The Exodus Quest by Will Adams

over Egypt. You’ll acknowledge that much, I trust?’
    ‘Acknowledge it? I wrote a book on the subject.’
    ‘Good. Now, Manetho – he who claimed that Osarseph was Moses – based his history on the records of the Temple of Amun in Heliopolis. And what do you imagine the priests of Amun would have thought of Akhenaten, the man who’d closed down their temples and excised their God’s name across the land? Do you not think they’d have considered him an interloper? His supporters lepers?’ He took another swallow of wine then wiped his mouth, smearing dark hairs against his wrist. ‘Good,’ he said, taking silence for assent. ‘Now, let’s take another look at Moses. A Hebrew child, we are told, set upon the Nile in a basket of rushes, rescued by the pharaoh’s daughter who gave him the name Moses because it was Hebrew for “drawn out”. But that whole tale has the ring of folklore, doesn’t it? Why would a pharaoh’s daughter give a foundling a Hebrew name, after all? She wouldn’t have known he was Hebrew, for one thing. Nor would she have spoken Hebrew, not least because it didn’t exist back then. No. The true explanation is simple. Moses means “son” in Egyptian, and it’s a common part of pharaonic names, as in Tutmosis, son of Thoth, or Ramesses, son of Ra. The foundling myth was merely a retrospective attempt to claim Moses as a born Jew; but the truth is that he was born an Egyptian prince.’
    ‘The Bible says he murdered an Egyptian soldier, doesn’t it?’ frowned Fatima. ‘And that he fled to the land of Kush. I can’t recall Akhenaten doing that.’
    ‘You’re never going to get a perfect match,’ said Stafford. ‘The question is whether the fit’s close enough. It clearly is. And that’s without even going into the remarkable parallels between the doctrines of Akhenaten and Moses.’
    ‘Which parallels are those exactly?’
    ‘I’ll tell you, if you give me a chance.’
    ‘Please,’ said Fatima. ‘Be my guest.’
    ‘I already am your guest,’ observed Stafford, gesturing grandly with his glass, slopping wine like blood onto his borrowed galabaya . He brushed the droplets irritably away, then composed himself to complete his thesis.
    II
    Inspector Naguib Hussein was usually good at forgetting his police work once he’d closed his front door for the night. Normally, his wife and daughter were a tonic to his spirits. But not tonight, not even as he stooped low for Husniyah to throw her arms around his neck so that he could lift her up. He tried not to let her see his anxiety, however, as he carried her through the bead curtain into their kitchen, kissing her surreptitiously on her crown, noting with a warm stab of pain and pride how springy and black her hair was, the thin pale valley of scalp that showed through beneath.
    Yasmine looked up from her cooking, eyes tired, complexion shiny with vapours. ‘That smells good,’ he said. He tried to pinch a morsel from the pot, but she smacked his hand and made him drop it. They shared a smile. Thirteen years of marriage, and still he could be surprised by the freshness of their affection. Husniyah sat cross-legged on the floor, a pad of paper on her lap, drawing pictures of animals and trees and houses. He watched over her shoulder, praising her skill, asking questions. But soon he fell into a reverie, brooding on the evils of the world, and it was only when Yasmine touched his shoulder that he realized she’d been talking to him. He shook his head to clear it, mustered the warmest smile he could. ‘Yes?’ he asked.
    ‘Something’s on your mind,’ she said.
    ‘Nothing particular.’ But he couldn’t prevent his eyes from swivelling to his daughter.
    ‘Husniyah, beloved,’ said Yasmine gently. ‘Could you please leave us a moment?’ Husniyah looked up, puzzled; but she’d been brought up to be obedient, so she gathered her things and left without a word. ‘Well?’ asked Yasmine.
    Naguib sighed. Sometimes he