by C J Turner
‘But that is absurd, you must cook so that you can eat good food – it is important, also it is very satisfying to cook for people you care for.’
‘Well, I for one, take that as a compliment, Amunet, and support your viewpoint one hundred per cent,’ Max chuckled genially.
Blake, however, decided to take a turn in the conversation.
‘Coming from someone whose culinary expertise would be stretched if he had to switch on an electric kettle, I find your opinions extremely interesting, Max. Or do your views extend only to women?’
Amunet gasped, her face full of mischief.
‘Truly, Max? But how have you coped? I will have to give you lessons, I can see. There are after all, certain things that everyone should be able to do, regardless of sex.’
‘I have seen that you practice what you preach.’ Blake agreed blandly, poker faced, ‘I am sure that Max and I could both learn a great deal from you.’
Amunet’s sunny smile vanished and she shot him a fulminating glare, while Max looked from one to the other in perplexity. Narrowing his eyes, he got back to the subject he was most interested in.
‘Yes, well, that is all very well but I am still waiting to hear what happened. Just get on with it, Blake, if you please.’
By now, they were all sitting comfortably in canvas chairs around the campfire and Blake briefly recounted the events of last night, carefully omitting all reference to the subsequent revelations regarding Amunet and himself. That was an unnecessary complication, which he put down to an insane aberration on his part, brought on no doubt by a slight case of concussion. He was still trying to come to terms with what had happened and for perhaps the first time in his life, was uncertain how to proceed. So he kept strictly to the facts, while Max listened with amazement.
‘But do you know why they attacked you, Blake?’ Max asked in dismay, at the end of the recital.
‘Yes, I think we have pieced it together now. It all started twelve years ago, some of this is obviously conjecture, but this is what we believe happened . . .’
Recollections
Fresh out of university, and Blake managed to get himself attached to a new expedition in the legendary Valley of the Kings. Permission for such digs was now rare and he had felt suitably privileged, on fire with the passionate ideology of a true archaeologist dedicated to the safeguarding and preservation of Egypt’s ancient treasures.
He had struck up a close friendship with the expedition’s copyist, a talented artist and photographer called Brendon Warwick, who specialised in piecing together archaeological inscriptions and copying tomb paintings. His wife, Alice, was in charge of the practical and domestic needs of the camp. She and her husband became good friends with Blake, working together several times over the next five years, until Brendan had died in a tragic accident whilst on location in North Africa.
But on that first expedition, all three enthusiasts had been taken under the wing of the expedition’s foreman, a wily old Egyptian by the name of Naa’il Safwan. Blake especially was a firm favourite of Naa’il and the old man was a fount of knowledge, teaching the young archeologist a great deal about practical excavation in those first halcyon months at the start of the season. In the evenings, when they gathered around the campfire, Naa’il would tell them many stories that Blake recognized as folk legends and ancient fairy tales, but Naa’il brought them to life with vivid familiarity as if the events he referred to had happened only yesterday.
Naa’il had a wife called Hameeda, whose family had lived in the Valley for generations. Sometimes he would invite them back to his house, a great honour, and Hameeda would cook them delicious meals - in fact veritable feasts, memorable occasions which would last well into the night.
Towards the end of the season, bad weather had kept Blake tied to the camp and so he had not seen Naa’il for a few days. He had been startled therefore, when the old foreman had stolen furtively into his tent one evening and sworn him to secrecy before imparting a strange tale.
The freak thunderstorm which they had experienced a day or so ago, had unleashed a flash flood up in the mountains and had washed down a segment of the cliffs near the village, exposing signs of ancient stonework.
Sensing possible loot, some of the men from the village, including Naa’il himself, had gone to investigate and as he was the most experienced amongst them, he had been the first to enter the ruined tomb. Part of a long passage, the walls of which had mostly fallen in, was choked with debris and as he cautiously picked his way forward, he spotted low down what looked like a small opening, that had been roughly plastered over.
He had just enough time to hurriedly push a pile of rubble in front of it, before the other men crowded in. None knew better than he, how much damage greedy, precipitant men, lured by the prospect of treasure, could do to a tomb.
It was very disappointing, Naa’il told them, there was nothing here to see and the area was so obviously unstable that he had found it easy enough to persuade the discouraged villagers to return to their homes.
Later that night, Naa’il had returned to made a closer examination of the area. He cleared away the debris and carefully broke into the hatchway.
Much to his excitement, a small chamber was revealed beyond.
Squeezing through the narrow opening, he found himself in a box-like room, glowing like a jewel with bright colour. The light from his lantern illuminated the wonderful wall paintings, but the room contained nothing else apart from the remains of a plain wooden coffin placed upon a raised stone plinth. The coffin had mostly disintegrated but had contained the unwrapped bones of a human skeleton. The pathetic remains of dried flower wreaths still lay amongst the bones.
Naa’il marveled at the beauty of the murals, which covered every inch of the walls, the colours as fresh and brilliant as if they had just been newly completed, and the ancient artist had only just laid down his brushes.
He also knew enough about tomb decoration to realise that this chamber was very unusual. There were none of the usual religious scripts and prayers for the dead man’s safe journey to the underworld, rather the pictures and hieroglyphics seemed to tell a story, and the casually placed bones in the coffin has not been subjected to the rites of mummification .
Intrigued and very excited, his wonder turned to consternation when he noticed a small painting of a scarab amulet.
It was identical to his family’s most treasured possession, an heirloom that had passed down through many generations and was now in his wife’s jewellery box at home!
Obviously, this discovery and its possible ramifications needed to be treated with the utmost caution; he had to have time to work out the implications to his own family before it was made public knowledge. Quickly he had vacated the chamber, painstakingly hiding the entrance again, before hurrying back to the village to ponder this strange mystery. At all costs he was determined that the find must be kept secret until he could find out what the story depicted so meticulously on the walls of the hidden tomb meant, and its significance. On the thought, he abruptly changed direction and instead of returning to his home, had carried on down the valley to the archaeologists’ camp. Of course, his friend Blake Effendi would help him and he of all men, could be trusted to keep his mouth shut.
So here he was and, of course, Blake was his man. He made Blake swear that this matter must be kept a secret and he would not tell anybody else until Na’ill had given him permission, and was in such a state that Blake, intrigued and puzzled, agreed. In a fever of anticipation, the young archaeologist eagerly followed his guide back to the cliff site.
They were followed by another.
Ahmed El Rassim was the village mayor and a person of some importance in that little community and never one to overlook a possibility of making money. He too had decided that the newly exposed site might repay a closer look. Old Naa’il had been too dismissive, he reasoned, the old foreman was not the only one who knew about such things.
Ahmed returned to the tomb
in time to see the backs of the two men disappearing into the ruined passage. Silently, he crept as close as he could to the newly exposed opening and tried to hear what they were saying. Blake had lowered his voice in awe of the discovery and out of respect for its only occupant, so Ahmed could only catch a word here and there, but enough to keep him rooted to the spot, as Blake slowly deciphered the hieroglyphics.
‘ … sacrilege in the tomb of the powerful Priest Menkheperne… rich treasure … taken to the Great Place …dagger… talisman … secretly marked … to keep safely hidden forever…’
At this point in the narrative, Blake’s voice faltered, and Amunet, who was watching him closely, saw him lose colour and the sweat break out on his forehead. Concerned, she started forward, but he waved her back and wiped his brow impatiently with the back of hand. Max silently passed him a glass of water and he took a long swallow before continuing.
Ahmed the eavesdropper only overheard part of Blake’s translation of the hieroglyphics and what he did hear, he misinterpreted. However, he thought he had understood enough to convince him that the chamber held a clue to the whereabouts of a hidden tomb that held a wealth of treasure.
After they had resealed the hidden room, Na’ill insisted that they caused another landfall, so that the entrance was completely buried again.
Ahmed watched Na’ill assiduously, he was sure that it would only be a matter of time before Na’ill went after the treasure. However, not long after Na’ill was involved in an accident, (whether deliberately contrived was never proved) and Ahmed was conveniently on the spot.
However, Hameeda had sent for Blake when Na’ill had failed to return home that night, and he and Brendan were already out looking for him. Ahmed was caught torturing the injured man to make him tell where the priest’s tomb was hidden. He was arrested and later sentenced to fifteen years imprisonment, but Na’ill’s health was irrevocably broken and he eventually died of the injuries he suffered that night, compounded by Ahmed’s brutal ill treatment. Blake returned to England and never saw Na’ill again – he died later that year.
Amunet leant forward eagerly, her eyes bright with anticipation. Now he will mention getting the parcel, now that he knows he can trust me, she thought, her excitement welling up at the thought that all this disagreeable misunderstanding could be put behind them. However, to her intense disappointment, Blake stopped talking and tiredly leaned back in his chair, rubbing weary hands over his face. He looked completely drained, as if recounting the long story had taken its toll of all his remaining resources. Lifting his head, he looked at his spellbound audience and managed a wry smile.
‘And that’s about it. I think that Ahmed must have spent his whole time in prison brooding over an undiscovered tomb full of mythical treasure, which almost certainly does not exist, and he is now totally unbalanced on the subject. He is an obsessive and probably criminally insane. Where he picked up Khalid, I do not know, but the old man obviously sold him some story of his abilities to help Ahmed find the tomb. Amunet still won’t explain properly her part in all of this but the amulet is … I think …’
Blake’s voice suddenly trailed off, he started to get out of his chair, and collapsed heavily on to the sand at their feet.
He did not recover consciousness, even when they had managed to carry him to the makeshift bed they had fashioned for him at the back of the jeep.
‘You are sure you won’t come back with us?’ Max asked Amunet anxiously, as he prepared to drive off. ‘Will you be all right here, with just Natheer and the others? I don’t like leaving you here by yourself, but…’
‘I will be fine, please don’t worry about me. You must get him to a hospital as soon as possible. I will pack up everything here and follow on. Now, don’t waste time Max, just get going!’
So Max drove Blake away in an urgent cloud of dust, too concerned for his friend to ponder the many gaps still unexplained in Blake’s reconstruction. These would occur to him afterwards, but by then it would be too late.
As for Amunet, she was saddened and disillusioned that Blake had not mentioned receiving the dagger. It would seem that there had been no breakthrough for Blake and herself after all.
However, this was not going to get in the way of her mission. His reticence had at least eased her feelings of guilt about slipping the little sleeping potion into his food. She needed Blake out of the way, and would deal with her own mixed emotions in due course. In the meantime, she organised her men.
Chapter 15
Amunet gave the order to strike camp almost absently to Natheer, but he obeyed her without question, despite the fact that he and the rest of the men were aware that she had agreed to follow Max to Luxor as soon as the camp was packed up.
In reality, she intended to follow Ahmed, leading them further west, deeper into the Theban hills. There was an unnatural calmness about her, a blank, other worldliness look in her eyes that had a few of the men making the ancient sign against evil behind her back. Natheer, unaccountably nervous himself, spoke sharply to them and they sullenly carried out their orders but there was an apprehensive air of heightened tension in the camp. Amunet herself showed no sign of being aware of this; anxiety over Blake had been at first her overwhelming concern but now this had been replaced by a cold determination to catch up with his attackers and retrieve the scarab amulet.
Amunet had slowly become conscious of a force that seemed to be coming from outside her - a compulsion that she could not fight and indeed had no wish to avoid, was driving this implacable resolve. There was a task ahead that now filled her whole horizon, and she could no more ignore it than she could stop breathing.
Listening to Blake’s story and appreciating that he was talking about her family and that his story belonged to her as well, a strong feeling had grown in her that many strands were coming together. Whether she liked it or not, she would appear to be the catalyst.
Death and danger seemed to follow the dagger, but Amunet was beginning to believe that the scarab amulet was having a counter effect. With growing conviction, she remembered that she had been wearing the necklace when she had escaped from the gang’s car. It would appear to have been the sight of the scarab, as described by Mr Bentley, that had driven off the gang the night she had rescued him. She still could not explain that, as she had not been wearing it at the time, this was mystifying. Could the scarab have been responsible in some way for what had happened to Blake that fateful night at the hotel? It seemed to be looking out for her, she mused whimsically; a thousand pities then that Ghalida had not been wearing it herself when she had been kidnapped.
Now all other considerations fell away as if everything that made her who she was had come together to focus on one objective. She did not need the printout to tell her where to look, she could feel the pull of the amulet now as an almost tangible awareness, like knowing where the sun was with your eyes closed by feeling the warmth on your face.
She did not question this, but Amunet was also aware of another force, a cold and implacable power which she could now put a name to, and this knowledge brought an abhorrent reaction of immense loathing and fear.
Following her instructions, the men concealed the camp equipment as best they could and travelling light, made rapid progress across the rough terrain, arriving at their destination just as the rapid Egyptian night was falling.
The bumping and bouncing of the jeep’s progress finally pierced Blake’s consciousness and he rose through painful layers of oblivion back to reality.
It took him a few moments to understand what was happening, his hand flew to his empty shirt pocket and…
‘Max! For God’s sake, what the hell are you doing?’
Poor Max was severely startled by the sudden bellow in his ear, painfully banging his elbow into the door and causing them to slew round in an impressive screeching skid. Stamping on the brakes, he jerked the jeep to a sudden halt, now neatly facing in the opposite direction.
‘Good man!’ Blake congratulated
him calmly as he slid from the back seat and pushing an expostulating Max over to the passenger seat, took his place behind the wheel.
‘Now we are at least facing the right way, and you can tell me where we were going without Amunet, where is she anyway?’
‘But Blake, you need a hospital – we think, that is Amunet seems to think, and I quite agree, that you may have fractured your skull - you almost certainly have concussion and really there is no need to worry about Amunet. Natheer is with her and the rest of the men and the idea is for her to pack up the camp and meet us back in Luxor…’
Blake impatiently pulled off the bandage round his head and threw it with loathing out of the window.
‘You fool, Max - she just has to bat her lashes at you and you fall for it every time! I bet she has packed up camp but the men are as soft with her as you are - she will not have gone back to Luxor! We sure as damn’it will not meet her on the road but I can make a good guess as to where the little hell cat will be making for, although how in Hades she knows the precise location … anyway, with any luck we can still get there in time!’
‘But where … what about your concussion?’ Max protested feebly.
‘Be damned to that, I’m fine I tell you, or I will be if we can catch up with Amunet before she meets up with Ahmed!’
‘How can you know where she …what … well, where are we going?’ Max demanded crossly, anxiety adding to his confusion.
‘I told you last night that the marks on the scarab talisman show the location of the hidden tomb of Menkheterne, and that’s what this is all about, Max!’ Blake threw at him. ‘Amunet has gone after the scarab by herself and we need to get there before she does, or she may well meet the Rassim gang alone and head on!’
