Death of a Pharaoh

  The sarcophagus of Jesus was solid granite and weighed an estimated three tons. Moving it from its current resting place to the entrance of the tomb was not a concern since a system of pulleys and ramps had existed for centuries to allow the incorporation of new coffins as True Pharaohs died. The problem was how to transport it to the nearest paved road, some 22 kilometers in distance, without any vibration or jarring. A sleigh pulled by camels was out of the question due to the roughness of the terrain.

  Anthropologists on his staff studied ancient civilization such as the Easter Islands in an attempt to discover ways to transport large stones over long distances. They discarded the idea of using rails made of wood to slide the sarcophagus because of the risk of derailment and shock to the mummy. In one hour, Mustafa would chair the eighth meeting of his technical committee in search of a solution and he despaired that they might not find one in time.

  “What we need is for the Gods to send an army of angels to carry the sarcophagus to the paved road,” he expressed to the group in frustration.

  One of the archeologists raised his hand. “Maybe not angels but perhaps costaleros would do,” suggested Pablo Fernandez in a heavy Spanish accent.

  “What are costaleros?”

  “I come from Seville in the south of Spain,” he told them, “At Easter the men carry the pasos or floats with the statues of Jesus and Mary over long distances. The heaviest float weighs three and a half tons. I believe we can bring a team of costaleros here and they could carry the sarcophagus to the road in one night and without damage.”

  “How many would we need?”

  “I think we would need about one hundred,” he indicated.

  “Would it be possible with such short notice?” Mustafa asked. “We have only a week.”

  “They are not required at this time of year but they are already yearning for the chance to return to their sacred duty. It is like an addiction. We would be doing them a favor.”

  “It is an interesting suggestion but how do we explain to them that we are bringing them to Egypt, which is not exactly famous for its celebration of Easter.”

  “A few years ago, there was a documentary filmed in the Easter islands in an attempt to recreate how the ancient settlers moved huge pieces of stone in order to make the famous statues called Moai. You know the giant heads? They were transported great distances from ancient stone quarries. We could tell them that we are doing an experiment to determine how the ancient Egyptians moved some of the massive stones for building the pyramids.”

  “Do you still have friends in Seville?”

  “Of course, I try to go back every Easter.”

  “Makes some calls to see if what you propose is possible then report back to me.”

  Mustafa wondered if fate played a part. Two of the four locations for a final resting spot were in Spain. It would be a sign from the Gods if these costaleros came to Egypt to carry their Christ to safety and he ended up secretly entombed in their country. Mustafa learned long ago to never question the mysterious ways of the Gods.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Barrio de la Macarena, Seville, Spain: 19:39 CEST October 24, 2016

  Eduardo Gonzalez was delighted to hear from his old costalero companion. It had been many years since they carried the Christ of the Gypsies together as young men. He could count the times on one hand that they had seen each other at Easter since then. Pablo moved to Madrid decades ago and was often abroad for his work as an archeologist. He was in Egypt now, which didn’t surprise him but he couldn’t say the same about the proposal his old friend made.

  He informed Eduardo that he was involved in a project to replicate how the ancient Egyptians moved large stones. He told him, there was a theory that they used a system similar to the way that the costaleros of Seville carried their Christs and Virgins at Easter, especially in the use of a cloth wrapped around their heads. He needed one hundred costaleros and each of them would be paid 10,000 euros. For many of them that represented a year’s salary; if they were lucky enough to have a job in the current economic conditions.

  A well-known international organization was making a documentary of the experiment and they would all have to sign a strict pledge of secrecy until after the film aired. They would travel on a charter to Cairo with all expenses paid and would be back in just over four days. Eduardo had been a costalero for decades in his youth and he continued to be involved as a guide for several caudrillas as they called the groups of costaleros. He was certain he could find one hundred volunteers. The men of Seville leapt at any chance to feel the weight of the wood on their necks, at Easter or any other time of the year. The potent combination of passion, pain and camaraderie was difficult to replicate except for those few short days during Holy Week. The problem wasn’t finding one hundred good men; it was getting them to keep their mouths shut.

  That same evening after he promised to get back to him as soon as possible, Eduardo headed to a typical bar just off Feria Street where he knew he would find many costaleros gathered to watch one of the local soccer teams, Betis Real Balompie, play against Mallorca. If he had to travel to Egypt with a group of costaleros then far better that they were fans of El Betis. Eduardo loved his soccer team almost as much as his Christ of the Gypsies.

  The costaleros of Seville were a close-knit group and he could have a list of volunteers in 24 hours. They were also a jealous bunch of people and he would be raked over the coals. People would wonder why one of the famous capataces, or foremen of Seville, had not been chosen over a man who had never even led a cuadrilla in the city’s famous Holy Week. Many in the extremely conservative society of Seville would question if costaleros should even be involved in such things.

  Eduardo was no stranger to such controversy. He was a close friend of the only foreigner ever to be a costalero; a Canadian diplomat who had carried the Christ of the Souls for over a dozen years. Well-loved by the people of Seville, he nevertheless suffered the cold shoulder from those who thought that a “gringo” had no place in their Holy week. He remembered the Easter of 2002, when his brotherhood invited a small group from New York representing the firefighters who died in the attack on the World Trade Center to march with the Christ of the Souls. Although immensely popular with the public, purists heavily criticized the gesture. They conveniently forgot that Easter was precisely about the sacrifice those men so admirably embodied.

  The rumor spread rapidly that Eduardo was forming a group of costaleros, especially the part about a juicy payment. The next day, he had a list of over 250 names. He recruited a couple of assistants from some of his closest friends. Two brothers, identical twins named Jose Luis and Santiago were among them. They had decades of experience as costaleros and could help him select the strongest men.

  Building a cuadrilla was much more complicated than most people thought. The men carried the float on the first cervical vertebrae also known as the Atlas Point. The costaleros deployed under wooden crossbeams called trabajaderas, they were usually five or six men on each and depending on the weight of the paso at Easter, there could be as many as twelve or fourteen rows. All the men in the same row had to be of equal height at the Atlas point. This was accomplished by lining the men shoulder to shoulder then eyeballing their necks in a process known in Spanish as the igualá.

  It was time consuming but assured that all of the men would carry their fair share of the weight. Eduardo scheduled a meeting for the next night to select the final one hundred. Pablo informed him that the weight they would carry was just over three tons. He would need twelve rows of six men each for a total of 72 with an additional 24 as relief and four as his assistants and guides.

  He returned home well after midnight. El Betis won the game and far too many glasses of Cruzcampo, the local beer that had contributed so much to his potbelly, followed the victory. He labored over the keyboard with his pudgy fingers but was able to tap out a cryptic message to Pablo telling him that everything was in motion.

  Feria Street, outsi
de the Church of All Saints, Seville, Spain: 20.35 CEST October 25, 2016

  Thirty minutes before the start of the meeting, almost 400 men gathered in the street in front of the three small bars near the ancient church of All Saints. Eduardo thought of asking for a commission; the beer had been flowing for at least an hour. It was like Holy Week.

  The caretaker of the ancient temple was a friend of many years as well as a costalero, which was probably why he agreed to let Eduardo use the premises. A control at the side door ensured that everyone left their telephones in a box. No pictures or recordings were allowed. Two of the men who presented themselves were experienced costaleros but also journalists; Eduardo thanked them for their time but kindly asked them to leave. It was going to be difficult enough to keep things a secret. Eduardo started by making a brief presentation. He was not a man of many words but he knew how to speak in public from his years as a union activist.

  “Señores,” he began waiting for the chatter to die down. “Thank you for coming, we will try to make this as quick as possible. As you may know a former costalero and respected archeologist has asked me to find one hundred good costaleros, mostly Beticos, but we will even take a few Sevillistas if necessary.” The many supporters of El Betis cheered his lighthearted comments while everyone wearing red, the color of the Seville Football Club, groaned.

  “First, we will be filming outside of Spain so anyone who doesn’t have a passport or can’t get one in three days, I am sorry we have wasted your time.”

  Some sixty men grumbled as they said goodbye to their friends and headed for the door. A few had criminal records, several were behind on child support and even more owed the government taxes. A passport was out of the question.

  “We will be gone for four days starting Saturday morning. So if you can’t get off work or if your wife doesn’t trust you, sign of a smart woman, then you must also stand down.”

  Over ninety candidates peeled away leaving fewer than 250. They would be enough.

  “Gentlemen, I need you in groups starting with the tallest.”

  They were all accustomed to the igualás and within an hour Eduardo had them whittled down to 150. The men were patient. This wasn’t the first time for any of them. They all stood straight with the collars of their shirts rolled under to give Eduardo and his team a clear view of their Atlas point. Many had the fat pad on the spot indicative of many years as a costalero. It took another two hours to make the final selection and then Eduardo had 100 of the best costaleros in Seville standing in front of him. They represented some of the most famous brotherhoods. Most of them carried Christs such as the Great Power, the Christ of the Gypsies, the Christ of the Souls and the Last Supper.

  “Congratulations, you are all part of the cuadrilla,” he announced to the successful candidates. “If you show up on Saturday and complete the trip, you will receive 10,000 euros in cash with all expenses paid while we are away.”

  They loudly cheered his words.

  “There is a photocopy machine on the back table. Provide Fernando with a copy of your National Identification Document, your telephone number and next of kin.”

  The men began to line up.

  “You will also be asked to sign a confidentiality agreement that states you cannot talk of the nature of the contract until the documentary is aired. Is that understood?”

  Most of them would have agreed to give up sex for a month for such a sum of money.

  Once they completed all the paperwork, Eduardo sent everyone home with a stern warning not to arrive any later than 8.00 am at the airport. The flight actually didn’t depart until noon but the people of Seville were notorious for always being late and a two-hour cushion was probably conservative. He gathered his four assistants in the Bar Quadiana for a beer and final comments.

  “It is an historic group,” Jose Luis observed, “many of them take out different floats on Maudy Thursday and have never worked together.”

  “I think it is a good cuadrilla, between them there is so much experience. We could build a pyramid all by ourselves,” Eduardo boasted.

  “The majority are even Beticos, canalla!” Fernando chimed in.

  “What do you expect? After all we are in European Cup competition and Seville is near the bottom of the premier league,” Eduardo retorted.

  “Besides there is more unemployment among the Beticos, they need the money.”

  It was sad but true. El Betis had always drawn its support from the working class. They were the hardest hit by the current brutal recession. Many children would be happier on the day of the Three Kings due to this extra money.

  After a few beers, Eduardo mounted his Vespa and was home just after 2.00 in the morning. His wife was already asleep. The children were all grown-up and on their own. Lately, she was having a difficult time with debilitating pain related to fibromyalgia. They couldn’t afford private treatment that might have alleviated her discomfort. Eduardo hoped that his payment, $50,000 euros, would be more than enough to buy the new kitchen she had wanted for several years as well as tests in one of the best private clinics in the country. For him and for most of the men on the list, Christmas would come early this year.

  He sent Pablo an email outlining the success of the evening and the fact that it was already the worst kept secret in the history of Seville. He attached copies of the blueprints of the frame that the men would use to carry the load, called a parihuela. They were very detailed. The twins had assisted in the making of many over the years. Pablo assured him that he had a carpenter shop and metalworkers on standby and it would be ready for their arrival. They would have two days to tweak the paso and prepare the men. Most of them had not worked as a costalero since last Easter; their necks would be soft and easily damaged. They would need to be careful.

  San Pablo International Airport, Seville, Spain, morning of October 29, 2016

  The last of the hundred strolled into the terminal at 9.37 am on Saturday. Eduardo thought it was a major accomplishment considering they still had more than two hours to go before departure. The group was giddy with excitement. More than a third of them had never been out of Spain and for several of them it was their first time on an airplane.

  The boarding process was quick and efficient since it was a charter and the news given by the flight attendant shortly after takeoff that if was a complimentary bar went a long way in calming any nerves. The pilot announced a flight time of five hours to Cairo and most of the team were fast asleep after two hours of heavy drinking. He didn’t mind, they all agreed to put their lives on hold for five days and most of them signed on not only for the money but because they trusted him.

  There was an element of confidence in the costalero world that few outside of its sweaty, testosterone-laced universe could ever understand. Every year they risked the long-term health of their backs to punish themselves in the pursuit of a glorious Easter. Some of them did it because it was socially cool but they were the young ones and they never lasted. Most did it as a promise for someone who was ill or for a loved one who had passed away. A strange thing happened under the pasos, grown men cried like children, overcome with emotion, but no one ever mentioned it on the outside. It was similar to the mystical moments experienced between soldiers in battle.

  The combination of close friendship, the passion of faith, the sacrifice for loved ones and the endorphins coursing through their bodies combined to make it one of the most potent drugs he had ever known. Researchers had even written that the costaleros experienced a form of withdrawal like drug addicts. The sad thing is that eventually every costalero realized that they can never get the same high anywhere else. When time passes and they must someday give up their place because of age, it represents a sad day. Eduardo tried to snap out of his nostalgia and think instead of the money and what it would mean to his family.

  Two buses, mercifully air-conditioned, waited at the arrivals terminal after they cleared customs. They skirted the great metropolis that was Cairo with almost 17 million i
nhabitants with everyone glued to the windows as they made their way south toward Saqqara. Their destination was a new resort not yet open to the public. A five star hotel that none of them could afford on their own. When the bus pulled up, Eduardo spotted Pablo standing with an older man at the main entrance. Hotel staff ushered them into the cool luxury of the lobby. Pablo introduced Eduardo to Mustafa. A translator explained to the group that they had two hours to rest then the owner of the hotel expected them at a banquet in their honor.

  Pablo took Eduardo aside and introduced him to a young man named Hassan who lived near where they were going to be doing the experiment.

  “Tell him he looks strong enough to be a costalero,” Eduardo commented.

  The organizers placed someone who spoke Spanish at every table and the food was amazing. After so many centuries of Arab rule in Andalusia, they were almost cultural cousins and many items seemed familiar to the men from Seville.

  Eduardo and his four assistants sat at the head table with Sr. Mustafa, Pablo, the General Manager of the hotel and the Chief Archaeologist of the Foundation that funded the trip. As his men keep asking for more wine, he felt sorry for whoever had to sign the bill.

  “Pablo, please ask your friend Mr. Eduardo if his men are up to the task.”

  Eduardo looked surprised by the question and thought for a moment.

  “Sr. Mustafa, every Easter these men carry God on their shoulders, they are always ready.”