by Gary Corby
“About two thousand years.”
That explained why it was covered. The dust storms out here were ferocious, and a step pyramid must have acted like a barrier. It would only take a few years before the whole thing was buried.
We sat on the sand—there wasn’t the slightest piece of shade—and watched while the workmen cleared the way to the entrance. Herodotus had cleverly loaded shovels and pickaxes onto the horses’ backs. I praised his foresight.
As we sat and watched other people work, we all avoided an ugly subject. What was going to happen when we had the crook and flail? Eventually, unable to stand the unspoken tension any longer, I asked the question.
“If we find them,” was Barzanes’s answer. “We borrow trouble, do we not, to discuss this before we know what lies within?”
“I think we should decide now,” Herodotus said. “To avoid any unpleasant . . . er . . .”
“Wars?” Markos suggested helpfully.
“I was going to say consequences,” Herodotus said primly.
“I’m sure,” Markos said.
“The treasure will be returned to Persian territory,” Barzanes said. “Even the oracle agrees that Egypt belongs to Persia. Therefore the crook and flail belongs to the Great King.”
“Inaros’s armies control the north,” I pointed out.
“And Persia’s men control Memphis,” Barzanes replied. “If we travel due east from here—the shortest route across the desert, I remind you—then we will arrive at Memphis.”
“Inaros could move his army,” Diotima said.
“So could the commander in the capital,” Barzanes replied.
Were we really about to restart a war? “Barzanes is right,” I said. “We’re borrowing trouble.”
At that moment one of the sweating men shouted, “We’re almost in.”
I tried to imagine a room that hadn’t been swept for two thousand years. This wasn’t going to be good.
They broke through to the door.
The Libyans had worked with astonishing speed. What had saved us was that the entrance had been opened only sixty years before. I couldn’t imagine what agony the men must have gone through to open the pyramid when they hid Psamtik in here. Back then, they had had two thousand years of dirt to shift.
The entrance was low but wide. The surrounding stone was in remarkably good condition, I supposed because it had been covered. The doorway had originally been blocked with close-fitting stones. These had been shattered when they put Psamtik in, and the resultant loose rubble merely piled into the doorway. It was sloppy work on the part of the men sixty years before us, but good news for our fellows. They formed a chain and passed out the stones.
When the way was clear, we crowded in. Workmen passed in torches.
Imhotep’s practice pyramid was perhaps half the size of the one he had later built at Saqqara, perhaps even smaller. But within he had left a large space. The smell was beyond musty. The air felt as dead as the occupants. I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but I thought it was hard to breathe. I found myself panting.
In the center of the space was an enormous sarcophagus. I walked over, fascinated. It was covered in dust. I wiped some away.
“Dear Gods, is that gold?” I stared at the surface.
“Probably,” said Djanet.
“Careful, Nico,” Herodotus said. “We swore an oath not to disturb this man.” He glared at the others. “Nor let anyone else disturb him.”
Markos shrugged. Everyone else nodded and looked solemn.
Herodotus and I wiped it down, then we stared at the beautiful sarcophagus. Herodotus said, “I wish Tutu was here to see this.”
So did I. The enthusiastic embalmer would have loved this.
“Tutu was right,” I said. “They did do things better in the days of his forebears.”
I wanted to look through all the stuff placed on the floor, but mindful of our promise, I backed away, careful not to kick the jars by my feet. I knew from Tutu’s lecture that those jars contained the liver and brain of the man before us, plus other parts of his innards that I didn’t want to think about.
Along the side of the wall closest to the entrance, there was a chariot.
“What’s that doing here?” I asked.
“Grave goods,” Herodotus said.
“Somehow I doubt the occupants will want to go for a drive.”
“No, you fools. It’s the ceremonial chariot they used to bring Psamtik’s sarcophagus,” Djanet said. “It’s certainly nothing to do with Imhotep. It’s in too good condition.”
Indeed it was. The chariot was a two-wheeler with a large platform—definitely not built for racing—and in great condition.
“I suppose the heat preserved it.”
The men hauled the chariot out onto the desert floor. It was the only way to get at whatever was behind. They had to drip fat from the torches and olive oil from our supplies onto the axles to get the wheels moving, but after that it proved easy enough. The wheels were wide-rimmed.
“I think this might have been built for desert work,” I said.
“Of course it was,” Djanet said. “It’s an Egyptian chariot, built to travel around Egypt.”
“Oh. Good point.”
Djanet seemed on edge. That was natural enough. This was her grandfather we were excavating.
With the way clear we came at last to a second sarcophagus. There was no doubting what we had found. The outside matched the description Tutu had given us.
Scattered about the large sarcophagus were boxes, quite large ones, and furniture. A ceremonial shield stood propped against the wall. Diotima opened one of the smaller boxes to reveal jewelry, gold, and stones that glowed in the torchlight. It wasn’t a Pharaoh’s ransom, but it was a fortune to any normal person. Whoever had put Psamtik here had done right by a defeated Pharaoh. The larger boxes contained precious materials and grave goods, the sort of things that anyone needs to accompany them into the Afterworld: plates and cups, a fine bed and containers of what seemed to be scents and spices.
“This treasure comes with us,” Djanet said, and no one argued. We had promised not to rob Imhotep. Psamtik was fair game.
That left the sarcophagus, and whatever might be within.
We looked at one another.
“Who wants to do the honors?” I asked.
“Me,” Markos said. “The High Priest said I must open the box. Remember?”
So he had. I also remembered Tutu’s words, that whoever opened Psamtik’s sarcophagus would be cursed in this life and the next.
I wondered whether to say anything. But if Markos didn’t open the coffin, then who? I looked around at the other faces, cast in strange colors in the flickering light. Could I let my wife be cursed? Of course not. Nor Herodotus, nor Djanet. It would have been immoral to ask one of the workmen. It left only Barzanes or Markos, or me. Barzanes was too canny. I was too cautious.
“I insist,” Markos said.
Diotima’s eyes caught mine. She made no movement, but I knew she was signaling a yes to me.
“Go ahead.”
Markos knelt at the side. The catches undid easily, as well they might. They had only been closed sixty years before. He raised the lid to reveal the mummy within. I wondered how Djanet felt.
“What now?” Markos said impatiently.
I inspected Markos for any sign of a curse upon him.
“What is it?” he demanded when he caught me staring at him.
“Nothing.” I knelt beside him. “We have to lift out the body.”
“What?”
“I mean it.”
With Markos at the foot end and me at the head, we lifted the mummy. The body was stiff, probably because of all the wrappings.
We laid Psamtik aside.
“Bring a torch.”
&
nbsp; Diotima leant over with a torch in her hand. Neither of us could see the hidden compartment that Tutu had told us of. I ran my fingers around the bottom of the casket, felt a slight gap.
“Here it is.”
I got my fingernails in and pulled upwards. Part of the base rose to reveal a space beneath, and lying within it a flail, of the type used to keep slaves in line, and a short crook just like the kind shepherds use.
Except that shepherds don’t wield crooks made of ebony and gold, and slave masters don’t strike with flails embedded with precious stones. The crook and flail shone in the dark. There was no doubt about it: these items were unique. Anyone would recognize them instantly as the insignia of a Pharaoh.
“We did it!” Diotima shouted in triumph. I laughed. Herodotus wrote a note.
Djanet said, “I’m sorry about this.”
“Sorry about what?” I asked.
Djanet hit Herodotus. It was a sharp blow to the temple,that sent the author’s head into the wall close by. He fell to the ground unconscious.
“What are you doing?” I shouted at Djanet.
But there was no time for a reply, because Markos smashed his fist into my head. It was a blow of Olympic proportions. He was in the perfect position, standing over me. The last words I heard were, “Sorry, Nico.”
When I came to, things had changed.
It took me a moment to remember what had happened. When I did, I opened my eyes. My sight went in and out of focus. I shook my head groggily and sat up.
I heard thumps, and the shouts of women. In the center of the chamber, Djanet and Diotima were fighting. Diotima had picked up the ceremonial shield. She was using this to block Djanet, who was wielding one of the workmen’s mallets. Djanet’s blows against the shield were strong, but so were Diotima’s deflections. Neither of them was getting anywhere.
“Go to Barzanes,” Diotima shouted. “He needs help!”
Djanet had betrayed us. I didn’t know why and this wasn’t the time to ask. I didn’t want to leave my wife in a dangerous fight, but Diotima knew the situation and I didn’t. If she said Barzanes needed help, then his position must have been dire indeed. I couldn’t see him inside, nor Markos. I stumbled out into the bright light, and instantly regretted the decision. My eyes hurt and my head felt about ready to burst. I took a step forward, rubbing my eyes to ease the pain.
And instantly tripped over one of the treasure boxes. Sprawled on the ground, I looked to my feet to see what I’d hit. The bodies of Barzanes’s two Persian soldiers lay there, one with his throat slit—he stared in open-mouthed surprise—and the other with a dagger embedded in his chest. I wondered if Barzanes was still alive. I hauled myself up and carried on, all too well aware that if Barzanes was gone then I wouldn’t last a heartbeat. The workmen were clustered about the low dune beside the tomb. I went that way.
Barzanes was still alive and fighting Markos. Their hands were blurs as they rained down blows upon each other. The workmen were keeping out of it, and I couldn’t blame them. They stood back in a semicircle and watched. There was blood flowing from Barzanes’s mouth, where I could see Markos had punched him hard. Barzanes was giving as good as he got; as I watched he landed a sly blow against Markos’s right knee, which caused the Spartan to stifle a cry of pain. If the situation hadn’t been so desperate, it would have been educational to watch Persia’s top agent slug it out with a Spartan. As it was, I hoped I could stay conscious long enough to influence the battle, because my sight had blurred again and the desert was spinning. I felt like I might faint at any moment.
I put my hands to my head, in an attempt to hold everything together. I felt warm stickiness. My hands came away drenched in my own blood. The blow Markos had landed had obviously been enormous. Markos might even think I was dead. For that matter, if the damage was great enough, I might soon be. Everyone knew of men who had died suddenly the day after taking a blow to the head.
Meanwhile I had a decision to make. Who did I want to win this fight?
Did I want Markos to eliminate Barzanes? Or Barzanes to kill Markos? I hated to admit it, but of the three of us Barzanes was the best agent. He was the greater threat to Athens. Markos on the other hand was the most dangerous man I had ever met. There was every chance that one day he would kill me, if he hadn’t already. Both were men I deeply admired, one way or another. Both were men I needed to fear.
Neither had seen me, in the midst of their battle. It meant I could intervene on behalf of one or the other. I was in the luxurious but odd position of being able to choose who would be my enemy in the years to come. The assassin or the ruthless agent? The Spartan or the Persian? The friend or the . . . rival?
Though the question was hypothetical, because I was in no condition to fight anyone. At that moment, an angry flute girl with a soft pillow could have beaten me to death, and I wouldn’t have been able to stop her.
I needed a weapon. Then I remembered that I had one. I half-ran, half-staggered to where we had left the camels. They had come with us loaded with all our supplies, because we had expected to travel onward after we ransacked the tomb. That plan was dead, but our possessions were still here.
Pericles the Camel stared down at me imperiously. I’d always thought he had much in common with his namesake. I ignored his obvious disgust and tore out everything in the large pack at his rear. The crossbow was hidden at the bottom. I’d told both Barzanes and Markos that the crossbow was left behind in Memphis. I’d lied.
My eyesight went black as I rummaged. I had to lean against Pericles until sight returned. After that I moved more slowly.
I yanked out the crossbow with both hands, then reached for the bolts. They spilled onto the ground. I cursed and picked one up, slotted it into the crossbow, and then with all my strength pulled back the taut wire. That was enough to make my vision go dark again, but I struggled through.
I thought back to the fight on the banks of the Nile, against the mercenaries, and realized there was no point taking a second bolt with me now; in a crisis like this there’d be no time to load another. I ran back to the fight as fast as I could.
The workmen had disappeared. The fight had turned to a close wrestle. Markos and Barzanes were locked together as they each sought a chokehold on the other. That meant it wouldn’t last much longer. One of those two would soon be dead, and before it happened I was going to choose who.
Barzanes and Markos were rolling over and over. I took a deep breath, to steady my nerves. I aimed, remembering that this thing could be inaccurate. I waited for the right moment, uttered a prayer, and fired.
Death of an Agent
Markos was dead. The crossbow bolt had taken him in the left side, exactly where I had aimed. The bolt had passed through his heart, killing him instantly, and then emerged out the other side of his chest. Barzanes was untouched. That was more by luck than good management, but I wasn’t about to admit such to Barzanes.
In a straight choice, I had chosen Barzanes. Barzanes was the smartest of us all, and ruthless, but he was also an honorable man, and I would take that over Markos any day.
For the rest of his life, he would remember that I had saved him from an assassin.
“Thank you, Athenian . . . Nicolaos,” Barzanes said. He lay on the ground, panting from the effort. I offered a hand to help him up, then almost toppled when he took it. We found ourselves upright, and almost leaning against each other.
“Who is inside the pyramid?” Barzanes asked.
“Diotima and Djanet.”
At that moment we heard a commotion. Barzanes and I both turned to see a chariot race out from behind the pyramid. It was driven by Djanet. She had hitched the hired horses to Pharaoh Psamtik’s ceremonial chariot. Trailing along behind her were the bearers, the ones she had hired the night before. They had to run to keep up with her, and each carried one of the treasures that had surrounded Psamtik.
Djanet stood upon the wide platform and drove the chariot herself. At her feet was a long, wrapped bundle. It looked like the body of her grandfather.
Djanet whipped the horses. As she thundered past, Djanet kicked the bundle that lay at her feet. The bundle rolled off the chariot floor and hit the ground with a thump and a loud, “Oomph!” from within. It was Herodotus, hastily wrapped up like a sausage in mummy cloth.
As I bent to unwrap him I said, “Are you all right?”
Herodotus spat dust and said, “I’m fine. She tied me up.”
“That didn’t go quite the way I expected,” I said, as we watched Djanet disappear over the horizon, a Pharaoh’s treasure trailing in her wake.
“Nor I,” Barzanes admitted.
A sudden, horrible thought gripped me. If Djanet was free, what had happened to Diotima? I asked Herodotus.
“Djanet left her tied up, inside the pyramid,” Herodotus said.
We found her there, bound hand and foot. She couldn’t speak because of the gag in her mouth, but her eyes spoke murder. She spat out the gag as soon as I loosened it and she said, “I presume you let her get away?”
I forbore from pointing out that Diotima hadn’t exactly excelled at stopping Djanet either.
“There’s a letter over there.” Diotima pointed to a rock crevice. “Djanet made sure I saw her put it in.”
We opened the letter.
I write this on the night before we depart Siwa, so that you will understand.
What I have taken is no more than my birthright. My parents were killed by poverty in a nation of which by rights they should have been king and queen. I vowed long ago that would not happen to me. When Inaros raised the rebellion, I realized my chance had come.
I confess that you, Nicolaos, and Diotima and Barzanes and Markos, were a complication I didn’t need. Never have I seen so few people cause so much confusion among one another. Luckily for me you all proved useful, one way or another.
My final trick was to persuade Markos to help me wrest the treasure from you at the instant we uncovered it, in return for a share. I believe he will use his part to retire from Sparta, to some place where no one can find him. I wish him good fortune and I hope the curse Tutu mentioned doesn’t come to pass.
