The Amarnan Kings, Book 6: Scarab - Descendant

by Overton, Max

Marc sat down on the ledge with his back to the rock and looked east over the desert. Muammar respected his silence and pulled himself over to sit beside him. After a few minutes, Marc said, "We know the cliffs are over there to the east, but we don't know there's a road in the southwest. What if it wasn't a car you saw, but heat lightning or...or a hallucination. We could wander out there looking for it until we die of thirst and exhaustion."

  "But if it is a road there'll be other cars and a car could have us in a town an hour later."

  Marc contemplated the darkness, thinking. "You're right. It's worth the risk, but I'll go alone and bring help back."

  "The road could be miles away," Muammar cautioned.

  "How high is this mound, Muammar?"

  "What? Why?"

  "How high? From the desert down there to the summit. Estimate it."

  "Fifty feet? A hundred? I don't know. What does it matter?"

  "I'd have said two hundred feet. If my boy scout days have any relevance, it means that...let's see...square root of two hundred is, er, fourteen...times that by one point three gives us, um, eighteen miles."

  "That's a lot further than the cliffs, which we know are there."

  "Were the lights at the horizon or closer?"

  Muammar tried to picture the desert in his mind's eye. "Closer. Perhaps half way."

  "If the lights were halfway to the horizon, then the road could be just eight or nine miles away."

  "And if it's not?"

  "Then I'll come back and we try for the cliffs tomorrow night when your ankle's a bit rested."

  "I don't like it, Marc. I know the desert better than you, so we should go together."

  "You'd slow me down. Look, I know it's a gamble, but the presence of a road a few miles away could save both our lives."

  Muammar thought it over and reluctantly agreed. "When will you leave?"

  "At first light. I'll need daylight to be sure of where I am, and to recognise a road if I find one."

  "You'll be walking in the heat. What will you do for water?"

  "Drink until I'm sloshing and then..." Marc shrugged. "...I'll just have to do without."

  Marc slept through the night and when the first hint of dawn greyed the eastern horizon, he climbed to the top of the mound and took note of hillocks and rock formations in the direction of the line of the rocks Muammar had placed the previous evening. He descended to the ledge once more and drank from the seep until he could hold no more.

  "See you soon, Muammar. Take care of yourself while I'm gone. Rest that ankle."

  Muammar embraced Marc as the first rays of the new day's sun lit up the east. "May God be with you, Marc. I will see you soon, insha'Allah."

  Marc set off to the southwest, his shadow angling in front of him and to his right, the sliding outline gradually shortening and swinging further round as the morning progressed. He kept his eyes on the landmarks he had noted earlier, but found it harder to keep his direction true after he passed the first of them. Sweat poured from his body as the heat grew, but he trudged onward, counting his steps as he went.

  A pace is a yard; one thousand seven hundred and sixty make a mile, eight miles is...a bit over fourteen thousand .

  He counted, registering each hundred on a finger until he had ten and then slipping a pebble in his pocket. After a while a second pebble joined it, and then a third and fourth. When he had five he allowed himself a short break in the narrow shadow of a tall rock before staggering on, trying to ignore his growing thirst.

  When twelve pebbles clicked in his pocket, he stopped again and looked around. Behind him, he could still see the mound--or at least he hoped it was the mound. He had not really considered the problem of finding his way back.

  Still, the pebbles should help. I will know the distance .

  Marc moved slower now, knowing he was in the approximate area where Muammar had seen the headlights. A thirteenth pebble joined the others in his pocket, then a fourteenth, and a little later, a fifteenth.

  If that's what they were ...be positive man, they were...there's a road...and there'll be cars on it ...

  He looked up at the sun and saw that it was late morning and the heat had sucked the moisture from his body, leaving a fine rime of salt on his clothes and skin. His mouth was dry and to swallow was painful. Sixteen pebbles jostled in his pocket now and Marc was starting to think Muammar's mind had been playing tricks on him the night before.

  He's condemned us both. There's no road...or else I've missed it. Should I go back? Could I even survive the trip back ?

  Marc trudged on, still counting out his now faltering paces, waves of heat beating up at him from the ground and the taste of dust and failure in his mouth. He stumbled and nearly fell, stumbled again, losing count. He had taken another dozen steps before he thought to look at what had tripped him. Before him, on the stony ground, he saw two more or less parallel depressions, snaking away from northwest to southeast. He stared at them for a full minute before his mind registered what it was seeing.

  Ruts. They're bloody ruts and this is the fucking road. Shit, but what a road . Marc's heart sank. How many cars use it? The car Muammar saw last night might be the only one in a month .

  He started to follow the ruts toward the southeast. After nearly a hundred paces he suddenly thought of something and stopped dead before retracing his steps. He could still see the scuff in the sand where he'd stumbled over the rut, so he collected rocks together and built a small cairn to mark the spot, including a short row to mark the direction he'd come.

  Marc started back down the road again, walking purposefully and with as much strength as he could muster. His fingers counted the paces again and pebbles slowly accumulated in another pocket, marking out the slow miles.

  The ruts joined another road, a proper one, though unsealed. Again, Marc built a cairn of rocks and a line of stones pointing the way back, before venturing along it. It ran south and started veering southeast, and his spirits rose, for the river, and possibly the city of Edfu lay in that direction.

  Then he heard it, an uneven sound, a drone rising and falling behind him and he turned to see a distant plume of dust lifting into the air. It came closer, and the sound grew louder of a vehicle labouring over the rutted surface of the road. A van came in sight, rusted and covered in a patina of red dust, and Marc waved his hands over his head and stepped into the road, waving the driver to stop.

  It was only when the van stopped and the bearded face of the man behind the steering wheel looked out through a broken window, that Marc remembered he knew no Arabic.

  "Please...need help...water for me and one other. You speak English?"

  He could see from the incomprehension in the man's eyes that he did not. He tried again, miming as well as talking. "Me...walk from there..." He pointed to the east. "Two people...one injured...no water...you help me please?"

  The man spoke fast, but Marc could not understand a word.

  Marc made drinking motions and repeated the word 'water' several times. At last the man nodded, spoke again, and then turned and rummaged around in the van. He pulled out a large glass bottle about half full of water and handed it to Marc.

  "Bless you," Marc muttered, lifting the bottle to his lips. He drank in several large swallows, draining about half of the contents before lowering it. "Thank you." He bobbed his head and smiled. The man in the van smiled broadly and, before Marc could react, threw the van into gear and planted his foot on the accelerator.

  "Hey, come back!" Marc started after the van, but despite the rutted surface and the decrepit state of the vehicle, it easily drew away from him. He stopped, panting hard and stared after the departing van in its cloud of dust, giving vent to every swear word in his vocabulary and making up a few more on the spot. Then he sank to his knees in the middle of the dirt road and cried with frustration.

  At least he left me a bottle of water . He looked at the liquid level. All right, a quarter bottle. But what do I do now? Keep going in the hope of reachin
g a major road? Wait for another vehicle? Risk the same thing happening? Why didn't I think of the language problem? Muammar should have come with me--but we wouldn't have got this far .

  Marc sat by the road and waited as long as he dared, but no more vehicles arrived. Noon passed and the sun had started its long descent to the western horizon before he got to his feet and returned the way he had come, hoarding the precious water and the even more precious glass bottle. He found the first cairn of stones and turned onto the double-rutted road and then to the site of the second cairn. Sighting along the line of stones, there was little in the east except low hillocks and stony plains, but he spent a little time sorting out which hillock--which mound--was the one he sought. He decided and set off, again counting his paces and discarding a pebble every time he reached a thousand. Night fell while he still had two pebbles in his pocket, and he could not be certain he was still on track for the mound.

  I think I am...I think that's it over there...but what if I'm wrong? If I overshoot, I'll just wander until the water runs out and I die. Then Muammar dies too, waiting for rescue that never comes . Marc continued, discarding first one and then the other pebble. I must be close . He stopped in the darkness, listening to the silence.

  "Hello!" He listened. "Hello!" Silence again. "Hello! Muammar."

  "Marc?" The call came faintly from behind him and to the left. He turned and faced in what he judged was the right direction, putting the bottle down carefully.

  He cupped his hands. "Keep calling, so I can follow the sound."

  "Marc...this way...Marc...hello...keep coming!"

  Marc picked up the almost empty bottle and started forward, stumbling over the rocky surface toward the ever-strengthening sound of Muammar calling him home. At last the mound loomed and he cautiously picked his way up the fallen rock to the ledge and Muammar's arms.

  The young man hugged Marc. "Allah be praised you are safe. I was so worried about you."

  "And I you. How's your ankle?"

  "A little better. The swelling has gone down a bit and I can stand on it--as you can see. Did you find the road? What's that you've got?"

  "A bottle. Yes, I found a road--a dirt one--and a car. The car stopped but I couldn't make him understand. I never considered the fact I couldn't speak Arabic. He gave me this bottle of water and drove off before I could stop him."

  Muammar groaned. "I didn't think of that. I should have gone."

  "You'd never have made it, but we'll both try for the road tomorrow. We can fill the bottle with water and that will help us survive. When we get to the road we wait. There'll be another car--there has to be."

  They sat in silent contemplation of their coming task for a little while, and then Muammar cleared his throat. "I will be glad to leave," he said. "I don't want to appear superstitious, Marc, but I think this hill is haunted. I feel as if I am being watched by someone or something that is angered by my presence."

  "You felt it too, huh? I didn't want to say anything." Marc shrugged. "Just as well we're leaving then."

  In the predawn chill of the next day, they prepared for the trek, drinking as much water as they could, and filling the glass bottle to its brim. Then they climbed carefully down to the desert floor, Muammar leaning on Marc as much as possible, and waited for the dawn to show the necessary landmarks.

  They set out as Marc had done the day before, their shadows keeping them company, leading them on their right sides. Marc led, Muammar limping at his heels, carrying the water bottle. They counted the paces again, making a game of it to lighten the mood, and slowly the pebbles collected again in Marc's pocket. Every two thousand paces, he called a halt and allowed them both a sip of water.

  Muammar's pace was slow, and by the time he had seven pebbles in his pocket, Marc was supporting the young man, though Muammar limped gamely on, making no complaint. By the time ten pebbles had accumulated, their pace had slowed to a shuffle--and still they stumbled on through the sand and stony desert.

  Marc suddenly stopped and pointed at the ground. "We're here."

  "At the road?" Muammar asked.

  "See?" Marc pointed out the double ruts in the stony desert. They drank again, from a bottle that was now more than three quarters empty and set off along the track to its junction with the dirt and gravel road. They never found Marc's first cairn of stones, having taken a slightly different route to the road, but they did find the second one.

  "Edfu's that way, I think."

  They rested again, drank more water, and renewed their journey, limping along the rough road. They saw the dust before they heard the noise of the engine, this time coming up from the south, and they waited on the road for the vehicle to arrive.

  "I don't believe it," Marc said. "It's the same bloody van that stopped before."

  "Well, this time it's going to do more than just stop," Muammar said. "It's going to turn around and take us to Edfu."

  He flagged the vehicle down and harangued the driver in fluent, if accented, Arabic. The man argued, protested, and made varied excuses, but eventually he gave in, turning his van around and Marc piled in the back, while Muammar sat up front, engaging the man in conversation, to prevent the driver having second thoughts.

  In just over an hour's time, they were in the city centre of Edfu.

  * * *

  Zufir and his men arrived on the outskirts of Edfu that evening. The small group of Bedouin warriors sat on their camels and regarded the bustling city with its many people, buildings, paved roads and electric lights, with distaste.

  "How can people live like this?" one man asked.

  "Better we should forget the infidels than subject ourselves to this filth," Alif said.

  "What? You will pay me seven thousand English pounds? I thought not." Zufir curled his lip and his men quailed. "Find a place to make camp. Tomorrow we leave one man to guard the camp and the others will spread out through this place. You all know what our cousin Muammar al-Hadi looks like, and you will recall the features of the infidels. Find them."

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  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Bashir was down at the docks in Luxor not long after first light, accompanied by Nazim and Lieutenant Al-Din. The Minister inspected the launch that had been put at his disposal by Colonel Sarraj, talking with the captain and crewman. It was a small launch, with limited accommodation, but it would suffice for a preliminary survey of the river south of Luxor. Bashir ordered his companions aboard and told the captain to cast off.

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I have orders to wait."

  "Orders? From whom? For how long?"

  "From Colonel Sarraj, sir." The captain looked at his watch. "He shouldn't be long."

  "Colonel Sarraj is here in Luxor? You've spoken with him?"

  "Yes sir. Just last night."

  Bashir turned away, dismissing the captain. He climbed back onto the dock and stood looking out over the busy scene of boats loading and unloading. What is he doing here? Why wouldn't he tell me he was coming ?

  He heard footsteps on the wooden boards and turned to see the lithe form of Sarraj striding toward him. The Colonel wore army fatigues without any insignia of rank and walked quickly, averting his face from other people on the docks. Bashir stepped forward to greet him and Sarraj gripped his arm, turning him and pulling him along toward the boat.

  "As far as anybody is concerned, I am just Michel and a friend. Your men are discreet?"

  "Of course, but why, Michel?"

  "I wish my business...our business...to go unnoticed."

  Sarraj stepped aboard the launch, followed by Bashir, and the Colonel told the captain to cast off and head south. Within minutes, the propellers bit into the green water and slowly propelled the craft out into the current, the engine note rising as the captain increased power, hurling the launch upriver. Sarraj remained by the captain for several minutes, talking to him, before coming back to join the others.

  "Ahmed, introduce me to your companions."
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  "Nazim Manouk, my private secretary; and Lieutenant Jamal Al-Din. This is...er, Michel..."

  "My identity is no secret amongst us, Ahmed. I am Colonel Sarraj. We have a common purpose. You are aware of it?"

  Nazim inclined his head in silent affirmation, but Al-Din looked a bit perplexed. Bashir interposed. "The lieutenant is here to offer support and help. He knows nothing of our greater purpose."

  "I could have provided all the help you need, Ahmed." Sarraj said reproachfully.

  "He is also the son of a friend, and I am doing his father a favour."

  Sarraj nodded. "So? Is he to be taken into our confidence?"

  "I think we may do so," Bashir said. "Lieutenant Al-Din, it came to the notice of the Ministry in Damascus that an inscription had been discovered. Translated, this inscription purported to show the position of a tomb that we believe has not been discovered. That is why I am in Egypt."

  "Forgive me, Minister," Al-Din said, "But shouldn't the local Department of Antiquities be excavating this tomb?"

  "Of course, and in time they will. However, at the moment we don't even know if it exists. The Ministry notified the Egyptian authorities at once, but they are understaffed and overworked and could not investigate the inscription. That is why I am here--I volunteered to spend my holidays looking for the tomb. Colonel Sarraj here is along to keep an eye on the whole business for the Department of Antiquities, and offer protection and assistance as needed. Everything is above board."

  "Of course, Minister. I never doubted you." Al-Din smiled. "This is a wonderful venture, Minister. Thank you for involving me."

  "Well, we can always use an extra pair of eyes."

  "I shall be most diligent," Al-Din declared. "The inscription tells you where this tomb lies?"

  "More or less," Bashir said.

  "How long before we get there?"

  "Ah, now that is the big question, Lieutenant," Bashir said. "It seemed fairly straightforward up in Syria when we first discussed the idea, but now we're down here it's looking considerably harder."

  "Why is it so hard now you're here?"

  "Tell him, Nazim."