The Buried Pyramid (2 page)

“Yes. I suppose if Prince Albert’s cousin wants to go out in the desert, you’ll need help. You can hire natives to handle the baggage and camels, but I’ll give you a sergeant to wrangle the lot. Any preferences?”

“Sergeant Bryce, sir. Edward Bryce. He knows Egypt well, speaks Arabic, and has a way with the natives.”

“Bryce . . . ”

Sedgewick frowned. Captain Hawthorne held his breath.

“Wasn’t Bryce just brought up for something?”

“Disorderly conduct, sir,” Neville replied stiffly. “Drinking. Brawling.”

Whatever Reginald Sedgewick’s snobbery regarding the proper social class from which commissioned officers should be drawn, he was also a seasoned veteran and no great advocate of the stricter discipline some of his colleagues tried to enforce off the field.

He snorted.

“Disrespect to officers?”

“No, sir. Bryce took exception to how a lady was being treated. Got into a fight.”

“Did he win?”

“Yes, sir, but he’d had a bit too much, got rather battered, and consequently was late getting back to quarters. His uniform was wrecked. Officer on duty wrote him up.”

Colonel Sedgewick shook his head in disbelief.

“You can have Bryce. If anyone protests that he’s being rewarded with soft duty for unbecoming behavior, send them to me. I’ll tell them a few hard truths about just how soft a bed of desert sand actually is.”

Alphonse Liebermann proved to be short, wiry, and somewhere into his fifth decade. Bald as an egg, he sported the most magnificent eyebrows Neville had ever seen—bushy, even sweeping grey specimens that leapt to punctuate their owner’s every exclamation. They completely intimidated the German’s perfectly unexceptional mustache and, indeed, made it hard for one to remember that he had any other features at all.

Liebermann was accompanied by one servant: Derek Schmidt, a tall, thin man with bristle-cut greying hair. Schmidt possessed a soldier’s erect posture and a distinct limp that showed why he was no longer in active service. He had taken charge of the baggage with such efficiency that Neville had been unsurprised to learn later that Schmidt had begun his career in the Prussian equivalent of the quartermaster corps.

“I have a secret, Neville,” Alphonse Liebermann confided several days after their initial meeting. He kept his voice low, and his English was so heavily accented that the phrase sounded rather like “I haff’a secret.”

Neville Hawthorne nodded, not certain how to respond to this strange confidence. However, he liked the little man—who had insisted immediately they place themselves on a first name basis—so he replied encouragingly, “I’m not at all surprised,
Alphonse.”

Neville had not needed to be a great genius to figure this out. In the first few days since he’d arrived in Egypt, Herr Liebermann’s actions had been focused and purposeful. He had avoided all the usual tourist attractions—although he had looked longingly toward where the Pyramids at Gizeh created a magnificent backdrop for the modern city.

When Neville had offered to arrange for Alphonse to take a tour, the German had shaken his head determinedly.

“No. That will not be necessary. I have seen the Great
Pyramids before. I have more important tasks to perform than visiting them again.”

His tone had held portents of grand deeds to come, and Neville was reminded of it now as Alphonse continued speaking.

“I am preparing to make,” Alphonse said, “a discovery that will set my name in the pantheon of archeology, alongside Winckelmann, Belzoni, and Lepsius. I have finished my preparations here in Cairo. You have our tickets?”

“I do,” Neville said. “Tickets for a steamer to Luxor. From there we will change to a dahabeeyah. Sergeant Bryce has gone ahead to make arrangements for camels and a few native servants.”

“Very good.” Alphonse returned to his prior topic of conversation. “Neville, mine will be a landmark discovery. It will make a turnover of archeology, reveal things about not only the days of the pharaohs, but about our entire conception of reality—about the relationship of gods to men.”

Neville nodded, trying to match Liebermann’s serious intensity. It was difficult. This crazed German seemed so like something out of a stage play that bouncy music hall tunes kept playing across Neville’s inner ear.

For a fleeting moment Neville wondered how Prince Albert’s family actually felt about this cousin. Perhaps Alphonse was an embarrassment. Perhaps he was supposed to get lost in the desert. Maybe that was why Neville had been picked for this honorable duty rather than one of Lord Sedgewick’s more socially advantaged cronies.

Alphonse lowered his voice still further, “When we are away from Cairo, then I will confide in you what—and who—we are seeking. For now, I do not wish attention drawn to us. Would it be too much trouble for you and Sergeant Bryce to wear civilian clothing?”

Neville cocked an eyebrow, but forbore requesting clarification.

“It will be no problem at all.”

On their first evening aboard the steamer, Alphonse invited Neville to his cabin for brandy and cigars.

Although the weather on deck was pleasant, and several of the young ladies taking the cruise were not nearly as snobbish as Colonel Sedgewick, Neville reported to the German’s spacious stateroom. He was unsurprised to find Alphonse poring over a sheaf of closely written pages.

“Captain Hawthorne,” Alphonse said with more formality than he had shown since his arrival, “please, be seated. My great thanks for your coming to me. I have given Schmidt the evening off so we may speak in confidence.”

Neville nodded, accepted the brandy offered, declined a cigar, and leaned back in the well-upholstered chair Alphonse indicated. He’d had a heavy dinner, and the rhythmic thumping of the ship’s engines threatened to put him to sleep.

“In Cairo, I told you I had a secret,” Alphonse began. “Now I will reveal this secret to you. You will become the second European alive—or so I believe—to know a great mystery.”

“I am honored,” Neville said and hoped that his suppressed laughter would be taken for British stuffiness.

“Very good.”

Alphonse swirled the brandy in his snifter and settled himself more deeply into his chair. Although he kept his notes spread near, he never once consulted them. Clearly this was a tale he knew by heart.

“Some years ago,” Alphonse said, “when I am doing research into the historicity of Moses, I hear an amazing tale from a Bedouin rug merchant.”

“Wait,” Neville said, raising an inquiring finger. “I thought you didn’t speak Arabic.”

“I do not,” Alphonse said cheerfully, “but this merchant spoke French. Now, I must tell you that I do not think I was meant to hear this tale. The Bedouin was very old, and when I asked him about Moses, calling him ‘the Lawgiver,’ the Arab began to speak of another lawgiver, one from long ago. His lawgiver was a pharaoh named Neferankhotep. This name means ‘Gift of a Beautiful Life.’”

Or “complete” or “perfect,” Neville thought. He didn’t read hieroglyphs, but he had worked his way through some of the modern commentaries and found the material fascinating.

“Now, even in ancient times,” Alphonse continued, “Egypt possessed an excellent legal system, one that—in theory—protected the commoner on equal terms with the highest noble.”

Alphonse grimaced, those amazing eyebrows lowering then rising once more.

“But, Neville, we know that theory and practice are very different. In practice, those with title and property are treated far better than the peasants who have little or nothing.”

“True enough,” Neville replied a trace sourly, “even today.”

Alphonse’s gaze was so penetrating and sympathetic that Neville was embarrassed at his own petty grievances.

“But not when Neferankhotep reigned,” Alphonse went on, waggling an admonishing finger. “When this good pharaoh reigned there was perfect justice, such perfect justice that all his people loved him. They wished that his mortuary complex would be finer than any pharaoh had ever known. The good Neferankhotep would not have this.

“He indicated an outlying valley, far from the fertile lands and said, ‘Give me only a simple rock tomb, make my shabti figures from clay, my amulets from common stones. If these charms and honors are enough to serve my people in the afterlife, then they will be sufficient for me.’ ”

Guess we won’t make our fortunes in gold and precious stones, then, Neville thought and poured himself a touch more brandy.

Alphonse’s voice fell into a sing-song, storytelling mode in which his German accent became oddly, pervasively musical.

“Eventually, Neferankhotep’s life upon the earth ended. The mortuary priests immediately began the arduous process of embalming the pharaoh’s mortal remains. On the very day that they began their work, a terrible sandstorm arose in the humble valley wherein the pharaoh had requested he be entombed. Watchers claimed that they could see towering forms moving purposefully within the clouds of sand and grit. The sandstorm raged with unabated fury until the very day that Neferankhotep’s body was ready for burial. Then, as the last seal was set upon his sarcophagus, the storm vanished.

“Within the once barren valley stood the most magnificent pyramid that anyone had ever seen, complete with a complex of temples, chapels, and long avenues of guardian beasts. The decorations on the buildings and on the sarcophagus that awaited the pharaoh’s mummy were of gold, silver, electrum, and precious stones, more and richer than had ever been seen before. Magnificent alabaster statues, one representing each of the myriad gods and goddesses of ancient Egypt, stood silent watch over the compound.

“The message from the gods was clear. Therefore, here in this complex crafted by the hands of his sibling gods who loved him, Neferankhotep was entombed. A community of priests was established to watch over the pharaoh’s sacred person and to offer sacrifices at the appropriate times.

“All proceeded in honor and grace for many years, then thieves—some say greedy or jealous priests—attempted to loot Neferankhotep’s pyramid. They did not manage more than to cross the threshold. As they made their nefarious intent clear, an enormous sandstorm arose from nowhere, although elsewhere the day remained still and clear. For seven days and seven nights the storm raged, a red glow as of divine fury at its heart. When it died away, the entire compound had vanished.

“What remained was an empty valley. Towering statues of the greatest Egyptian gods, armed as for war, stood at the four cardinal points. A warning against future desecration was deeply etched into the cliffs surrounding the valley. From that day forth, the Valley of Dust—for so it came to be called—has been a shunned and sacred place, although rumor says that there are those who, to this day, are sworn to protect its treasures.”

Herr Liebermann concluded by bowing his head in a manner that would have seemed affected had it not been clear that he was deeply moved by what he had just related. Neville didn’t want to admit the truth, not even to himself, but he too had been swept up in the tale.

Therefore, Neville forced himself to sound casual as he asked, “So, can I take it that you have a line on this Valley of Dust?”

“I believe I do,” Alphonse said dryly. “Would you bear with me through another tale?”

Neville reached for the brandy and poured himself a touch. “I would listen in fascination,” he said.

Alphonse accepted the unspoken apology, swirled his own brandy once more, and began.

“The tale of Neferankhotep was very interesting to me, even more so when I realized that I was apparently alone in having heard it. True, archeologists have not translated all the texts, even from those tombs and temples they have found, but it seemed to me that I had come across something wonderful and unique. I began to research the sources of the tale, actively soliciting traveler’s accounts and legends, looking for any hint that might lead me to Neferankhotep and the Valley of Dust. For a long time, I met with little success.

“Then one day a tightly wrapped package was left for me at my hotel. All the concierge could tell me was that it had been left by a woman, a desert Arab, or so he thought. He said she had asked in very bad French if this was where the German gentleman who was collecting legends was staying. When the concierge had confirmed this, she insisted on leaving the package. The concierge thought she seemed nervous. We were both surprised that she had left no way to contact her, for surely she expected payment.

“I thought about seeking the woman, but how to tell one woman from so many? I decided that she would return in her own time, perhaps after I had an opportunity to inspect her offering and would be more prepared to pay her. Perhaps her menfolk didn’t know she had come to me. Perhaps she wanted to keep the money for herself. So relieved of anxiety on that point, I retired to my room and unwrapped the package.”