OVER THE NEXT day and night, Tariq oversaw a singularly bizarre operation. Nibamon and Nawidemaq, who each fancied himself an expert on the subject, agreed that the poison filling the trench acted the same way water did. The only way to drain the pit of this not-water was to bail it out.
Qorobar brought down the sack of Assyrian helmets he’d carried with him since Jerusalem. Using them as buckets, they would kneel beside the pit and scoop out a helmet-full of poison, then tip it into a waiting amphora. Some careful measurements on Nibamon’s part determined that an amphora could hold eighteen helmets’ worth of water. After some discussion, Tariq judged that twelve was a reasonably safe number. Whenever the amphora was ‘full,’ it was carried all the way to the surface and dumped a safe distance from the tomb entrance.
Simple enough, Tariq surmised. The trouble was that the stuff was literally invisible. The sight of hardened soldiers dipping upturned helmets into an empty trench, rising with infinite care, and pouring the contents into a jar, all with sweating brows and tongues stuck between their teeth—it put him in mind of children playing pretend. Any of the mercenaries might have laughed at themselves if not for Ermun’s body lying cold just out of reach.
Gauging progress was an interesting quandary. They solved it by accident when Eleazar lost his footing at the edge and very nearly fell to his death. Catching him by the sleeve, Tariq hauled him back to safety. The Israelite’s fallen torch rolled a little way, then abruptly went out. After that, Tariq would periodically dip a lit torch in and mark its terminus with a line of chalk. Progress was slow, at first. Infuriatingly so.
“It’s like playing bloody make-believe,” whined Qorobar after what must have been his fiftieth trip to the surface with a double load slung on his shoulders. Similar grumblings were constant. The seemingly foolish nature of the task grated on the mercenaries. Tariq was put in mind of the occasion when the nomarch of Hesbu had insisted on their company—then whole—marching through the streets of Poubasti in endless circles all day long to impress his people with a show of strength. Except Kushites were a rarity in that corner of the Delta, and the locals became wise to the game almost immediately.
But at least the nomarch had paid them in the end. Maybe the same would be true when they finished with Ramesses.
They made faster headway the deeper they went, thanks to the way the trench tapered toward the bottom. The space between Tariq’s grade marks grew. Once the poison level dropped out of arm’s reach, the mercenaries had to scoot down the sides on their asses with ropes tied at their belts, the lengths carefully measured to be sure they couldn’t descend too far. The self-imposed restriction hampered progress somewhat, but Tariq had no intention of losing anyone else. He knew Pisaqar would have agreed.
They shouted his name at intervals, pausing their work so they wouldn’t miss a reply. They never heard anything back.
At long last, the trench was emptied to knee level, low enough to safely cross. But the first thing they did was retrieve Ermun. They hoisted his rigid corpse in careful hands and brought him out on their shoulders, Kalab leading the way. They set him down in the entry hall. At that point, they looked very much like he did: gray with ash, hunched, drawn. To their shame, they couldn’t fix their friend into a posture that befitted his dignity. The best they could do was wipe the ash from his face and cover him with a blanket. And though Kalab wanted to remain in the entry hall with his teacher, they were all cognizant of the fact that Pisaqar had done the same, only to be forced into the depths of the tomb for unknown reasons. There was no circumstance under which Tariq would permit anyone else to be alone. Kalab didn’t question the decision. Planting kisses on Ermun’s covered brow, they made the descent as one—down the Serpent Tunnel, across the poison pit, and through the portal into the dark labyrinth beyond.
* * *
The elaborate warren of passageways put the ones that had come before to shame. One passage split in two. Each snaked off in opposite directions, branching in turn into yet more tunnels that thankfully ended in single rooms. As for the purpose of these rooms, Nibamon could only offer guesses. Decoy burial chambers, perhaps. Or, more likely, they’d been meant as supplemental burial chambers for Ramesses’ family. If that was true, the absence of royal sarcophagi was a heavy indication that the pharaoh’s plans had gone badly awry. His wife, concubines, and children had not followed him west. They’d gone to oblivion instead.
The twin passages joined and split, joined and split, yielding chamber after barren chamber. Their yells and whistles echoed between boastful rows of hieroglyphs. Pisaqar did not answer them. But neither was there any sign of his body. The only indications of his passing were dragging footprints in the otherwise undisturbed dust, and once, a discarded torch. Yesbokhe sniffed it and judged it to have been out for many days.
The effort took on new urgency after that discovery. On through the subterranean maze they went, breaking up walls and building cairns to ensure they could find their way back, even if all their torches went out. The troubling lack of such precautions on their captain’s part didn’t go unnoticed. Had he been arrogant enough to think he could retrace his steps blind?
Or had something prevented him from stopping?
The tunnels joined together and leaned into a gradual descent—straight as a sunbeam, far as an arrowshot, before unexpectedly terminating.
Then the mercenaries encountered a wholly unexpected obstacle: water.
At the end of the long tunnel, the floor dropped away into a pool of lusterless water, the same yellow as the sandstone. It was utterly still, such that Tariq at first mistook it for a stone landing and almost stepped onto it.
Kneeling, he shone his torchlight on the murky yellow depths. “Pisaqar, please tell me you didn’t swim into that.”
Eleazar leaned past him with an incredulous look. “Have we gone all the way to the Nile?”
“Impossible,” Nibamon’s nasal voice said from behind him. “We’d have needed to travel leagues.”
“Well then, where did this water come from?”
Nibamon replied, “I don’t know. There’s no water in these hills. It doesn’t matter how far one digs.”
“Rain?” suggested Kalab.
“You have rain in Kush, yes, but Egypt? The Valley of the Kings, no less! Never. This must have been brought up from the Nile. By hand. The audacity confounds.” The foreman’s tone was wonderstruck. Even envious.
“It doesn’t matter how this water got here,” said Tariq. He pointed at the opaque brown. “We have to go in. It’s the only place Pisaqar could have gone.”
“All of us?” asked Nibamon. He had never shared the Kushites’ comfort with water.
“No. There’s no telling how far it goes. Or—” Tariq swallowed, “or what we’ll find in there. One of us has to go alone first. It should be me. I’ll go.”
Amani looked astonished. “Why you?”
“Because this is my fault. I let Pisaqar stay.”
Qorobar put a hand on his shoulder. “Let me. Amun knows I’ve wronged the man enough times over the years. Let me make it right.”
Tariq dashed his hand away. He forced a grin. “You can fuck off and make amends some other way. I’m the best swimmer. Besides, your fat, wrinkled head will only get you stuck. No, I’m the one. The rest of you are staying. That’s all there is to discuss.”
Yesbokhe came up with a rope. He tied a secure knot around Tariq’s ankle. He pointed to Tariq and yanked twice. Meet trouble, haul on the rope.
Tariq faced the water. He took a steadying breath, but before he could finish mustering his courage, quick footsteps came up from behind him. Amani grabbed his cheeks and kissed him fiercely. The other Kushites hid smiles and turned away.
“They’re finally out with it,” Qorobar said with what sounded suspiciously like pride. “Young love.”
Amani pulled away. “More when you get back,” she promised. “Go get him.”
He nodded. He waded into the water. Its coolness prickled at his skin. With a few deep breaths, he shut his eyes and made the plunge.
Opening them, he saw only solid brown. The light dimmed with his first cutting strokes, and then, almost instantaneously, fled altogether. He swam in total darkness, keenly aware of the walls hemming him in, because he scraped his head or his hands against them every time he moved. Without sight, it was impossible to swim in a straight line. There was only the cold water that pressed against his skin, whose rush filled his ears. Whenever he bumped his forehead on the ceiling, he recognized—or imagined—that he was still swimming ever deeper. His lungs raised the first hint of protest. He ignored the discomfort. He continued to fight the water, kicking and scooping.
The press against his ears grew. He wiggled his jaw, alleviating the discomfort. But still, he had to contend with the growing ache in his lungs. His body was warning him to turn back. He couldn’t—not yet. He’d barely gotten started.
He ran face first into a wall, mashing his nose with a crinkle of soft bone. His chin stung insistently enough that he was sure he’d cut himself. Still, he was relieved. He’d blundered into an upward bend. He fumbled around the walls until he was sure of the angle. Then he propped his feet and launched himself diagonally upward. He couldn’t be far now. Up meant air.
Until the rope around his ankle went taut. He kicked to loosen it and tried to lunge, but it caught again. He grasped the problem: the rope was getting snagged on the rough-edged corner of the ceiling. The choice was clear: forward or back.
It was an easy decision. He drew his knife and sliced through the strands with a few practiced cuts. Snagged in place, the others wouldn’t have felt his signals for help even if needed it. He left the useless rope floating in his wake.
His lungs were burning by now. He clenched his teeth with the effort of holding his breath. He scuffed the chiseled sides of the tunnel with his toes and raked it with his fingers, tearing the softened nails, but the effort seemed to win him additional progress. Up and up he battled, until the weight on his ears began to relent. He could feel the surface coming close.
He exploded out of the water with a deep intake of breath. He padded in place, hearing his harsh, grateful breathing reverberate on stone.
“Who’s there?”
He almost wept to hear Pisaqar’s voice. “It’s me, Tariq.”
Pisaqar spoke with an identical flood of relief. “Praise Amun!” The chamber they were in was devoid of light, but Tariq heard his captain scrabbling over. Hands felt at him, found his armpit, and pulled. Though there was little strength behind the effort, it lent Tariq a welcome sense of direction. He flopped onto level ground with his limbs flailing.
Blindly, he and Pisaqar shared an embrace. Pisaqar shook in his grip. The man’s skin was clammy, taut against straining bones. But he was alive. That was enough.
Tariq asked, “What happened to you?”
Pisaqar’s heavy silence spoke loudly while revealing nothing. After a few moments, he said with a false laugh, “I could ask the same of you.”
Tariq pitied him—understood, even. Nine days in the dark. He wouldn’t have wished it on anyone.
He told Pisaqar what had happened in his absence. The sandstorm, the clearing of the poison tunnel, the blind swim. He came to the end of the tale and fell silent. Pisaqar never gave an indication of hearing, but sat silent in the dark the entire time. Tariq didn’t even hear him move. He wished he could see the captain’s face, if nothing else. An imaginary terror came to him—that he wasn’t talking to Pisaqar at all, but some evil spirit that spoke with his voice.
“Pisaqar, how did you end up here? Why?”
“They were long days, Tariq. When I realized you wouldn’t return, I began to work. If only to ease my mind. And then … I…” He trailed off into a haunted silence. “I found a way across the pit. And I had to… I ran. I hurt my leg.” Another pause, in which Tariq imagined a hopeless gesture. “I ran until my feet hit water. I swam until I found air. And then … I waited. I knew you would come.” He sobbed. “I knew you would. I am sorry I could not wait.”
Tariq’s heart broke to hear such hollowness in his captain’s voice. He was glad, suddenly, that he couldn’t see his expression. But he had to ask the question. “Why didn’t you wait?”
“Nine days. You would not believe me if I told you, Tariq. The things… You would not believe. Take me away from here. Take me back.” Pisaqar made a sound that could have been the merest approximation of a laugh. “I need a beer. By the gods.”
“Yes. We’ll go back.” Tariq looked around. It was an instinctive motion. He still couldn’t see at all. There was only pure darkness, the musty scent of moist stone, the light lapping of water. “Where are we?”
The question stirred Pisaqar’s mind again. “This was the burial chamber. This was where the Ramesses the Eighth rested.”
Tariq’s leaping pulse slackened again at the dejection in the other man’s voice. “Was?”
“It is empty, Tariq. Someone else broke into the tomb long before us. Everything was all for nothing.”