The Pharaoh Key, page 15
“Yes, yes, we speak English,” they stumbled over themselves, suddenly all answering at once.
The crone, annoyed, gestured with her hand for silence. Then she pointed at Gideon. “You speak. Others, quiet!”
Gideon nodded.
“Why you here?”
“We’re…adventurers,” Gideon began. He had no idea how this old woman had learned English, and no way of knowing just how many words she understood. But this had to be the reason why they’d been spared—it was when Imogen had finally spoken English that the crone stopped the execution. “Adventurers,” he repeated. “Explorers.” While he spoke, he was acutely aware of a spearpoint pricking him between his shoulder blades.
“Explorers,” the woman repeated, mimicking the word.
“Yes. Explorers.”
“What that mean?”
Gideon tried to focus. “We—we travel, looking for new lands. New people.”
“Your land no good?”
“Our land is fine. We travel because we are curious. Not to conquer, but to learn new wisdom.” He swallowed as she frowned with incomprehension. “We come in peace. Peace. As you see, we are poor people with nothing, and we want nothing from you…except knowledge.”
Gideon watched the old woman carefully while he spoke, but her expression was impassive and unreadable until his final words. Then she held up her hand for silence and turned to the chieftain, apparently translating. The chieftain said something in response and she turned back to them.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why do we seek knowledge? Because knowledge is good.”
More confabulation with the chieftain.
“We have knowledge you seek?”
“We do not know. That is the reason for being an explorer. You look. You learn.”
“You look for…treasure?” Her expression grew guarded again.
“No, no. We do not want treasure. As you can see, we are very poor.” He spread his hands. “We care nothing for riches.”
Gideon couldn’t tell if she and the chieftain were buying this or not.
“You are English?” the crone continued.
“Yes,” said Gideon. It would be too complicated to explain the details.
“You crazy?”
Gideon hesitated. “Yes.”
When this was translated, the chieftain showed sudden alarm. There was a murmur from the crowd just outside the open tent flap as well.
“Why you say this?” the crone asked.
“Because only crazy people would come here.”
The chieftain found this hilarious when it was translated, and the listening crowd dutifully laughed along with him. This was starting to go well, Gideon thought.
“The Father still want to know why you come here.”
“It was an accident.”
“Accident?”
“Yes. We were robbed, and then our camels ran off in a storm. We lost everything. We had no choice. If we did not find water, we would die.”
“Who rob you?”
“An Arab camel driver.”
At this, the crone perked up. “Arab? Rob you?”
The chieftain broke into a tirade on hearing this translated, gesturing, his beard wagging. An answering murmur of anger swelled in the crowd. Gideon had a sudden fear he had offended them, and that their execution was being ordered afresh. When the chief was done yelling and gesturing, the crone did not translate.
“What did he say?” Gideon asked timidly.
“The Father no like Arab.”
“But…” Gideon hesitated. “Aren’t you Arabs?”
“No,” said the crone, sharply.
“Who are you?”
“We Egyptian.” She spoke the word precisely. “Arab is invader.”
Gideon nodded. Apparently, it was as Imogen had guessed.
“Where you go next?” the woman asked.
Gideon felt relief at this question, as it implied they were going to ultimately be freed. “We…will go home.”
This answer caused the chieftain to have another fit, speaking loudly and gesturing at them. And again the crowd responded with loud chatter. The crone spoke as well in her high, cracked voice. The entire tent seemed to be arguing. Finally, the crone staggered to her feet, propping herself up with the canes, and tottered over to Garza. She grabbed his wrist in her bony hand and held it up, displaying both the wrist and the watch on it. She shook the wrist, then—with some effort—disengaged the watch and dangled it in the chieftain’s face, as if to make some obscure point.
The chieftain took the watch and examined it, turning it over with great interest while the crone talked on.
“Please, accept this as a gift from us,” said Gideon quickly.
“Hey!” Garza protested. “That’s mine!”
“Just shut the hell up.”
The old crone translated and the chieftain fumbled with it, trying to put it on his wrist.
“Let me help,” said Gideon.
The chieftain motioned him up, and Gideon demonstrated how to snap the watch’s bracelet onto his wrist. Close up, he could see that the man was even older than he’d realized, and frailer. When the timepiece was secure, the chief held it up with a smile.
Gideon sat back down.
“You owe me a solid gold Submariner,” Garza muttered.
“The Father say thank you for watcher of hours. It is gold—gold is skin of the gods!”
Now the chieftain rose to his own feet and turned to them. He gave a booming speech, with many hand gestures, and the crowd murmured its approval. When he was done, he turned to the crone and gestured for her to translate to them.
“The Father say…” She slowly raised her withered arm and pointed a crooked finger at Gideon. “…maybe you tell truth. Or maybe you lie.”
“I’m telling the truth,” Gideon said quickly. “I swear!”
“We find out.”
“How?”
The crone was silent for a moment, as if trying to recall a word. “A trial.”
“A trial? What kind of trial? You mean, by a council or something?”
“No. Trial by fire.”
27
AT THE CHIEF’S pronouncement, a roar of excitement and approval had arisen from the audience that was listening just outside. The guards pulled the three back to their feet and marched them out of the tent through the crowd, which parted as they passed. They were quickly led back to the cage and lashed inside. Various villagers passed by in twos and threes, peering at them with curious faces, as everyone started gathering in the central plaza of the encampment, just below the rise of rock on which the chief’s tent stood. The same two guards took up positions on either side of the cage.
“Trial by fire,” said Gideon, sinking to the sand, head in his hands. “Oh God. First a beheading—and now this.”
“It’s actually an ancient Bedouin tradition,” said Imogen. “They use it to tell if someone is lying.”
Gideon looked up. “You know about it?”
“Yes.”
“So what do they do? Make me walk over a bed of coals?”
“No. They heat up a rock, or a piece of metal, until it’s red-hot. Then they place it on your tongue. If it burns your tongue, you’re lying. If not, you’re telling the truth.”
Gideon stared at her. “How does it not burn your tongue?”
“My understanding is that everyone is found a liar.”
“Great. And then what?”
“The liar is beheaded.”
“Of course!” He groaned. “What if I say no?”
“If you refuse to undergo the trial, you’re presumed a liar and are beheaded.”
Suddenly Garza said: “Here we go.”
Gideon followed his gaze. A fire was being built in the middle of the plaza, and the assembled crowd was chattering excitedly, faces reflected in the flickering light, clearly awaiting this fresh spectacle. Nearby, Blackbeard oversaw the activity, holding the sword. Beside him was a wooden chopping block.
As Gideon stared, two of the priests brought over a small basket and set it down by the fire, removed a dozen or so round white stones, and—chanting loudly—carefully dropped several of them, one by one, into the center of the flames.
Now the chieftain came striding out of his tent, still decked in his finery, with the crone hobbling behind him. He descended the path with great dignity and entered the center of the encampment, the crowd once again parting for him; there he turned and gave a loud command. The two guards at their cage undid the lashings and hauled Gideon out, leaving the others inside.
“I’m sorry, Gideon,” said Imogen.
Gideon couldn’t bring himself to answer. He was manhandled into the center of the plaza and held by the guards near the fire, one on each side. The chieftain now gave yet another long speech, with much gesturing, pointing first at the fire and then at Gideon. Blackbeard stood next to the beheading block, grinning with anticipation.
There has to be a way out of this, Gideon thought. But he couldn’t seem to gather his wits. Things were too strange, and they were all happening too fast. Now—under the watchful gaze of the crone—one of the white-bearded, yellow-robed priests was bending over the fire, clearing away the burning logs to expose a bed of coals, mingled with pebbles that were already glowing from the heat. The other, with a crude bellows, blew on the coals, heating them up to a bright red. The sun had long since set, the valley was dark, and a scattering of sparks rose into a black, star-filled sky.
Gideon’s guards pushed him forward. The first priest leaned over with a pair of tongs and plucked a pebble from the fire—the hottest one—and held it in front of Gideon. He indicated with a series of gestures that Gideon was to take it and put it in his mouth.
“No!” said Gideon, wrenching free from the guards’ grasp, knocking the tongs aside in his struggle. One of the guards elbowed him in the face and he fell to the ground, sprawling in the dirt, dazed. The guard gave him a vicious kick before hauling him back to his feet. The crowd whistled and yelled their disapproval. Blackbeard readied his sword.
The chieftain shouted for silence.
Now a priest applied the bellows again, blowing until the bed of coals went from red to orange. The thick smell of smoke filled the air. Again, with persnickety care the first priest selected the hottest pebble with his tongs and held it out, gesturing for Gideon to take it and put it in his mouth. After a moment, Gideon held out his hand. The priest dropped the glowing rock into it and—after a grunt of pain and a brief, dreadful hesitation—Gideon popped the pebble into his mouth.
A long silence ensued. The crowd was transfixed. Every pair of eyes was on him. Gideon remained unmoving, mouth closed, fists clenched, eyes staring straight ahead. A murmur of admiration at his stoicism rose from the crowd. A minute passed, then two, and then three. Finally the priest said something and held out his hand. Gideon leaned over and spat the pebble into the outstretched palm. The priest stared at it for a moment. Then he held it up for the crowd to see: proof that Gideon had indeed kept it in his mouth until it was cool. Meanwhile the chieftain came over and gave an order. The priest pantomimed that Gideon was to open his mouth for inspection.
He complied. The chieftain leaned closer and stared, shoving his fingers into Gideon’s mouth, grasping his tongue and moving it roughly from side to side, inspecting it for burns.
The lengthening silence turned into a growing murmur of wonder. There were no scorch marks, no blisters—no signs of burning anywhere on his tongue or in his mouth.
The chief, clearly astonished, spoke loudly to the crowd, eliciting a collective gasp. He stared at Gideon with something close to admiration, then made a brief pronouncement.
The crone said: “The Father decree you telling truth!”
Gideon caught a glimpse of Blackbeard at his chopping block, face dark with discontent.
So glad to disappoint you again, asshole, he thought with satisfaction as he was led back to the cage.
He staggered in and sank down onto the sandy floor of the cell. Garza and Imogen bent over him.
“How in the world did you do it?” Imogen asked.
Gideon lay back, legs stretched out, exhausted and in pain. Both of his fists had been clenched throughout the ordeal, and they remained clenched now. He looked outside the cage for a moment and then, keeping one hand obscured at his side, he slowly opened it. The smell of burnt flesh rose up: and there was a pebble, blackened and bloody, enclosed in the charred palm of his hand. He dropped the pebble, then balled his hand once again into a fist.
“How did—?” Imogen began.
“When I fell to the ground I palmed a fresh pebble from the basket and concealed it between thumb and palm. When they dropped the hot pebble in my hand, I left it there and put the cold one in my mouth instead.”
“That must’ve hurt like hell,” Garza said.
“It burned the shit out of my hand, but when I thought of that bastard waiting with his sword…well, let’s just say it made the pain more bearable.”
“Let me see your hand,” Imogen said. “I should tend to that burn.”
“No,” Gideon said, pulling his hand away. “We’ve got to keep it out of sight. Get rid of that pebble, too.”
“How did you pull it off with everyone watching?” Garza asked, tossing the small stone into the darkness.
“A simple combination of legerdemain and misdirection,” said Gideon. “As you well know, I used to be a magician.”
28
YET AGAIN, THEY were roused in what seemed the middle of the night. Yet again, they were led off to begin a long day of forced toil while stars still glittered hard in the sky. As he adjusted the rough garment he’d been given and tried to shake himself awake, Manuel Garza thought back to Gideon’s trial by fire. Had that really only been a week ago? It seemed far longer.
Garza wasn’t sure if they’d become slaves, or manual laborers, or what, but it was growing all too clear that—whatever their status—the tribe had no intention of allowing them to leave the valley. Things had quickly fallen into a routine: roused before dawn, sent out to dig irrigation ditches, collect bundles of wood, or repair corrals with a chain gang of half a dozen others, led by the hateful Blackbeard. They were given little food and water, and were yelled at or struck with sticks if they slacked off. Imogen’s attempts at communication with their fellow workers had met with little enthusiasm: all they’d learned was that the others were all native to the tribe, of the lowest caste in a small but clearly stratified society. Garza hadn’t bothered. The only thing that kept him focused was a fixed determination to learn the language, unbeknownst to his captors. Knowledge was power. He listened intently to every order, watched every gesture, and tried to memorize the responses. He had always been good at languages, having been raised in a bilingual family, and he’d already begun to pick up several words and phrases. Imogen, with her previous experience with ancient languages, had a significant head start. Gideon, on the other hand, was either a dunce when it came to learning new languages or else simply couldn’t be bothered.
At night, after the brutal days of labor, they talked about plans for escape. The only possible method hadn’t changed: steal camels and waterskins and make a break for it. Waterskins were easy to come by—every tent had one hanging next to the front flap. The problem was the camels. Camels were obviously how wealth was measured in this primitive culture, but everyone seemed to know which camels belonged to whom and so there was no theft. As a result they were loosely guarded, and then only at night, apparently due to some beast or beasts feared by all. Garza had overheard his workmates talking about it more than once. From what he could make out, it seemed to be a huge, one-eyed leopard. Apparently, the tribesmen believed it wasn’t a mortal animal, but some kind of demon that lived with others of its kind in a labyrinth of canyons beyond the valley. On numerous occasions it had crept into the encampment and dragged off a goat, causing consternation. They said it had taken more than one tribesman, too, and had a taste for human flesh.
These thoughts ran through his head as the work gang proceeded away from the main camp along a narrow mountain trail, with the obligatory escort of guards armed with spears and daggers. Blackbeard brought up the rear, carrying a whip coiled up and tied to his leather belt. The trail branched, and they headed off in a direction they had not gone before. Garza wondered with little interest what new form of arduous work lay in store for them now.
As they left the confines of the broad valley, the guards became watchful, even nervous. They walked for what seemed a long time but could not have been over half an hour. On reaching a high mountain pass, they stopped briefly to rest.
“Take a look down there,” said Gideon, coming up to him and speaking in a low voice. The sun was just rising over the rim of mountains, and the landscape below was emerging from the shadows. It was a peculiar-looking valley, narrow and sinuous, with steep cliffs and groves of trees among lush meadows of grass. There were no visible pockets of heavy fog: it seemed that, at least as far as this mountain was concerned, mist oases—an important source of water for the tribe—were confined to the eastern slopes. Here and there on the floor of the valley, curious stone structures about fifteen feet high peeped out of the vegetation. Garza squinted, trying to make them out. Imogen came over, staring as well.
“Pyramids?” said Gideon.
“Looks like it,” he said. “Miniature ones.”
Blackbeard yelled at them to rise and move on. Garza felt his pulse quicken. Pyramids. What else could they be but tombs? He had long harbored a secret hope that the Phaistos location might be the tomb of an ancient king.
As they descended into the valley, they passed the first few structures. These were built from carved sandstone blocks, and each pyramid had an inscription in Egyptian hieroglyphics. He exchanged a significant glance with Gideon. This was more proof, if they needed it, that Imogen was right: this was a pre-Islamic tribe, perhaps dating back as far as the time of the pharaohs.
Around a bend in the trail and past a large, raised stone table of very curious composition, they arrived at a worksite. A pyramid, similar to the others, was under construction. Massive sandstone blocks were laid out in rows at the base of the half-built structure. A long, sloping ramp of dirt led up one side, paved with wooden rollers. As Garza looked over the site, he quickly realized this was a primitive system for moving the massive blocks into position—dragging them up the earthen ramp using ropes and harnesses.
