of is that it is going to take a prodigious amount of planning and hard
work."
"You are still committed, then?" She wanted his assurance. She knew that
she could never do it alone. "You aren't daunted by the project?"
Nicholas chuckled. "I will admit that I never expected Taita to lead us
on such a merry chase. I imagined simply breaking open a stone gateway
and finding it all waiting for us there, like Howard Carter walking into
the tomb of Tutankhamen. However, to answer your question, yes, I am
daunted by what it's going to involve - but hell nothing could stop me
now! I have the smell of glory in my nostrils and the gleam of gold in
my eye."
While they talked, Tamre curled up in the dust on the other side of the
fire, and pulled his shaninut over his head. His rest must have been
interrupted by dreams and fantasies, for he burbled and squeaked and
giggled in his sleep.
"I wonder what goes on in that poor demented head, and what visions he
sees," Royan whispered. "He says he saw Jesus here in the quarry, and I
am sure that he really believes that he did."
Their voices became softer and drowsier as the fire burned down and
Royan murmured, just before she fell asleep on Nicholas's shoulder, "If
the tomb of Pharaoh Mamose is below the level of the river, then surely
the contents will be water-damaged?"
"I can't believe that Taita would have built his dam and spent fifteen
years working on the tomb, as he says that he did in the scrolls, only
to flood it deliberately and despoil the mummy of his king and ruin his
treasure," Nicholas murmured, with her hair tickling his cheek. "No, t
would have precluded Pharaoh's resu he that rrection in other world, and
brought all his work to nothing. I think Taita has taken all that into
his calculations."
She snuggled closer, and sighed with satisfaction.
A little while later he said softly, "Goodnight, Royan," but she did
not' reply and her breathing was deep and even. He smiled to himself,
and gently kissed the top of her head.
Nicholas was not certain what had woken him.
He took a few moments to place himself, and then he realized that he was
still in the quarry. There was no moon but the stars hung down close to
the earth, as big and fat as bunches of ripe grapes. By their light he
saw that Royan had slipped down and was lying flat on the ground beside
him.
He stood up carefully, so as not to disturb her, and moved well away
from the dead fire to empty his bladder.
The night was deathly quiet. No night bird called, nor was there the
sound of any of the other nocturnal creatures.
The rocks around him still radiated the heat of the previous day's
sunlight.
Suddenly the sound that had woken him was repeated.
It was a faint and distant susurration that echoed along the cliffs, so
that he could form no judgement as to the direction from which it came.
But he was in no doubt what the sound was. He had heard it so often
before. It was the sound of faraway automatic gunfire, almost certainly
an AK-47 assault rifle firing, not long ragged bursts, but short taps of
three rounds, an art that took expertise and practice.
He was sure that the person doing the shooting was a trained
professional.
He tilted his wrist so that the luminescent dial of his watch caught the
starlight, and he saw that it was a few minutes after three 'clock in
the morning.
He stood listening for a long time, but the firing was not repeated. At
last he returned to where Royan lay and settled down beside her again.
However, he slept only shallowly and intermittently, and kept starting
awake listening for more gunfire in the night.
Royan began to stir at the first lemon and orange flush of dawn in the
eastern sky, and while they ate the remains of the survival rations for
their breakfast he told her about the noise that had woken him during
the night.
"Do you think it could have been Boris?" she asked.
"He May have caught up with Mek and Tessay."
"I doubt that very much. Boris has already been gone several days. He
should be well out of earshot by now, even beyond the sound range of the
heaviest weapons."
"Who do you suppose it was, then?"
"I have no idea. But I don't like it. We should start back to camp as
soon as we have had another look around the quarry. After that there is
nothing further that we can do at this stage. We should make tracks for
home and mother."
As soon as the light was strong enough, Nicholas shot a spool of film to
make a record of the quarry. For ison of scale, Royan posed beside
compar the wall in which the embryonic blocks still lay. As she warmed
to her role as a model she started to clown for him. She climbed on to
the biggest of the slabs and hammed it up for the camera, pouting with
one hand behind her head in the style of Marilyn Monroe.
When, finally, they went off down the valley towards the monastery they
were both exultant and garrulous after their success. Their discussion
was animated as they bounced ideas back and forth, and laid their plans
for the further exploitation of these wonderful discoveries.
By the time they reached the pink cliffs at the lower end of the chasm
it was late morning. There they met a small party of monks from the
monastery coming up the trail.
Even from a distance it was obvious that something dreadful had happened
during their absence: the sorrowful ululations of the monks sent chills
down Royan's spine.
It was the universal African sound of mourning, the harbinger of death
and disaster. As they approached they saw that the monks were picking up
handfuls of dust from the track and pouring it over their heads as they
wailed and lamented.
"What is it, Tamre?" Royan asked the boy. "Go and find out for usP Tamre
ran ahead to meet his brother monks.
They stopped in the middle of the path and fell into a high-pitched
discussion, weeping and gesticulating. Then Tamre ran back to them.
"Your people at the camp. Something terrible has happened. Bad men came
in the might. Many of the servants are dead," he screamed.
Nicholas grabbed Royan's hand. "Come on!" he snapped, "let's find out
what is going on here."
They ran the last mile to the camp, and arrived to find another circle
of monks gathered around something in front of the kitchen hut.
Nicholas pushed them aside and elbowed his way to the front. There he
stopped and stared with a sinking feeling in his gut, and the sweat on
his face turned cold with horror. Under a buzzing blue pall of flies lay
the bloodsplattered corpse of the cook and three other camp servants.
Their hands had been bound behind their backs, and then they had been
forced to kneel before being shot in the back of the head at close
range.
"Don't lookV Nicholas warned Royan as she came up.
"It's not very pretty."
But she ignored his advice and came to stand beside him. "Oh, sweet
heavens. They have been slaughtered like cattle in an abattoir," She
gagged.
"This explains the sound of gunfire that I heard last night," he
answered grimly. He went forward to identify the dead men. "Aly and Kif
are not here. Where are they?" He raised his voice and called in Arabic,
turning to face the crowd. "Aly, where are you?"
The tracker pushed his way forward. "I am here, effendi." His voice was
shaky and his face was haggard. "Mere was blood on the front of his
shirt.
"How did this happen?" Nicholas seized his arm and steadied him.
"Men came in the night with the guns. Shufta. They shot into the huts