The Amarnan Kings, Book 6: Scarab - Descendant

by Overton, Max

  He had no container to carry water, but he stripped off his shirt and soaked it in the runoff, before carrying it as quickly as he dared over the jumble of rocks to the blackened plain below. He called to Marc and got a weak response.

  "I have water. Not much, but there's more if you can get to it."

  Marc sucked thirstily on Muammar's shirt, only making a face when the worst of his thirst had been assuaged.

  "Salty," he murmured. "And a bit pongy," he added after sucking on the fabric a little longer. "But thank you, Muammar. You say there's more?"

  "Yes. Shelter too. It might be a bit difficult climbing up there in the dark though, so perhaps we should wait until tomorrow."

  "I'm still bloody thirsty," Marc said. "I'd like to try now. We can take it slowly."

  They did, moving step by shuffling step, climbing more by feel than by sight until they climbed beyond the basal boulders and onto the slopes where starlight aided their passage. A breeze picked up, chilling them as heat soaked out of the rock and sand into the star-filled sky. They shivered, teeth chattering, and at last pulled themselves up onto the ledge.

  The shallow cave was out of the wind, as was the soak, and they took turns to lick and suck as much water as they could from the meagre but persistent supply.

  "Where's the water coming from?" Marc asked. "There has to be a reservoir in the rock somewhere."

  "Probably." Muammar sucked up another small mouthful and swallowed. "It would be a waste of energy trying to find it though."

  "No, what I meant was, any reservoir up there must be small and can only be replenished by rain--which I gather is pretty scarce out here."

  Muammar looked up at the rock face above them. "It is...strange." Then he shrugged. "Ask no questions. Just be thankful."

  "Oh, I am, but shouldn't we try storing some?" Marc asked after several minutes. "What if it runs dry?"

  "We have no containers, so it's better in our bodies," Muammar replied. "If we don't drink it, it'll run away to waste. Soak up as much as you can."

  Exhaustion took over and they staggered back to the cave and huddled together for warmth, taking comfort from each other's presence. After a bit, they slept and only awoke when the sun was already high in the eastern sky. The air was warm again and despite the amount they had drunk the night before, the demand of their bladders was not pressing. Instead, after warming themselves in the sun and working the kinks out of their muscles, they went back to the soak to drink again.

  In daylight, the soak was unprepossessing, being little more than a dark patch on the rock wall with a heavy grey-green algal growth beneath the film of water. It oozed out of a crack in the rock a few feet above them and trickled down to the ledge where it gathered in a small pool a foot across and inches deep before apparently soaking into the featureless rock.

  Marc looked up at the summit of the hill high above them and frowned. "Where's the water coming from?" he asked. "Springs occur where there's an underground body of water to feed it, or a steady supply of rain. There can't be anything like that here."

  "Don't question it," Muammar said, cupping his hand and slurping water from it. "Accept it as a gift from God."

  "I'm certainly grateful," Marc said. "Don't get me wrong, but I wonder how long it's going to last."

  "However long it lasts, it has saved our lives for the moment."

  Marc shrugged and yawned. "What's for breakfast? I'd kill for a croissant or even a kipper."

  Muammar laughed wryly. "Look around you. Select anything you like from the menu. May I recommend a small helping of slime?"

  "There must be something," Marc said.

  "Well, despite being a desert, life can exist here, particularly if there is a source of water," Muammar said. "The slime proves it, so all we need to do is look around. I'm sure we can find something to eat."

  "What sort of something?" Marc asked cautiously.

  "Insects probably. Maybe lizards, small rodents."

  "Jesus, you've got to be kidding. I'm not eating those."

  "You will if you're hungry enough."

  Return to Contents

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  Nick stayed and watched as Dr Maroun and his students investigated the shaft in the side of the cliff. He asked for and was granted permission to take photographs and took a few of the young men engaged in mundane archaeological tasks. Maroun explained what they were doing as they went along.

  "We're not here to excavate anything, you understand? However, we can conduct a preliminary examination of the surface--the walls of the shaft and anything that might lie on the top of the rubble filling it. Here, for example..." Dr Maroun pointed to some very faint grooves in the rock wall of the shaft, "...are the marks of what is almost certainly a copper chisel."

  "Really?" Nick commented. "I thought copper was a soft metal. Wasn't this the bronze age?"

  "Indeed it was, but most of the stone-working tools were made of copper. Bronze was largely reserved for the military. Copper was cheap and easily resharpened."

  Nick nodded and made a few notes in a notebook. "Any evidence this is a tomb like Minister Bashir thinks?"

  "Not yet. We've found a few fragments of pottery that date from that approximate period..."

  "About when exactly?"

  "Late eighteenth dynasty, circa 1300 BCE."

  "Which makes it just right if it was this Smenkhkare chappie's tomb."

  "Indeed, but we know...or rather, we believe...that the king's tomb is in the Valley of the Kings across from Luxor."

  "Any way of telling, one way or the other?"

  "No, not without a proper excavation. I might have an answer for you in a few months' time."

  "No hunches?"

  Maroun smiled but said nothing.

  "Come on, professor," Nick cajoled. "Off the record."

  "Well, based only on an instinct honed over thirty years in the field, I'd say no. I think this started as a tomb entrance for a minor local land-owner but I think it was abandoned early and used as a rubbish tip. Don't quote me on that."

  "Wouldn't dream of it, old chap," Nick said with a grin. "I think Bashir will be happy though. It would spoil all his plans if you beat him to the tomb."

  Dr Maroun sat back and regarded Nick. "Why did Directors Nasrallah and Zewali ask you to come on this trip? And why would you want to? There's nothing particularly interesting or newsworthy about this discovery--at least not yet."

  "I think the real question is why Minister Ahmed Bashir wants to be here."

  "And do you know the answer?"

  "Possibly."

  Maroun laughed. "And you might have an answer for me in a few months--I understand. Any hunch you'd like to share?"

  Nick looked down the slope to where Bashir sat, idly tossing pebbles over the cliff edge. "I think the Minister would be sorely tempted if he ever found anything of value, but don't quote me on that."

  "Has this anything to do with our Directors' invitation?"

  Nick winked and tapped the side of his nose. "Time to earn my keep."

  "What do you mean, Mr Evans?"

  "Well, I don't ordinarily like to show my hand this early, but the Directors asked me to push the Minister, to needle him, in the hope that he might confirm their suspicions. So, I'll let slip a few things and study his responses. I can usually tell when someone's lying or covering up." Nick got up and moved down the hill to where Bashir sat.

  Bashir looked up as Nick approached, but said nothing.

  "Fantastic vista, isn't it?" Nick said. "I think if I was a king buried up here, I could sit and look at that view for eternity."

  Bashir stared at Nick. "Dr Maroun has found something? This is a tomb after all? A royal tomb?"

  "He says he won't know for certain for months, but he thinks not." Nick saw the Minister's shoulders drop as the tension in him eased. "You don't want it to be the tomb, do you?"

  "It is immaterial to me."

  "Oh, I think it matters very much to
you, Minister Bashir."

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "Just that you came to Egypt to look for a royal tomb and it would upset you greatly to be beaten to it."

  "I don't know where you get these ideas, Mr. Evans, but I came to Egypt on holiday, and when I heard of this find, I thought it might be entertaining to come along and see what Egyptologists did. Dr Maroun was gracious enough to allow me."

  "Sounds plausible," Nick said quietly, "Except I know about the Syrian inscription."

  "What is this Syrian inscription?"

  "I don't have to tell you that it is evidence of an undiscovered Egyptian tomb."

  Bashir turned to face Nick. "Mr. Evans, you are a newspaper reporter..."

  "Freelance journalist, actually."

  "...and I think there must be a dearth of real news if you must resort to these fishing expeditions. I don't know what this Syrian inscription is--if it even exists--and I can assure you I have no connection with it."

  "Dr Dani Hanser."

  Bashir's eyes flickered. "Who?"

  "The leader of the British Midland University team excavating in the Orontes Valley of Syria under the auspices of the National History Ministry, of which you are Under-Minister."

  "I have never heard of her. I am a busy man and cannot concern myself with every person who has business with the Ministry."

  "The same Dr Hanser who was deported from your country and whom you then complained about officially to her university."

  Bashir sighed. "What do you want, Mr. Evans?"

  "An exclusive, Minister Bashir. I want to be with you when you discover the tomb, to take the official photographs of the discovery, and to interview you afterward."

  Bashir looked away, out over the empty air to the distant river and farmland pressed close to its life-giving waters. A bright speck far above glinted in the azure sky, leaving a rapidly-dissipating contrail in its wake. Nearer at hand, a hawk rode the thermals associated with the cliffs, its thin cry the only sound in the sun-baked silence. After several minutes, he shook his head.

  "No."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "I said 'no', Mr. Evans--not because I am averse to the responsible press, but because I have literally no idea what you are talking about. Yes, I know of Dr Hanser, and yes, I made an official complaint about her, but I would as soon forget her existence. She committed a scientific indiscretion in our country and was punished for it. Let us leave it at that. As far as I am aware, there is no inscription, no tomb, and no story. Now, if you would be so kind as to leave me alone, I will endeavour to enjoy the rest of my holiday."

  "She's in Egypt, you know."

  "Dr Hanser? I very much doubt that."

  "Why would Dr Hanser come to Egypt unless there was some truth to the story?"

  "Mr. Evans, you are starting to annoy me."

  Nick grinned. "I do seem to have that effect on some people. What do you think, Minister? Is Dr Hanser here to search for your tomb? Did she find out about it in the same place you did--the mysterious Syrian inscription?"

  "Enough." Bashir got to his feet and patted the dust from his clothes. "Thank Dr Maroun and tell him that I have decided to make my own way back to Luxor. Good day to you, Mr. Evans."

  "Hey, wait. Do you want me to come with you? Keep you company?"

  Bashir did not answer, but almost ran down the slope, scrambling and slipping in the loose rock in an apparent effort to escape.

  Nick grinned again. "I guess not." Louder, he called after Bashir, "See you later, Minister." He turned and made his way up to Dr Maroun, where he told the museum deputy of Bashir's decision.

  "I'm not sure that's a wise move," Maroun said. "How does he think he's going to get back to Luxor? He'll have to find a fisherman willing to take him."

  "There was no dissuading him."

  "Well, perhaps we can catch up with him at the dock later and offer him a ride home. In the meantime, look what we found in the rubble."

  Nick squatted down and examined a small piece of pottery that Maroun held out to him. It was pale and worn with a few scratchings on it that looked nothing like any hieroglyph he had seen.

  "What is it? Those aren't hieroglyphs, are they?"

  "No, it's hieratic script. Technically, hieroglyphs were only used by priests and in formal inscriptions. Hieratic is the everyday writing of the scribes. This is a fragment that contains the words '...year two of Heqamaat...'." Maroun looked at Nick quizzically. "Mean anything to you?"

  "Not a sausage."

  "I think it is part of the seal from a wine jar from the reign of Heqamaatre Ramesses, whom we know as Ramses IV, about a hundred and fifty years after the Minister's King Smenkhkare."

  "Meaning?"

  "We're no closer to identifying the period of this shaft, but it is interesting that in light of the fact that we already have fragments from the time of Amenhotep III and now Ramses IV, it means that for a period of over a hundred and fifty years, people were throwing rubbish into this shaft. Either it was an abandoned shaft, or if it ever was a tomb, it had long since been looted and the body buried elsewhere."

  "Unlikely to have been Smenkhkare's tomb then?"

  "Highly unlikely."

  "That'll please Bashir."

  Dr Maroun wound up the work on the site shortly after, instructing the students to take down the tape and tidy everything away. The pottery fragment was packed away carefully in tissue paper for later study. The small group then made their way slowly and carefully down the steep hill face and found themselves back in the heat and relative humidity of the river farmland and village.

  Bashir was on the dock, arguing with the captain of the boat. He looked hot and angry and almost snarled when Dr Maroun and his party showed up.

  "Can we leave?" Bashir demanded. "I have to get back to Luxor."

  "Couldn't find a fisherman?" Nick asked, his eyes twinkling.

  Bashir ignored the journalist and climbed aboard the boat, taking a seat in the most shaded part. "Have you got any cold drinks?"

  The captain produced a wicker basket dripping water, and took out bottles of Coca-Cola that had been cooling in the river and started opening them. Bashir grabbed one, while Maroun passed one to Nick.

  "Nothing alcoholic, my friend."

  "No matter. I have good company to lift my spirits." Nick raised his bottle in mock salute to Bashir. "Good news, eh Minister?"

  Bashir drained his Coke and stifled a belch, before tossing his empty bottle over the side. "What do you mean?"

  "Please return the empties to the basket," Maroun murmured.

  "Just that it now looks almost certain that the shaft has nothing to do with your King Smenkhkare."

  "Is that true, Dr Maroun?"

  "It would appear so, though in science, few things are a certainty."

  "So all that gold is still out there--waiting for you."

  "Your fables are getting tiresome, Mr. Evans."

  Bashir turned away to stare out over the water as the launch forged its way downriver to Luxor. He refused to say anything further, even though Nick continued to probe away at his denials.

  * * *

  The launch tied up at the docks in Luxor in the late afternoon and the passengers disembarked. Leaving Dr Maroun with only a curt word of thanks, and ignoring Nick's grinning goodbyes, Bashir hurried off, taking a taxi back to the hotel. He took his room key from Reception and hurried to his suite, where he found Lieutenant Al-Din hanging around outside in the hallway.

  "Good afternoon, Minister. Will there be anything else? There's a re-enactment of a priestly ritual at the Karnack temple this evening and I hoped I could go...with your permission..."

  "Anything else? What have you been doing today while I've been risking life and limb?"

  "Oh, sir, I was most busy. Secretary Manouk assigned me the job of investigating car hire firms between here and Edfu in the eventuality..."

  "Yes, yes. I'm sure you have been busy, but I don't need to know the details. Tell
Nazim."

  "Yes, sir...about tonight?"

  "Go."

  Bashir fumbled the key in the lock and pushed the door open. He saw Al-Din waiting and turned. "Was there anything else?"

  "Er, no sir. I mean, I just wanted to ask if you wanted me for anything else tonight, before I, er..."

  "Tell Nazim I want to see him. In an hour."

  "Yes sir. Here?"

  Bashir sighed and entered his room, closing the door in the lieutenant's face. He stripped off his clothes and ran the bath full of cool water, allowing himself a long soak before washing his hair and shaving. His moustache was in need of a trim, so he attended to that, carefully clipping away a few hairs and examining the effect critically in the mirror. Satisfied, he dressed in clean clothing and called room service for a pot of coffee. He was standing at the glass doors, looking out at the city with coffee cup in hand, when Nazim arrived.

  "Good evening, Minister. Was your trip successful?"

  "Depends how you look at it. Deputy Director Maroun now thinks the shaft has nothing to do with Smenkhkare, but that reporter Nicholas Evans evidently knows something. He kept asking questions about my interest in the tomb and about Dr Hanser."

  "What did you say?"

  "I denied all knowledge of course. What do you think I did?"

  Nazim regarded the Minister carefully. "Did he believe you?"

  Bashir shrugged. "What do I care? His questions were based on unfounded rumour and supposition. If he knew anything for certain it would be in the papers already."

  "If the shaft has proved not to be what we seek, then what is our next course of action, Minister?"

  "We must search for it ourselves. We have the description from the account."

  "A three thousand year old description."

  "If you have no stomach for the search, you may return home, Secretary Manouk. I shall continue, however, for I feel it is my destiny to find this tomb and treasury."

  "I did not mean to sound as if I was giving up, Minister, only sounding a word of caution concerning the difficulties of identifying landmarks that may have long vanished."