Lauren Haney: Face Turned Backward

Bak gave the Medjay a stern look. “You’d best relax while you can. Who knows how deep this slide is, how many rocks lie between us and freedom?”

Imsiba eyed the stones blocking the door. “We were meant to die in here, all of us together.”

Bak, too, studied the blockage, stones of all shapes and sizes packed tight together in the entryway. A fist-sized knot formed in his stomach. Could they breach it while still the torch burned? Or would they find a boulder too large to move? The boulder that had served as a roof over the entryway? He formed what he hoped was a light-hearted smile. “At least I had the good sense to bring the proper tools.”

Imsiba’s smile was rueful. “I erred, my friend, that I freely admit.”

“Wretched thing!” Mery growled. “I’ll move you yet.”

The two men, querying each other with a glance, hastened into the larger chamber. They found the donkey tied to a standing column, munching a skimpy sheaf of grain, and the boy standing by the wooden box, trying to get a lever under it. His expression was set, determined. Sweat poured down his face and breast. Bak bit back the urge to tell him he was wasting valuable time; clearing the entry was of primary importance. But the boy was right: they needed to know what lay at the bottom of the shaft-and the task might be the perfect one to distract Imsiba, keeping him quiet until the pounding eased in his head.

Bak scooped up a mallet and heavy chisel and knelt at the end of the box resting on the floor. A few solid blows raised it, and Mery shoved the lever in the gap. Bak exchanged places with the boy and elevated the box a hand’s breadth off the floor. Mery slipped a wooden roller beneath it. Moving closer to the open shaft, they installed a second roller that lifted the end of the box out of the hole. Using a third roller, they easily pushed the container off the shaft and out of their way.

Imsiba held the torch at the mouth of the opening so they could see below. The shaft was square, an arm’s length long and wide. If the uncertain light did not deceive, it was twenty or so paces deep. A man lay sprawled face-down at the bottom. His left arm was thin and weak, the hand drawn and misshapen. The stub of an arrow protruded from his bloodied back, the feathered end lay beside him. Wensu, without a doubt.

Bak muttered an oath.

“Userhet’s wits must be addled,” Imsiba said. “He slew one of the few men who could navigate the Belly of Stones and carry him south to freedom.”

Mery stared wide-eyed. Evidently finding a fresh body in a tomb was vastly different than playing among the dried and dismembered remains of long-dead people. “With no 248 / Lauren Haney one left to point a finger, maybe he thinks he can return to Buhen and go on with his life as a highly placed scribe, respected by one and all.”

“If so, he’s deluding himself,” Bak said in a grim voice.

“Too many men know he’s the one we’ve been seeking.” He tore his gaze from the body and shook his head. “A falling out of thieves, more likely.”

Bak ducked back, narrowly avoiding a miniature slide of rocks, but caught in a burst of dust. Leaning on the wall, he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, smearing the dirty streaks already there. The tomb was stifling, the oil lamp feeble and smoky, the air tainted with the sweetish scent of donkey manure. His muscles ached, his hands were scratched and bleeding, his lower right leg bruised by a falling rock, yet he had opened the entryway less than a pace. Even at twice the speed he was toiling, Userhet would be in faroff Kush or Kemet by the time the tomb was open.

If the boulder had not fallen from above, sealing them inside through eternity.

The thought was loathsome, planting fear in his heart, sapping the will to carry on. Blanking out the notion, he set to work moving out of his way stones large and small that had tumbled around his feet. A waste of time with the entryway to clear, but necessary.

“Mery?” he heard Imsiba call.

“The chamber’s been plundered!” The boy’s voice, high-pitched from excitement, resonated up the shaft. “It’s small, barely big enough for two coffins. They’ve both been broken open, probably a long time ago, and they’re so rotten they crumble at a touch. Several chests have turned to dust, and so have most of the objects inside-models of boats and servants, I think. Two bodies, bones mostly with their wrappings torn off, lie among a pile of pots at the back.”

Briefly he was silent, then his words tumbled out in delight.

“I just found a gold bead among some bones on the floor. I bet there are a lot more here.”

“Is Wensu among the living?” Imsiba called, his voice edging on impatience.

Bak glanced into the second chamber, where the Medjay knelt at the top of the shaft, looking down, the planes of his face vague in the residue of light cast by the torch he had lowered with the boy. The rope, tied to one of the standing columns, snaked over the edge and down.

“He’s dead.” A short pause, and the boy added, “Not for long, I think. He’s warm to the touch and his arms and legs are limp.”

“Do you want him brought up?” Imsiba asked Bak.

Bak let out a hard, sharp laugh. “How can we carry a dead man and at the same time chase Userhet across the burning sands?”

Imsiba had the grace to remain silent, keeping to himself any doubts he had that they would escape.

Bak returned to the task of moving the stones from around his feet: bending, lifting, carrying, dropping with a puff of dust. Going back for another and another and another. The dogged actions of a man sorely in need of a respite.

“Do you see any objects unsullied by time?” Imsiba asked Mery. “Anything fresh and new that Userhet hid down there?”

“No. I bet this chamber was too hard to reach.”

“Come on up then.”

“I’m looking for gold beads. I’m sure I can find a few more.” The boy’s voice brightened further. “And who knows what else?”

“Do you not want to leave this wretched tomb?” Imsiba demanded, exasperated. “We must help clear the entryway, and we need the torch up here.”

“Oh, all right,” Mery said, his disappointment evident.

“Very nice.” Bak, seated on a chunk of fallen column in the rear chamber, twisted the ring between his fingers, looking at the reddish scarab mounted in a bezel so it could rotate for use as a seal. The design, a simple motif of interlocking spirals, told him nothing about the deceased owner, but the stone and mounting, carnelian and gold, were valuable and the workmanship exquisite.

“Can I keep it?” Mery asked.

The clatter of falling stones spared Bak the need to answer.

Dust erupted, filling the tomb with a thick roiling cloud.

Imsiba leaped back, out of the entryway, and snarled a curse.

The donkey tugged hard at the rope binding him to the column, half-snorting, half-braying, his hooves beating a quick tattoo on the floor.

Unable to breathe, Imsiba abandoned his task and sat down on the sledge to wait for the dust to settle. A pinched look across his eyes was the only sign that his head still ached. Bak slipped the ring on Mery’s finger, too small by far for so large a circle, and cupped his hand for the beads the boy had found. They dropped in a golden cascade, eleven perfect orbs, all the size of chickpeas, hollow-cored and pierced for a string. They matched those he had found among Intef’s possessions.

He handed them to Imsiba and took from Mery the last object the boy had salvaged, a statuette whose rectangular base fit neatly in the palm of his hand. It was a small master-piece, a scribe seated cross-legged, carved from a grayish stone and unpainted, with no inscription to identify him.