In Which Tomb Robbing Is Encouraged
The desert heat struck Charles Flinders-Petrie with a force strong enough to peel paint. He imagined the soles of his shoes catching fire—or, worse, the searing rays of the white-hot sun igniting his hair and setting his head alight. If he had walked into a blast furnace it could not, he decided, have felt any hotter. Pausing only long enough to catch his breath and survey his surroundings, he patted the bone-white dust from his clothes and looked around. Beneath the sun-bleached empty sky, the distant hills danced in shimmering waves rising from the desert floor. But that was the only movement for miles in any direction. Stretching ahead of him, the ram-headed sphinxes lining the long avenue leading to the ruined temple remained, as ever, unmoved and unaffected by the scorching atmosphere.
Seeing that he was completely alone and unobserved, Charles allowed himself to relax a little; he pulled a length of linen cloth from the leather bag at his side and wound it around his head turban style. The pack—the same used by his father on his last visit to Egypt—contained all the things he imagined he would need on this, his most adventurous journey yet. The fact that he had Lord Burleigh to thank for his newfound enthusiasm for ley travel was not lost on Charles. For if not for the earl’s insistent meddling all those years ago, he probably would never have given his grandfather’s map a second thought.
With a tug on the long braided strap, he hitched up the pack and started off across country towards the gently wavering line of hills, leaving the double rank of silent statues behind. With only his father’s description to guide him, Charles was soon wishing Benedict had thought to make a map of his own—or at least jotted down a few tricks of the family trade. Without such a guide, reconstructing the precise ley-leaping method used by Arthur had proven exceedingly difficult; it had taken Charles over five years and a few score attempts before he tumbled to a rough calibration method that would allow him to reach this place at this time—give or take a year, or even a generation or two. More work would refine his technique, but for that he would need the map. And the map was the reason for his visit.
Although he had never been to Egypt, from the time he was old enough to walk he had heard the family stories from his father and grandmother so often that he felt he knew the place—at least well enough to find his way around. He knew the Nile lay beyond the hills and that there would be a farming village or town somewhere on the riverbank nearby. He knew that beyond the river lay a wadi where, with perseverance and generous lashings of luck, he would find the tomb of Anen, his grandfather’s friend and a high priest of what was now being called the Eighteenth Dynasty.
In the village he would find men he could hire to help with his reclamation project. This would, he expected, have serious consequences for future archaeology: he did not see how the desecration of the tomb could be prevented. For as soon as his erstwhile helpers discovered what Charles knew to be there, the looting would begin. Official documents from the time of Pharaoh Cheops spoke of “tomb robbers”—a particular scourge of the wealthier classes; consequently, Egyptologists tended to consider them a separate criminal class. They were not. In reality, the thieves were merely the poor local peasantry of whatever era who, in their hardscrabble need, simply helped themselves to whatever valuables they found lying around—often in burial chambers half hidden in the sand and long forgotten. No doubt the villagers would find plenty to please them in High Priest Anen’s tomb; but so long as Charles got what he wanted, his hirelings were welcome to whatever they could carry away.
First, however, he had to reach the river and find the village. The walk was arduous to the point of absurdity, and by the time Charles reached the base of the hills, he was leaking water from every pore—but feeling no cooler for it. His sweat flash-dried the moment it seeped through the skin, leaving only a faint damp spot on the thin cloth of his linen shirt . . . and then that disappeared, evaporating into the arid desert air, leaving behind a deposit of his own salts. He shambled along the base of the nearest hill until finding a rock large enough to cast a shadow he might shelter in. When he came to it, he sat down in the shade; with his back to the stone, he withdrew his old-fashioned waterskin and allowed himself a good long drink. Then he closed his eyes and, leaning back against the stone, conjured cool, soothing thoughts until the sun, having reached its zenith, began its long, slow descent into the west.
While he rested, he reviewed the details of what he had been told about his family’s connection with Egypt. He knew that Arthur, his grandfather, had lived some years there, studying the language and culture and making friends with a young priest named Anen. It was Anen who had looked after his father, Benedict, when tragedy struck and Arthur was killed during an uprising; and Anen also, in the end, provided a resting place for Arthur’s linen-wrapped bones. He knew his grandmother, Xian-Li, and Benedict had returned at some later time to return the Skin Map to its owner.
This macabre object, born of a linguistic misunderstanding, had loomed large in the family lore ever since its creation. In fact, for Charles there was never a time when he could not remember knowing about his grandfather’s storied map: how it had been made from Arthur’s skin in order to save the tattoos that recorded the more important destinations his grandfather had discovered; and how, within the coded symbols, a fearful and wonderful secret lay hidden; and how his father had been made to give up interdimensional travel in order to better ensure the family’s survival.
Well, Charles considered, the family had survived and even thrived, and his father’s vow never again to use ley lines had not prevented him from talking about them and telling stories about Arthur’s exploits and adventures. Before being made to give up ley travel, Benedict had shared some of his father’s journeys, accompanying him on various trips through time and space, learning the secrets of ley travel first-hand. It was on such a trip to Egypt that the two had been caught in the uprising that took Arthur’s life; young Benedict had met not one but two pharaohs, and it was he who had visited the high priest’s tomb and deposited the map in his father’s sarcophagus, thereby ending the familial preoccupation that Charles meant to revive.
When the shadow of the rock began to stretch long on the trail, Charles rose and began his climb over the hills above the Nile Valley. By the time he reached the top there were but two or three hours of daylight remaining. The little settlement, glimpsed as a dull smudge beside the great, glittering river, still lay some distance away. Owing to the heat and the need to rest, it had taken him longer to gain the heights than he had imagined; Charles doubted whether he could reach his destination before nightfall, and he reckoned a strange traveller arriving after dark would not find the sort of welcome he desired. No matter. He had come equipped for that eventuality. In his pack he carried a little food and a linen coverlet—something like a shroud—that would keep him warm when, perversely, the desert air grew chill in the hours before dawn.
Spending a night sleeping rough did not worry Charles in the least. It had been a regular, if not predictable, occurrence during his years at university: doorways, arches, church pews, market stall benches—these and others had sufficed for impromptu accommodations. Sleeping out under the stars would be a luxury by comparison. True, he was older now, but not so much older that he could not enjoy a night beneath the diamond-sprinkled spray of the Milky Way.
As the sun dropped below the western hills, flaming the sky with molten bronze, Charles found a stubby date palm at the edge of a sesame field and made his simple camp. After beating the surrounding shrubbery to drive out any resident snakes and scorpions, he piled a few dry palm branches together to make a reasonable bed and spread it with the cloth of his turban. He sat down with his back against the tree and rested, sipping a little water and listening to the cicadas and crickets and the calls of night-roosting birds. Slowly, slowly, the heat relinquished its grip on him and Charles felt his body relax. He opened his pack and brought out his supper—a feast of nuts and dried fruit, some hard biscuits, cured beef, and an apple. After the day’s rigour, the simple fare would have satisfied the most jaded palate, and Charles savoured every bite.
Night stole in from the east, extinguishing the last embers of the day, drenching the lowlands in cool blue shadow. Charles stretched out and, using his pack for a pillow, fell asleep counting stars as they appeared in the slowly wheeling heavens. He slept well and deeply, but was awake again just before sunrise—roused from rest by the barking of dogs. As it would not do to arrive in the riverside hamlet too early, he took his time with his morning ablutions—splurging recklessly with a little of his precious water to wash his face and hands—combing his hair and brushing his clothes to make himself as presentable as possible. He ate another handful of nuts and fruit while he waited for the sun to rise above the surrounding fields.
He set off again, refreshed, into the silvery haze of a cloudless day. As he neared the village, he could smell the humid, earthy scent coming from the great unseen river. At the outskirts of the settlement he was greeted by a pack of dogs, who announced his arrival to their masters with noisy enthusiasm. By the time Charles reached the centre of the settlement, his yapping entourage had alerted everyone within earshot to the presence of a stranger in their midst. Knowing he was marked and watched, he proceeded to the communal well, drank, and refilled his waterskin while he waited to be received by the local headman or elder.
This was not long in coming. Naturally curious, the country folk could not abide the mystery of this visiting stranger in their midst. A white-haired man in a faded blue kaftan approached and stood leaning on his stick.
“Salaam alaikum,” said Charles, holding out his hand.
“Alaikum salaam,” replied the elder. He did not accept the offered hand but raised his own in welcome.
If Charles’ Arabic was scant, his Egyptian was miniscule. Nevertheless, by dint of slow repetition and much gesturing, he was able to make himself understood. “I need men to help me,” he told the old man in his patched-together Arabic. “I have money.” He counted imaginary coins into his hand. “I can pay.”
When his pantomime failed to communicate, Charles tried his schoolboy French. “L’argent,” he said. “Je paie.”
“You pay,” echoed the headman, nodding to himself. He turned around and, beckoning to Charles, led him to his house nearby. They were followed by most of the assembled villagers, who stood crowding the open door and windows of the dwelling to observe the negotiations. Hibiscus tea was produced by a serving boy, and after a haltingly slow negotiation, a deal was finally struck: five men with tools appropriate for digging, three donkeys to carry the necessaries, and provisions for a six-day expedition to a site Charles would show them on the western side of the river. Transportation for the men, animals, and cargo would be provided. Half the cost would be paid on commencement, and half on completion and return. Only the village headman would be entrusted with the money, and he would act as paymaster to anyone supplying provisions, transportation, or labour. The final amount was agreed, to which Charles offered to pay a bonus if the expedition met with smooth, uncomplicated success.
The deal was sealed over a glass of raw Egyptian wine, and the white-haired elder asked when Charles wished to embark. “As soon as men and supplies can be gathered,” he answered. “Today, if it can be done.”
The man shook his head. “Tomorrow.” He patted the air with both hands. “You stay here. I make all things ready.”
Charles regretted cooling his heels for an entire day but accepted the offer with good grace and used the time to draw a simple map of the place he hoped to find on the west bank. Thanks to Benedict’s stories, Charles reckoned he had a pretty good idea where to look for the sarcophagus—providing he could find the wadi. This was the weakest part of his plan, he knew, but here he would trust local knowledge to lead him to the right place.
The next morning the expeditionary wheels began to turn—but slower and with many more halts and starts than Charles would have thought possible. Although the villagers expressed great interest in and enthusiasm for the project, this zeal failed to translate into speed. Moreover, there seemed to be no way to inspire in them the urgency Charles felt. The pace of progress in assembling the needed equipment and provisions was leisurely to the point of glacial.
After the fourth day, Charles gave up trying to hurry things along and simply sat under a date palm on the bank of the river, munching dried squash seeds and watching the wide green Nile roll by. This seemed by far the most sensible policy, since any interference on his part only served to slow things down further. On the sixth day, the headman came to where Charles had set up camp beneath the date palm and announced that tomorrow all preparations would be complete.
“Splendid!” cried Charles, leaping to his feet. “We will leave first thing in the morning.”
“Next day,” countered the village elder with a shake of his head. “I call my nephew.”
Finally, eight days after his arrival in the village, all was ready and the expedition assembled on the riverbank to load the boats and set out. At the water’s edge, the village elder placed his hand on the shoulder of a young man and indicated that he was to serve as the foreman of the expedition. “My nephew,” the old man said. “He is guide.”
“Shukran,” replied Charles. To the youth, he said, “What is your name?”
“He speaks no French. Only Arabic and Egyptian,” the headman informed him. “Just call him Shakir.”
“Well, Shakir,” said Charles, “make ready to depart.” He waved a hand at the boats and the few baskets yet remaining on the bank. “We go.”
“Okay, Sekrey!” Shakir clapped his hands and hurried the workers to stow the last of the provisions onto the waiting boats.
“What is sekrey?” asked Charles, appreciating the young fellow’s eagerness.
“It is captain,” replied the village elder. “Boat, caravan, or men—all same.” He offered a concluding bow. “Salaam.”
Shakir saw the last basket hauled aboard, then climbed into the lead vessel himself. He put out a narrow plank for Charles, who boarded and settled himself on a pile of rope in the bow, and the boat soon pushed off. The Nile was wide at this place, the water deep and easy-flowing, and the shallow-draft vessels drifted as they crossed, reaching the opposite shore a fair distance from the place where Charles wanted to disembark. The boats had to be slowly rowed back upstream to the landing place before they could be unloaded. Consequently, it was well past midday by the time the expedition was fully assembled—just in time for a lengthy rest through the hottest part of the day.
Though it chafed him to idle, Charles knew there was nothing for it but to endure the forced repose and stay on the good side of his crew. When at last the sun began to relinquish its fiery grip, they set off, reaching the farthest fringe of planted fields by sundown. Another night under the stars followed—this one much better supplied than the first—and they broke camp at dawn and set off, much refreshed, to begin the trek into the arid white wastes beyond the fertile green strip of planted fields.
Only one road ventured west into the desert, eventually bending around to run parallel to the escarpment of rocky hills and plateaux that stretched all the way to the Sahara. In places little more than a line scratched in the sun-blasted dirt, the naked track skirted the crumpled feet of the jagged barrens of the great limestone embankment that rose stark from the lower plain. Charles followed the trail, aided by a crude map he had concocted from the stories of his father, backed up by a book in the British Library detailing the geologic surveys of Emperor Napoleon’s military engineers.
Holding this rough guide in one hand, his head swathed in his makeshift turban, Charles stumped along, scanning the unfolding hillscape as he walked, searching for two things: a towering triangular peak that, when viewed from a certain angle, resembled a pyramid; and a narrow crevice opening onto the valley floor and somewhat adjacent to the pyramid peak. This was the wadi, or dry gorge, leading into the heart of the hills.
The day, already hot, grew hotter and drier the farther away from the irrigated fields they went. Charles poured water on his turban and opened his shirt, which produced a fleeting relief. Within minutes he felt like a beast basting in its own juices; he could heartily commiserate with the poor skewered pig aroast on a turning spit—all he lacked was an apple in his mouth to make the sensation complete.
Nowhere in this blighted wasteland did he see even a twig, much less a tree, to provide the least scintilla of shade. Everywhere he looked, the same monochromatic landscape met his gaze—a world leached of colour until all that remained was a palette primed in shades of deathly white. Even the sky above had faded from blue to a ghastly hue the colour of old bones.
The air was not only stifling but immobile—too hot and heavy to move. Breathing was a chore that seemed to offer little reward for the effort. It would be, Charles considered, easier to simply give up the onerous work and suffocate than continue the exercise. Nevertheless, a higher purpose drove him on.
Eventually they came upon a massive standing slab and decided to stop for a rest until the heat began to dissipate. The stone was a monument in red granite marking the boundary of some pharaoh or other’s domain.
The pause turned into a camp for the night since no one could muster either strength or will to continue the trek. Once the tents were erected and food began to cook, Charles allowed himself to entertain a more philosophical cast of mind. In the end, he decided, it was a fool’s errand to count progress in miles covered. Rushing about in the desert could only result in sunstroke or worse.
His new attitude lasted until the next morning, when he charged off in search of the pyramid-shaped hilltop that marked the entrance to the hidden wadi. He sailed along the dusty track, paying little attention to the fact that he was quickly outdistancing his entourage—until, hearing shouts behind him, Charles turned to see that the donkey train was far behind him. He sighed and sat down to wait until they caught up.
As he waited he studied his hand-drawn map, comparing it against the surrounding landscape—absorbed in this survey until a shadow fell across the paper, jolting Charles from his appraisal. He looked up to see young Shakir standing over him, staring at the paper. Charles gave it to him and, climbing to his feet, indicated the line of high bluffs stretching into the distance; then he tapped the page.
Shakir’s black eyes narrowed as his dark brow lowered with concentration. Charles pointed to his map, indicating the pyramid peak; next, he put his finger on the notch in the hill, which was meant to represent the hidden gorge leading to their destination.
Taking the map, the young man turned it this way and that, then darted off along the track. Charles called after him, then watched as Shakir paused, searched the hills, then came running back the other way, passing Charles and heading south.
“Okay, Sekrey!” announced the young man upon his return a few minutes later. Streaming sweat, but triumphant, Shakir tapped the paper and flung out his hand and pointed to the series of ragged outcrops looming over the trail to the south.
Accepting this assertion, Charles nodded and indicated that Shakir should lead the way. They resumed their march, moving along the bank of foothills, quickly reaching the place Shakir had identified. In little more than a quarter of a mile by Charles’ rough estimation, he spotted a gap at the base of the rising bank of hills—not the breach Charles had imagined, more a simple overlapping, like the inward fold of a ruffled drapery. As this irregularity was the only candidate for investigation they had so far turned up, Charles decided to explore. Even before reaching the gap, however, he could see that it was indeed the entrance to a fair-sized wadi.
Closer, he discerned the smooth walls of wind- and water-sculptured stone rising sheer on either side to form the narrow gorge. Upon reaching the entrance, he stepped between the walls and was engulfed in blessed shadow. Charles sighed, wiped the sweat from his face, and ploughed on. With every step the air temperature seemed to fall as within the shaded realm the sun no longer ruled with impunity. Seeing a wider place a few metres ahead, he made directly for it and there, almost staggering with relief, he stopped and slid down the smooth stone to sit with his back against the wall, luxuriating as much in the escape from the searing sun as in the knowledge that he had found Anen’s wadi.
Recovering the Skin Map was now very much in his grasp. In a few short days, the secret that Arthur Flinders-Petrie had long ago taken to his grave would at last belong to Charles and to Charles alone.