The Pharaoh Key, page 14
“Son of a bitch!” Garza said as struggled.
“Don’t—!” Gideon cried as the blackbeard cut him across the neck, Garza crying out in pain as he did so. It took Gideon a moment of horror to realize the cut was superficial, just deep enough to draw blood.
Blackbeard released Garza, gave a loud order, and the other warriors closed in on them. Imogen tried to speak Arabic again but was quickly muffled by a hairy goatskin that was stuffed in her mouth, then tied with a gag. Gideon and Garza got the same treatment. The skin in Gideon’s mouth was horribly rank.
Blackbeard now gestured at them again to walk down the trail. Gideon glanced at Garza. He was pale and shaken, a rivulet of blood running down his neck. For a few moments at least, Garza must also have thought he’d been about to die.
In silence they hiked along the trail, emerging from the misty valley at the far end into higher mountain country, the land rising in a series of ridges, surrounded by peaks. Topping the highest ridge they turned sharply westward, then came to a pass. Below, a second, even more remarkable valley opened up: a vast, mysterious world hidden within the mountains, carpeted in grass and dotted with groves of trees. Gideon could see tiny goatherds driving their flocks and several herds of camels grazing. The tinkling of bells reached his ears. In the middle of the great valley, at least a mile or more away, stood an encampment of tents arranged around a grassy plaza. It was as if they had fallen through a time warp: there was not the slightest evidence of the modern world visible anywhere.
With a shouted command, Blackbeard prodded them down the trail. At length, they entered the encampment and were led to a large tent that stood on a promontory of rock in the middle of the settlement, dyed deep yellow, with an elaborate geometric design in black along its border—the residence, Gideon surmised, of whatever chief ruled that land. As they approached, the flap of the tent was thrown aside and an old man emerged. He wore a long saffron-colored robe with a leather belt in which was tucked a dagger with a handle trimmed in precious metal. He carried a tall staff. The man’s wizened face was small and dark, with two eyes under bushy eyebrows peeping out from under a headcloth. Those pinpoint eyes, glittering with suspicion, rested on each of them in turn. As the eyes fell on Gideon, he had a crawling sensation of doom.
The flap of the tent moved again and out stepped a most extraordinary-looking old hag, so bent her body was practically the shape of a question mark, dressed in greasy goatskins. She was using two canes to support herself, and they looked to Gideon as if they were made of human long bones. A veil, draped over her head, trailed on the ground behind her. She slowly worked her way around until she was standing just behind the old man. Lastly, a young woman materialized out of the darkness of the tent. Unlike the others, she was dressed in a soft, gauzy material that no doubt passed for finery. Gideon saw a long swirl of dark, mahogany hair and equally dark eyes. She came up to stand beside the chief, looking at them with the same suspicious gaze as the other two.
A crowd began to gather.
Imogen bowed to the man and tried to speak, gesturing vigorously for the gag to be removed. After a few moments, the old man said something to Blackbeard, who stepped forward and removed her gag. Imogen spat out the disgusting goatskin. The old man waited for her to speak, leaning on his staff.
Collecting herself, Imogen began again in Arabic. The old man listened briefly and then interrupted her angrily. Imogen tried to continue, but Blackbeard made a cutting motion across his throat with the dagger, making it clear she should stop talking. She fell silent.
Now the crone began to speak, in a language that to Gideon did not sound at all like Arabic. What she said caused a stir in the crowd; a wave of suppressed excitement. In response, Blackbeard began prodding the three forward with his dagger, herding them along a faint trail that led out the far end of the valley. Meanwhile, the young woman and old crone were lifted and placed together in a rudely fashioned sedan chair, hoisted up by four men, in preparation for the journey. The crowd gathered behind, chattering excitedly, as if in anticipation of a sporting event.
25
AS THEY WERE herded along a faint trail, Imogen tried to speak again, but Blackbeard silenced her with a blow from the flat of his dagger. At length, they entered a ravine at the end of the valley and continued along a trail that skirted a cliff, with a drop on one side and a sheer wall on the other. A hot wind blew up from the depths of the ravine and a pair of ravens rode on the air, cawing at them before sweeping away.
Around the side of the cliff a small barren area came into sight, surrounded by scree slopes. A hideous spectacle revealed itself: a rough pit dug into the hard ground, surrounded by a semicircle of twisted wooden spikes on which human heads had been impaled. The heads were mummified, mouths agape, lips shrunken and drawn back from rotten teeth, with only hollow sockets for eyes. Some were clearly far older than others. Several ravens sitting on the spiked heads now rose into the sky, screeching their displeasure at being disturbed.
The crowd following them spread out and fell quiet, kneeling, heads bowed, waiting for the show to commence.
They were led to the edge of the pit. The ends of the leather ropes they were tied with were drawn tight, then staked into the ground on either side of the pit. Blackbeard took up a position behind them.
It was becoming all too clear to Gideon what was about to happen.
He began to mumble desperately, trying to speak through the foul gag, but nobody paid any attention. Imogen began speaking Arabic again, in a soft, pleading tone, but was also ignored.
The four men carrying the young woman and old crone now lowered the sedan chair to the ground, helping the crone out of it. Taking up her gruesome walking sticks, she shuffled forward with the presumed chief and came to a stop on the opposite side of the pit. She was joined by four old men in white robes, each with a long, forked beard. They looked like priests, it seemed to Gideon.
The crone, flanked by the old men, gave them what looked like a series of instructions or—perhaps—commands. Then she raised her withered arms to the sky, tilted her head back, and broke out in a strange, high-pitched wail that then turned into a sort of chant. The crowd dropped to their knees, heads bowed as the crone’s cracked voice echoed among the surrounding cliffs. Gideon tried not to look into the pit, but found that he could not help himself. In the gloom below, he could make out numerous corpses sprawled at the bottom, in various states of mummification. A few retained the rotting vestiges of Western clothing, but most wore Arab garb. All were missing their heads. Gideon took a shuddering breath. They were transgressors—and now they were going to be ritually beheaded, their bodies thrown into the pit, and their heads placed on stakes. What an end.
Three men appeared, each carrying a fresh wooden pole with sharpened ends. They drove the poles into the ground, following the same gruesome semicircular arc as the other decapitated heads. Meanwhile, two young women carried a long, wooden inlaid box up to Blackbeard. They opened it with great ceremony, and the bearded man reached in and removed a huge broadsword—the first sword Gideon had seen in the camp, and the first sign that these people had steel rather than just the copper and bronze of the daggers they carried. A murmur rose from the crowd. The man held the sword out, examined it this way and that, and gave it a few test swings. The blade was encrusted with dried blood, but its edge nevertheless glittered ominously.
At length, the man began walking toward them with great solemnity, holding the sword high.
Gideon couldn’t take his gaze off its edge. He frantically tried to think of a way to escape such an unexpected and dreadful fate, but to no avail. He’d tried to come to terms with his impending death, but he’d never imagined anything like this: at the hands of an executioner’s ax. Imogen again renewed her pleading, but Gideon doubted the tribe could even understand her. This pit was clearly the reason this place had remained so untouched by the outside world—any visitors unlucky enough to happen upon it were quickly and brutally dispatched. He recalled the camel drivers who said that those who ventured this way never returned. At the time, he’d dismissed this as rumor and superstition, but now it appeared to be all too true.
The crone went on chanting, her voice high-pitched and grating. Imogen had fallen silent. Gideon glanced at her face, and their eyes met. She was calm now, seemingly resigned.
The crone suddenly stopped her wailing and a hush fell. The crowd remained kneeling, but their heads were no longer bowed; they were looking on avidly.
Blackbeard stepped forward and gestured at Garza. Two guards came over and cut the thongs attaching him to the others. Gideon could see Garza trying to protest, but he could make little noise and no one paid any attention. The guards, with a violent but efficient gesture, forced him to his knees at the edge of the pit. A third came up and grasped Garza’s hair tightly in his hands, while Blackbeard positioned himself, legs apart. The man lifted Garza’s head, exposing his neck, and the big bearded man touched it with the edge of the sword, as if calculating the best position for his strike. Then he raised the weapon. The edge of the blade flashed once in the sunlight.
Gideon began to feel strangely detached, as if this terrible thing were happening to someone else, someplace far, far away. Distantly, he hoped it would be quick. Judging by the fearsome muscles on the executioner, his determined expression, and the massive sword, it would be.
The man clutched tightly at Garza’s hair, so he wouldn’t lose his grip at the moment the head was struck off. It was obviously a practiced motion. Gideon could see Blackbeard bracing himself for the swing. The silence was now absolute. He closed his eyes.
Then he heard Imogen shout in English: “Don’t do this! For God’s sake, stop!”
26
IN THE SILENCE that followed, the crone let out an astonished gasp, followed by a rapid-fire jumble of words. Gideon opened his eyes to see her yammering at the old chief, who was listening with a surprised expression. The crone gestured animatedly with her veined hands.
A terrible moment of stasis ensued, Blackbeard with his sword still poised. A restless murmur rose in the audience. The chief now held up his hand. When Blackbeard didn’t move, the chief pointed a finger at him and said something like a sharp order. This time the man lowered the sword, visibly disappointed. The murmur of the crowd rose in volume. The chief turned and gestured again; he seemed to be ordering everyone to leave. Garza was hauled back to his feet by the guards and tied once again to Gideon and Imogen, still gagged. His face was pale, covered by a sheen of sweat.
More shouted orders from the chief, and the three were pulled back from the edge of the pit, then led along the trail in the direction of the encampment. Gideon stumbled along, dazed, barely believing that he was still alive. His legs were so shaky he could hardly walk.
At the closer edge of the camp, next to a cluster of goat pens, stood a large cage made from green tree trunks lashed together. Its door was removed and—with shouts and gestures—they were pushed inside; the door was fitted back in place, then lashed shut with leather thongs. Two guards took up position outside.
Inside, the three sank to the sand, emotionally exhausted. For a long moment, there was silence. Finally, Imogen swore softly. “Why are we still alive?” she asked.
But neither Gideon nor Garza could answer; they were both still gagged.
“I don’t know about yours, but my bindings are loose. I think I can work my way out.” She began twisting at her wrists.
Gideon also tested his bonds and noticed that the leather thongs, although tight, did in fact allow some give. By slowly pulling and twisting, they could be loosened, bit by bit. He glanced around, but the guards had their backs turned.
“Keep at it,” Imogen whispered. “Mine are coming loose.”
Gideon continued to twist and turn his wrists, and then with his loose fingers he managed to grasp the end of the leather thong. He found the knot and started prying it open with his fingertips. Soon it was untied and he had freed his hands. He quickly removed his gag and spat out the goatskin. Turning his back to the guards, he finished untying Imogen’s and Garza’s hands. Garza removed his gag and also spat out the goatskin muffle. He wiped his mouth with the back of one trembling hand, still in shock from his close brush with death.
Gideon took in their surroundings. The cage was not wholly unpleasant; it had a sandy floor and was large enough to stand in. Air flowed through it, creating a welcome coolness. It was empty except for a wooden bucket in one corner. Looking out, he could see much of the camp, gilded by the morning sun. There was a great deal of activity. Several children came by, stared at them, then went their way. The guards seemed almost lackadaisical and paid little attention to their prisoners.
“What the hell just happened?” Gideon said in a low tone.
“I wish I knew,” Imogen whispered back.
Garza massaged his neck. “Getting your throat almost cut twice in one day is a bit much,” he said. Although he tried to sound calm, his voice quavered slightly nevertheless.
“Are you all right?” asked Imogen.
“I still have my head.”
“You think they were testing us?” Gideon asked.
“No,” said Imogen. “They were definitely about to kill us. Until I called out.”
“Any idea what language they’re speaking? Some form of Arabic?”
Imogen shook her head. “The village looks Bedouin, as do their clothes, but they don’t speak Arabic. The women aren’t covered and I don’t see any signs of Islam: no calls to prayer or any of the traditional symbols or customs.”
“If not Arabic, what could it be?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say they’re speaking the language ancient Egyptians spoke before the Arab invasion. Which would be Coptic. I think these people are pre-Islamic.”
Gideon moved toward the door, one eye on the guards, and cautiously inspected the lashings. “When it gets dark and people go to bed, I’m pretty sure we could cut through these.”
“And then what?” Imogen asked.
“We’ll steal some camels and waterskins and ride like hell until we get out of their territory.”
“I agree,” said Garza. “The sooner we get out of this hellhole, the better.”
“That makes three of us,” she said.
As they were speaking, Gideon noticed the same group of four old men with white beards walking in single file up the ridge toward the chief’s tent. As they entered, the chief held the flap aside for them in a welcoming manner. It looked like a meeting of the elders—probably to decide their fate.
All day they waited for the men to reappear. The sun crept down between the mountains and the valley filled with purple twilight. Cooking fires were lit and twinkling lights began to dot the surrounding landscape, the fragrance of smoke mingling with the murmuring of voices and the tinkling of bells as the goats were driven back into their pens for the night. A delicious smell of roasting meat drifted through the air.
“If these people weren’t so damn bloodthirsty,” Garza said, gazing out, “that scene might almost be beautiful.”
As darkness fell, the flap of the chief’s tent finally opened, throwing a bar of yellow light over the grass. The priests began filing out.
“Looks like the powwow with the grand mufti is finally over,” said Gideon.
“They’re pre-Islamic, remember?” Imogen said. “He’s not a mufti or sheikh. He’s a chieftain.”
A group of guards, about half a dozen, now approached their cage, two carrying torches and the others long wooden spears with bronze tips and tails.
“When they see we’ve worked off our bonds, we’re going to be in trouble,” Gideon said.
“Screw ’em,” replied Garza.
They stopped and one of the men shouted an order to the two guards. They unlashed the cage door and pulled it aside, gesturing for Gideon and the others to come out. Strangely, they did not seem concerned that the three had untied and ungagged themselves. As they emerged, the guards pushed them forward at spearpoint, propelling them in the direction of the chieftain’s tent. They were led up the small promontory, then prodded inside and forced to kneel, the points of the spears pricking their backs.
Despite their dire situation, Gideon could not help but be amazed at the tent’s relative opulence. It was spacious and well lit, with oil lanterns casting a warm glow over a sumptuous array of woven rugs, leather cushions, and hanging fabrics. The chief sat on a leather ottoman, as if on a throne. A jostling crowd of people filed up and stood near the entrance, waiting. There was no sign of the young woman who had been standing beside the chief earlier.
Silence fell as the old chieftain gazed at the three. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something. A few moments later, Gideon heard a cracked voice outside, raised in argument—the crone. A flap at the rear of the tent opened and she was ushered in, moving forward with those same macabre walking sticks. She was still dressed in coarse goatskins and a filthy headscarf, from which escaped strands of white hair. The chieftain rose with deference and helped her ease her ancient body onto a pile of cushions. She muttered in displeasure as she adjusted her skins. Once everything was in place, she folded her hands in her lap and turned a pair of beady eyes on them. Her face was creased with suspicion. And yet there was something else there, Gideon thought: an expression that, perhaps, was more curious than suspicious.
The crone spoke to them briefly in a cracked voice. She stopped, waited, then began again. It took Gideon a few moments to realize she was speaking English—with what sounded like a travesty of a British accent.
All three were struck dumb with astonishment.
Into the silence, the crone asked, for the third time: “You speak English?”
