by JT Osbourne
"Khamsin," Brook said aloud, recalling the hot, dry, and sometimes deadly wind of the Sahara.
A faint, pacing sound interrupted her thoughts. It came from the darkened hall.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Brook froze. Woodburn's ghost? The floorboards beneath her feet vibrated. The sound grew louder still, closing in. Brook looked to the dog, prodding her gently with her foot.
Saqqara refused to wake up, growl, bark, run to the source of the sound, or generally make any move to protect Brook.
"Saqqara! Go see what it is!" Brook hissed.
The dog shifted slightly, still refusing to act. Brook sighed, exasperated. Didn't dogs sense ghosts? Weren’t dogs afraid of ghosts, or were ghosts afraid of dogs?
Reassuring herself—there are no such things as ghosts—Brook opened the door a crack and tried to slide Saqqara out into the hall, which Saqqara clearly felt was ridiculous. The dog stood, headed in the opposite direction, and found a new place to nap.
The sound rose, clearer now—footsteps. Brook closed the door but couldn't lock it. It needed an ancient key, lost to the ages. Brook had once snickered at the irony of the fact that an entire faculty of skilled archeologists hadn't been able to unearth a door key.
Shivering with real fear, Brook crept to her desk and grabbed the heavyweight reading lamp—brass, steel, and every inch a possible murder weapon—and prepared to bash in the skull of the first phantom through the door.
It's 1 a.m. on a Saturday; whatever's roaming the halls can't be up to any good!
The knocks on the door hit Brook like gunshots. Rap rap rap. A pause before the door creaked open.
"Hello, there." Rather than a ghost, Professor Stuart Green peered around the doorframe. Not a ghost, but with tousled white hair, wrinkled skin, and pale, pointed features suggested he could have passed for one. The British accent, lingering after all these years, reminded Brook of Marley's ghost enough on its own.
"I hope I didn't scare you." Professor Green commented, eyeing the ten-pound weapon in Brook's hand.
"No," Brook lied, allowing herself to breathe again before putting the lamp down. "Not at all."
"I tried to knock and call out at the front entrance—"
"It's okay."
"A bit late, even for a junior staffer like you, isn't it?" Professor Green remarked, stepping inside a little, but politely keeping his distance.
Yeah, and what are you doing here? Brook wanted to ask. Her previous thought came back to her. This time of night, probably up to no good.
"Just leaving, actually," Brook announced, packing up again quickly, putting on her hat. "C'mon, Saq. Let's go."
Now Saqqara woke up, stood to attention, tail wagging, and pranced up to Professor Green.
Traitor, Brook thought. The dog had never found him quite as creepy as she had.
"Hey, girl," the professor soothed, finding that spot behind Saqqara's ear.
Charming, really, a boy and his dog.
In his mid-60s, there'd been talk of mandatory retirement, but there were also rumors that an exception had been made in the esteemed Professor Stuart Green's case. As he lingered in the doorway, Brook wondered if he planned to spend the rest of his tenure right there in that spot. She considered what exactly she'd do to get by the old man.
Maybe you shouldn't have put down that lamp.
"Come, Saqqara. Come."
"Ah, Saqqara," Green commented. "Named after a graveyard."
Sacred resting grounds of kings and queens, Brook thought, but she decided not to correct him out loud.
The dog reluctantly returned. Brook hooked up the leash, and Saqqara seemed to instantly feel her owner’s tension down that short length of leather, straightening to stand at full attention. As much as she respected the tenured professor—his success, his ambition, his driving thirst for knowledge—Brook didn't like being alone with him, an attitude Saqqara understood, but if the previous few minutes were anything to go by, didn't share.
Brook was pretty sure that under the tweed, Green was rugged, strong, sly, and tough. Years of digs under the hot sun, living rough, and battling unpleasantness—both environmental and human—had given the man a crusty patina reminiscent of the antiquities Brook had been fortunate enough to uncover in her career.
Like a mummy, Brook shuddered, yet knew the comparison wasn’t quite right. No, like your father. She shuddered again at the thought.
"See you Monday, Professor Green," Brook stated forcefully, taking control of her body and marching forward, the messenger bag at her side ready as a weapon if necessary.
To her surprise, he simply stepped aside.
Thank God.
"Have a good night." he replied opening the door and letting the two females go first; a gallant, old school gesture which Professor Green still managed to make seem inappropriate. He closed the office door after they were out in the hall. "Still no key for this one, eh?" Despite his jovial tone, it felt like a threat, a warning—Maybe I'll just shove into your office anytime I want.
Brook hurried Saqqara down the wrong set of stairs, choosing to go the long way around the building to faculty parking in order to head in the opposite direction to Professor Green. She slipped into her car and sped out of the lot, suddenly aware of her quickened, pounding heartbeat.
"The men in your life!" Brook intoned like a movie-trailer announcer. "In a battle of you versus them, who will survive?"
Saqqara awarded Brook’s dramatics a blank stare, crawled into the back seat, and went back to sleep.
The drive home only took a couple of minutes. The streets were dark and empty, even in the center of town, though a few students still gathered outside of a couple of the bars. Brook drove south on Pleasant Street, past the high school football stadium and into the leafy safety of South Park. She turned into her driveway on Grand Street and entered her home… which she would not leave for three whole days.
5
Taposiris Magna, Egypt, 30 BC
The Romans marched straight into the desert and were never seen again. Neferu was one of the last people to see them, though it was nothing he could ever speak of.
He returned to his workshop and resumed work on the garden statue of Octavian, giving it his best, and comparing his work to drawings of the great leader, studying the kind, piercing eyes, the dimpled skin, and the curly locks carefully. Everything about the job disgusted Neferu, but he did it for the greater good, and in the Roman style he despised, although it would sicken him to the day of his death.
Neferu was a religious man, worshipping at the Osiris temple every day. Like most Egyptians, he understood his inherent unimportance. The sun was important, the moon, the sea, the stars, the rivers, and especially the Nile, but Neferu's religion only recognized one living person: The Pharaoh. Only the Pharaoh possessed some semblance of freedom outside the daily desires, needs, whims, and fears of the gods. The gods determined everything, and only the Pharaoh could intervene on behalf of lowly earthlings, whether by begging, demanding, cajoling, or tricking. His was a religion of scarcity, of order. There was no time for deviation of thought, individuality, or differing points of view—not if civilization were to survive.
***
Forty-five years later, Neferu lay on the stone bed, cool in the shade, nearing death but comfortable in the knowledge that as a young man he'd helped preserve his Pharaoh's body, and placed it in a safe place from which the esteemed Cleopatra could continue, even in death, to ensure the regular order of the sun, moon, stars, soil, rivers, seas, and mankind itself.
Neferu had outlived Octavian by a year. Many of Neferu's students and coworkers secretly congratulated him on this feat, but Neferu knew that wasn't his greatest triumph. That would be maintaining the secret, the one held through his own lifetime, one which was destined to remain secret for another two thousand years.
"Let me see the sky," Neferu requested, his once-strong voice giving way. His admirers, many of them elderly themselves, and ranging from former studen
ts to apprentices and artistic and business associates—stepped back, giving Neferu an unfettered view of a sky so blue it rivalled the Mediterranean, and the heavens where Neferu dared to hope he would soon be welcomed by Osiris himself.
A skinny old man at Neferu’s head bent down to whisper to him. "You did well, my friend. You did well."
He was the messenger from that fateful day who had told Neferu about his priest friend's death, and the Roman army amassed to the south. Even through watery eyes, Neferu was sure the man hadn't gained a pound in the many years since.
"Thank you," Neferu rasped to his old friend. "I'm glad I didn't kill you that day."
The old man smiled. "I'm very grateful."
They'd laughed about it. That day when the bodies left the city and Neferu had watched the soldiers march out to look for them, he had been vaguely aware of the slim messenger some fifty cubits behind him. A better, more experienced spy would have waited to ambush and slit the throat of the tail quickly and silently, but Neferu had never been like that. In fact, that had been Neferu's first experience of anything like espionage. His skills were centered in carving, from faces and expressions to muscle and bone. Rendering flesh in stone. Though praised as a sculptor, Neferu had never reached the pinnacle of success, preferring sleepy Taposiris Magna to the heights of Cairo, Alexandria, or even Rome, where several of his students had gained fame and fortune. No, Neferu hadn't travelled far in his life. This would be his greatest journey.
He had lived a good life, and took comfort in being a good Guardian. Thanks to him, despite this temporary setback at the hands of the Romans, the glory of Egypt would live on, in this world and the next. He would die having been loyal to the gods and their Pharaohs. Dying had never frightened Neferu; he knew exactly where he was going.
6
Morgantown, WV
If Ali Rahman was trying to entice Brook Burlington back to the Middle East, he'd picked the perfect bait to dangle from the hook. Brook had made no secret of her fascination—no, obsession—with the whereabouts of the final resting place of Queen Cleopatra and Mark Antony. In fact, Brook had devoted most of her professional life to the search, to the point of mockery.
"Find her yet?" Brook's colleagues had started to ask instead of "Good morning." "Cleo? Cleo? You in there?" they'd tease her when opening a cabinet or refrigerator door.
"They do it out of love," Brook had told Saqqara, though she wasn’t too sure herself once they had gone through the routine for the millionth time.
She sipped coffee in her coziest robe and fired up her beloved laptop.
‘CALL ME’ was the first message she saw. Ali.
Despite her determination, the lure of an answer was just too strong, and Brook reached for her phone. She was like her father in her obsessiveness. He had been a deep-sea diver and treasure-hunter, a single-minded individual with great skills. And no self-control, Brook reminded herself, looking around the place. Piles of dishes filled the sink, and clothes were left strewn on the floor. She'd let it all go, determined to get to the bottom of Ali's information in order to compare it to her own. It had felt more like three days in the wilderness than three days at home.
"Brook!" Ali answered on the first ring as evening dawned in Cairo.
She couldn’t help but let a low, dramatic urgency creep into her voice. "I made a breakthrough."
"Seriously? What?"
Brook hesitated. "It's complicated.” She wasn’t thinking this through. Would she have to sit down and write it all out? Compile a scholarly paper; complete with a thesis, argument, proof, and all?
"Brook?"
"Okay," Brook sighed, sitting. "You remember the old bust of Octavian I told you about last year?"
"Vaguely."
"There's an inscription on the bottom."
"Right—'you are me and I am you and we are all together—'"
"No. That's the Beatles," Brook sighed, not in the mood for Ali's jokes. "Roughly," she growled, "the inscription translates: 'Find me and you find her and you find him'. Signed by the sculptor."
"And you think that means...?"
"If I can't find Cleopatra, maybe I can find the mummy of this stone carver to lead me to her."
"Okay," Ali said simply, Brook could hear the skepticism in his voice.
"Don't you see? Your site south of Taposiris Magna could be the place, and if I could locate the stone carver's tomb—"
"Stop," Ali cut her off. "Don't tell me. Tell Professor Green. Convince him. Get the money. Come over here. We'll find her this time—you and me—together. I know it."
Brook swallowed. She dreaded another meeting with Green. She'd already put him off on the committee presentation, convincing him to give her another week. He'd made no comment about it, no snide remark, but Brook knew that was only because the old man was saving his ammunition for the full firing squad.
"Okay, Ali, I'll try," Brook announced with whatever force she could muster. "Bye."
She hung up and spent the next hour gathering her forces, organizing her pitch, and preparing herself for what she knew would be an epic battle.
Professor Green didn't think much of Brook, of that she was certain. He thought her scatterbrained and overly dramatic, and had said as much on occasion. By extension, he didn't consider her interest in Cleopatra and Mark Antony worth the effort. At worst, Brook suspected Green didn't think she deserved her professorship. He probably thought it was the result of some sort of affirmative action; or worse, on account of her looks, sexual attractiveness, and “feminine wiles”.
Brook laughed, choking. Once again she had let her imagination run wild. She marched herself around her living room, sashaying, displaying her wiles to all the imaginary takers in the empty room.
Saqqara was not amused, but it loosened Brook immeasurably.
She recognized the Professor Stuart Green type—the kind of crusty old academic who roams the halls of many an institution of higher learning; who once showed promise but never achieved the level they aspired to, and as a result were bitter and no longer pretended to have any patience for younger faculty, let alone the students themselves.
"God help me if he doesn't retire before I come up for tenure!" Brook announced, gathering her notebooks, photographs and data. She'd knock on his door unannounced, and lay out the whole story for him. If he thought the plan was foolish, too bad. If he thought she was foolish, Brook didn't really care. She'd unload all her guns. She'd lay out all her evidence. The worst he could do was say "No."
***
Brook knocked on the jamb three times—rap rap rap—in retaliation for Green's intrusion several nights before. She could see him inside, reading what she suspected was his latest manuscript’s hard copy, alone as was normal despite his office hours—students rarely availed themselves of the professor's guidance.
"Come in," Green said, looking up over his glasses with the same condescending amusement generations of students had imitated in countless dorm rooms, bars, and study-halls.
"I have something interesting." Brook told him, marching forward.
I'll be the judge of that, Green's face seemed to say.
Brook showed Green Ali's photos, without naming him, and explained her belief they might be of a royal tomb, carefully omitting specific names. She reached into her messenger bag for the rest of the evidence, but decided against it.
Just get to the point, Brook told herself, taking off her hat and lowering herself into the chair that faced his desk, pleased when Green bristled slightly at her refusal to wait for an invitation.
"I want to go there," Brook announced. "I want to mount a small expedition to the site. Three weeks at the most, a small crew, unless we find something, of course."
Green stared.
"I shouldn’t really let you go, you know," Green said wryly. "What with the travel ban and all."
"Not a ban, just an advisory," Brook corrected.
"Still, if I let you go to Egypt, you're likely to get yourself kidnapped by one ji
hadist group or another. Get your head cut off, stoned to death, thrown off a high cliff, however they're doing it these days. That’s after the rape, of course. American women are generally targets, I believe."
Brook was appalled. How can he even talk about it that lightly?!
"Of course, you'd be out of my hair then, wouldn't you?" Green went on, a smile on his lips.
Brook’s eyes narrowed. If you're trying to be funny, Mister—
The smile quickly faded and Green could see his attempt at humor had failed. At least he has the decency to drop it.
"Miss Burlington, I can't tell you how many 'I think I've found something' conversations I've had in my career," the elderly academic drawled finally, in lieu of an apology.
"Yes, I'm sure there have been a lot—"
"You know how far this place is from any previous burial activity."
"I know," Brook admitted.
"Three hundred miles from the pyramids, six or seven hundred from Luxor and the Valley of the Kings," Green persisted, voice rising.
"I know—"
"Did this come from your friend Ali?" Green asked, clicking his fingernail on the printout of one of the photos like it was Ali's face. Professor Green had only a slightly better opinion of Ali Rahman than he did of Brook, and the fact that she and Ali had once publicly been lovers wasn’t going to help.
Brook sighed. "Yes, actually."
"No," Green said quickly, his tone firm.
"Pardon me?" Brook stammered. He hadn't given any of it fair consideration; she hadn't yet told him the story of the stone carver, or the new information she'd just uncovered this weekend—a Greek manuscript located in a Church, translated from Coptic, about a group of Roman soldiers disappearing into the desert in search of the bodies of Cleopatra and Mark Antony.
"No," Green repeated, "I won't give you the money, I won't give you a leave of absence. I won't aid and abet this ridiculous wild goose chase, no matter how much romance you drip all over it."