The Amarnan Kings, Book 6: Scarab - Descendant

by Overton, Max

  "You are to be offered coffee and cakes," Muammar said. "The man is evidently fairly well-to-do, so we must be unfailingly polite. Accept the coffee, even if you do no more than sip it, also a cake. It is good manners to accept a second one, but unless you want another, leave a small bite on your plate to indicate you've had enough. Same with the coffee. His wife will continue filling your cup if you drain it. Only use your right hand for eating and drinking--it is the height of bad manners to use your left." He paused in thought. "What else, what else? Ah, yes, very important, especially for you men. By all means smile and compliment his wife on the coffee and cakes, I will translate as needed, but do not make direct eye contact with her. Some Egyptian men are very possessive of their women."

  The coffee arrived and the man's wife, introduced as Zera, knelt and poured the steaming black liquid into small cups. They sipped, nodding and smiling, and Marc made appreciative comments, which Muammar translated. Aswad beamed. The cakes were served and eaten, seconds accepted and nibbled. Dani complimented Zera and Muammar conveyed the message. When everyone had eaten and drunk enough, indicated by the dregs of coffee and cake crumbs, Zera cleared away the dishes and left her husband to entertain the guests.

  The man spoke briefly and Muammar replied at length. Then he turned to Marc, Daffyd and Dani. "He hopes his humble fare was sufficient for such exalted English Lords and Lady. I replied that you were very appreciative of the excellent hospitality offered and would certainly sing his praises when you returned to Cairo. Please nod and smile again."

  Marc nodded and smiled, but also asked. "What do we do about getting away from here? Any moment now, those damn Bedouin are going to find out from someone where we are."

  Muammar spoke again, in Arabic, and Aswad listened. He called to Zera and spoke to her. She left and was gone for several minutes during which everyone sat in silence and smiled politely. When Zera returned, she knelt by her husband and whispered in his ear.

  Aswad spoke and Muammar translated as he went. "The Bedouin have talked to the headman and demanded to search the village house by house. The headman has refused but the Bedouin are armed and are doing it anyway. The police in Edfu have been sent for, but it may be hours before they arrive--if at all."

  "There are only two of them."

  "Two is enough. They are armed and the villagers are not."

  "How long before they get here?"

  Muammar conveyed the question to their host.

  "They are two streets away," Aswad said, and Muammar translated. "Why do they seek you?"

  "They tried to ransom us for money despite us being hearth guests," Muammar said.

  "That is a crime against God and man," Aswad said, horror written upon his face.

  "What will you do when the Bedouin come here?"

  "What can I do, effendi? I am a man of peace. I cannot stop them entering and finding you."

  "Then we must leave--at once."

  "That would be best," Aswad quickly agreed. "Where will you go?"

  "We will try for Edfu, but we thank you for your hospitality. You have been a gracious host." Muammar rose to his feet and bowed, Marc, Daffyd and Dani following suit.

  "Wait," Aswad said. He spoke to Zera again and she nodded her assent and hurried out. She was back in minutes with a young boy in tow. "This is Nassar, the son of my wife's second cousin. He will take you to a place where you may be safe for a while. Go with him."

  Nassar took them out the back way and through a series of alleys ahead of the search to the edge of the village. He motioned them to stay hidden while he scouted out the approaches before leading them at a run over the main road and into the vegetable fields. They used a dried up irrigation ditch and ran doubled over for a hundred yards or so, and then took cover behind a stand of poplars.

  "Nobody sees us," Nassar boasted. "I lead you to safety."

  "You have indeed," Muammar agreed. "But where exactly is this place of safety?"

  "Follow and you will see."

  Using the poplars as cover should anyone look out from the village across the fields, Nassar trotted away along the rows of onions and lettuce. Men worked in the fields and looked up from their labours as the little party approached.

  To each man or group of men, Nassar said, "These people are guests of Aswad ibn Ahud. You have not seen them." Each time the men would nod and go back to their work.

  At the far end of the fields was a wooden shed, half derelict. Grass and weeds grew lankly around its edges and the door hung askew from a single hinge.

  "Aswad says for you to stay here."

  Marc looked around with horror. "Not another bloody shed. How long are we expected to stay here? What do we do for food and drink?'

  "We've just eaten," Muammar pointed out. "When it gets dark, I'll go back and try to trade the watch for some supplies. As long as no one saw us getting here, we should be safe enough until we figure out how we're going to reach Edfu."

  When the time came, Marc refused to let Muammar go alone. He didn't say so, but Dani suspected his decision had a lot to do with a lack of trust. Muammar just smiled and set out for the village as soon as it got dark, letting Marc follow along as best he could. They stumbled over rows of crops, trampling a few plants, and then tripped on the ruts in the road, but finally made it to the outskirts of the town.

  "I'd better go in alone," Muammar said.

  "I don't think so."

  "I can reasonably pass for a native, but you are obviously a foreigner--even in the dark--and cannot speak or understand Arabic. You would attract too much attention."

  "I'll stay in the shadows."

  "And attract attention that way. Please, just stay here. I won't be long."

  Marc gave way, though with ill grace, and watched as Muammar drifted into the shadows and disappeared. He paced up and down, stood and stared up at the night sky and listened to the howling of dogs and the chirruping of crickets, getting steadily more bored. The moon rose, casting a silvery gleam over the landscape and scattering inky shadows everywhere. Then, after what seemed like a long time, he heard someone approaching from the direction of the village.

  "Muammar? Is that you?"

  There was no answer, though the sound of the approaching person grew closer. Marc called again, a trifle nervously, and then stared. The man who emerged into the moonlight was a stranger, and armed.

  "Dr Marc Andrews, pray be so kind as to slip your hands into your pockets. We are going for a little walk."

  "Who the hell are you?" Marc asked.

  "My name is unimportant, but somebody greatly desires to meet you."

  "Shit, it's that bugger Bashir, isn't it?"

  "Just walk, Dr Andrews, and keep silent."

  Marc did so, not really seeing what else he could do. The man, who appeared small and dark in the moonlight, held a big-bored pistol and gave the impression of someone who knew how to use it. They trudged toward the village and soon came across a jeep parked by the side of the road. In the back seat, bound and unconscious, lay Muammar.

  "Now, Dr Andrews, where are the others?"

  Marc turned to face his captor. "What others?"

  The man sighed. "Dr Hanser and Dr Williams. I know you all entered Egypt together."

  "Then you should know where they are. I'll be damned if I'll tell you."

  "Must I persuade you?"

  "Well, you could try, but I'll make damn sure people hear us. I'm guessing you don't want that, so..." Marc grinned, his hands in his pockets, "...fuck you."

  "Is that your last word?"

  "Yes." Marc added some precise but anatomically impossible instructions.

  The man shifted his weight and said, "Look behind you."

  Marc started to turn, knowing even as he did so that it was an elementary mistake. Something hit him hard above his right ear and the night sky shattered into pieces. He was unconscious before he collapsed in the dirt of the country road.

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  Cha
pter Sixteen

  Bashir found time hanging heavy on his hands after Dr Maroun phoned. The museum acting deputy director could not be persuaded to move any faster, so he must perforce wait three days before finding out if the tomb he sought had been discovered already. The Minister spent most of the time in his hotel room reading through the transcripts of the Scarab account, searching for any clues he might have overlooked. He had come across three descriptions of notched cliffs at a distance from the river and a slash of green vegetation pointing the way. It was all rather vague and, at a distance of three thousand years, probably meaningless. Still, it was all he had to go on, so he persevered.

  The hotel room was on the fifth floor and faced the river and the western cliffs, so whenever the English type-script and hand-drawn hieroglyphs swam before his eyes, he would stretch and wander across to the balcony. There he had the choice of standing in air-conditioned comfort inside the room, or opening the sliding doors and stepping out onto the tiny balcony. Here he would be assaulted by air so hot it rippled, and pollution billowing up from the snarl of traffic far below. He would cough and his eyes would smart after a few minutes, forcing him back inside, but he kept being drawn outside, his eyes seeking the cliff line beyond the river and farmland. There were notches in the cliff, and every time he saw one he felt a thrill of excitement, though Bashir knew very well that the tomb could not be this close to the city. There was a knock on the hotel room door. Bashir turned back inside and slid the balcony door closed, cutting off heat, stink and noise.

  "Come in."

  The door opened and Nazim entered. He held a briefcase and a notebook in his hands. "I found it, Minister."

  "Found what?"

  "The reference to the golden scarab being hidden--disguised if you will."

  Bashir gestured toward the paper-strewn table. "Show me."

  Nazim opened up the notebook and flipped over several pages before placing it in front of Bashir. "It is in the time when Scarab sought refuge in Zarw at the camp of the Khabiru. She talks to the elder called Jeheshua and argues that..."

  "Be quiet and let me read."

  Bashir concentrated on the passage scribbled in the notebook, thankful once more that he could read English, even the scrawled cursive of the transcriber.

  There ...

  "Yes." He read the passage slowly. It was Jeheshua talking, one of the Khabiru elders and a friend of Scarab. He said...

  "Meryam talked of another gift. One you showed her--a golden scarab beetle."

  Scarab smiled gently. "Is that how she described it to you? As a golden beetle?"

  "Well, no, she said it was made of stone."

  Scarab dug into the folds of her clothing and drew the carving out, placing it on the grass between them. "What do you say?"

  Jeheshua leaned closer, his eyebrows knitting together as he scrutinised the object. "This is what you showed Meryam? I can see why she called it a rock." He reached out and then stopped. "May I touch it?" Scarab nodded and he picked it up. "Strange. It is heavier than it looks and although the details of legs and wings are only sketched on, when I rub my finger over it, it feels like they are carved." Jeheshua put it back on the ground and rubbed his hand against his robes. "Did one of your gods give you this or did you find it?"

  "It is the gift of Atum the creator."

  "And you insist it is made of gold?"

  Scarab put her hand over the carving and closed her eyes. Atum, let him see as I see, if only for a moment . She opened her eyes and took her hand away.

  "Wh...what did you do, child?" Jeheshua asked in a strangled voice. "Is this some magic trick like that of a conjuror in the marketplace?" He stared at the scarab carving, the deep yellow tones gleaming lustrously in the sunshine.

  "No trick," Scarab said. "I prayed to Atum to open your eyes."

  Jeheshua could not take his eyes off the carved gold insect. "Why? Why hide it like that?"

  In the Name of Allah the Merciful and Beneficent, thought Bashir. Gold? Truly gold? How is that possible? He started trembling with excitement.

  "Nazim. Where is it? Where is the rock Dr Hanser carried?"

  Nazim dug into the briefcase, pulling out a small cloth bag. He opened the cords and tipped the bag. A rounded gray-brown stone about the size of an apricot tumbled onto the desk and for several minutes Bashir just stared at it. Then he reached out and touched it gingerly, rubbing his fingers over it gently as the Khabiru elder had done.

  It feels like it is carved, but it looks smooth. Could it be ? Bashir picked it up, marvelling at the extra weight it seemed to possess, then... No, I must be mistaken; it does not really feel heavier...only momentarily when I picked it up .

  Bashir replaced it on the desk and stared at it again. How do I penetrate its disguise? How can I tell if this is truly gold and not rock, despite the evidence of my senses?

  "Nazim, you have read the story and examined the rock. What do you think?"

  "I think that Jeheshua had the truth of it when he declared it a magic trick, a common conjurer's illusion. How could it be otherwise, Minister? We can see more clearly than the ancients, after all."

  "How so? Explain yourself."

  "The ancient Egyptians were pagans," Nazim declared. "Living in times when God had not yet made Himself known to mankind. Of course they believed in all manner of falsehood for djinn and afrit walked the land, posing as gods. Today, we have the Truth of God's Word as revealed by His Prophet, peace be unto him. And we have science, the self-evident information we obtain from our God-given senses. We see a rock because it is a rock, nothing more."

  "That makes sense," Bashir admitted. "Then the story of Scarab and Jeheshua..."

  "Is just a story, Minister. Probably concocted to show that the gods supported her. It is a measure of how simple people were that this..." Nazim tapped the rock. "...could be used to fool people."

  Bashir regarded the gray-brown rock on the table and nudged it with his finger. "A pity," he said. "Scarab performed miracles with the golden scarab in her hands. We could have found the tomb straight away if this rock really was the golden scarab."

  "I doubt the golden scarab ever existed, Minister." Nazim paused, his dark eyes taking on a slight twinkle. "You could always test it."

  "Test it? How?"

  "Can you imagine that the magic of a djinni could ever resist the power of God? Seek Allah's blessing on the rock. Pray out loud for enlightenment. If it is really the legendary golden scarab, God will remove the scales from your eyes and let you see clearly."

  Bashir frowned. "If this is an attempt at humour..."

  "It was just a thought, Minister. If there is nothing else, I have other duties."

  "Yes, yes. Leave me."

  "Shall I take the notebook and...ah, rock?"

  "Leave them here."

  Bashir sat and glowered at the rock for a long time after Nazim left. He wanted very much to believe that somehow he owned the magical golden scarab that would lead him to untold riches, but his common sense and faith told him the idea was ludicrous. The rock was nothing but a rock, though when he picked it up he felt again that momentary heaviness, the brief suspicion that it was made of some heavier substance.

  "It is nonsense," he muttered.

  Easy enough to prove , he thought. Invoke Allah's blessing on it .

  Bashir got up and walked to the balcony doors once more. He did not open them but stood looking out through the glass and hearing the muted thrum of the city seep through.

  "I am a man of the world," he muttered. "I do not believe in fairy tales."

  Yet I am a man of faith. Why is it so hard for me to just invoke Allah's blessing ?

  "Because you fear to appear a fool, even to yourself."

  Or is it that my faith is not strong enough ?

  "My faith is built on the five pillars of Islam. I make the declaration daily, I pray five times a day, I give alms and I observe Ramadan. I have even been on haj."

  So do it. Pray to Allah. You do it every
day . Once more will be no great thing .

  Abruptly, Bashir turned and strode over to the table, snatching up the rock and holding it in his fist.

  "In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful. O Allah, hear my prayer and open my eyes so that the falsehood that has been laid upon them might vanish, and I might see this object in my hand as it truly is. O Allah, accept my Supplication. In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful."

  Bashir closed his eyes, afraid to open his fist and look at the rock.

  Where is your faith, Ahmed Bashir? Look, for God has opened your eyes .

  He opened his eyes, then his fist, and looked. For a moment, he thought something gleamed and then he saw that it was only a trace of sweat drying on an ordinary gray-brown rock. If it was anything other than a rock, he had not been able to penetrate its disguise. In disgust, he threw it across the room. It bounced soundlessly on the carpet and rolled under the bed.

  The telephone rang and Bashir swung round to face it, forgetting the rock. He snatched up the handset and barked, "Yes?"

  "Dr Maroun here...from the museum."

  "I know who you are," Bashir snapped. "What do you want?"

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a few moments. "I thought you were the one who wanted something from me, Mr Bashir," Maroun said mildly. "Am I mistaken?"

  "My apologies," Bashir ground out. "I've just had bad news. Never mind that though, please go on. Why have you called?"

  "We leave tomorrow for the Esna shaft. I want to say a few words to all concerned before we do so, and I need everyone's full attention, so could you please come and see me at the museum this afternoon at four?"

  "Can't you just tell me over the phone?"

  "I could, Mr Bashir, but I prefer to do it in person."

  "I'm really rather busy."

  "I understand. I'll send you a note when we get back telling you what we found."

  Bashir fought back his anger, his mind filled with images of Dr Maroun slowly choking between his hands. "I'll be there at four," he growled.