The Count of the Sahara (27 page)

De Prorok suppressed an urge to scream.
Did the little bastard always have to be so tight-assed about everything? Can’t he see what we have here?
He took a deep, calming breath before responding. “Well yes, photographic documentation, I mean. Brad had his movie camera, and he and I both have our little Kodaks. We’ve been taking snaps as we go, best as the light lets us. We figured we’d restage everything when Barth gets here and… What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? Honestly? You know better than this. I mean, Brad has no clue, he’s an amateur, but you… You’ve corrupted the site. Jesus… we don’t even know what all this really means.”

“What it means, Pond, is that we have discovered a Roman burial chamber deep in the desert, with the remains of a real queen that many thought was just a myth. We’ve got Carthaginian gold and…”

“You don’t
know
any of that. You’ve got worked stone, I grant you, but we don’t know, really know, who worked it yet. You have a body of someone important, but you don’t really know who…”

“Of course we know…”

“No, we don’t,” Pond found himself shouting. “You don’t know, you’re guessing. Do you even know that’s a woman lying there?”

“Of course it is,” Byron frantically tried to wedge himself in beside the fusspot American. “Look at that crown, the necklace. Would a man wear those?”

Pond forced himself not to take the bait. Egyptians buried their dead with belongings of both sexes. Tuaregs were a complete gender mystery, with the men going veiled and kohling up their eyes while the women ran the show. Since no one really knew how old this tomb was, or whose body they were looking at, nobody—especially a pea-brain like de Prorok could be really sure. It was a great story. It was piss poor science.

Pond flinched as de Prorok clapped him on the shoulder. “And now you’re here to add a little rigor to the proceedings. Now we’ll have her dug out in no time, eh?”

“Yeah, well… we’ll have to get started, I suppose. But everything has to be by the book.”

“That’s a lad. I’ll get everyone rounded up and back at it.” Pond was older than de Prorok by two years, and it galled him to be treated like a child, especially by that overgrown adolescent. Still, if this place turned out to be what it seemed, well he’d have to just swallow his pride and get on with it.

Sweep by sweep, handful by small handful, the body was revealed. The pages of Pond’s notebook slowly filled with each entry:
wood (unkn) segment from platform (?) 6 in.
Then the piece of rotted wood was dusted, marked and set aside.

As they worked into the next day, Pond became increasingly excited, and de Prorok’s enthusiasm waned. Pond began to feel the familiar rhythm of the work: dig, dust, analyze, record, then dig some more. The Count, on the other hand couldn’t help but be disappointed.

No carved sarcophagus, no golden images. The bracelets, armbands and crown were made of brass or some other lesser metal. A few glasslike beads, their faces roughly formed, provided most of what little glitter there was. The only thing someone could really call treasure was one tarnished gold necklace and a pile of semi-precious stones—mostly Carmelite and polished agate—not much return on all their suffering.

The only statuary was that silly round female figure—most likely a fertility fetish of some kind. Interesting enough in her way, but it was hardly Tut’s death mask. As a purely anthropological discovery, it had value, no argument. As a career-making treasure trove, it stank of disappointment. Again.

He ducked low to see inside the cavern. Pond was bent over the body, examining the skull with calipers, muttering to himself, lost in his work.

De Prorok harrumphed loudly. “What are you doing?”

Pond adjusted the screw, double checked the numbers and noted them in his book. Looking up, de Prorok could see his forehead wrinkled in confusion. Brown dust mixed with sweat left muddy streaks across his brow. “Byron, how sure are you this is Tin Hinan?”

De Prorok knew that tone, and he didn’t much care for it. It was the sound of a professor laying a trap for an obtuse student. Still, he pasted on a casual smile. “Well, every source says she’s buried here. This mound has been a holy site for fifteen hundred years or so. Who else would it be?”

“I don’t know… it’s just… Look, the body is shorter than most Tuareg males, so it’s easy to assume it’s female. The cranium…” He went on as if explaining to a reluctant freshman. He held the calipers against the exposed skull, “…is consistent with a female. That’s all good.”

Then he moved down the body. “But the pelvis… it’s too narrow. What if this is a teenage boy, rather than a woman?”

De Prorok shook his head. “No. Unh-uh. I mean, I’m not doubting your measurements…” He hoped his voice sounded more convincing than it sounded in his own ears, “Not at all. But consider this.” He scrunched his eyes shut for a moment, gathering his scattered thoughts as he so often did before launching into one of his theories. “We know that Tin Hinan died young, and childless, far as we know. Yes?” Pond nodded patiently. “So… we have someone shorter than a Tuareg male. Lots of body jewelry… like the dowry necklaces we saw in the camp.” His eyes lit up. “The figurine…”

He grabbed the fetish statue and practically shoved it under the other man’s nose. His long fingers traced the breasts and the scratches indicating a rather prodigious vulva. “Don’t you see? This is probably some kind of, I don’t know, fertility goddess, judging from the… breasts and… what if this was buried with her to help her bear children in the next life?” He nodded, expecting a similar nod from Pond but got a winkled forehead and a shaken head instead.

“It’s possible, sure. But…”

“There you go, then.” De Prorok felt better. There was nothing like converting a skeptic to get the blood racing again. Of course, it all fit if you wanted it to. It was just a matter of squashing those pesky doubts that could paralyze you if you let them. Occam’s razor,
lex parsimonaie
, was one of the cardinal rules of science after all. The simplest answer was usually right. He believed that, when it suited him. Why ask a lot of inconvenient questions? No one else would.

He still heard some of those doubts in Pond’s voice, although weaker. “There’s something about her pelvis that bothers me…”

The academic in Pond was frustrated by the haphazard nature of the entire operation. De Prorok seemed awfully sure of himself, but then he thought Atlantis might be under their feet, too. Was he right, or just lazy? It would be a whole lot easier if he was right. If.

When the sun sank too low for the light to enter the tomb, Pond and de Prorok headed back to camp. They passed Chapuis, cradling his rifle in his arms and chewing what was left of his finger nails. “Louis, something wrong?” De Prorok felt obliged to ask, although he wasn’t sure he could stand hearing the answer.

Chapuis looked up at the Count. “The drums have started up again.” De Prorok just nodded.

“What’s that about?” Pond wanted to know, or pretended to. The knot in his stomach told him he already did. It tightened a bit when they neared the bottom of the hill. Martini, Brad Tyrrell and Hal Denny were loading gear into Lucky Strike.

“Lonnie. Great. We’re going back to Tamanrasset to see if we can find Reygasse, and maybe get some assistance out here. Denny needs to file his story, so he’s coming with. We’ll be back in the morning if everything goes right.”

“Yes, God knows everything’s gone right so far.” Pond wasn’t entirely sorry he let that slip, but de Prorok didn’t hear him. He was too busy in conference with Hal Denny.

“Byron, take a look at these stories…. Which do you like best?” The reporter held three pieces of paper out for the Count’s inspection. De Prorok read each in turn.

Daring Rescue on Camels Saves Prorok Expedition

Tomb Yields Proof of High Civilization in Sahara

Jeweled Skeleton Found by Prorok in Tomb of Goddess

A long, slender finger pointed to the last one. “That one’s rather hard to resist, isn’t it? Well done, Hal.”

“I like that one, too. Almost makes coming out here worth it.” He placed extra emphasis on the ‘almost.’ “I’m not looking forward to sitting in the car for eighty miles, but it beats the hell out of a camel. They’ll eat it up at home. This is huge, Byron. It’ll be the making of you.”

Chapter 19

Near Abalessa, Hoggar Province, Algeria

November 13, 1926

That night nothing happened, but they couldn’t have slept much worse if it had. The drums from the village thrummed steadily all night, drifting over the still desert like a faraway radio station. There was no sign of incursion—Chapuis’ rifle and his willingness to use it proved a strong deterrent, and now that the white men were no longer starving and thirsty they made a less tempting target.

Alonzo Pond slept well as he always did outdoors. Years of camping in open spaces meant he could make himself comfortable and nod off almost anywhere. He did lay awake for a while, hands clasped behind his head and dreaming of speaking fees and a girlfriend suitably grateful for his safe return. He also mentally composed his report to Dr. Collie and the Museum, and hoped he could strike the right balance of excitement and scientific neutrality.

The discovery of Tin Hinan, if indeed it was her up there, was icing on an already rich cake. From a strictly anthropological standpoint, the paleolithic discoveries they made along the way were more important, if not nearly as glamorous. He just couldn’t share de Prorok’s enthusiasm, not without a lot more study. He liked the man, who wouldn’t? But his abundant charm couldn’t cover up his complete lack of professionalism. How could anyone go through life that completely sure of himself? It wasn’t natural. Pond envied the man despite himself.

Byron de Prorok slept less than the others. Conflicting emotions battled in his head: pride at the discovery, impatience to tell the world, fear that he might be wrong. More than anything that night, the voices in his head told him he’d wind up like Gordon at Khartoum—lauded, respected, remembered as a hero, but not there to enjoy his own fame.

He accomplished the obvious goal. After all, the tomb was here, even if the actual treasure was less than he’d hoped for. It was an important find, and he’d milk it for everything he could. After all, he had the ear of the world’s most important newspaper and that would shut up the doubters at the Royal Geographic Society—let them deny him membership now—and the Renault vehicles had survived the trip. Maybe they’d give him one of those new luxury models the drivers were raving about, a Vivasix. Alice would love that. But first he had to get everyone home safely. The nagging voice in his head, the one that sounded like his Grandmama, told him he was damned lucky no one had died. Yet.

Unable to sleep, he arose and joined Louis sitting like a gargoyle above the camp on a thumb-like outcrop of rock. The stones groaned and popped as the heat of the day turned to chilly night. De Prorok jumped at every noise. Chapuis was an old hand, though, and could separate the normal sounds of night from real danger.

“Monsieur, you should get some sleep,” he said once he lowered the rifle he had aimed at the Count’s chest.

“Mmmm, yes I suppose so.” De Prorok swept a spot clean and sat down heavily. “What do you think he’ll do? Akhamouk, I mean?”

“He won’t be happy, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t imagine so. But he wouldn’t actually come after us, would he? It’d bring the whole Foreign Legion down on him. Beaumont doesn’t strike me as the kind to let them get away with it.”

Chapuis sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “The smart thing would be to complain a lot but not do anything. He’s trying to keep his people alive. Survival is more important than honor, when it comes down to it.”

“Is it? I’d think honor is worth fighting for. I know Akhamouk thinks so.”

Chapuis looked away towards the village at Abalessa. “Then we’re screwed.”

Morning didn’t so much break as shatter into existence. One minute everything was cloaked in the grey-blue of early morning, the next the sun played a merciless reveille. Pond stretched and groaned himself awake, momentarily missing the cold rain that tormented them earlier.

The men allowed themselves a leisurely and abundant breakfast. Belaid took over the cooking duties from Martini, which meant the coffee could double as battery acid, but at least there was plenty of it. They also allowed themselves the luxury of a shave. Most did it to avoid the itching of sweaty follicles and vermin. De Prorok wanted to look good if—no, when—Barth arrived with the camera gear. These pictures were his treasure. Let others worry about the bones and stones. The real money lay in movies and pictures.

With nothing better to do, Pond and the Count puttered around clearing one of the outer chambers. The work wasn’t terribly rewarding. There was nothing of any value compared to the main chamber—to Byron’s mind that was more evidence the body in there was important as it could be—and Pond’s insistence on cataloguing every date seed and dried rat dropping meant it was not only unrewarding, but painfully slow as well.

It was a blessed relief when they heard Belaid’s voice ring out. “Monsieur, the cars… Three of them… Come see.”

They emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. To the northeast, they could see three miles out on the desert floor, and three small figures making a black dotted line that moved towards them along the white stone riverbed.

Lucky Strike, the Beloit banners flying as if it were on its way to a football game across campus, instead of across the Sahara, led the way at exactly twenty miles an hour. The other two cars followed closely behind, laden with crates, kegs and jugs and arriving in a chorus of “aaooogah” horn blasts and hoorays from the men.

Before Lucky Strike even skidded to a full halt, Maurice Reygasse opened the door and stumbled, out of the vehicle. He wore his digging uniform, still bright white but with fewer jangling medals. He ran up to the Count, grabbed him by the arms and offered a quick kiss on each cheek. “Byron, is it true? You found her?”

The Count beamed down at the shorter man, still clutching his arms as if he might run away. “Oui, Maurice. And she’s beautiful. Would you like to meet her?” They turned towards the hill, then de Prorok turned back to Henri Barth and shouted, “Barth, get your equipment if you would. High time we captured this properly, don’t you think?”

The rest of the team hustled to unload the gear, starting with the cameras, while Belaid ran behind them, urging them not to take more than they’d need for one night. “We won’t be here long. We need to get gone as soon as we can. Put that back, we won’t need it…”

De Prorok, Reygasse, Pond and Brad Tyrrell approached the burial chamber. For a minute, they stood silent, the only sounds the buzzing of flies and the exasperated puffing of Barth lugging his equipment up by himself. The Count took off his helmet, laying it on a rock, and put on the soft beret he used inside the tomb. He gave the Frenchman his most welcoming grin, looking over the shorter man’s shoulder to make sure Barth was ready to capture the moment. “Ready? May I present Tin Hinan, Mother of all Tuaregs.” He bowed low and gestured for Reygasse to enter.

The scene had been carefully staged for a one-time performance in Reygasse’s honor. Neatly laid out at the end of the platform were the necklace, a tiny gold column about an inch and a half long with no apparent purpose, one earring and the fertility fetish that de Prorok playfully called, “the Venus.” That was it as far as anything one could realistically call treasure.

Beside the body were a small wooden plate, a glass bowl lined with what might be silver, and a glass cup left behind to nourish the departed soul in the next life. Date pits abounded, as did smaller items that might be grape seeds, or fossilized rodent droppings.

The skeleton itself rested on a platform of rotted, woven wood that barely held together to supports its burden. Each arm sported metal bracelets, seven on one arm, eight on the other. The metal was dull and heavy, most likely lead instead of something more valuable and glamorous.

Reygasse stood silent in front of the display for the longest time. Just when de Prorok thought he might explode from anticipation, the Marshall turned to him with tears in his eyes. “We’ve made history, you and I, de Prorok. This changes everything we thought we knew about the Hoggar…” He wiped a tear away with this sleeve, leaving a muddy strip. “Do you realize what we’ve done? The tomb of Queen Tin Hinan. She was… is… real. It’s a treasure, a real treasure.”

Finally, the Frenchman let out a “Vive le France” and threw his hand in the air, banging his knuckles on the low stone ceiling.

De Prorok ignored the “we” and joined, because it felt so good to shout. At last, someone else understood exactly what he’d—they’d, he had to remember—accomplished. No nit-picking about procedure or permissions, just the pure joy of discovery.

He allowed himself the moment of triumph, then cleared his throat. “Maurice, we have to get the pictures and get out of here. There might be… uh… some unhappy locals.”

Reygasse bit his lip. “Yes, we heard there was trouble. That’s why we left before dawn, in case anyone tried to stop us. Is it as bad as Denny says? You know how Americans are, always looking for Indians to fight.” De Prorok just nodded. Yes, it probably was. Having Maurice as a representative of the Government would certainly be a help, but no guarantee.

They watched Barth scramble around trying to wedge himself and then his equipment into the little tomb. At last he came out, sweating and filthy. “I’m sorry Monsieur, there’s no way to get any usable film in there…. There’s no room, and it’s hot. It’s like trying to film in hell.”

De Prorok was in too good a mood to have it spoiled by mere reality. He patted the fat man’s arm good naturedly. “Let’s get the outdoor shots, and we’ll figure something out. Just give me a moment to prepare.”

The preparations took the form of changing into a clean shirt and replacing his filthy beret with a pith helmet whose cloth covering had been replaced by cloth so white Reygasse could have made another uniform out of it. When he was as movie-star ready as circumstances allowed, he and Barth planned their shoot. First, were several snaps of de Prorok and Reygasse surveying the opening, their faces looking appropriately solemn and academic. These were followed by movie film of the two men emerging from the chamber, positively glowing with the aura of scientific discovery.

Tyrrell and Pond were included in the shots as well. Brad was his usual good natured self. Pond was considerably less so.

“This is all a fake. It’s ridiculous.” Pond had taken Brad aside to vent his frustration, but he was overheard anyway.

“Pond, please.” De Prorok had just about had it with the American’s priggishness and nay-saying. “We know what we found, we’re just trying to document as best circumstances allow. We aren’t faking the discovery, for Lord’s sake, we’re just telling a story people will want to hear. What would you like us to do?”

“Telling the truth would be a nice start.” Even while grousing, he followed Barth’s orders to smile and shake Reygasse’s hand in simulated congratulations. The little weasel hadn’t been anywhere near the discovery, but you could bet his name would be all over it.

“Be nice, Lonnie,” Brad hissed. “The Museum will be thrilled. Collie’s practically wetting his pants and he doesn’t even know the final results yet. And think of all the work you’ll have. This’ll make your career too, you know. Enjoy it for God’s sake.”

“Is that the College representative or the ad man talking? What have we really done here? Jeez, Brad, think about it. Everyone knew this was Tin Hinan’s gravesite. They’ve known it for hundreds of years. We didn’t discover anything, really. And what have we got? This great treasure is a few minor pieces and a body we can’t even prove is who we say it is.”

The older man swallowed his frustration and put a paternal hand on his shoulder. “That’s something, though, right? I mean the one thing—right or wrong—about history is nothing really happens until someone officially confirms it. So we’ve confirmed it. We’ve done our job. Declare victory and go home.”

A voice cried out, “Pond, we could use some assistance.” He turned towards the chamber and saw the burial goods carefully lined up with Barth taking close-up shots of each item, then picking them up and grouping them for more snaps.

“What the hell are you doing? Byron… what…”

“Evidence, Pond. Can’t very well take pictures in the dark, can we? Now help us with the body.”

Pond shook with anger. The clown was finally taking things way too far. “You can’t pull a body out of the ground and expose it to the elements, it’ll turn to dust. Damn it, even you know better than that.”

“Then help us do it right, damn you.”

Pond couldn’t stand the thought of their discovery turning to dust and blowing away on the desert wind, so he grudgingly supervised the transfer of the body from the tomb. The wood couldn’t survive the move, even if the bones did, so they slipped a blanket under the platform and lifted the whole thing. Being the shortest, and fate having its little joke, Pond and Reygasse were responsible for the hard part: getting her to the opening. From there, de Prorok and Chapuis lifted her through the door in to the sunlight and the Twentieth Century.

The retrieval was filmed by Barth, who was ecstatic at the way the light played off the bones and shadows fell dramatically across faces. Pond just watched in horror. They shouldn’t move the body at all, and if they did—and it was clear they were going to take her for further study—the bones and artifacts should be coated in gum arabic, or diluted shellac. Candle wax might do the trick, if they had enough. As it turned out they had enough to cover the skull, both arms and the pelvis. The rest was up to the gods, who had not exactly been on their side to this point.