In short order we settled on horseback, riding with the Bashaw and a strong cavalry unit resplendent in purple pantaloons and yellow turbans, their muskets at the ready to quell any assault, curved blades coiled in their sashes. G.B. was so large he required the largest, most magnificent stallion in the Bashaw’s stable, but soon we were underway, the Bashaw’s mood grimmer by the moment. Before departing, he had led us to the palace’s lowest level, where a doctor had shown us a wide slab, a sort of make-shift morgue having been set up for the last day or three, according to the ripe smells we battled. Seven corpses had been laid out for inspection, and it was simple to see why the Bashaw was worried. He stood aside as we investigated.
“It appears you have a man-killing lion on the loose,” G.B. mused, holding a hand over his nose. We leaned closer reluctantly, noting the cadavers’ faces and torsos had been slashed to ribbons. Rigor had set in and locked their limbs in place, mauled hands held in defence of their faces, their throats torn out in the most gruesome manner, and the look of sheer terror frozen upon each and every visage.
“In fact,” I noted, “it appears portions of these men have been consumed by the beast.” I swallowed a lump at the thought.
“Yes,” G.B. agreed, poking at one corpse’s gaping chest. “This one has lost a heart.”
The Bashaw nodded. “Kidneys, livers, hearts. Testicles. And of course their throats have been torn out and the lack of flesh in the area suggests that there, too, the beast fed.”
“Blood is greatly lacking as well, as if the beast lapped it up like milk,” observed G.B..
Two of our European friends sought a quick exit at this point, and so we were left with only two hardy companions - Stewart and Banks the engineer. We four swiftly agreed to accompany the Bashaw on an expedition to hunt down the beast, knowing that our help in this case would be invaluable when G.B. began constructing his machine. The Bashaw seemed pleased that his new friends were so game for adventure. He measured us for horses and an armourer allowed us our choice of long blades, dirks, and more pistols, these last ornate to the extent that they were more art than practical firepower. Fresh powder and ball packed in pouches made the rounds and headdresses to help protect us from the sun, and then the horses’ reins were handed to us.
Arrival in Gizah
And soon we were on our way, our party leaving a cloud of dust behind us on the road to Gizah, where the splendid monuments described by Napoleon’s troops rose before us after an hour’s ride out of the city.
We passed several villages of mud huts and dilapidated houses and saw no one venturing on the dusty avenues. Here the fear was palpable, and only the occasional camel driver poked his head out of a window or tent and withdrew, perhaps frightened by our grim faces or the cavalry escort. We made good time after our late start, and in short order had arrived at the base of the great Pyramid and swung around the monuments and headed toward a hillside where a camp had been set up some time before. It was nearly evening, but the sun was still strong. We stared in awe at the massive angled walls behind us.
“This was a French excavation,” the Bashaw related with a frown. “The grave robbers took many antiquities from us before we sent them away, but we ourselves have an interest in our mysterious past, and so we have reopened this temple mound.”
I saw that G.B.‘s eyes swelled with the sights, first of the Pyramids behind us, and now with the open maw of rock at our feet and the implication of fame and fortune to be found therein. He may have come to sell a machine, the Great Belzoni, but I was keen enough judge of character to know the look of greed when I saw it. I heartily approved.
“How long has the temple been open?” G.B. asked. Suddenly his eyes had lost their glint and become steely, those of a man chewing a problem around in his head, not tallying up sums in columns. I liked him all the more for it, though the thought of treasure had quickened my blood, too, truth be told.
“The French left it many months ago. They sealed it with an explosive mine, causing great damage to some of the paintings.”
“Bastards,” said G.B., and I saw that he meant it.
“They left rather in a hurry,” explained the Bashaw, “and there were tales of strange deaths following their departure, but no one knows for sure. We reopened the temple two days ago, and then the seven workers were mauled in the space of an hour. Now we’ll have trouble hiring workers here, with the deaths so close to the villages.”
“Sire, if we resolve your problem here, might I trouble you for a firman with which I can requisition workmen in any area of this great temple region?”
The Bashaw gave the request some thought. A firman is a sort of permit required to raise a native crew. Any local magistrate can create one, but we had heard that much money needed to exchange hands before any permits could be granted. G.B. had in essence asked for the best permit the country could provide, that of its ruler. I knew that G.B. had set his sights on excavations, and I felt some excitement at the prospect myself.
“You will have a firman that will be honored anywhere in Egypt,” the ruler promised. “Your interest and willingness to provide expertise in this matter demands an appropriate reward. I will see to it.”
Arrival at the Temple
“Let’s take a look, shall we?” G.B. dismounted as if he’d been sitting in a chair. We joined him at the temple mouth, while the Syrians were dispatched to create and guard a loose perimeter. Their eyes wide with fear, they gripped their muskets and obeyed.
A torch was lit and we crouched to enter the dank cavern, time-rounded steps below our boots. The wall paintings leading to the entrance had been obliterated by the French mine, but just inside their splendour arose again in our torchlight.
“The workers were inside the temple when they met their fate?” G.B. was forced to crouch twice as far as anyone because of his great height.
“Yes, but not all. Three slept within the cave entrance and the others in one of the nearby tents.”
“Make a note of that, Hudson,” G.B. said to me, and that was when I realized that he sought a chronicler, someone to record his exploits. I tried not to let the unintended insult affect my response.
“Yes, G.B., I will keep faithful notes.” And I have.
We advanced until the tunnel widened and the ceiling rose, and then the walls became regular and we knew we had entered the temple proper, past the layers of sediment with which Time had covered it. The Bashaw had sent two Syrians ahead with torches to light the way, but the passage curved right and then left, so even though we could see a glow ahead, the soldiers were no longer visible.
When the first scream pierced our ears in the close quarters, we looked at each other, eyes wide in the firelight, perhaps measuring our courage. “Let’s go!” G.B. said, breaking the spell. He dashed forward and I followed, a pistol in hand. Behind us, a knot of Syrians protected the Bashaw and our European companions, who seemed less inclined now for adventure than when we had begun.
But G.B. was my employer and, to be frank, had grown tremendously in my esteem since I’d known him. I would not have said so, but he could not have convinced me to remain behind while he faced danger alone. His giant stride took him away from me rather too quickly, however.
When I caught up to him, he was hunched over the corpse of one of the Syrians. The poor bastard’s chest had been ripped to shreds, and his head nearly severed from the torso. Two of his limbs had been torn from him and were missing, but the stumps and indeed the chest seemed much less bloody than one would expect.
“He’s still warm,” G.B. said, removing his hand from inside the soldier’s chest cavity. I could see then that Belzoni was fearless, and I resolved to follow him anywhere he chose to go. Still, my hand trembled as I felt the savaged flesh for myself. The lack of blood was a grim mystery, and I said so.
Stewart and Banks, bless them, had reached us and now stood guard over us with pistols and blades drawn. Even in the firelight, their faces were bleached white and their blinking eyes fr
ightened.
“Our friend, the Bashaw?” I inquired.
“Still back there with his Syrians,” said Banks in his thin, delicate voice. “I think they’re moving up, but slowly. And he has sent back for reinforcements.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “This beast may require a regiment to kill its cursed body. Set about as beaters, like they do in India when they hunt the tiger, the soldiers drive the animal into the waiting guns of the hunters.”
Before Banks could respond, G.B. interjected. “I have no been in India, eh, but I do not think this is a beast like a tiger.”
“Well, there are no tigers in Egypt, man,” said Stewart with a little cough. “He meant that as an example, didn’t he now?”
“Oh, yes, an example. But I mean to say this is a beast like no other.” His voice displayed certainty.
“Now now,” I stammered. My hand was damp on the pistol butt. “What do you mean by that, G.B.?”
The gentle giant fixed me with his intense eyes, a gaze such as none he had ever stricken me with. His beard had begun to grow wild, so that he appeared almost more a local than a European, and his burnoose supported the image. I expected him to rage at me, but instead he let the moment pass and smiled a wistful smile.
“We stand over a corpse, killed by a hungry beast, no?”
I nodded assent. Though impatient, I held my tongue.
“Then where are the beast’s footprints?” He pointed at our feet.
We stared. The dust and sand which littered the floor of the passageway were clearly disturbed by our booted footprints, quite visible by torchlight. Yet even where the dust was undisturbed there were no animal tracks whatsoever.
“By God, you’re right,” I said in a whisper.
“Then what-” began Stewart.
“What are you-” started Banks.
“I think we face something not of this solid earth.” Belzoni’s words cut through our utterances like a lance blade through frail skin.
“I think we better find our other soldier friend before it is too late,” G.B. added quickly, and wordlessly we agreed.
But already it was too late. A hundred feet away the passageway tapered off at an angle of almost ninety degrees and descended slightly, and there in the centre of the space lay the ruined remains of the other cavalryman, his clothes torn ragged and half his limbs consumed. His groin had been mauled until there was no recognizable shape to be seen, and his legs chewed off below the knees. Like the other, his chest had been prised open as with a lever and stripped of most internal organs, and his skull had been cracked open and drained. Even this was no longer such a shock to us, and we noted with no particular satisfaction that long before we approached it, the corpse’s location showed no disturbance of the dust other than his own. G.B. made the sign of the cross and muttered a rapid prayer in his native tongue. I could not speak, for dust had settled in the roof of my mouth. Or, more likely, fear had taken root there and silenced me.
“I’m not complaining,” whispered Banks, “but why have we not been attacked?” He held his pistol tightly in one hand and a cavalry sabre in the other (with a practiced grip, I noted).
“It doesn’t recognize our smell.” G.B.‘s response was unexpected, but - as I was to learn during my years in his employ - it indicated the depth of his instinctive understanding. G.B. was gifted with a clear and logical mind which, when presented with a practical problem, could immediately see through to its centre. He would prove his instincts correct on so many occasions that I would learn never to question his inferences.
Banks and Stewart looked at each other skeptically, but I nodded. “Yes, it makes sense. It’s only attacking the smells it recognizes. We’re foreign, and so are new. But-”
“When it becomes accustomed to our smell, it will attack us also.” G.B. said, “We have little time to spare. Let us retreat.”
“Retreat?” Stewart retorted harshly. “With all that treasure waiting for us down there?”
“Death awaiting us, more like,” I retorted. G.B. and Banks nodded. Thus overruled, Stewart followed as we retreated. In the darkness, we soon heard growls and snorts. For the first time, the beast had manifested itself. Perhaps our smell was becoming attractive. Or, more likely, the smell of our flesh…
The Bashaw and his guard had retreated out of the passage altogether, it was apparent as we headed for the entrance. His party had taken up a defensive position at the workers’ camp, where a hearty wind had begun whipping the tent flaps wildly, raising dust into small cyclones below the nearby mounds, all of which G.B. supposed to be monuments and temples. This was before Belzoni made his name securing antiquities for the British Museum, for that would come later, but one could already see in him the explorer’s spirit. At the moment, however, G.B. was fully engaged in the mystery of the invisible beast.
Once notified of what had happened to his soldiers, the Bashaw barked a series of commands. One Syrian, a thin fellow of no more than thirty years, simply dropped his musket and ran. With a word, the Bashaw had him shot down by another, whose face was set in a grim smirk and who spit a copious amount after his shot felled the unfortunate coward.
“You see how one must command troops,” the Bashaw said with a sigh. “If justice is not meted out swiftly and without hesitation, the entire detachment will desert us.”
Banks muttered that running seemed an intelligent option.
G.B. remained quiet on the matter, stroking his massive beard and watching the sand fly. Sentries were posted and a meal of dried mutton and fruits and coffee was quickly prepared and shared with us, the Bashaw in no way lacking in manners and hospitality. The tent flaps had been secured and the fires now warmed the rapidly cooling night. Outside, the wind howled. And occasionally, it seemed something else howled as well.
The Bashaw entertained us with trifling stories of his conquests and dealings with Europeans, all of which, we noted, made him the victor of whatever game or deal or discussion was described. He may have been short of stature, but his ego was not much smaller than Belzoni’s. For his part, G.B. proved content to sit and listen, a look of melancholy upon his broad, handsome features, which I took to be caused by the nonpresence of Signora Belzoni, to whom he was extraordinarily devoted. Upon a lull in the story-telling, G.B. broached the subject of the temples surrounding us, and those further south on the Nile, namely the Valley of the Kings, of which the French had written.
“Every year some new grave is opened and either treasure is found, or it turns out to have been stripped by grave-robbers. There are rumours of curses about the land, curses which some believe will befall those who enter graves with the intent to prosper from their thievery.”
“Poppycock,” Banks muttered. “What a backward country. Curses!”
The Bashaw fixed him with a stern stare. “The events of today will fuel yet more stories, I fear. Backward or not, this is a reality for these people and it must be dealt with. I would like to avenge the deaths of my soldiers.”
No one pointed out that he himself had had one killed, but it would not have been diplomatic.
“Tell me about this temple we have desecrated today,” G.B. said, speaking for the first time in more than an hour.
The Bashaw inhaled deeply of the hookah his adjutant had prepared earlier, then expelled a stream of fragrant smoke. “We believe it to be one of many built in honor of the cemetery guard god of the ancients. Superstition, you understand.” His European leanings were obvious, as was his willingness to summarily dismiss his country’s thousands of years of mysterious history.
“What is this god’s name?” G.B. leaned forward like a dog at point, and I’d begun to sense that he knew more than he let on.
“Its name is Anubis.”
G.B. nodded. “Represented by a jackal-headed man, is it not?”
“Why, yes,” said the monarch, somewhat intrigued. “How did you know?”
“I have done some studies of what the French wrote of their time here,” he said
as the Bashaw frowned. He continued with haste. “And today I spared a few moments to examine the reliefs on the walls of the passage leading to the inner temple.”
“By Deuce!” I blurted out. “How did you manage? We were worried for our lives!”
G.B. smiled crookedly. “I was not. I sensed we were safe, if only for a time. And the reliefs were very interesting. Very convincing. Many of them, almost all, featured our jackal-headed friend, and he was not shown merely sitting. No, he was occupied. What is the history of Anubis, Sire?” From the way he asked, it was clear to me that he already knew.
“Anubis is said to have been born of an illicit union between the sister of Isis, Nephthys, and the brother of Isis, who was Osiris. He was the first embalmer, who managed to embalm the various parts of the body of Osiris, which had been scattered throughout the land. Or so,” the Bashaw said, leaning back languidly on his gold-embroidered cushion, “they tell me.”
“The first embalmer?” asked Banks, grimacing after a drink of the bitter coffee.
“The use of mummification was begun by the god Anubis, yes, and then it became a daily occurrence, though the procedure required seventy days to complete.”
G.B. looked excited now. “And what did the embalmers do first?”
The Bashaw searched the giant’s face briefly before answering. “The internal organs were removed and placed in jars.”
“And the brains?”
“They were discarded, for the heart was more important to the ancients.”
“What are you saying, G.B.?” I could not keep from speaking. “Is it what I think you’re saying?”
Outside, the frigid wind gusted suddenly and a series of thin, screechy howls seemed to surround us. We all shivered and bent in closer to the fire. I did not envy the far-flung sentries in the least.
“Perhaps the god is defending his secrets. Perhaps he is practicing his preparations for embalming, except that he is not interested in completing them. Perhaps we face a demon here, no?”
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