them I was a priest? That bastard Henri?”
“I am well aware of who my father was,” said Henri, tugging his goatee complacently. “My neat beard they thought Pharoic.”
Mac seemed on the verge of removing Henri Lenoir from this plane of existence. Cruz stepped forward and wrapped his thick arms around the corporal. “Cool it, Mac. He was already with the flunkies when you went off. He wouldn’t have even known you were going.”
“Somebody told Isis I was a priest!” snarled Mac. “Was this your idea of a practical joke—Sir?”
Liz went bright red and slapped him hard enough to make his do-it-yourself loincloth fall off. This revealed that they’d not stopped shaving when they got to his armpits. “If I’m going to abuse you I’ll do it firsthand!” she snarled, as Mac groped hastily for the fallen linen.