The tale of Tamose the Transcendent – more popularly known as Thomas – begins in Ancient Egypt. A thousand years before Heron of Alexandria amazed crowds with his aeolipile – which some call the world’s first steam engine – the 21st Dynasty nobleman Tamose of Tanis married Ishtantaya, a Sidonite princess. Though most of her contemporaries would have been pleased to leave their homeland, Ishtantaya found the Egyptians a frustratingly complacent people who cared too much about the past and not enough about the future. Out of anger or ennui, she introduced Tamose to Moloch – the Sidonite god of fire and blood – telling him this deity would reward his faith by making him the Pharaoh of a great Egyptian Empire.





Tamose was initially shocked, as Moloch’s rather eccentric demands included child sacrifice; but out of love for Ishtantaya, or lust for greater glory, he took up his partner’s faith. They recruited followers and built a secret shrine to Moloch beneath an abandoned temple of Ptah. In the days and weeks to come, many local children vanished but their parents blamed bandits and crocodiles. But when Tamose made the mistake of kidnapping a high priest’s daughter more serious investigations began. The Pharaoh’s soldiers found the shrine, and in a fit of sectarian violence rare for ancient polytheists, killed everyone they found within except those marked for sacrifice. Ishtantaya was among the slain; but Tamose managed to escape and fled south to Nubia. He devoted the rest of his life to Moloch with an even greater fervour; having lost his one true love he lusted only for revenge.





When Tamose died his acolytes buried him in a traditional tomb, which being so far from Egypt escaped being robbed in antiquity. For millennia it lay forgotten; then the famous archaeologist Sir Vernon Tokentaker found it and sold its contents to a London museum. Tamose’s mummy was put in a glass case and shown to obnoxious gawkers who likened it to Paris Hilton. Though the mummy seemed a withered husk, it still housed Tamose’s vengeful soul, and this last humiliation gave his corpse a spark of life. That night, when everyone had left, Tamose broke out of his case and shuffled off to find a shrine where he could call upon his god.





This was a frustrating task, as London’s famed inclusiveness did not extend itself to Moloch, but Tamose’s efforts were rewarded when he found some sort of shrine in a vintage railway yard. He pushed its attendant into the furnace, and having no children to add to the blaze, cried out to his god and climbed in himself. Though Moloch had slept for thousands of years this last act from his last worshipper stirred him back into action. He infused Tamose and his tomb – which was actually a steam engine – with an infernal energy that twisted steel, fire and bone into a demonic warrior armed with a massive flaming sword. Tamose, at last, would have his revenge.





Tamose began his rampage at once and the next day London lay in ruins. The armed forces were powerless as none of their mundane weapons could harm their superhuman enemy; and those few who survived his wrath knew nothing of his origins. When Sir Vernon voiced his suspicions – which drew on eyewitness accounts of a mummy leaving the museum – his superiors dismissed them as rubbish, though tabloid writers seized on them. Sir Vernon had translated one phrase on Tamose’s sarcophagus as Tamose the Transcendent, though to ancient ears it would have sounded more like “Tamose Takinjin.” The mainstream press thought these names were too hard for the average reader so one paper dubbed the monster Thomas. To Tamose’s annoyance this name stuck, and within days a Chinese company that valued profit over taste was selling Transformable Tomas toys.





None of these things stopped Tamose from attacking other cities. It seemed no mortal could oppose him, and the mere scent of the smoke that poured from his funnel made the bravest children cry. As Tamose travelled further north, Sean Parker of Manchester awoke with a massive hangover. When he stumbled to his bedroom door he found it was no longer there. As his bleary vision cleared he saw Manchester was gone as well. All that remained was a ruined expanse of melted steel and shattered stone.





“Bloody hell!” swore Sean. “I’m all for a bit of venting when our team loses the Grand Final but last night we went too far!” He turned and shuffled back to his bed – which had somehow stayed intact – when a gigantic beetle crawled from the shadows under it. Sean grabbed his old cricket bat and raised it to swat the creature when to his surprise it spoke.





“Don’t hit me!” it cried. “Without my help your world is doomed!”





Sean’s eyes flitted between the beetle and the ruins. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I was scared. Now who are you and what can you do?”





“I am Khepri,” said the beetle. “Your country is currently under attack from an old enemy of mine. But Tamose the Transcendent has a twisted code of honour, and we can use it to defeat him.”





“We?” gaped Sean. “What am I meant to do?”





“You must challenge Tamose to a duel in the ruins of Manchester Stadium. He won’t be able to resist, as duels were very popular among the ancient Sidonites whose culture he appropriated. Don’t be too afraid of him; I’ve made plans with the local insects and we’ll take care of the rest.”





“I’m sure you will,” said Sean, “but why have you chosen me?”





“It might come as a surprise,” said Khepri, “but you’re no ordinary chap. Prophets foretold these events long ago. An ancient greatness runs through your veins. Now rise to meet your destiny.”





“Save that crap for Eragon,” groaned Sean. “Now let’s put the brakes on this runaway train.”





The next day Sean found himself facing an advancing Tamose while the regular armed forces fled. His monstrous opponent dwarfed him and his bat felt feeble in his grasp. Yet something – be it ancient greatness or a humbler native stubbornness – made him bravely hold his ground. “Get off my land, you overgrown toaster!” he yelled in his most obnoxious brogue.





Tamose stopped. “Is that a challenge?”





“It is,” said Sean, “and if you have the smallest shred of honour, you’ll meet me in the ruins of Manchester Stadium tomorrow.”





Tamose unleashed a roar imbued with the pain of slaughtered innocents. “I accept your challenge,” he said, “and you’ll regret your foolishness when your body has been torn apart and your naked soul is cast into my master’s fiery maw!”





“Whatever you say, old chap,” said Sean. Then, before his courage failed, he turned around and walked away.





The next day Sean waited for Tamose in the ruined stadium while Khepri, who had somehow acquired a not-so-ancient detonator, hid behind a broken wall. When Tamose appeared Sean taunted him, then backed away from his advance, drawing the colossus to the centre of the ruins. Then Khepri slammed his plunger down and a thump resounded through the earth. Seeing Sean was cornered, Tamose raised his flaming sword – and the ground gave way beneath him. With the scream of a vanquished god he fell into a black abyss whose walls were lined with ancient bones. Sean heard a tremendous splash, and when he dared to look over the rim of the pit, he saw a shattered Tamose immersed in a lake that had lain undisturbed for centuries. Steam hissed from the demonic being as its inner fires were quenched; then the earth shook again and buried it.





The locals who had seen Sean’s triumph gave their story to the tabloids and Sean became a national hero. Some wanted him to be made king; but Sean had had enough of real or symbolic greatness and contented himself with a carton of beer. Khepri chose to stay in England to promote the rights of insects who were not considered sacred there; and while the tale of Tamose the Transcendent holds a prominent place in the national psyche it has been greatly sanitised for fear of upsetting children or offending recent immigrants.



