Cosimo and Sir Henry shuffled along. A little light came through the uneven weave of the burlap, and they could see their feet and the patch of ground on which they walked, but no more than that. They could hear the heavy footfall of the men, the creak of the wagon wheels, and the low, breathy rumble of the cat padding dangerously close behind them. At the end of the avenue, Sir Henry and Cosimo stepped off the ancient pavement and into the desert, where they were led in a more-or-less southerly direction toward a range of low dun-coloured hills. It was a thirsty region-a wasteland of shattered rock, dust, and sand in more or less equal measure-ruled by the sun and inhabited only by scorpions and lizards. The ground was rough and uneven, treacherous underfoot-like traversing an endless field of potsherds and broken brick.
After trudging a goodly while in silence, Sir Henry moved fractionally nearer to Cosimo and whispered, “Where are they taking us?”
“Not a clue,” Cosimo replied, his voice barely audible. “I was here briefly a few years ago, but so far as I know there’s nothing for miles around in any direction.”
“We should formulate a plan of action.”
“Agreed,” whispered Cosimo. “But until we know what they intend-”
“Quiet, you two!” said the gang leader. “Save your breath-you’ll need it before we’re through.”
“Stay alert, and look for an opening,” Cosimo concluded.
“I said, that’s enough chatter!” Tav snarled, giving the rope binding their hands a painful jerk.
The sun climbed higher in the empty blue sky, and the heat increased. Every now and then the cave cat gave out a wounded-sounding growl, just to let them know it was still there. Aside from that-and the weary creak and crunch of the wagon wheels-no sound could be heard. The captives in their heavy dark clothes began to suffer from the heat. Through the burlap, they could feel the sun’s burn and began to wish that they had changed clothes when given the chance. Sweat ran from their heads and down their necks. Their shirts and cloaks were soon drenched.
Still they trudged on. Another hour passed, and then a third. As the fourth hour commenced, Sir Henry gave out a sigh and stopped.
“Get moving, you!” came the command from behind.
“No,” he replied, bending to rest his hands on his knees. Sweat poured from beneath the burlap bag to fall on the bone-dry ground. “I need water. I am near to fainting in this heat. I shall not take another step until I get a drink.”
“We’re all thirsty, mate,” said Tav, not unreasonably. “But there’s nothing to drink out here until we reach the site.”
“No water?” sneered Cosimo. “What manner of fools are you?”
“Shut your face,” snarled Dev. “Get moving.”
“No,” said Sir Henry, planting himself firmly in place. “I will not.”
“You can stay out here all day and die for all I care,” said the gang leader. “But we’re nearly there-a few more minutes is all. The sooner we get there, the sooner we all get a drink. Savvy?”
“Come along, Sir Henry,” urged Cosimo. “It’s too hot out here to argue.” To Tav, he said, “Lead on.”
The party resumed its march and a short while later reached the foot of a low bank of hills. Here they paused, and the burlap bags were removed, much to the relief of the captives, who gasped and gulped down the fresh air. A few more minutes’ walk carried them to the base of the nearest hill, where a seam opened in the much-eroded landscape: a wadi barely wide enough to admit the mule cart and team. Into this parched gulch the party turned and proceeded down the long, undulating corridor cut into the sandstone by water from the melt runoff during the last ice age.
The air inside the wadi, though dead, was at least a little cooler owing to the shadow cast by the steep walls; the sun did not penetrate to the valley floor save only a few minutes each day. The shade was welcome, and Cosimo felt himself slightly revived. As they proceeded deeper into the gorge, he began to notice small niches carved in the soft sandstone. Some were square nooks, others rectangular; a few of the more elaborate niches had inscribed hieroglyphs alongside them, and many of these had pedestals fashioned into the floor of the nook as if to hold an object for display. Whatever the niches had held, all were empty now.
They came to a place where the wadi divided; Tav guided them into the wider of the two branches and proceeded as before. The wall niches became more numerous, larger, and more elaborate. Cosimo noticed that some few of these had been defaced-the hieroglyphs scratched or chiselled away, the pedestals smashed and broken.
The canyon snaked this way and that as it cut through the rock hills; the travellers followed the long, looping bend and came all at once to a dead end: a smooth wall of ruddy sandstone towering two hundred feet in the air, at the bottom of which was carved a doorway-a black square guarded either side by enormous effigies. On the right side, holding a rod of authority, stood Horus, the sun god, who possessed the body of a long-limbed, muscular man combined with the regal head of a hawk. On the left, his hand raised in warning, stood Thoth, ibis-headed god of all civilized sciences and magic, and judge of the dead.
Here they stopped.
“Sit ’em down, lads,” ordered Tav. He walked to the door and disappeared inside. The wagon and mules continued on, passed around a bend in the wadi and out of sight.
Cosimo and Sir Henry settled themselves on a rock in the shade, wiped sweat from their faces, and sat panting from their exertion and dehydration. The cave lion, too, lay down, panting, its red tongue lolling from its mouth. “I know just how it feels,” muttered Cosimo, unlacing his boots to cool his hot feet. He had rubbed one foot and ankle and was rubbing the second when the gang chief reappeared carrying a skin of water; in his wake came another man, tall and dark, with a face not unlike that of the hawk-beaked Horus carved in the rock. Although clearly a European, he was dressed like an Egyptian in a long, loose-fitting black garment with a black turban on his head.
The newcomer gave a nod of acknowledgement to the others and said, “Put Baby away. See she’s fed and watered.” As the men gingerly prodded the overheated beast to its feet and led it away, the man in the turban filled a cup from the water skin and offered it to Sir Henry saying, “Welcome, Lord Fayth. I have long been an admirer of yours.”
The nobleman accepted the cup without a word and offered it in turn to Cosimo, who refused it. Sir Henry then drained the cup in several deep gulps before handing it back. The black-turbaned one refilled it and passed it to Cosimo. “Mr. Livingstone, I presume,” he said with a smile.
“Very droll,” muttered Cosimo, his voice cracking. “You come crawling out from under your rock at last, Burley.”
“Lord Burleigh, if you please.”
“Whatever you say.” He tipped up the cup and drank deeply, feeling the life-giving liquid soothe his sticky dry throat. “Now that we’re here, what do you intend to do with us?”
“That depends entirely on you and your friend,” he said, passing the cup to his chief, Tav, who filled it and drank before passing the water skin on to the others. “You see,” Burleigh continued, “I believe in choices. So, I will always give you a choice. We can do this either of two ways-easy or difficult,” he explained, his tone mild, good-humoured even. “The first is gentle and profitable for all concerned. The second is slow, messy, and painful. If you’re open to a little advice, I’d recommend taking the first option. Believe me, it really is simpler all round and, anyway, it is too bloody hot for making fires to heat up the instruments of persuasion.”
He retrieved the skin from Dex and poured out another cup. “More water, gentlemen?”
Sir Henry nodded. “If you please.” He gulped it down.
“Finished?” said Burleigh when Cosimo had drunk his second cup. “There will be more later. I wouldn’t have too much all at once-it’s bad for the stomach.” He tossed the cup to Tav. “Now then, if you’re refreshed, come along. I have something to show you.”
“On your feet, you two,” said Con. They neede
d no prodding. Cosimo pulled his boots back onto his swollen feet and the two men followed the earl’s lead around the bend in the gorge to a hole at the base of the rock wall, over which someone had long ago erected a wooden shelter. Here Burleigh paused and, withdrawing a key from a hidden fold of his kaftan, disappeared down a flight of wooden steps into the hole. There was a clink and the grating sound of rusty hinges, and his voice came floating up from the ground, “One at a time, gentleman, and do watch your step.”
Cosimo and Sir Henry descended the wooden stairs into the dry darkness, squeezed through a heavy iron gate at the bottom, and found themselves in a very small and cramped vestibule of a chamber hollowed from the living rock. Tav followed, but no sooner had he joined the others than Burleigh sent him away again, saying, “The generator, Tav.”
“Aye, sir.” He disappeared again, and a few moments later the distant sound of a combustion engine coughed, then started to hum.
“You’ll want to see this in all its glory, believe me,” said Burleigh.
Cosimo glanced at Sir Henry as their captor bent down and fumbled with a black box on the floor. There was a click of a switch, and a warm yellow glow emanated from the chamber beyond. “This way, gentlemen.”
He led them into the next chamber, larger than the first-a simple rectangular box devoid of either furniture or feature, save a blue-painted ceiling covered with white spots of stars. “Through here,” said Burleigh, moving through a doorway into a farther room.
Cosimo, his trepidation having given way totally to unfeigned interest, followed willingly. The room was empty save for a large granite sarcophagus in the centre of the floor and three naked light-bulbs affixed to makeshift stands. The sarcophagus was missing its lid, and the lights wavered gently with the irregular pulse of the generator.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” Burleigh said, moving quickly to the far side of the room, which was covered every inch, floor to ceiling, with incredibly lifelike and colourful paintings of life in ancient Egypt.
Sir Henry, experiencing his first exposure to the science of electricity, could not take his eyes from the softly glowing bulbs.
“If you will allow me to direct your attention to this particular wall painting,” Burleigh said, “you will, I think, find something of inestimable interest.”
Cosimo nudged his companion. “Not now, Sir Henry. I’ll explain later. Let’s see what this drama is all about.”
Burleigh stood next to a nearly life-size painting of a bald Egyptian dressed in the traditional knee-length linen kilt and heavy gold-and-lapis necklace. Although the figure was heavily stylized in the iconic manner of all tomb art, it was clear the painters had tried to give him a modicum of personality: his round face positively beamed with beatific serenity and humour; even in a two-dimensional rendering he seemed a pleasant, good-natured fellow.
“Allow me to introduce you to Anen, the high priest of Amun, in whose tomb you are now standing.”
“High Priest Anen, you say?” wondered Sir Henry. “I don’t believe I have ever heard of him-have you, Cosimo?”
“Oh, he’s a very interesting chap, as it happens,” continued Burleigh. “Brother-in-law of Pharaoh Amenhotep the Third and who, at the time of his death, had scaled the heights to become second prophet of Amun. He enjoyed an extremely powerful and influential position in Pharaoh’s court, as I think you can appreciate.”
“Very impressive, to be sure,” said Cosimo, “but what does any of that have to do with us?”
“Patience,” replied Burleigh with a smile. “We are getting to it.”
“Go on then.”
“Take a good look at him, if you will,” said Burleigh, indicating the somewhat stocky figure in the painting. “You’ll see him again just here.” He moved on to the next floor-to-ceiling panel, which depicted the priest Anen standing next to a pale-skinned man dressed in a long striped robe of many colours. The man’s robe was open at the chest to reveal a cluster of tiny blue symbols on his chest. Behind the two figures a vast building project was proceeding-the raising of a palace or temple of some sort-the site swarming with hundreds of half-naked workers. “Mark the man in the coloured robe?” said Burleigh.
“Incredible…,” breathed Cosimo.
Burleigh moved to a third panel. “Now then,” he said, “things grow more interesting. Here is our man, Anen-older now, as you can see, and what is that in his hand?”
“Good lord,” said Cosimo, stepping closer to the wall and squinting his eyes against the shadows. “Is that…? It can’t be!”
The picture showed the priest standing alone in the desert under a brilliant blue twilight sky. One hand was raised skyward, forefinger extended; in the other hand he grasped what looked like a ragged banner shaped roughly like a truncated human torso. This curious banner was decorated with the same symbols that had appeared on the man in the striped robe of the previous painting.
“Gentleman, I give you the Skin Map!” announced Burleigh in triumph.
“Good lord, indeed,” breathed Sir Henry. “Of all places… here!”
“As if there could be any doubt,” said Burleigh, obviously relishing the effect of his revelations, “I direct your attention to this particular cartouche.” He indicated a small lozenge-shaped panel decorating the border of the painting.
Cosimo bent near and, in the glow of the gently wavering electric light, examined the hieroglyphs contained in the cartouche, working out the meaning. “The man… who is… map.”
“Precisely,” confirmed Burleigh. “The Man Who Is Map-none other than Arthur Flinders-Petrie.”
“He was here,” breathed Cosimo in astonishment. “Graphic evidence that Arthur was here.”
“Moreover, the map was here,” said Burleigh.
“How do you know that?” asked Cosimo.
Burleigh gave him a sly smile. “Because I was here with Carter and Carnarvon when this tomb was opened. I held it in my hands.” He gave his turbaned head a rueful shake.
“You knew Carter?” said Cosimo.
“Oh, yes,” replied Burleigh. “In a former life, you might say.”
Stepping to the stone sarcophagus, he reached in and pulled out an ancient wooden chest and presented it to Cosimo. The pale yellow lacquer was dry and cracked, but the rounded top, on closer inspection, was seen to be covered with the same blue symbols as those represented on the wall painting. “The map was in one piece, and it was in here,” said Burleigh, tapping the lid with a finger. “Unfortunately, at the time I did not know what it was that I held.”
Cosimo carefully opened the chest. “Was here,” he said, examining the dusty interior. “Once upon a time.”
“Yes,” replied Burleigh, “but that is beside the point.”
“Then, pray, what is the point?” demanded Sir Henry, accepting the empty chest from Cosimo. “Come to it, man!”
“Patience,” chided Burleigh lightly. “We must tread lightly, for here we confront the elemental mystery.”
Moving again to the last painting, he said, “Consider what our friend Anen the high priest is doing in this picture.”
“Certainly, he’s holding the map,” volunteered Cosimo.
“Yes, as we’ve already established. But what is he doing with his other hand?”
Cosimo followed the raised right arm of the priest to the extended forefinger. “Why, he’s pointing into the sky…”
“He seems to be pointing at a star,” added Sir Henry.
“Indeed, he is!” replied Burleigh. “But not just any star.”
“No?” wondered Cosimo.
“Think where we are, gentlemen,” coaxed the earl. “Egypt-the southern sky, yes? And what is the brightest star in the southern sky?”
“Sirius,” answered Sir Henry. “The Dog Star.”
“Bravo!” Burleigh applauded, his hand claps ringing loud in the empty chamber. “High Priest Anen is holding the Skin Map and pointing to the Dog Star.” He turned a keen and questioning gaze upon his two captives. “No
w, why is that, do you think?”
CHAPTER 31
In Which the Quality of Mercy Is Strained
A razor-thin line of daylight stole into the forechamber of the high priest’s tomb, broadening as it sliced through the darkness. The tomb, empty now, scoured clean, its costly objects duly catalogued and carted off to Luxor’s new antiquities museum, remained steeped in a centuries-old silence altered only by the early morning song of a desert bird perched on the high wall of the wadi, its pipping note echoing through the canyon.
Inside the tomb, two bodies lay on the bare stone floor: two men, both asleep, one breathing heavily.
At the sound of the bird, one of the bodies stirred, and Sir Henry Fayth opened his eyes in the semidarkness of the inner chamber. He lay for a moment, listening-to the birdsong, to the man a few paces away whose breathing had become laboured during the night-then rose and went to his friend.
“Cosimo,” he said, giving his shoulder a nudge. “Cosimo, will you wake?” When that failed to rouse the sleeping man, he desisted and crawled to sit with his back against the massive stone sarcophagus dominating the centre of the room.
Now that he was awake, thirst came upon him with renewed ferocity-and with it his reawakened hatred of Burleigh. Enemy or no, it was inhuman of him to lock them away without food or water. Sir Henry would not have treated a mad dog so cruelly, much less another human being. Such behaviour was brutish and ignoble, far beneath the decency of civilised men.
He would, he vowed, protest in the strongest, most strenuous terms when the next opportunity presented itself, which would be… when? One full day and half of another had passed since they had last seen Burleigh or one of his toadies-thirty-six hours without food or water in the dark, airless tomb of Anen, the high priest of Amun.
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