Roberto started to answer, but I interrupted. “Don’t worry about us, Dr. Moriarity. We’ll be fine on the hike. We’ve been running and lifting weights. We’re in better shape than you think.”
“I just want to prepare you boys for the worst,” Moriarity continued. “It’s an ugly world out there in the backcountry regions of Egypt. This could well be life or death. Understand?”
Roberto closed the menu, set it aside, and looked up at Moriarity through the stringy hair hanging over his wide eyes. An apocalyptic tone entered Roberto’s voice. “I’m having the Ding Dong with two scoops. You?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As we descended toward Port Said, fog cloaked the plane like a shimmering blanket, and beads of water began to stream across the wings outside the window. I heaved a sigh. After twenty-one hours in the air, including changing planes twice, I felt like I’d been beaten with a stick. Roberto was still asleep in the seat beside me, so I watched the shreds of coastline below appear and disappear as we descended through the silver haze.
When the turbulence increased and the plane began to bounce around, I leaned back in my seat and found Moriarity staring at me. The professor sat across the aisle reading the latest issue of Antiquity. Originally, he’d sat in the aisle seat beside Roberto, but changed seats when it became clear that airplane food caused Roberto some fragrant gastrointestinal distress.
Moriarity smiled at me. I smiled back.
“Almost there,” he called.
“I see that.”
Moriarity’s hair stuck out at odd angles, as though he’d had an uncomfortable night of shifting positions, trying to sleep. Who hadn’t? I suspected my blond hair looked pretty much the same.
At the sound of our voices, Roberto roused and straightened up in his seat to blink around the plane. “Where are we?”
“Descending toward Port Said.”
“Awesome.” He leaned across me to gaze out the window at the glimpses of city and blue ocean flashing by below. “The countryside is so green. I thought it was all desert. Sand dunes that went on forever, you know?”
I shook my head. “No, this is an agricultural area. Historically, it was famous for growing flax.” I pointed to the east. “Do you see that broad marshy plain?”
“Yeah.”
My gaze clung to it. “The ruins of Per Amun are out there. I don’t know where exactly. It used to sit two and half miles from the sea, between two branches of the Nile River, but even by the third century it was four miles from the sea. Per Amun was the most important port in ancient Egypt, after Alexandria. In 55 BC, Marcus Antonius saved the people of Per Amun from the wrath of Ptolemy Auletes, who wanted to put them to the death after—”
“Why is it so far from the sea today?” Roberto interrupted. He could always tell when a history lesson was coming, and tried at all costs to avoid it.
“The branches of the Nile started silting in during the first century BC. Eventually, the Nile changed course, and the shoreline was pushed farther and farther away.”
“Oh. Cool.”
I looked back at Egypt. This was the first time I’d felt truly alive since Cleo’s death. The small round window became my entire universe for a few minutes. As the plane headed down, the pilot began to circle, and more of the country appeared. To the south, for as far as I could see, the Nile River cut a vast blue swath through the landscape. Green fields lined the Nile’s floodplain, but the desert that stretched beyond them to the west was mesmerizing. In the morning light, the sand resembled a vast ocean, rising and falling in tan waves, cut here and there by cliffs and canyons, and speckled with green oases.
This was my Cleo’s homeland, the place she had spoken of with such love and despair in her voice. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine her here with me, leaning across me to look out the window. What would we be doing? We’d be discussing the past. She would be pointing things out to me, laughing, quoting Plutarch.
When I opened my eyes and gazed out across the land that Julius Caesar, Ptolemy, Marcus Antonius, and Cleopatra had walked, this world vanished. Time melted away. . . .
Far back in my mind, I could hear vast armies on the move, horse tack jangling, whinnying mixed with human voices, and the roar as thousands of men marched out of Per Amun on their way to Alexandria in 30 BC.
Cleopatra’s scouts had told her Gaius Julius was coming. She was frantic. She knew what he would do when he won. Egypt would be no more. He would steal her treasury, pillage her country, and turn Egypt into just another Roman province. Then he would kill her children and lock her in chains to be paraded through the streets of Rome as the glorious proof of his triumph, before condemning her to a Roman dungeon for the rest of her life. Many captured rulers had killed themselves, or gone mad, in the dungeons of Rome.
Willing to do anything to save her children and her country, Cleopatra made one last desperate gamble. She deceived Antonius into thinking she was dead in the hope that the man she loved, the father of three of her children, would in turn commit suicide. In utter despair over her death, Antonius tried. But when he thrust the sword into his chest, he missed his heart. Gushing blood and faint, he begged his servants to finish the job. To a man, his loyal officers and friends deserted him and fled, most in tears.
When Cleopatra heard Antonius’ anguished cries echoing through the palace, she ran to the unfinished roof of the mausoleum where she’d taken refuge and called out to her servants below. Her secretary answered that Antonius was not dead, but lying half-dead on the floor. Stunned, Cleopatra lowered ropes and ordered that Antonius’ limp body be tied so she could lift him. She drew him up herself, aided by her two servants Iras and Charmion. Bleeding to death and in agony, Antonius watched her the whole time. Plutarch said, “Never was there a more piteous sight. Smeared with blood and struggling with death he was drawn up, stretching out his hands to her even as he dangled in the air.”
When Antonius had at last been pulled into the room and placed on the couch, a distraught Cleopatra began weeping and tearing at her clothing. Antonius silenced her. He asked for a sip of wine. He told her that she must now concentrate on her own safety, and make the best arrangement with Gaius that her honor would allow. As he lay dying in Cleopatra’s arms, Antonius told her he loved her. He forgave her. . . .
Slowly, as though my soul didn’t want to return to the present, the plane’s window crystallized before my eyes, and my lungs filled with air. Outside, a magnificent vista stretched into infinity. The Nile flashed by through clouds of fog.
The idea that this land was haunted by demons and ghosts did not seem strange. In fact, the reverse would have been stranger. Egypt was an ancient and magical place. Some of the most important events in history had occurred here. Events that had changed the entire world. “In Egypt,” Cleo had once said, “the dead are not dead. They stare you in the face every day.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I wanted to find out.
I felt Roberto shift in his seat. He leaned close to ask, “Any suspicious activities from Dr. Who while I slept?”
“No. He spent the night dozing and reading. Got up a couple times to go the bathroom in the rear. Had two glasses of wine. Some coffee.”
“He never tried to reach under your seat for Cleo’s shoulder bag?”
I shook my head. Throughout the trip, Roberto and I had taken turns staying awake to monitor Moriarity’s movements. He’d never so much as accidentally reached for my bag.
When he saw us looking at him, Moriarity unfastened his seatbelt and returned to sit beside Roberto. He gestured to the window. “Want me to tell you what you’re seeing out there?”
“If you have to,” Roberto said.
Moriarity gave Roberto an askance look, then leaned toward the window and pointed eastward. “Right about there, where the marshes look so green? That’s where Pompey Magnus was killed.”
I lurched forward so fast my
nose hit the window. “Where?” I didn’t realize I’d shouted until the redheaded woman in front of us turned around to give me a dirty look.
Through a yawn, Roberto said, “What’s a pompous Magnus?”
Excited, I answered before Moriarity could: “In 60 BC, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus joined with his rivals Julius Caesar and Marcus Licinius Crassus to form the First Triumvirate of Rome. They ruled together for seven years, but the alliance collapsed in 53 BC, when Pompeius talked the Roman Senate into demanding that Caesar give up his army, which he refused to do. Instead, in 49 BC, Caesar led his legions across the Rubicon River into Italy and declared war against Pompeius and his forces.”
“Huh.” Roberto grunted. “Is that where the phrase, ‘to cross the Rubicon’ comes from?”
Nodding, a huge grin came to my face. “Yes.”
“So did Julius Caesar win?”
“Oh, yeah. In August of 48 BC, Pompeius’ army chased Caesar to Pharsalus in Thessaly. Caesar was outnumbered two-to-one, but he had a good strategic position. And Marcus Antonius was in command of the eleventh and ninth legions. Nobody was better at fighting a land battle than Marcus Antonius. Caesar’s smaller forces completely defeated Pompeius.”
“And,” Moriarity added, gazing at me with a smile, as though proud of my knowledge, “Pompey fled to Egypt, hoping that King Ptolemy XIII, Cleopatra’s younger brother, would give him sanctuary. Unfortunately for Pompey Magnus, Ptolemy was afraid of the wrath of Julius Caesar, so he invited Pompey Magnus to come ashore at Per Amun, and when Pompey arrived, Ptolemy ordered that his head be chopped off.”
A glow filled Roberto’s blue eyes. “Where’s his head? Can we go see it?”
Moriarity paused. “You’re a curious kid, you know that?”
“Well . . . Yeah.”
As the plane banked and swerved over the ocean, Moriarity looked out the window. Two cruise ships left gigantic Vs in the water as they coasted up the shoreline. Alexandria was visible in the distance, sitting like a shining jewel on the blue sea. My heart actually caught in my throat. All of my life, I’d wanted to see this sight.
Moriarity said to Roberto, “So, as to Pompey’s head. To try and gain favor, Ptolemy sent Pompey’s head to Caesar, which enraged Caesar, who’d been looking forward to magnanimously pardoning his most ardent enemy. The historian, Appian, says that Caesar had Pompey’s severed head buried in Alexandria. Which is—” he pointed— “right there.”
Roberto didn’t look. He kept his eyes on Moriarity. “Yeah, but is the head in a museum now? How about the other body parts? Where are they?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a little disgusting?”
“Sure. I asked Molly Henson for a date three days before we left.”
Moriarity continued, “On the other hand, you, Mr. Dally, are the stuff that legendary archaeologists are made from. They’ve all had an unhealthy interest in the dead. Of course, so do mass murderers.” He gave Roberto a pointed look, but Roberto didn’t seem to notice.
“Whatever. I’m probably going to be a video game designer anyway.”
“Video games are utterly inane. Hopefully, you’ll grow out of it.”
Roberto scratched his chin and tilted his head to study Moriarity’s bearded face with a careful eye. “You know, next time you should try passing yourself off as a chimpanzee. It would be more convincing than an intellectual.”
Moriarity stared at him. “Did I mention that your parents said I could ship you home any time I wanted to?”
“Yeah? Can you make sure I have a twenty-four-hour layover in Thailand?” Roberto turned to me and said, “Layover.”
I started laughing and couldn’t stop.
People all across the plane turned around to give me ugly glares. Smothering my mouth in my sleeve only made it worse, because then my shrieks sounded like a dying turkey buzzard’s flopping toward doom. Finally, two little boys in the seats behind us started shooting spit wads at me between the seats.
When one of the misaimed projectiles stuck to Roberto’s face, he whirled around to say, “Hey! Don’t make me crawl over this seat!”
The barrage ceased.
As a flight attendant hurried down the aisle toward us, Moriarity seemed to be trying to sink into his seat.
“I’m sorry,” the dark-haired woman said to him, “but your sons are causing a commotion.”
“I apologize. I’ll take care of it,” Moriarity assured her. As she walked away, he gave us a threatening look.
A few seconds later, her voice crackled over the loud speaker: “May I have your attention, please? We will soon be landing in Port Said. Please put up your tray tables and return your seat backs to their original positions. Thank you for flying with us. The local time is 8:13 AM. The temperature in Port Said is 37 degrees centigrade, or approximately 99 degrees Fahrenheit. We hope you have an enjoyable stay here, or wherever your final destination takes you.”
The plane bucked and jumped as we neared the landing strip. Along the shoreline I saw weathered fishing boats, the casino I’d noted on maps, and a beautiful beach filled with people, who, at this height, appeared as tiny colorful dots.
I leaned back in my seat to ride out the turbulence until the wheels touched down.
Once the plane eased up to the jetway, the unclicking of seatbelts started. Finally, we rose, gathered our things, and slowly shuffled down the aisle toward the forward door.
We marched through the airport and out to the baggage carousel without incident, though I almost broke my neck whipping my head around to stare at people. The array of colorful clothing, hats, and languages was fascinating!
It didn’t take long for our backpacks to show up. Shrugging into the shoulder straps, we pushed forward in a herd, not a line, toward passport control and customs.
Once we’d made it through, Moriarity said, “The restroom is just ahead. You might want to change clothes while we’re in there. We have a long hot drive ahead of us today.”
Ten minutes later, I exited the restroom wearing a clean blue T-shirt and jeans. The medallion was back in its usual place, duct-taped to my ankle. I waited for Roberto, who emerged wearing a clean white T-shirt, but the same pair of worn jeans.
Moriarity met us just outside the restroom door. “You can call your parents now. Tell ’em you made it okay, and this is the last contact you’ll have with them for a while. There’s no cell service where we’re going.”
I pulled out my phone, checked the text message from Mom, saying, Are you there yet? Worried about you, and then started punching in numbers. The phone rang a dozen times. No one answered, so I left a message: “Mom and Dad, we just landed in Egypt. It’s beautiful here. This is the last call I’ll be able to make. Dr. Moriarity says we’re not going to have cell service. I love you. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.”
Off to my left, Roberto had his phone to his ear, talking to his parents.
When Roberto shoved his phone back in his pocket, Moriarity said, “All right, let’s go. It’s only a short walk to the parking lot.”
Just as I stepped outside the terminal, a blast of hot humid air hit me, along with the din of honking horns, and the smell of exhaust fumes. It was real sensory overload. People rushed in all directions around me, dragging rolling bags toward taxi stands, onto buses, or across the busy road toward the parking lot in the distance. I counted at least a dozen languages in the first five minutes.
Moriarity pointed. “See that beat-up white Jeep in the first line of the lot? That’s ours. Follow me.”
We crossed the road as part of a multilingual bumping and crashing crowd.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nine hours later, Moriarity pulled to a stop on the side of a dirt road and shut off the engine. While the dust boiled up around the Jeep, I checked my watch. Ten minutes to six and it was still hot. The Jeep had no air-conditioning, so we’d
been riding the entire way with the windows down and dust gushing in around us every time Moriarity slowed down. Roberto and I both looked like filthy drowned rats. Our dusty, sweat-soaked shirts could have come straight out of a mud bath.
Moriarity pulled his water bottle from his pack, which took up the entire front passenger seat, and took a long drink. Then he put on his fedora and turned around to look at us where we sat in the back. His graying brown hair and beard glittered with beads of sweat. “Grab your packs, hats, long-sleeved shirts, your water bottles, boys. From here, we walk.”
“Why can’t we drive?” Roberto said.
“Sand is too deep. Jeep would be bogged down in five minutes.”
Roberto and I reached into the rear to pull the necessary items from our packs, and climbed out.
As I put on my white shirt, I scanned the desert. No people, no houses, no roads. It was beautiful and stark, unlike any place I had ever been. At any moment, I expected to see a camel caravan crossing before me, or a band of armed insurgents exploding from the dunes. Nonetheless, I felt strangely free. For most of my life, I’d lived inside my head, dreaming ancient dreams, but right now, at this moment, I was just here. I mean really here, feeling the heat and the light breeze that swept the desert. There were no thoughts in my head. The constant grief that plagued me eased.
I took a drink from my water bottle and hooked it to my belt.
Roberto walked up beside me. “This is the middle of fucking nowhere. I don’t even see a goat trail, do you?”
“No.”
“Where do you think we’re going?”
I shrugged. “I assume he’ll tell us. But the only real topography out here is that ridge in the distance.”
To the west, the sun shone bright red as it sank through a dust haze toward the horizon. Beneath it, a ridge wound its way through the dunes like the twisted and broken backbone of some long-dead monster. I couldn’t tell how tall the ridge was, but it appeared to be at least one hundred feet, maybe two hundred feet tall in places.
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