Robin Cook: Sphinx

Kemese had already reached its lip, with Iramen right behind him. Amasis, an enormous Nubian, having great difficulty pushing his bulk through the narrow passage, was farther back, but the other two could already see Emeni’s shadow dancing grotesquely on the floor and wall of the antechamber. Kemese gripped the bronze dagger in his rotting teeth and oozed headfirst from the tunnel onto the floor of the tomb. Silently he helped Iramen to a standing position beside him. The two waited, scarcely daring to breathe until, with a minor clatter of loose gravel, Amasis finally entered the chamber. Fear quickly metamorphosed to wild-eyed greed as the three peasants eyed the unbelievable treasure spread around them. Never in their lives had they ever seen such marvelous objects, and it was all there for the taking. Like a pack of starved Russian wolves the three launched themselves into the carefully arranged objects. Densely packed coffers were ripped open and dumped. Gold attached to furniture and chariots was ripped off.

Emeni heard the first crash and his heart leaped in his chest. His first thought was that he was caught. Then he heard his companions’ cries of excitement and realized what was happening. It was like a nightmare.

“No, no!” he shouted, snatching up the oil lamp and pushing himself through the opening into the antechamber. “Stop, in the names of all the gods, stop!” The sound reverberated in the small room, momentarily startling the three thieves into inaction. Then Kemese snatched up his ox-bone-handled dagger. Seeing the movement, Amasis smiled. It was a cruel smile, the light from the oil lamp reflecting from the surface of his huge teeth.

Emeni had no idea how long he was unconscious, but when the blackness receded, the nightmare returned in a tidal wave. At first all he heard were muffled voices. A small amount of gilded light issued from a break in the wall, and turning his head slowly to ease the pain, he stared into the burial chamber. Squatting down between bituminized statues of Tutankhamen, Emeni could make out Kemese’s silhouette. The peasants were violating the sacred sanctuary, the Holy of Holies.

Silently Emeni moved each of his limbs. His left arm and hand were numb from being twisted underneath him, but otherwise he felt all right. He had to find help. He gauged the distance to the tunnel opening. It was close, but it would be difficult to enter it quietly. Bringing his feet up underneath him, Emeni crouched, waiting for the throbbing in his head to abate. Suddenly Kemese turned, holding up a small golden statue of Horus. He saw Emeni and for a moment he was frozen. Then with a roar he leaped into the center of the anteroom toward the dazed stonecutter.

Ignoring the pain, Emeni dived into the tunnel, scraping his chest and abdomen on the plastered edge. But Kemese moved swiftly and managed to grab an ankle. Bracing himself, he shouted for Amasis. Emeni rolled over onto his back within the tunnel and kicked viciously with his free foot, catching Kemese on his cheekbone. The grip loosened and Emeni was able to scramble forward through the tunnel, mindless of innumerable cuts from the limestone chips. He reached the dry night air and ran toward the necropolis guard station on the road to Thebes.

Behind, in Tutankhamen’s tomb, panic ensued. The three thieves knew that their only chance for escape was to leave immediately, even though they had entered only one of the gilded burial shrines. Amasis reluctantly staggered from the burial chamber with a heavy armload of golden statues. Kemese tied a group of solid gold rings in a rag, only to drop the bundle inadvertently on the debris-strewn floor. Feverishly they dumped their spoils into reed baskets. Iramen put down the oil lamp and pushed his basket into the tunnel, climbing in after it. Kemese and Amasis followed, dropping a lotiform alabaster cup on the threshold. Once they were out of the tomb, they began to climb south away from the necropolis guard station. Amasis was overloaded with booty. To free his right hand, he stashed a blue faience cup under a rock, then caught up to the others. They passed the route to Hatshepsut’s temple, heading instead for the village of the necropolis workers. Once out of the valley, they turned to the west and entered the vast reaches of the Libyan desert. They were free, and they were rich; very rich.

Emeni had never known torture, although on occasion he had fantasized whether he could bear it. He couldn’t. The pain ascended, with surprising rapidity, from being tolerable to unbearable. He had been told that he was to be examined with the stick. He had had no idea what that meant until four stout guards of the necropolis forced him down on a low table, holding each of his extremities. A fifth began to beat Emeni unmercifully on the soles of his feet.

“Stop, I will tell all,” gasped Emeni. But he had already told everything, fifty times. He wished he could pass out, but he could not. He felt as if his feet were in a fire, pressed against white-hot glowing coals. The agony was intensified by the burning noonday sun. Emeni shrieked like a butchered dog. He tried to bite the arm holding his right wrist, but someone pulled him back by his hair.

When Emeni finally was certain of going crazy, Prince Maya, chief of police of the necropolis, casually waved his manicured hand, indicating the beating should stop. The guard with the club hit Emeni once more before quitting. Prince Maya, enjoying the scent from his customary lotus blossom, turned to his guests: Nebmarenahkt, mayor of Western Thebes; and Nenephta, overseer and chief architect for his majesty Pharaoh Seti I. No one spoke, so Maya turned to Emeni, who had been released and who was now lying on his back, still feeling the fire in his feet.

“Tell me again, stonecutter, how you knew the way into Pharaoh Tutankhamen’s tomb.”

Emeni was yanked into a sitting position, the image of the three noblemen swimming before him. Gradually his vision cleared. He recognized the exalted architect Nenephta.

“My grandfather,” said Emeni with difficulty. “He gave the plans of the tomb to my father, who gave them to me.”

“Your grandfather was a stonecutter for Pharaoh Tutankhamen’s tomb?”

“Yes,” said Emeni. He went on to explain again that he had wanted only enough money to embalm his parents. He pleaded for mercy, emphasizing that he had given himself up when he saw his companions desecrating the tomb.

Nenephta watched a distant falcon effortlessly spiral in the sapphire sky. His mind wandered from the interrogation. He was troubled by this tomb robber. It was a shock to realize how easily all his efforts to secure his majesty Seti I’s house of eternity could be thwarted. Suddenly he interrupted Emeni.

“Are you a stonecutter on Pharaoh Seti I’s tomb?”

Emeni nodded. He had stopped his pleading in mid-sentence. He feared Nenephta. Everyone feared Nenephta.

“Do you think the tomb we are building can be robbed?”

“Any tomb can be robbed as soon as it is not guarded.”

Anger swept over Nenephta. With great difficulty he refrained from personally thrashing this human hyena who represented everything he hated. Emeni sensed the animosity and cowered back toward his torturers.

“And how would you suggest we protect the pharaoh and his treasure?” asked Nenephta finally in a voice that quivered with restrained anger.

Emeni did not know what to say. He hung his head and endured the heavy silence. All he could think of was the truth. “It is impossible to protect the pharaoh,” he said finally. “As it has been in the past, so it will be in the future. The tombs will be robbed.”

With a speed that defied his corpulent bulk, Nenephta sprang from his seat and backhanded Emeni. “You filth. How dare you speak so insolently of the pharaoh.” Nenephta motioned to hit Emeni again, but the pain in his hand from the first blow stopped him. Instead, he adjusted his linen robe and then spoke. “Since you are an expert in tomb robbing, how is it that your own adventure failed so miserably?”