The Pharaoh Key

29

GIDEON STEPPED INTO the tent, walked over to the ragged bundle of skins that served as his bed, and collapsed on it with a sigh. His fingernails were encrusted with mud, and his fingertips were greasy from handling goat meat—his hosts had not yet discovered such amenities as knives and forks—but he was too tired to care. He’d do his ablutions after he’d rested.

The past several days had passed in a blur—a backbreaking blur. After Garza’s success with his pulley apparatus, the chieftain had elevated him to what was essentially foreman of the job, a development that had annoyed Blackbeard no end. As a further reward, the three had been moved from their cage to this roomier and far more pleasant tent. Their security had also been relaxed, although Gideon noticed their tent was situated on the far side of the settlement, away from the ravine that alone led out to freedom. They had been given free movement, with two warnings: They were not to go back to the mist oasis on the eastern side of the mountain, and they were warned away from a valley some miles to the west, which seemed to be a “place of demons” or some claptrap along those lines.

He sat up now and began rubbing his back. While the tribe was apparently an autocracy—the chieftain ruled with an iron fist; the crone was his Rasputin; and the young woman, perhaps the chief’s wife, was a very powerful and respected adviser in her own right—there was a complex system of merit- and seniority-based layers to it that he was still figuring out. Age was held in great reverence, and everyone moved aside when an older person came down a trail. This was especially true of the crone and the four old priests in white or saffron robes that she commanded. Men and women were treated equally, it seemed: the best hunters went out daily with spears to hunt game, regardless of gender. Everyone worked at something, and there was obviously an attempt to assign members of the tribe duties to which they were best suited. Imogen, for example—after offering some suggestions on how soil cultivation could be improved—had now been assigned gardening duties. But she also spent a fair amount of time with the crone. Imogen was a quick study when it came to language, and the old woman peppered her with questions about the outside world and the almost mythical “English” she was apparently enamored of. These last few days, Imogen could often be seen sitting by the old woman’s side, on the chief’s ledge overlooking the settlement, conversing in a halted fashion. This had helped the three of them learn a little more about how the tribe functioned and what rules it lived by. It had also ultimately explained the mystery of how the crone—who, Imogen had told them, was named Lillaya—learned her fragments of English. As a child, she had wandered away from a scouting party, gotten lost in the desert, and was ultimately picked up by nomadic Arab bandits. For several months she had traveled with them as a slave, until a young English adventurer—or so Imogen understood—who’d been accompanying the band took pity on her. He’d speak to her in the evenings and try to communicate. One night, when their travels had taken them near the mountains, he pretended to have an epileptic fit, creating a diversionary uproar and allowing her to escape and find her way home. Hence her fragments of English; hence her fascination with the world beyond the canyon—and hence Garza’s magical Rolex, which the chieftain always wore proudly. The Englishman had owned an identical watch. This unlikely combination was apparently what had saved them from the pit.

Now Gideon moved over to an earthen pot half filled with water and began washing his hands. And himself? He was no engineer like Garza. He didn’t have a green thumb. He was a decent shot with the tribe’s rudimentary bows, but it seemed there were no openings among the hunting packs—or maybe they simply didn’t trust him enough. And he lagged behind in learning the language. So he’d been put back to work at the job he seemed best suited for and which required few linguistic skills: digging latrines.

The flap of the tent shifted and Garza stepped in. While they all ate communally, the lower-ranked members were served first and expected to leave the area of the central plaza before their betters settled in for a meal. Garza, now higher in social status than Gideon, was served later, and Imogen later still.

Garza walked over to his area of the tent and began shrugging off his outerwear, covered in sand and dust from the quarry. “Have a nice day?” he asked.

“Oh, great. Digging ditches is loads of fun.”

“Nice to see you’ve found your niche at last.” Garza sank heavily onto his own bundle of skins.

For a moment, neither spoke. Gideon dried his hands and stepped away from the bowl.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Not again.”

“It’s high time we began planning our escape.”

Garza rolled his eyes. “We’ve talked about this already. We need to lie low until the tribe accepts us. Lets down their guard a little more. I mean, we just got an upgrade: from cage one point oh to tent one point one.”

“It’s been ten days. Just how much more do you think they’re going to accept us than they already have? That big lummox Mugdol is never going to cozy up to you.” Mugdol, they had learned, was Blackbeard’s name—or as close as they could come to its pronunciation.

“Look. If we escape and get captured again, there won’t be a reprieve—it’ll be the pit. Best thing is to keep a low profile—do nothing. Be cool. Build up more trust.”

A twinge shot through Gideon’s aching back. Garza had always been the one eager to press on, and he was a little surprised by this hesitation. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Starting to enjoy your position in senior management?”

An angry look crossed Garza’s face and Gideon realized that hadn’t been fair. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just that…well, unlike you, I’m on a clock.”

The look on Garza’s face softened a little. “I know.”

“I’m not saying that we need to break out of here tonight. But we should be looking for opportunities to secretly scout out the Phaistos location. We need to at least see what’s there. Then we can make a break.”

“We’ll only get one shot at escape.”

Gideon nodded. “Yes. And to that end, we’ll need weapons. Better weapons than what they have.”

Garza looked skeptical. “Like what?”

“Don’t forget, I was a weapons designer.”

“Right. So what do you plan to do—build us a nuke?”

“In a manner of speaking. We need something that trumps their daggers and spears.”

“Such as?”

Gideon summoned to mind the inventory of ancient weapons he’d been mulling over while digging ditches. “Atlatl?”

“Too unwieldy. And too difficult to learn how to throw.”

“Rungu?”

“Hmm. Not exactly better than a spear.”

“Meteor hammer?”

“A what?”

“It’s like a flail with a round head. Very fast. You whip it around your head until you build up velocity, and then launch it at your opponent.”

“Sounds good against one enemy. What about the other five who are aiming their spears at you?”

They fell into silence, each looking down at his hands.

“Bow and arrow?” Garza ventured. “It’s amazing they don’t seem to have that.”

“No,” Gideon said suddenly. “Crossbow.”

Garza looked up at him.

“A crossbow’s got velocity and power. It doesn’t require the skill of a regular bow. It reloads fast. Sights and fires its arrows like a gun. It would have shock value, too—none of these people have seen anything like it.”

“A crossbow,” Garza repeated. “That might work. All the necessary materials are lying around this camp. I could pocket the bronze we’ll need for the bolt heads from the rock quarry tomorrow. And we can use a twisted rawhide strip from one of these pelts for the string.” Then he paused. “But we need a way to generate the necessary force. You know, to pull the bowstring back and cock the device.”

“The crossbows I’ve seen use some kind of winch or crank.”

“Too difficult to make.” After a moment, Garza snapped his fingers. “We could rig up a kind of lever system. With a hinge to increase pressure on the bowstring. If I can figure out the right measurements, the lever could also act as a trigger.” He stood up and made for the tent flap.

“Where are you going?”

“Where do you think? We’ll need a solid piece of wood for the stock, and some kind of flexible sapling for the bow. I can’t very well do my shopping in daylight, can I? Meanwhile—” he gestured toward a bundle of sticks in a far corner—“pick out half a dozen of the straightest pieces you can find and get to work fashioning the arrows—which, by the way, are called bolts. If we can get one of these to work, and figure out where to hide it, maybe I’ll consider making two more for you and Imogen.” And with that he disappeared into the darkness.

Gideon sat for a moment, still rubbing his back. He was just about to reach for the pile of sticks when the tent flap stirred again and Imogen entered.

“Hi,” she said, crossing over to her area of the tent. They had divided their living space into four quarters: three sleeping nooks and a common area.

“What kept you?” Gideon asked mischievously. “Dining on petits fours and caviar again with Her Majesty?”

“Very funny. I’ve been learning more of their language. Now I’m sure it’s some kind of Coptic. Think about it: these people have led almost totally insular lives, cut off from civilization, for maybe thousands of years. Who knows what kind of tribal memories they might retain? From what I’ve gathered about their myths and rituals, their beliefs might very well date back to the time of the Egyptians. They seem to worship some sort of embodiment of the sun.”

“Have those tribal memories given you any idea as to where your gold mines of the Middle Kingdom might be?”

“Gideon, you’re treating this like a joke. It’s the learning experience of a lifetime.”

“Easy for you to say when you’re not digging ditches from dawn until dusk.”

“Maybe I can put in a word for you.”

“You mean, get me a transfer? I’d appreciate it.” He lay back on his goatskins. “Don’t get me wrong. I can see how all this might interest you. But it’s not exactly in my line. Geoarchaeologist.” He chuckled. “Sorry, but it sounds like a mixture of the two most boring subjects imaginable.”

“That’s where you and everybody else are wrong. It’s fascinating. The past is the greatest mystery we’ll ever know. And it’s the key to understanding ourselves—who we’ve become, where we’ve gotten to today. For example, when people think of ancient Egypt, all they think about is mummies and horror movies. And that’s a shame. Because the Egyptian culture was incredibly rich—and advanced. Did you know their kingdom once covered an area stretching from Sudan to the Mediterranean? Or that their religion was as complex and multifaceted as any practiced today? The ancient Egyptians were obsessed with death. Outwitting death, overcoming the unknown, lay behind the mummies and the pyramids and the iconography and the Book of the Dead, the treasures left in the tombs, and everything else. Were you aware that the original idea of monotheism—a single god—was born in ancient Egypt?”

As she had spoken, her eyes began to glitter and her face flushed slightly in the reflected firelight. There was no doubt, Gideon thought, that this was in fact her real love. “I had no idea,” he said honestly.

“It’s true. Monotheism grew out of Egyptian religion, specifically through the Pharaoh Akhenaten, also known as Amenhotep the Fourth. He decreed the elimination of the many gods and declared that henceforth Egyptians would worship one god only, Aten.”

“Who was Aten?”

“Nobody is sure, but he seems to be some aspect of the sun. But the effort failed, and after Akhenaten died the Egyptians went back to worshipping their many gods. But he was the first to introduce that revolutionary idea—which would lead to Judaism and Christianity. The idea that there was only one god—which seems so normal to us now—was incredibly radical back then. There are even scholars who claim that the Old Testament God of Judaism had His origin during the captivity in Egypt. Aten in fact may have been the basis of the Hebrew word ha’Adon, or Adonai, meaning ‘the Lord’—”

At this point the tent flap rustled again. Imogen stopped in mid-sentence as Garza slipped in. He glanced back out through an opening in the flap, then pulled from beneath his garments a solid chunk of wood, a few sturdy saplings, some rawhide leather string, and a few bits of bronze, lining everything up on the dirt floor.

“What’s all that?” Imogen asked.

Garza looked from Imogen to Gideon and back again. “Ask Gideon. It was his idea.” Then he turned back to Gideon. “Haven’t you gotten started on making those bolts yet?”

“Sorry.” Gideon motioned to Imogen. “Come on. I’ll explain as we go.”