The Amarnan Kings, Book 6: Scarab - Descendant

by Overton, Max

  "How are we going to find out anything if we can't make ourselves understood? Any ideas, Dafs?"

  Daffyd thought for a moment, then spoke his own name, pointing to himself, and then pointed at Dani, speaking her name. Aswad nodded. Daffyd then pointed to a spot just beside him and said "Marc", and then "Muammar".

  Aswad stared, his brow furrowing in concentration for a minute before comprehension lit up his face. "Ah, Marc, Muammar." He followed this with a string of syllables and shook his head vigorously.

  "I don't think they're here," Dani said.

  "Blowed if I know what's happened to them then. Unless the Bedouin captured them." He caught Aswad's attention. "Bedouin? Badaw�?"

  The man shook his head again.

  "Marc, Muammar. Badaw�?"

  Aswad's denials were vehement.

  "What the hell do we do now then?" Daffyd asked. "Do we go looking for them, stay here, or what?"

  "We can't stay here," Dani replied. "We can't impose ourselves on Aswad, particularly as we have no idea if Marc and Muammar are coming back. There's a possibility we just missed them and they've gone back to the shed, but if they're not there I think we should go on to Edfu."

  "What? Just abandon them? We can't do that."

  "I don't like it either, Dafs, but I don't think we have a choice. We came to Egypt to find Scarab's tomb and prevent Bashir getting his hands on it. We can only do that if we continue on. Muammar can speak the language, so they should be alright wherever they are."

  "Hardly. They're in the country illegally."

  "So are we. If we go to the police, we'll be arrested. The longer we stay here, the more chance there is of the Bedouin coming back or somebody turning us in to the authorities. I really don't think we have a choice."

  Daffyd mulled it over. "I don't like it. It feels too much like betrayal..." he lifted a hand as Dani opened her mouth, "...but I can't see we have much of a choice. All right, we try the shed again, and then we head for Edfu." He smiled at Aswad again, bowed and uttered incomprehensible thanks, before pointing to themselves and saying their names, and then indicating the east and saying "Edfu". "Hopefully, he'll get the idea, and then if Marc turns up here, he might tell them where we've gone."

  "Good thinking."

  Out on the street again, they found the children had dispersed, and made their way out of the village and back to the derelict shed without attracting unwelcome attention. It stood as empty as when they had left at dawn, and there was no trace of their friends having returned while they were away.

  "Edfu it is," Dani said.

  "What's in Edfu?"

  "I don't know, but it's on the river and possibly near where Smenkhkare hid his gold. That was probably between modern-day Esna and Edfu. It's a start."

  "You can find the tomb even without the golden scarab?"

  "No, but Bashir must be searching for it by now, and he has the scarab. It belongs to me, and I mean to get it back. Then we'll see."

  The road to Edfu was long and dusty and they were footsore and weary while still crossing the arid region between the village's fields and the broad swathe of farmland that bordered the river. They pushed on though, into the evening, their throats parched, seeking a place where they could find shelter and water. Fields spread around them now, sensed more than seen in the darkness, flat and almost featureless. The road was unpaved and rutted and curved away beneath their feet, so they followed it by scuffing the road's border, feeling the difference between hard clay and low, dry vegetation. They found sustenance at last, by accident. The road disappeared and they stumbled over ploughed furrows and tangled themselves in vines.

  Daffyd tripped and fell headlong, cursing fluently in Welsh. He sat up and investigated the offending obstacle, finding a rough-skinned globe beneath his questing fingers.

  "Hello," he said. "What have we got here?" He lifted the object to his face and sniffed. "I think it's a melon."

  Dani felt saliva moisten her mouth and she swallowed painfully. "Can you split it?" she whispered.

  "Hang on." Daffyd picked at the rind without much effect, thought for a minute, and then slipped his belt off. He scraped the metal buckle against the melon and felt it tear through into the soft and succulently aromatic flesh beneath. "Got it." Digging his fingers into the gap scored in the rind, he ripped the small melon in two and handed half to Dani.

  Dani buried her face in the half melon, tearing at the water-laden fruit and gulping down the sweet flesh. She surfaced, gasping, and wiped her mouth.

  "God, that's good." She returned to her feast.

  For a few minutes, they chomped and slurped their way through the melon, spitting out the pips and scraping the rind clean of every scrap of moist fruit.

  Daffyd belched, long and unashamedly. "Damn, I needed that."

  "Are there any more?" Dani asked.

  "Bound to be. I think we're in a melon field."

  There were others, and without much effort they gathered up another four fruit, eating another two on the spot and carrying the others away with them. They retraced their steps to the road and found that they had become diverted onto a farm track in the darkness. The road itself still stretched out toward Edfu and they continued on their way, tired but at least with hunger and thirst assuaged for the time being.

  They sheltered in a ditch overnight, huddled together for warmth, and awoke shivering in the cool dawn. Breaking their fast with the last two melons, they left the fleshless skins in the ditch and hurried on at their best pace down the last of the incline from the desert plateau into the rich-soiled fields bordering the river. Traffic increased on the road as they got closer to the river, and they were subjected to much scrutiny. Farmers stared; ox and donkey-carts slowed and the drivers goggled in astonishment at the sight of two dishevelled Europeans walking in the dust and heat.

  A small flatbed truck rattled up behind them and slowed. The driver leaned out and accosted them in fragmented but understandable English.

  "What for you do? Is English?"

  Dani smiled and brushed back her bedraggled hair with both hands. "Yes, we're English. We're going to..."

  The driver ignored her and looked at Daffyd. "No talk woman. Where go, effendi?"

  "Into Edfu," Daffyd said, with an apologetic glance at Dani. "Can you give us a lift?"

  "Lift you?" The man looked puzzled. "You mean ride you in back?"

  "Yes."

  The man nodded. "You and wife climb up."

  "We don't have any money."

  The driver waved his hand. "No matter."

  Daffyd and Dani climbed onto the back of the truck where three men were sitting amidst sacks of fresh produce, including melons. Dani felt a little guilty in case the melons they had eaten had come from the fields belonging to the truck driver, and found and flicked away a melon seed that had stuck to her shirt. The men made room for the newcomers but, beyond a few inquisitive glances, ignored them.

  "Where do we go in Edfu?" Daffyd asked. "We really need to hole up in a hotel or something to consider our options, but I can't see anyone letting us stay for free."

  "We might not have to," Dani replied quietly. "The Bedouin took all the money in our bags and pockets, but they missed the belt I was wearing under my shirt. I've got about a hundred pounds in it."

  "Bloody hell, lass, you never cease to surprise," Daffyd said with a grin. "That's going to be damned useful."

  "I feel a bit guilty actually. I was about to get some out at Aswad's house, and later I should have given some to Muammar to buy food instead of using your watch, but something made me wait."

  "Good job you did. I don't suppose you've got a couple of cigarettes tucked away as well?"

  "Look upon this enforced abstinence as an opportunity to give up the habit, Dafs."

  "You're a hard-hearted wench," Daffyd muttered, but he lay back against the sacks of produce with a contented smile.

  The driver dropped them in the farmer's market near the river and after a bit of inves
tigation found a small hostelry overlooking the slow-moving waters, where the owner spoke a little English.

  "You are English? Why are you in Edfu?"

  Daffyd led the conversation, fearing a repeat of the truck driver's misogyny. He borrowed from Muammar's tale of misfortune back in the village. "We were on a boat and it capsized. We swam to shore and will need two rooms for a few days until we can contact the British Consulate in Cairo."

  "I will need to see your passports. It is the law."

  "They're at the bottom of the river. We lost everything."

  "You have no money?"

  "We have some. If you can provide accommodation, we will get fresh documents sent from Cairo."

  The owner grumbled, but when Dani produced a few pound notes, his eyes gleamed. "I only have one room," he said.

  "We'll take it," Dani said.

  "You are married? Man and wife? If not, you cannot have room."

  "All our belongings are lost," Daffyd temporised. "Including our documents."

  The man grumbled some more, but eventually passed over a brass key in exchange for several pound notes. "Top of the stairs."

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  Chapter Eighteen

  Nazim returned to the hotel with Lieutenant Jamal Al-Din, slightly annoyed that he had not been allowed on board the launch. Since the discovery of the inscription he had continued his secretarial duties but had also become interested in the existence of the Egyptian tomb. He would very much like to have become one of the principals of the search team but Minister Bashir insisted on continuing to treat him as a common servant. It rankled, but he was not sure what he could do about it. Jamal had wanted to talk, suggesting they could go for a cup of coffee, but Nazim pleaded the pressure of work.

  "There is so much to do, Jamal. I must take advantage of the Minister's absence to get some real work done."

  "Anything I can do?"

  "Yes. Sooner or later, we will be following leads on the western shore and desert. We will need a suitable vehicle. See what you can find for hire."

  "From whereabouts? Luxor?"

  Nazim shrugged. "Who can say? It depends on where we are searching. See what the car hire firms have locally, but also south of here--Esna and Edfu certainly, other towns maybe."

  "You want me to go down to these places?"

  "Telephone, Jamal. If they have something suitable, put in a tentative booking but don't spend any money. We have a tight budget."

  Nazim went to his hotel room and gathered his papers together, going through them again, updating and checking the many issues that revolved around the coming expedition. He used the telephone from time to time, making copious notes in a notebook, and at last stretched and yawned, glancing at his watch.

  "Lunch," he murmured, getting to his feet. He moved toward the door and paused, thinking to himself that he really did not feel up to a restaurant and a possible conversation with Jamal who would be sure to search him out. Instead, he crossed to the telephone and ordered room service from the receptionist.

  Lunch arrived fifteen minutes later--a dish of fuul --mashed fava beans with onion and chopped hard-boiled eggs, a mixed salad and grainy pita bread, along with a large pot of coffee and a sticky almond and sesame cake. Nazim tucked in and felt contentment spread throughout him. He leaned back in his armchair and sipped on his coffee, contemplating what he would do with a free afternoon. Playing the tourist around museums and ruined temples held little interest for him--his mind was too focussed on the problem at hand--how to identify the site of the tomb they sought.

  I need to read the accounts again. I might have missed something.

  Nazim went up to the Minister's room and let himself in with a duplicate key. Closing the door he looked around the room, noting the disordered state of the Minister's belongings, and then focussed on the notebooks and papers scattered on the desk. He crossed to it and looked down at the mess for a few moments before picking up sheets of paper and loose-leafed notebooks, reading a few words here and there.

  Yes, he read the description of the revealing of the talisman . Nazim found himself reading through the description and stopped with a smile. That is one thing I don't need to do. I must know that passage by heart .

  The power of a djinni or afrit, in the guise of one of the ancient Egyptian gods, had hidden the truth from casual observers, according to the inscription, but he believed that was just nonsense. The thing was just a stone. How could it be more ?

  Nazim looked for the stone on the desk among the scattered papers but could not see it. "What? It's disguised as a sheet of paper now?" He chuckled at the absurdity of the idea, but his mirth faded when he found the empty cloth bag it had been held in.

  "He took it with him? Why?"

  For a moment, Nazim felt a frisson of fear at the idea that Bashir had prayed to God to reveal the truth of the matter and his prayers had been answered. "Why else would he take it with him?" he muttered. "If it is not a worthless rock..." He shivered and shook himself mentally. "Take hold of yourself, Nazim Manouk. You came for the accounts--take them and leave. Nothing else concerns you."

  He gathered up the notebooks and as he picked them up, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. Nazim bent to pick it up and glimpsed a shape hidden in the shadows beneath the bed. Curious, he got down on hands and knees and lifted the counterpane, allowing a little more light to illuminate the object. It was the apricot-sized piece of sandstone. He picked it up and sat back on his haunches, examining it.

  I've never really looked at it closely--after all, what else can it be but a lump of rock ? Nazim turned the stone over, tracing the bedding lines of the fine sandstone. His fingertips felt tiny corrugations and indentations where his eyes told him the stone surface was smooth and unblemished. Curious .

  Nazim carried the stone over to the desk, pulled up a chair and switched on the reading lamp, throwing a small pool of yellow light onto the object. He looked at it closely, but could not see any features on the surface, despite the evidence of his fingertips.

  So what am I supposed to do? Pray over it ? Nazim felt uncomfortable at the thought. Though a Muslim, he paid only lip service to his faith, content to uphold the five pillars except where it was inconvenient. He sometimes contravened Ramadan and had not been on haj, but there was time enough for that in old age. When he finally arrived on his death bed, Nazim intended to make a full and open declaration of his faith, but for now it suited him to be a down-to-earth sceptic. Anything else was rank superstition. Still ...

  Nazim took the object back to his room and sat with it a while, turning it over in his hands, and wondering just why he was so interested in it.

  "It is a rock," he said quietly. "Just a rock--fine-grained sandstone from the Orontes Valley in Syria. It cannot be other than it seems...or can it?"

  All right, Nazim, let us hypothesise for a moment that it really is the golden scarab of the inscription. How would you prove it ?

  "If I cannot tell by looking at it, you mean?"

  Just so .

  Nazim considered the problem at length. "There must be a way."

  So find the way, Nazim .

  "I have never owned gold," he said slowly, "And therefore I have no expertise with it. However, there are people who work with gold every day. Maybe they could tell."

  Who are these people who work with gold ?

  "Goldsmiths. There must be some in Luxor."

  Nazim came to a decision and arose, stuffing the rock into his jacket pocket and grabbing his keys. He made enquiries at the hotel reception, jotting down a few names before catching a taxi into the old city where he visited a number of places. A goldsmith in Khefre Street was his final choice, in part because it was in the poorer part of the city and partly because the smith was old but with eyes that reflected wisdom.

  "I seek knowledge rather than gold," Nazim said. "Though I am prepared to pay."

  The man nodded sagely. "I am an old man and have seen many things,
but my expertise is gold."

  "It is that expertise I seek." Nazim put a ten pound note on the dusty counter. The note disappeared into the old man's jacket pocket.

  "What do you wish to know?"

  "How can I tell if an object is made of gold and not just r...something else?"

  The old man took out a pipe and proceeded to pack it with tobacco. "The appearance is the most obvious answer." He struck a match and held the flame over the bowl, sucking to draw the flame into the dried leaf.

  "Naturally," Nazim said. "And if the appearance was not enough?"

  "An assay would tell you immediately." The tobacco in the pipe bowl glowed red. The old man shook out the match before it burned his fingers and blew out a small cloud of smoke.

  "Assay?"

  "A small amount of the substance is rigorously tested by fire."

  "I do not want the object harmed."

  "Ah, you are being offered a curio and want to know if it is pure gold or alloy...or perhaps gold leaf over another metal. It happens, but it is easy to tell the difference."

  "How would you do that?"

  "Show me the object and I will tell you."

  "I, er, do not have it with me," Nazim said, though his hand strayed to his jacket pocket. If the old man noticed the movement he said nothing. "How may I tell the difference?" Nazim went on.

  "Gold is heavy--twice as dense as silver and copper and half as dense again as lead. If you would let me touch it, I would tell you instantly if it is gold. Of course, if it has a little silver mixed in that would be harder to tell, but still possible."

  "You said 'dense'. What am I to understand by this term--'dense'?" Nazim asked.

  "Density is defined as mass per unit volume." The old man chuckled at the look of bafflement on the other man's face.

  "You sound like a scientist," Nazim said.

  "I have always sought to understand my craft, so I have read widely. Do you know what weight means? And volume?"

  "Yes, but not mass."

  "Then forget the term and consider weight per unit volume. If you take a single cubic centimetre of various substances, they will weigh different amounts on a pair of scales. Some things are heavy, some light. A cubic centimetre of lead weighs more than a cubic centimetre of wood. You follow? Good. Every cubic centimetre of pure water weighs exactly one gram, and everything else is measured against it. A cubic centimetre of wood weighs less than one gram, so it floats in water. A cubic centimetre of iron weighs nearly eight grams, so it sinks. The same amount of copper weighs nearly nine grams, silver is ten and a half grams, lead is eleven, and gold is a little over nineteen grams."