“I am pleased. My slaves have done exactly as ordered,” he said in a rich, deep voice. Though he knew he spoke Egyptian Arabic, the words sounded like accented English to his ears. “I wish for shade.”
Two slaves silently raised palm fronds over his head to shade him. They remained low, quiet and out of their master’s sight.
“Atakheramen, lord of Lower Egypt, Pharaoh of all that he sees…” the advisor began.
“Enough, I tire of your pathetic praises. Speak plainly.” The bangles on his wrists clanged as he waved the words away.
“Yes, sire. The base has been laid. The men work tirelessly toward your glory. The crypt will be complete in three years, though the additions you have made will take longer. The pyramid itself—”
Atakheramen turned violently, slapping the papyrus and reed out of the man’s hands. He seethed with anger.
“What additions?” He spat out.
“My lord, the mechanical traps you specified in your latest designs.” The man knelt before his pharaoh, head to the ground. “If I may say so, they are a work of true genius.”
Atakheramen turned away from the simpering man. He looked at the hive of activity extending to the horizon. His face was stone, though his mind flew. He thought of the changes he had been experiencing. Changes wrought by necessary sacrifices; powers gained through deals with Khonsu and Anubis. He had been gifted Heka, the magic of the gods, but would only keep it through ritual sacrifice. That night was the night of the final ceremony. He stood, basking in the sunlight, knowing it was the final time he would do so.
“Away with you,” he ordered. He didn’t deign to look at the man that scurried away. His orders were absolute, as was his power. He held rule and dominion over man. Selling his soul was a small price for immortality. He looked at his hand in the sunlight, savoring the heat. He made up his mind there and then.
“If I must forsake the day to gain the power to lead my people forever, so be it.”
He turned his back to the construction and walked back to the city. He thirsted for water, and his wells were the only source for dozens of miles. The slaves hurried to keep up with his long stride, keeping their palm fronds over his head. Though a palanquin was available for his use, he preferred to walk. The gods had declared him holy, making the ground he tread upon fertile; he graced his people to accept their worship.
Soon he arrived at the center of the bustling city. The marketplace ground to a halt as his presence was noticed. All present fell prostrate in front of their pharaoh. He approached the well, listening to the hum as it worked. None of his people ever noticed it. They were not gifted enough to sense the magic.
“I thirst,” he said as he held out a hand. He waited as two men leapt into action. They dropped a bucket into the well, letting hemp rope spool out. It took many long seconds for the bucket to hit water, but water it did find. They waited for the bucket to fill, then cranked on a handle to raise the bucket. A long minute later, the bucket emerged from the dark depths of the well, glistening with moisture. All the while the hum never stopped, felt in his guts more than heard.
A beautifully crafted golden goblet was dipped into the water and raised. Then it was placed in his hand, and the men fell back in supplication. Atakheramen took a sip of the water. It was cool, pleasant on his tongue. He relished the taste. Then he spoke once more.
“This well is our source of prosperity. We give thanks to the gods, Khnum, Khonsu, our patron god and the lord of the night, and Anubis, that he might bless our city.”
The slaves kept constant coverage over his head as he left the market and wound through the streets of the burgeoning city toward his low-set palace. His people had great wealth thanks to the endless wells. They were greatly blessed to have seven. With the wells, they could afford to support a population of hundreds of thousands, when the wells worked.
The palace rose twenty cubits to the sky. Stout walls held storms back, and windows had wooden shutters to allow sunlight in. Just inside the large entry doors lay the throne room. The throne was the central fixture set thirty feet back from the doors. No other furniture adorned the room. Instead, eight columns held up the roof, four on the north and four on the south side. Additional doors were hidden behind the large columns, allowing one to believe the throne room was all there was to see.
When he walked into the throne room, his slaves disappeared into alcoves. He strode across the hall and settled into his throne. An advisor appeared a minute later, clutching the papyrus and reed again.
“Is everything ready for tonight?” Atakheramen asked imperiously.
“Y-yes my lord. The seers have gathered as instructed. Am I to give them the slaves from the market for the sacrifice?” The advisor had his head so low as to be touching the floor. He spoke loudly to be heard from the position.
“No. Take one of the workers. As the sun sets, I will be made anew.”
“It is the Night of Crimson, Lord. You will be made anew,” the advisor said in a religious fervor. His lord, his pharaoh was god made flesh. He would do anything his master ordered. So it was of all the people of their small city. Murdus, the city named after his father, would prosper. It was foretold.
The sun faded in the west, lower across the horizon with each minute. Atakheramen gave thanks and prayer to his cousin Amun, the god of the sun. A minor deity, but one he knew would gain power and importance in coming eras. That, too, had been foretold. After his prayers, he walked through a recessed door to an adjoining space. It had been prepared especially for the ritual that would be held.
In the center of the room was a man Atakheramen had seen in the market. He was tied to a specially-made table upside-down. His arms were bound on the sides where holes were cut for rope. His ankles were similarly bound. His head was bound above a groove that would direct all blood shed on the table to a single spot below. The funnel was unnecessary when there were sages to control the blood. He struggled and cried out, his voice was thick with tears and snot.
“Silence him,” ordered Atakheramen. One of the robed men nearby complied, stuffing linen in the man’s mouth, choking him and stopping the blubbering cries. Atakheramen looked at five seers in a circle around the bound man. With him, it would be seven, the number of perfection. That night, they were there to create perfection on earth. He disrobed, then lay on the floor. His head lay just below the man’s suspended throat. Even from the low angle, he could see the throbbing pulse at the side of his neck.
“Let us begin,” he ordered. The five men of the outer ring began to chant. It was a haunting melody, each accompanying the next. The moon rose, shining bloodily through the eastern windows. The room turned a brilliant red. “We are blessed by Khonsu, god of the moon!”
The five closed their circle around the two prone men. One, standing astride the pharaoh, withdrew a black iron dagger from his sleeve. It was among the most valuable treasures the pharaoh had. The hilt had the head of a snake spitting the blade from its mouth. The blade was long with a barb at the end for tearing. The chanting reached a crescendo and the seer placed the blade along the innocent man’s throat. Then he drew it smoothly across, opening a savage wound that gushed blood.
The seers continued chanting as the blood spurted out, collecting on an invisible barrier. Magic caused the air to ripple in a sphere around the pooling blood. It collected around the man’s head, drowning him in his own life-essence. When he spasmed and died, the sphere disappeared and the blood splashed down across Atakheramen’s face, drenching him. His hair was matted to his head, his mouth was filled, and his eyes were covered. The seers fell silent.
A roar broke the silence: inhuman, powerful, astonishingly loud. It was a long moment before he understood that the roar he heard was emanating from his own throat. Power, raw and unfiltered, surged through his body. He arched his back as an astounding change overcame his physical form. The primal scream carried on and on, far past what any human was capable of. The seers fled the room in terror at the sheer ferocity
of his thunder.
Finally, he relaxed. His body felt renewed and spent all at once. His muscles still rippled under his skin. He turned to the polished obsidian mirror hung on the wall. The blood had sunk into his skin, leaving him a changed man. His hair was darker, with a glint of red. His eyes glowed, albeit dimly, and were red in the iris. It was a far cry from the black they had been. Finally, he felt his newly extended canines with his tongue. The merest prod drew blood from his tongue and a wince from him. They were exceptionally sharp. Then he noticed the hunger, deep in his soul. His stomach rumbled. He stood, taller, darker, a presence that demanded attention. He left the chamber, eschewing his robe.
“My seers, to me,” he said. His voice had dropped a half octave, gaining a rasp he had never had before. He sounded like the men who tended the herbal sacrifices in the temples. He cleared his throat as they approached, eyes downcast.
“Present yourselves to me. Perhaps I will grant you everlasting life at my side.” He smiled, his fangs glinting in the red moonlight. They dropped to their knees and bared their necks. He stepped to the first, turned the man’s head to the side and sank his teeth into bared skin.
42
Jonas woke with a start, panting heavily in the humid air. His clothes stuck to him all over. He was covered in sweat. Panic tore through his mind. He felt dirty for more reasons than he could understand. He had twisted and turned in his sleep, turning the bed into a warzone. The dream faded as he struggled up.
He went through the routine of making a cup of coffee in the pot provided by the hotel. He had a feverish hope the smell of brewing coffee would recenter him, give him something to focus on. He paced the room with his hands on his head as he listened to the water begin to boil inside the machine. He felt trapped. Something was watching, and it wasn’t the Department of Acquisitions. He felt cornered. The percolator went to work, forcing the boiling water through the loose ground coffee in the filter. The smell of coffee filled the room and he began to calm.
It was a paltry amount, barely enough for a cup or two, yet he was glad for it. He filled a paper cup with the coffee and held it between his hands, eyes closed for a moment. The familiarity gave him an anchor, as he had hoped. The darkness at the edge of his perception retreated. A long inhale later, he walked to the desk and sat.
“It’s just a dream, it doesn’t mean anything.” He told himself this over and over. Half a cup later, he opened the curtains in his room. Waning daylight spilled in. His room was high enough to see some of the surrounding city. It glittered in the reddened light, giving a haunting beauty to the scene. He stood looking with the mug gripped in his hands for some time. He let himself get lost in the view.
A knock startled him back to the present.
“Khidmat alghuraf,” a woman’s voice said through the door. Then she repeated her statement in English, saying “room service.”
Jonas walked over to the door and opened it. The woman visibly recoiled when she saw him. He must have looked wild to her. His eyes were puffy yet sunken from bad sleep. His cheeks were covered in several weeks’ worth of beard growth. His hair was untamed, and his clothes were rumpled.
“Not now, thanks,” he said as he waved with his mug. The lady nodded hurriedly and pushed her cart along the hallway to the next room. He shut his door, then began his morning ablutions. He showered, then dressed in jeans and a shirt for the day. He gathered his dirty clothes into the laundry bag provided by the hotel. The bag was heavy with the detritus of the dig that still clung to his clothes. He checked for his wallet and hotel key, then put the laundry bag next to the door on his way out.
He paused in the night air, enjoying a breeze. It smelled heavily of hydrocarbons, but even that gave him a sense of familiarity. He set out for the museum, a ten-minute walk away. Vehicles stuck in traffic blared their horns and flashed blinkers and hand signals at each other. When he arrived, he paused to take the entrance of the museum in. The broad red bricks reflected the lights set into the ground. The pond burbled quietly.
He touched the sphinx statue as he walked by, an action undoubtedly repeated by countless people over the years. He walked up the stairs and marveled at the size of the intricate doors again. Tourists filled the lobby, milling about and looking at the displays. Jonas made his way over to the information table. When one of the women behind the counter saw him, she smiled and greeted him.
“How can I help you today, sir?”
Her English was clear and sounded like someone from a news station. He returned her smile before talking.
“Hi, I’m hoping Mister Korekiyo is in.” Jonas scratched his head, trying to remember if that was the correct name. It had been nearly two months since he had met the man.
“May I ask who is looking for him?” She asked as she lifted a phone receiver to her ear.
He sighed with relief. “Jonas Quartermain.”
She nodded and spoke Japanese into the receiver, then hung up. He only caught his own name in English. She extended a hand toward a seating area near a coffee stand.
“Please have a seat, Mister Korekiyo will be here soon.”
“Thanks,” he replied as he looked over at the area she indicated. Benches were arrayed around art outside of the giftshop. Both the benches and the giftshop were thronging with people. Near the crowd he spotted a small stand with a man working an espresso machine. He contemplated another cup of coffee, then decided against spending money. He walked past the crowd and idled against a window as he waited. Ten minutes later, Souka Korekiyo arrived. His back was just as straight, his hair just as black. Yet something about him looked weathered.
“Mister Korekiyo, good to see you,” Jonas said as he shook Souka’s hand.
“Jonas, call me Souka, we covered all that before. What brings you to the museum today? In fact, what are you doing in Cairo?” He paused before continuing. “I heard you had some difficulties.”
“I did have some trouble a few months back, and the Egyptian government kindly ‘asked’ me to go home. A few weeks later, Davion approached me in Akron. He offered a really good job leading a dig here. Actually, the dig is the city that Professor Calhoun has been trying to find. I think the one they’re in is the necropolis city where the slaves lived. As for why I’m at the museum, I want a look at a tablet we passed on that first tour. I was hoping you could help me out.”
“Which tablet might that be?” Souka looked interested, though confused why he had been called down personally.
“The tablet you mentioned the first time I was here. It somehow led you to the first dig sites. I think it was in an alcove near the exhibit.”
“You mean the Atakh—”
Jonas held his hands up in an abrupt motion, signaling Souka to stop.
“What is the matter, Jonas?” Concern covered his face.
“Just, uh, don’t say the name. Please. I know it sounds dumb,” Jonas said with a sigh.
“Very well,” he said with a bob of his head. “Follow me,” Souka said as he turned. They wound through the crowded lobby, into a hallway, then another. People thinned out with each turn until they arrived at a roped off hallway. Souka lifted one side of the red velvet rope, then waved Jonas through. He followed his charge a moment later. The hallway was entirely empty of people at that point.
“What do you know of that tablet?” Souka kept about six feet behind Jonas.
“Just that I saw it for a moment when I was last here.” Jonas glanced behind him to look at Souka. He was confused why the hallway had been roped off, until they turned the corner and the alcove came into view. Remnants of yellow tape hung from the wall on either side of the archway. Jonas stepped near and saw the stand was broken, with the tablet missing.
“Where is it?”
“That is a good question, Jonas. There was a break-in last week. It was the only artifact to go missing.”
Jonas put his hands in his pockets, then leaned closer to the display. The glass had been shattered. A single red-black drop of dried bloo
d marred the remaining glass. The stand was four feet tall and looked to be made from marble. A plaque was mounted to the top of the stand before the glass. It read ‘Murdus Tablet, Egypt, Ca. 3500BC’, and below in smaller font was a line that shocked him. ‘Donated by Nicholas Calhoun, 1981’.
“Professor Calhoun donated the Crimson Night tablet?”
“That is what the plaque says,” replied Souka. He had a hint of a smile, indicating a dry sense of humor. “Is there anything else you know about that tablet?”
“No. I was hoping it could give me more information for the dig I’m working on.” Jonas sighed in disappointment. Souka didn’t miss the sigh or mood change.
He stepped up next to the young man and looked over the broken case. “How does it relate to your dig?”
“I… I’m not sure. I think it has to do with the other dig, the one with the university, and the pyramid we found. I also think it has something to do with the city that supported the pyramid during construction.”
“Both of which are already being excavated by your university.”
“No, I think the city that they’re excavating is a different one, much closer to the pyramid. I think this new dig is another mile or two from that city. Maybe it came along later. Last I heard, it still hadn’t turned up any related artifacts.” Jonas fiddled with some of the broken glass, trying to piece it back together.
Souka looked Jonas over. He looked exhausted, though cleaner than he had guessed the young man would. He had been in country for some time, working almost full time in the new dig based on information from his contacts. Finally, he spoke. “Why do you think it relates to your dig?”
“Nothing. No reason.” The fidgeting increased.
“That’s clearly not what you thought when you came here today.” Souka straightened his tie and stood up, though he was shorter than Jonas.
Rakitaki: A Jonas Quartermain Adventure Page 31
