The Eleventh Plague (16 page)

A
FEW MILES ALONG
the road that followed the snaking bends of a lake, Ahman slowed his cart to a halt next to a small ring of trees. Helping Destine down, he laid a blanket onto the cool sand by the lapping waters of the lake. Along the banks, lush grasses and ferns flourished, reaching up to tease the breeze. The setting was an ideal stage upon which to discover the origins of the long-buried secret.

Ahmad made a small fire that battled against the wind to stay alight, and he rushed around busily, finding kindling to keep it burning. It was only when he was finally seated that Destine laid the parcel onto the blanket. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in rough sacking, fastened with a thin strip of leather tied into a thick knot. Savouring every moment, Destine unfurled each flap of rough, worn material.

Lying in the centre was a beaten, brown-leather book.

Destine looked up at Ahman, who greeted her silent questions with his usual aplomb.

‘Well, my dear?’ he said. ‘Do not keep me on tenterhooks.’

Opening the cover, Destine cleared her throat and read aloud: ‘Journal begun August 1833 – Aloysius Bedford, Archaeologist.’

She looked at Ahman, wide-eyed. ‘From my letter! So he was an archaeologist!’

‘Evidently so, Destine…now read on,’ nudged Ahman.

Destine complied, turning the yellowed pages of the old journal carefully, as if it were an ancient manuscript found in a dusty old library. She skipped past illustrations of what appeared to be ancient artefacts. Various pieces of jewellery, figurines of catlike deities and hawk-headed deities adorned every page. Once she had discovered the first entry in the journal, Destine began again:

‘Soon I shall set forth to the dig site in Umkaza, and this journal shall assist me in keeping track of all that occurs upon this excavation. My sponsor speaks well of Umkaza, a place that he proclaims to hide a veritable feast of artefacts beneath the sand – but I have heard that before. Although I do not leave until tomorrow, there is still much to prepare. The Museum of Antiquities in Cairo has agreed to loan me a crew of diggers – however, they neglected to mention that the men did not speak English! I have consulted some of my colleagues, and they have managed to procure the services of a Frenchwoman to assist me, who is reportedly fluent in most languages, including Arabic. Madame Destine Renard is scheduled to arrive within the month.’

Destine looked up from the journal.

‘A translator?’ grinned Ahman. ‘I suppose this solves the riddle of how you were able to understand Feron Mouk back at Sekhet Simbel. Please do go on, Madame…this is fascinating, ah?’

‘This delay is a hard punch to my spirits!’ continued Destine, as keen as Ahman to reveal elements of her own past.

‘I only hope that once we begin digging I will have worthy results to show my benefactor. If he is right, Umkaza is one of three possible resting sites of the fabled Pharaoh’s Cradle. That prize is a treasure of such magnificence! The very crib used by Rameses the Great – it is astounding to think that it might soon be within my hands! Should my hard work unearth such a wonder, my life would be changed for ever…for the better, I might add. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm.’

‘I know just how you feel,’ said Destine excitedly, stroking the inked words upon the page. ‘This “Pharaoh’s Cradle”, Ahman…whatever it was, Aloysius was obviously quite enthralled by it. “A treasure of such magnificence,” he says. Are you familiar with it?’

Ahman shook his head. ‘Rameses the Great’s crib? The very soul immortalised within Sekhet Simbel? No wonder this journal was placed there…but I have never heard of it, Destine, and I think the answer to that may be obvious considering that this is not just a treasure hunt…it is a hunt for the truth of what happened to Aloysius. He obviously was destined never to find his great prize.’

‘You mean…because Aloysius never found the Pharaoh’s Cradle?’ asked Destine.

‘Yah…the poor soul,’ Ahman said. ‘You can almost feel the sorrow in his words.’

‘I
can
feel it,
mon ami
,’ admitted Destine. ‘Most clearly, in fact…from the page right into my head…almost as if this book were trying to speak to me. The more I read, the less distant the past feels somehow…as if this book is trying to repair my
connection to my lost memories. Not all of them yet, and not with any clarity…but instead of a blank canvas, gradually I am beginning to see shape and form…and colour.’ She turned the page, and read on.

‘Madame Destine has arrived on the ship from England to begin her work as my translator and her first words to me were of her sleeping arrangements! No complaints about the long journey, or the banal conversation of my driver. Sleep was the foremost concern on her mind! If only all my employees were so easily pleased. Now my work can commence in earnest. The Madame seems a most remarkable woman, fluent in several languages including French, Italian, English and Arabic. She has such knowledge in her eyes – almost as if she is at peace with everything. My crew have quite taken to her, and have nicknamed her “Madame Dusty” for she is always willing to crawl around in the sand alongside them. She is not one afraid to get her hands dirty, and that has ingratiated her much with the men – as it has done with me. She may just turn out to be the lucky rabbit’s foot that my crew need to find our prize.’

A flourish of embarrassment painted Destine’s cheeks, and she was forced to pause for breath. ‘My!’ she whispered. ‘Aloysius speaks highly of me, and in great detail, yet I cannot recall him for a moment. How strange this is.’

‘Not strange at all, my dear,’ Ahman said, tugging at his beard, ‘for he obviously remembers you just as I do.’

Destine turned the pages swiftly, eager to consume more. ‘
Sucré bleu
, Ahman – listen, just a few days later!

‘It is astounding! Proof without doubt that somewhere beneath Umkaza’s sands lays the Pharaoh’s Cradle, and soon I shall unearth it. Yet, with my triumph comes great concern – I cannot shake the feeling that I am merely the horse pulling the plough and someone else will be picking at the furrows long before I get a chance. My foreign sponsor has put me in touch with the port administrator, a chap named Godfrey Joyce. He has recommended a local guide who claims to know Umkaza well. I would prefer not to share our glory with anyone – especially an outsider – but I am beholden to circumstance.’

Madame Destine’s voice faded, and Ahman looked over at her.

‘My dear, are you feeling all right?’ he enquired.

But Destine ignored him. It was as if she were unable to hear him, or as if she had forgotten that he was even there. She rose to her feet, seemingly entranced. She began to pace around the sand, and Ahman experienced an emotion he thought never to feel in Destine’s presence – fear.

‘I am very
sensitive
to emotions, Aloysius, and the only emotion I sense from Joyce is deceit,’ she snapped, her voice severe. ‘I pray that I am wrong…but you must be mindful what you tell him about the Pharaoh’s Cradle.’

‘Pharaoh’s Cradle?’ repeated Ahman.

The words seemed to snap Destine from her trance and she raised a hand to her forehead. Ahman leapt to his feet, only just catching her as she wilted into his arms. Laying her gently down onto the blanket, he smoothed the hair from her face. He had no idea what sort of spectacle he had just witnessed. Destine was like a stranger, speaking words with an unrecognizable edge to them. The excitement of the day had obviously caught up with her,
Ahman suspected, combined with the heat and the journey from Agra. It had been a long day for them both.

Ahman looked around; it would make a suitable camp for the night, with the surrounding trees protecting them from the lake’s chill. He rose to his feet and pulled a woven blanket from the rear of his cart, covering Destine’s slumbering body.

‘No more truth tonight, my dear,’ he whispered. ‘Your past will just have to wait until tomorrow, ah?’

W
ITHIN THE BELLY
of the mountain, Cornelius Quaint followed the sound of raised voices through the twisting, turning tunnel. It was just about large enough for him to walk through at a stoop, but every so often a protruding edge of rock forced him to navigate his broad shoulders through the tight gap. Moving faster than a slow walk was virtually impossible, not to mention downright painful. His shirt snagged on a jagged outcrop, slashing a six-inch wound to his forearm that bled profusely. Not nearly painful enough to deter him, he tied his neckerchief around the wound and continued his pursuit.

Seeing a massive burst of orange-white light up ahead, Quaint moved unerringly towards it. The tunnel opened up as he pressed on, and there ahead of him, standing in a large cavern, was Aksak Faroud, with his Clan Scarabs fanned out around him. Many held torches and the cavern was bathed in amber light as they listened intently as their leader’s grinding, rasping voice echoed about them.

‘Professor North?’ Faroud called through cupped hands. ‘It is useless to hide from us! We are many and you are but one…and a woman, at that. Enough of these pointless games, give yourself
up!’ He paused, giving Polly a moment to identify her location, but nothing came back. ‘The night is almost upon us and even if you escape, where will you go? The desert stretches for miles in every direction; you will be dead before you reach the nearest settlement!’ His fellow Scarabs whooped and hooted at this possibility; Faroud held up his hands to silence them. ‘We are in no rush, Professor…if it takes us the entire night, we
will
flush you out.’

The Scarabs froze, awaiting a response. Nothing.

Quaint smiled. At least Polly was keeping her mouth shut for once. Responding to Faroud’s taunting would quickly give away her position.

Faroud cursed under his breath. ‘Scarabs, split into groups…scour everywhere,’ he growled, stabbing his torch into the ground. ‘I want every shadow lit and every stone lifted until that damn woman is found!’

Quaint watched from his hiding place as the pack dispersed. Soon the cavern was bathed in silence, and he cautiously moved from his spot. He tugged at his ripped shirt. Blood had seeped through his makeshift bandage and his sweat was making his wound sting like acid. He looked down at the injury, just as a drop of something struck his shoulder. He gently touched his fingertip to it and took a closer inspection.

It was a dab of red blood.

‘You can come down now, Professor. They’ve gone,’ he said.

High above his head, clinging to a series of stalactites, was Polly North. She dropped down onto the floor next to him. Her face was smudged with a mixture of dirt and sweat, and she was sporting fresh grazes on her cheek and arms – telltale signs that she had come the same way as the conjuror. She dusted off her khaki trousers and blouse, and stooped down to snatch up Faroud’s discarded torch from the cavern floor.

‘Thanks for not giving me away,’ she said, and set off.

Quaint grabbed her arm. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Don’t go
that
way! There are twenty Scarabs waiting for you down there!’

Polly rounded on the conjuror, wrenching her arm free of him. ‘Now you just listen to me,
Mister
Quaint! I’m an archaeologist. I’ve been in more catacombs than you’ve had hot dinners – I know where I’m going.’

‘So do I,’ said Quaint, ‘the
wrong
way! We need to head back the way we came in.’

‘Are you insane? They’ll have posted guards at all the exits!’ shrieked Polly.

‘Not any more, I took care of them,’ said Quaint. ‘Look, it’s the safest way for us to go, all right?’

‘No, it’s damn well not!’ snapped Polly. ‘That way still leads to their camp, and I have no intention of going back there. And what’s all this “us” claptrap? You’re a conjuror, right? So why don’t you magic yourself out of here. Me – I’m going to take another way out!’

‘What way?’ asked Quaint.

‘There are signposts all over this cave if you know where to look and what to look for.’ Polly lifted the torch up towards the cave roof. ‘Did you not spot those calcium carbonate deposits up there?’

‘Do I look like a cave expert to you?’ shrugged Quaint.

‘Mr Quaint, you don’t look like an expert on anything to me,’ Polly said with a stony glare.

‘There’s no need to be rude,’ said Quaint.

‘Let me spell it out to you: the further north we go into these caves, the more limestone is present…and the more limestone is present, the more
moisture
there is filtering down through the earth from above. Those calcium carbonate deposits up there –
stalactites, to the layman – are formed by the build-up of sedimentary minerals found in water.’ She glared at Quaint’s baffled expression. ‘Did you not pay
any
attention at school?’

‘I must have been absent the day we did caves,’ said Quaint sarcastically.

‘Well, if there are stalactites, that means there is water nearby!’ Polly said with a triumphant smirk. ‘Faroud said that we’re miles away from the nearest settlement, and he probably wasn’t bluffing, but if this cave system is near water…and north of Bara Mephista, then my best guess is that it must be the River Hepsut, flowing through the lowlands until it reaches Nespa Point. So, we follow the stalactites north, and we find a way out.’

‘No one likes a show-off, Professor,’ said Quaint.

‘Look, I don’t care what you do, but I’m getting out of this place before those Scarabs catch up with me. Now, you can stay here and wait to die, or you can come with me – as long as you don’t slow me down.’

‘Slow
you
down?’ Quaint spat ferociously. ‘Look, I came here to rescue you – at considerable risk to my own well-being, might I add – the least you can do is show me a little gratitude!’

‘I don’t need rescuing by the likes of you, Mr Quaint,’ Polly stormed.

Quaint’s temper rose swiftly. ‘Those Scarabs are animals, woman! No matter what their employer wanted from them, all bets are off. They’re going to
kill
you – and you say you don’t need rescuing?’

‘You misheard me. I didn’t say I didn’t need
rescuing
,’ replied Polly. ‘I said I didn’t need rescuing by the likes of
you
! Look, if you want to come, you’d best make up your mind.’

There was a low rumble behind them. The Clan Scarabs were on the move.

Immediately, Quaint’s priorities were back in order.

‘You’re the professor…
Professor
,’ he said.

‘And as long as you remember that, we’ll get on just fine!’ Polly snapped, heading into the darkness with her torch held above her head.

Muttering a silent prayer, Cornelius Quaint followed her…

A little way further, the walls of the cave closed sharply, forcing them to walk through in single file. Polly led from the front, her smaller build enabling her to slide easily through the gaps in the rocks. But Quaint was not so lucky. The rocks constantly snagged his bulky frame as if they had taken an instant dislike to him.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ Polly asked, as she manoeuvred her way through the confines of the enclosed tunnel.

‘Someone had to keep an eye on you,’ Quaint said, knowing his arrogance would infuriate her – and he was quite right.

‘I don’t mean in these caves, man – I mean back in Bara Mephista!’ Polly crackled back. ‘What was your business with Aksak Faroud and his band of not so merry men? Nothing pleasant, I’ll wager.’

Quaint asked, ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Well, look at you! You’re obviously some sort of a scoundrel,’ was the reply.

‘A scoundrel?’ baulked Quaint, taking offence. ‘A scoundrel would be miles away from here by now saving his own neck! A scoundrel would just leave—’

Polly spun around and jabbed her pointed finger into Quaint’s chest. ‘Don’t you dare call me a helpless female, or then you really
will
be in trouble!’

‘No, of course not. You are anything but…clearly. I was going to remark that a
s
coundrel would leave without giving you a second thought. I came to Bara Mephista seeking information – and I was doing all right in getting it until you poked your nose in! So right now you’re my best bet of getting out of this place.’

‘I agree…we need to get out of these caves as quickly as possible,’ said Polly, ‘that is if your constant blabbering doesn’t give us away. Come with me if you must, Quaint, but just keep your mouth shut and watch my back,’ she said curtly, as she crawled on her hands and knees, squeezing her ample backside through a tight gap in the rocks.

‘Don’t worry, Professor…I’ll do that,’ Quaint said, with a wolfish grin.

A little way further, Polly peered through the darkness as drips of water pelted her bare arms and face. ‘It’s cooler in here,’ she said, taking a long sniff. ‘And there’s a lot of moisture in the air.’ She stopped dead in her tracks, and Quaint nearly crashed into her. ‘Listen…what is that? Do you hear that?’

Quaint could hear it all right.

Raised voices echoed in the stillness of the tunnel, emanating not just from behind them, but from seemingly all around. The pursuing Clan Scarabs were screaming obscenities and curses – quite distinctly too.

‘They’re close. And coming this way,’ said Quaint.

‘How many do you think?’ Polly asked.

Quaint furrowed his brow. ‘At a guess I’d say all of them.’

The raucous barks and yells of their pursuers rapidly increased in volume, building to a vicious crescendo. Both Quaint and Polly
were fluent in Arabic, but even had they not been, the Scarabs’ message was all too clear.

Quaint and Polly scrambled down the cave tunnel as fast as they could. The sharp rocks of the walls tore at their arms and legs as they went but they did not stop – they could not afford to. Trouble was coming, and it was coming very quickly. The Scarabs were close, only a matter of yards away.

Quaint pulled the Professor along by her wrist – much to her very vocal disgust. Cloaked in plumes of choking dust, they skidded down the steep incline of the tunnel as the uneven surface beneath their feet threatened to jar their bones from their sockets. Quaint’s boots pounded at the ground, unable to gain purchase on anything. Polly was careering dangerously close to the tunnel wall, her momentum forcing her to twist and turn with every footstep.

Just ahead, Quaint could make out an orange glow. ‘We’re nearly there! Just hang on!’

He covered his eyes as the light blinded him. His foot made contact with a protruding rock and he only just managed to steady himself. All would probably have been well had Polly not stumbled over the same rock and smashed into him like a rutting stag. He fell a good three feet and then hit the rocky ground like a lead weight – then Polly crashed down on top of him. Caked in thick layers of coarse brown dust, they looked as though they had been dipped in cocoa powder.

Knuckling the dust from his eyes, Quaint noticed something.

It was the sharp end of a sword, and as the conjuror’s eyes followed the length of the blade up to the hilt, he met Aksak Faroud and his band of ferocious Clan Scarabs.

‘I thought we were dead,’ spluttered Polly, wiping dust from her eyes.

Quaint’s heart sank. ‘Hold that thought, Professor.’