The Pharaoh Key

Two Months Later

AN UNUSUAL HAZE hung over the upper reaches of the Nile; the sun, rising sluggishly in the east, was slow to burn it off and expose the desolate region known as the Hala’ib Triangle. First to be illuminated were the miles of trackless desert sands, stretching to the west. Next, the light reached a slow upwelling of foothills, punctuated by dry washes: auguries of the mountains to come. Next came Gebel Umm itself, its stern peak turned to flame by the sun’s ascent, the fire creeping down rugged flanks.

At last the sun, rising higher still, penetrated the deep green bowl of the hidden valley beyond the mist oasis. Like a curtain lifting, it revealed clusters of tents, flocks of goats, herds of somnolent camels resting beneath groves of trees, and—near the far end of the valley—long lines of irrigated fields: recently turned earth that had been sown with wheat or barley, judging from the green shoots just beginning to sprout from the manure-enriched soil. Moving on, the curtain of light illuminated an escarpment in the center of the valley, then fell on the large tent atop it—dyed a deep yellow, bordered with a geometric design in black—that belonged to the chieftain of the tribe.

At that precise moment, the flap of the tent was thrown open. This appeared to be a signal, because immediately afterward the flaps of all the tents in the village below opened as well and their occupants emerged: some alone, others holding the hands of children, spouses, or aged parents. With a single purpose, they came forward silently until they were gathered below the narrow promontory that jutted, like the bow of a ship, from the escarpment.

When they had gathered, a young woman emerged from the tent. She was tall and slender, with kohl-rimmed eyes, dressed in a simple yet beautiful robe of a flaxen material that shimmered in the light. The crowd, which had begun to murmur among themselves, fell silent. All eyes turned to the dark entrance of the tent.

A minute passed, then two. And then a warrior emerged: muscular, deeply tanned, with a luxuriant beard and tightly curled hair that reached almost to his shoulders. He was wearing an ankle-length robe the color of saffron, and he carried a tall staff—the symbol of leadership, to be wielded only by the Father of the tribe. In his leather belt was tucked, not a dagger, but the glittering steel sword that was the pride of the settlement. On one wrist the man wore a bracelet of human molars; on the other, a wristwatch made of eighteen-karat gold.

The chief stepped up to the young woman, then the two of them made their way to the edge of the narrow promontory—the place chieftains had used for centuries to address the people—and stood shoulder-to-shoulder. He looked down at the assembled multitude for a moment, and then—with a sudden movement—balled his hands into fists and held them out at shoulder level, raising his staff.

“Ti saji manyechem!” he said, his clarion voice ringing across the valley like a bell. “Yor hagashna gron’alla samu heamsi epouroun!”

At this, a cheer erupted from the crowd. “Epouroun!” they cried. “Epouroun!”

Now from one of a cluster of tents behind the chief’s residence an ancient, hag-like woman emerged, her body bent from long years, dressed in goatskins and wearing a veil. Slowly, painfully, she approached the chief, supporting herself with canes fashioned from human bones. As she came up on his other side, the warrior was flanked simultaneously by extreme age and extreme beauty.

Slowly, the chief lowered his arms and let the point of his staff rest on the rocky ground. Chest swelling, he began again. “Ti saji walikana korog wan…wan…”

Over his shoulder, without turning his head, he murmured to the old crone: “What’s the word for ‘crops’ again?”

“Susuman,” she murmured back.

“Right, right. And ‘good health’?”

This time, it was the young woman who replied. “Kango douru.”

The man raised his staff again, shaking it to emphasize his point. “Ti saji walikana korog wan susuman!” he proclaimed. “Wig walikana ne kango douru, epouroun!”

Epouroun was the plural form of the tribe’s word for “chief.”

Another thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd at this promise of an end to seasonal hunger and malnutrition—thanks to the newly planted crops that would ensure a bountiful supply of grain, year-round, irrigated by a clever system devised by the new chief.

Now Garza paused to survey the clamoring people—his people—spread out below. He didn’t like to admit it—after all, he’d always worked in the background, shunning the spotlight—but this daily address had become one of the highlights of his day. Whereas the previous chief, his father-in-law, had used this bully pulpit only for occasional proclamations or warnings, Garza and his wife Jelena, who ruled together, used it every morning. Not only did the daily speeches force him to learn the language, but he’d found that the people were more content if they were kept abreast of what was going on. And every morning Jelena or Lillaya related a story of the tribe’s history and mythology that never failed to interest Garza. There was so much going on—the pulley system he’d improvised, while still equal parts prisoner and slave, had been only the tip of the iceberg. In addition to designing a new irrigation system, he’d also moved to design and build stronger fortifications and fashion better weapons. He had taken steps to block and camouflage the approaches more thoroughly. He sensed that someday, somehow, the outside world would inevitably intrude, but not—he was determined—for a very long time. Certainly there would be no more luckless adventurers stumbling into this little paradise; no more heads mounted on stakes around the decapitation pit.

With another deep breath, he launched into the next part of his speech—a part he’d memorized the night before with coaching from Lillaya. He told the gathering that, starting today, he was abolishing the tomb labor detail. There would be no hours wasted building a grand memorial in which to house his own remains—something he’d been unaware was in the offing until recently. Instead, the Home of the Dead would become a public graveyard for the entire tribe—a home of eternal rest for everyone, not just the chiefs. The goal he shared with Jelena was to preserve, as much as possible, the tribe’s ancient way of life and heritage against the encroachments of the modern world. He had been able to bring about some welcome changes by applying his knowledge of engineering and medicine, but the last thing he wanted to do was “save” them in some way. The ancient and disciplined way of life enjoyed by these so-called primitive people was just as fulfilling and rich as anything offered by the modern world. For the first time in Garza’s ambitious and striving life, he felt he had found his place.

As he finished his new pronouncement about the valley of the tombs, another cheer went up—and nobody cheered louder, he noticed, than those he recognized as his former fellow toilers in the tomb field.

After a hurried trip to Cairo to fulfill a promise to his partner, Garza had made sure that every last bit of treasure was returned to the chamber. When he assumed the chieftainship, Lillaya, the head priestess, and the four subpriests had divulged their knowledge of the sealed chamber and how they had protected its wonders over the centuries. But through cautious questioning he realized, with huge surprise, that they had lost all specific knowledge of its significance ages ago. Beyond the gold and gems he had returned, they had no knowledge of what lay within the chamber, nor had they any notion of how to read hieroglyphic writing. All that survived was a worship of the sun and a profound determination among the priesthood to protect the contents of the sealed vault…forever.

As the roars continued to echo across the valley, Garza, planting his staff firmly again in the dusty ground, took another look around. How strange life was, he reflected. For years he’d felt restless, unrewarded, and unfulfilled. To think he’d believed that looting the treasure chamber and becoming immensely rich would be the answer. What a fool he had been; these people, this life, and above all this woman next to him were the answer he’d been searching for.

It was, in a way, miraculous. His mind wandered back to that transformative moment when he wheeled to face Blackbeard and his onrushing horde of killers. He had pivoted his camel—carrying the bags of treasure—and charged headlong into the attackers, with Blackbeard at the fore. He was sure he would die, and hoped only to save his friends. As he’d fired his last bolt, the dust had come down like a curtain, and the clash of camels and slashing daggers had ruptured the bags, spilling gold and gems everywhere just as he was thrown from the saddle. And the world had gone black.

When he woke, only minutes later, all had changed. He lay on the ground amid a heap of gemstones and gold, covered with the same, and all around him the warriors had dismounted and stood in a circle, staring with fear and astonishment. As he struggled into consciousness, they began prostrating themselves, one by one. Blackbeard lay nearby, dead—Garza’s final crossbow bolt buried in his heart. The abrupt death of Mugdol, combined with his own unexpected baptism in a treasure they had no idea he was carrying, had—he was to learn—given the warriors the notion he was a being endowed with supernatural power. This in turn had given Garza the opportunity, using a combination of gestures and broken phrases, to explain that the treasure belonged to the tribe; that he was returning it to its rightful place; and that henceforth he would be its protector. They had bundled him on a camel and gathered up the treasure, then carried him back into the village, proclaiming him chieftain in accordance with his father-in-law’s wishes.

His mind returned to the present. As the echoes of the cheering continued to sound, Jelena stirred beside him and took his hand. He smiled at her. In this capable, accomplished woman, he had at last found a life’s partner not only wise beyond her years, but loyal as well. How strange life was, indeed. Gideon had told him to be loyal to himself for a change, and how true that was. Standing here on this promontory of rock, co-leader of these ancient and worthy people, was surely the last thing he could have ever have imagined to be his fate. And yet it now felt like the one challenge he’d been preparing for his entire life.

“How’s this for loyalty, partner?” he said under his breath.

He felt Jelena move his hand slowly until it rested on the center of her belly. He glanced at her again and saw the answer to his unvoiced question in her eyes. The tribe, noting the movement and its significance, redoubled their cheers. He passed the staff to her. Taking a deep breath, she began to tell a story, her voice rich and assured. He was able to get the gist of it, a fascinating tale that went back to the mythical founding of the tribe, explaining how everything that was to happen had begun in precisely this way: a woman with child.

When she was done, Jelena passed the staff back to Garza, and he raised it to signal that their morning oration was complete. And then, as a gong sounded and the entire group turned to acknowledge the rising of the life-giving sun, the valley reverberated with the echoes of a single word, repeated again and again: “Epouroun! Epouroun! Epouroun!”