The Gold Seal

Andre de Corcy cursed under his breath as the charcoal split in his hands, smudging the rubbing of the sarcophagus seal. It was his fourth copy, so the mishap was hardly surprising if still inconvenient. He needed a half a dozen in all, some to be sent back to Paris and other learning centers for study and hopefully translation, while a few were for the other savants still with Bonaparte in Egypt. Standing up, he wiped his blackened fingers on a rag and decided his makeshift study could do with a bit more illumination. There was a great deal of work still to do before he would feel satisfied with the day’s output.

As he carefully lit a candle from his small oil lamp, a noise in the street caught his attention. Drunken rambles were common enough sounds in the Cairo markets, but they were never this close to his workspace. The scholars tended to live and work away from the others for that reason—to avoid distraction and disturbance, as well as simple convenience to where they dug and researched. Instinct told de Corcy to lock his door, but before he could reach the handle, he was knocked back several feet by the force with which it opened.

A burly, sunburned French soldier stormed into the room, flanked by two smaller companions. All three were armed.

The biggest man seized the savant by the collar. “We could have gone back to France by now if it wasn’t for you people!”

“We wouldn’t have come here in the first place if it wasn’t for him,” one of the slighter soldiers remarked, tearing apart some of de Corcy’s papers at random.

“Let go of me!” De Corcy demanded, trying to free himself. “You’re drunk; you’re not thinking clearly!”

He took a fist to the face for his trouble, but the big man was drunk enough that the blow wasn’t very strong. In fact, the soldier had loosened his grip to deliver it. De Corcy wiggled free and straightened up in time to see a crate of artifacts upended to the floor, while a scroll of papyrus was fed to a candle.

“No!” He rushed at the soldier, managing to yank the flame away, but not in time to save the fragile artwork.

“Damn it!” The rapidly disintegrating papyrus burned the soldier’s hand, and he punched the scholar in retribution.

This shorter man was either more sober or more vicious, for he used his elbow instead of his fist, which knocked de Corcy against the wall. He kept ahold of the candle, but the wax slipped free of its metal holder and fell to the floor, extinguishing on impact, plunging part of the room into shadows.

The big soldier hit de Corcy again, this time in the stomach, momentarily winding him, while the short one went back to tearing up papyri.

A crash from the other side of the room brought all action to a halt. The third soldier had upended the sarcophagus itself, by kicking out one of the wooden supports underneath it.

“Don’t damage it!” De Corcy half-coughed, swinging wildly to escape.

He clipped the big soldier in the nose with the candleholder, but in return his head was smacked against the wall. The shorter man left the papyrus to join his friend and struck de Corcy again, this time knocking him out. The soldiers dropped him onto the floor and crossed over to examine the sarcophagus.

“This is important.” The big man toed the box experimentally.

“It’s valuable.” The third soldier pointed to the seal on the box’s side, which was made of gold. “Come on, Philippe.”

The seal proved unwilling to part with the coffin, and the short soldier went back to the work table in search of a better tool. His careless efforts produced a chisel, which got the job done. With a dull clink, it fell into the third man’s lap.

“Look at that!” Philippe exclaimed. He reached for it, but the third man slapped his hand away.

“Light.” He ordered.

The short man squatted down to admire their plunder while Philippe retrieved the candle from the floor and relit it from the lamp. “What do you think, Rene?”

“Enough to get home and then some,” the third man predicted.

“Is there more?” Philippe asked, holding up the lights, making the gold sparkle.

“There’s nothing back there but papers,” the short man said.

“What about inside?”

“Maybe,” Rene allowed. He tossed the gold down, more or less equally away from all three of them. “Give me the candle. I’ll watch the door. You and Jean get that thing open.”

“Alright.”

With the seal broken, the lid lifted off with some effort.

“Jesus!” Philippe took a few startled steps backward, tripping on the seal.

“Are you a coward?” Jean asked derisively. “We’ve all seen dead men before.”

“Not like that! It’s unnatural.”

Rene stood on tiptoes to peer into the sarcophagus. “Does it have boots?’

“Just bandages,” Philippe shivered, even though he was sweating in the desert heat. “Nothing but bandages.”

“Then take the gold, and let’s go.”

Philippe bent to retrieve the seal from the floor when Jean suddenly whimpered. Looking up, the big man fell over when he saw the bandaged hand clutching his friend’s wrist.

Rene fled through the open door and into the desert without a word. Before either of the two remaining soldiers could move or react, the bandaged figure suddenly sat up, still holding onto the short man’s arm like a vice. The mummy’s shadowed eyes darted feverishly from one point of the room to the other. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a dry, rattling croak.

“Help me!” Jean tried to pull away and stand up at the same time, but his knees gave way, and he upended the light placed by the sarcophagus lid. The tumbling flames alighted on the torn papyrus scraps, and all three screamed.

Philippe mimicked Rene and ran.

“Let go!” The short man begged, still pulling.

The mummy snarled furiously into the Frenchman’s face, and he fainted. Only then did the bandaged figure release him, letting Jean’s unconscious body fall onto the flames. His dead weight was enough to smother the worst of them, but the pain immediately brought him round.

He screamed again at seeing the mummy rise on shaky legs, but as it looked down at him, the sound abruptly changed to hysterical laughter. The sound began to rouse de Corcy, and it ensured that, aside from the pain in his head, the only thing of which he took precise notice when he opened his eyes was his former assailant.

#

Nearly five years later, a polite knock interrupted Andre de Corcy’s work. Cautiously, he put down the letter he was writing and opened the door to his house, regarding the figure on the other side with surprise. A thin man with dark eyes, a carefully trimmed beard, and a rather loose turban stood on the other side of the threshold.

“Good afternoon,” the stranger said in passable French. “I call myself Ibn Rashid, and I am a scholar of our ancient history. I wish to offer my services to the work of your Institute.”

“Oh.” De Corcy blinked in confusion, but then he smiled. “That’s very kind of you. Please, come in.”

“Thank you.”

Rashid walked into the house. He moved gingerly, not quite limping, but like he expected the movement to hurt. He sat down quickly, without waiting for an invitation.

“I’ll get some tea.” De Corcy offered.

“I drink wine.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled in surprise. “It’s good to find someone else who does. One moment.”

He disappeared into another room, reappearing with two glasses of ruby liquid in hand.

Rashid accepted his gratefully, taking a long swallow. “Very good.”

“My favorite,” De Corcy nodded. “Now, I must ask why you would come to me, rather than my superiors, or to the Institute itself.”

“Several years ago, there was a find connected to your name… the desecration of a royal sarcophagus, which intrigues me.”

“That unpleasantness.” He sighed and took a sip of his own. “The exterior was so badly damaged… the British let us keep it after Bonaparte—pardon, the emperor’s departure. I fear the poor soul whose tomb it was will never be identified. The mummy itself was destroyed in the fire.”

Rashid drank a little more wine. “I hope you received justice, at least, for your own injury.”

“If I did, it was certainly disproportionate. One of the men was never seen again. Another killed himself, and the third one went mad. He died of the plague a year later.”

The Egyptian did not smile, but his eyes glinted as he listened to the soldiers’ fates. He said, “One would almost think there was a divine element at work.”

“Perhaps.” De Corcy frowned. “Royal? I’m still not certain what sort of tomb was uncovered, although it was definitely that of a man of some importance. The gold seal told us that.”

“The tomb of a simple bricklayer or architect would hardly seem worth such tragedy, would it? But, I admit, my information could be more gossip than truth.” Rashid set down his glass, empty. “Even so, I think you’d find me quite useful. The ancient Egyptians did not bury their dead in isolation. There will be other tombs connected to the one you found under your emperor. No doubt far grander in scale… perhaps something to rival the Rosetta Stone.”

De Corcy smiled and drained his own glass. “If you’ll come to the Egyptian Institute tomorrow, I’ll show you around and make things official.”

#

Rashid followed de Corcy into a dim storeroom of the Egyptian Institute. In the darker, cooler space, the bearded man’s movements were more assured and less painful, almost eager.

“There, you see.” The savant pointed his light. “Such a pity; you can see how beautiful it still is, in spite of the fire. Are you alright?”

“Forgive my momentary weakness.” Rashid rubbed his knuckles absently over his heart. “I am no longer as strong as I once was.”

“Of course.” De Corcy smiled politely. “I am subject to violent headaches, myself, after…. But now that we are here, do you feel up to examining it?”

“Of course.” Rashid replied tartly. He knelt carefully beside the scorched coffin, exhaling deeply. “The light, if you please.”

“Oh, yes. Forgive me.”

De Corcy brought the lamp closer, watching curiously. “I’m sorry it has taken so long to get you down here, but once Poisson heard you speak of the Nile’s flooding patterns, there really was no choice but to let him—”

“I understand.” He looked up sharply. “Was there no surviving papyri?”

“Very little. Just my copies, as a matter of fact. They’re here, somewhere. Perhaps in one of these crates. Focus was redirected.” De Corcy shrugged and attempted to open one of the boxes in question. “I’m very curious to hear about this research of yours.”

“It’s hardly worth your attention.” He ran long, elegant fingers over a few scratches that were millennia older than the more recent damage. “Until I can find confirmation of my theories among the tombs, it’s supposition.”

“Humor me, my friend. I really do want to know.”

Rashid frowned, looking almost pained. “My work concerns the cruelest pharaoh to rule over Egypt.”

De Corcy opened his mouth to wittily inquire if this was the pharaoh of Exodus, but thought better of it. Something in the other man’s eyes proclaimed that this would be a foolish move. Instead, he asked, “Who?”

“His name was Webensenu. I believe,” he added, quickly. “You are aware of the difficulties in translation.”

“I’m not familiar with his reign,” the savant replied. “He must have predated the Greeks. Do you believe that is his tomb?”

“No pharaoh would purposefully be buried with so little gold,” Rashid sniffed. “It was bare by design, not due to plunder.”

“I see.” De Corcy stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We were very fortunate that the seal was not lost. Oh, forgive me… I’ll open its crate.”

With an eerie creak, the box in question opened, and the tablet glinted in the lamplight. The Egyptian sprang to his feet, and stretched out his hand almost hungrily. Receiving it, he stared at the hieroglyphs intently.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” De Corcy asked. “If only we could read it.”

“Yes.” Rashid agreed, holding the light closer.

The cellar door banged open and a sunburned Englishman with thick eyebrows stormed down the stairs without a lamp. “What goes on here?”

“Lord Gordon.” With obvious patience, de Corcy stepped forward and nodded to his companion. “This is Ibn Rashid, who has been such a boon to the geologists of late. His personal research is akin to mine.”

The newcomer shook his head. “It stops immediately. Word’s come from London. The king wishes to present more artifacts in London. We shall need that item.”

“You can’t,” he protested. “Once I was nearly killed for this seal, and since then I’ve put my work aside to assist the others. It’s insulting to just take it away at a whim!”

“I’m sorry.” Gordon sighed, hinting that there was likely truth in what he said. “But it isn’t my whim. Only the most beautiful objects will be considered acceptable for His Majesty. Tell your man to hand it over.”

Rashid turned around and spoke coldly. “I speak English.”

“You do?” De Corcy exclaimed, incredulous.

“The past few years have necessitated I learn a great deal very quickly,” he replied.

Gordon shrugged. “Well, it’s of no matter whether I tell you or if he does. Royal decrees can’t be disobeyed, old fellow.”

“No.” Rashid agreed. He spoke almost inaudibly, but his eyes burned with unmistakable fury.

His Lordship preferred not to look at them and quickly turned and walked back up the stairs. “Then I’ll leave you to it. I want it ready for transport on the next ship to England.”

De Corcy cautiously approached his colleague and rested a hand on his elbow. “We might have time to make a few more rubbings. So we’re not completely cut off.”

“I… can’t.” Rashid clasped his heart. He stared hard at the scorched sarcophagus a moment, and then seemed to collect himself, shaking off the supporting hand. “This upset has made me rather ill.”

“I see.” He accepted the seal from and met the Egyptian’s feverish gaze. “Do you need assistance?”

“I am capable of finding my way home.” Gingerly, Rashid began to climb the stairs. “That old fool has no idea what a mistake this is.”

“Indeed,” de Corcy agreed, sadly.

#

In the innermost room of his house, Ibn Rashid knelt on the floor in front of a loaf of bread, an onion, and a melon. Despite the hour, it was very dark, with every source of light either extinguished or covered. He murmured quietly in prayer to himself as he pulled a brilliantly painted ushabti doll from his sleeve. Mostly white, with a green headdress, and red limbs and face it held a basket in each hand, ready for to assist its owner in the Field of Reeds.

“Set,” he said, placing the doll before the bread, which he then broke in sacrifice. He produced a knife and pierced the onion, letting some of its juice drop onto the doll, before repeating the gesture with the melon. “Sutekh.”

The ushabti unfolded its arms, and then stretched itself out: arms, neck, and, finally, legs. Eyes wide, face tight with concentration, Rashid fell onto all fours as the doll faced him, raising its hand in greeting. Drawing in a deep breath, he raised his right hand and pointed to the door.

“Gordon,” he said.

The doll bowed its head, set its peaceful tools down on the floor, turned, and walked quickly, if a bit stiffly, across the room, and then out of the house. Rashid stayed on the floor where he was, still murmuring his prayers to Set. He lived a long way from the Egyptian Institute. It would take a while for the ushabti to accomplish its task.

Nevertheless, the doll determinedly made its way through the streets of Cairo. The streets were so busy, almost no one noticed it. Knocked down by a cart, it got to its feet again and marched forward, punching a basket out of its way.  A child excitedly pointed the tiny figure out to her mother, but was pulled along without a look. A mongrel growled and ran away, and a donkey was startled, but both instances were unremarked upon except as the animals’ strange temperament.

Meanwhile, Rashid sweated from the effort of maintaining control of the ushabti, and struggled to maintain position on the hard floor. Then he could suddenly sense that the doll had arrived at the Egyptian Institute. It was as though he could see the building himself, the door opening for a geologist, and the doll slipping unnoticed over the threshold.

“Set,” he entreated, in relief. Then, to the ushabti, he said, “Gordon.”

Lord Gordon was, in fact, shut away in his office going over the Institute’s various correspondence. He didn’t look up when there was a knock at his door, just calling “come in.” A short, black man entered the room with a tea tray and set it down by the window. He turned and made to leave the room, nearly stumbling as he opened the door.

“What’s the matter, Ali?” Gordon turned around.

“I’m not sure….” Ali glanced at the floor, puzzled. “It felt like something touched my foot.”

“Mice,” the Englishman suggested. “We need another cat. Or a terrier.”

“Yes, sir.” He showed himself out, not seeing the tiny colorful figure standing stock-still in the shadows behind the door, as if it was there by mishap.

As the door closed, the ushabti raised a straight-pin that it had obtained somewhere along the journey and strode forward.

Gordon got up from his desk and went to the window, picking up a cup of tea. He took a sip, eyes closed, and then shrieked as a stabbing pain seared his ankle, followed by the scalding of his neck and chest when he spilled his tea, unbalanced by the attack from the floor. On the ground, the ushabti yanked its pin out of the flesh of his ankle, only to strike again at a fresh spot, making him fall to the ground with shouts of pain. The tea tray tumbled to the floor with him, glass shattering, and splashing hot liquid everywhere.

The doll seized a section of broken cup and advanced on Gordon, as he tried to regain his balance and get up.

Hearing the noise, Ali, de Corcy, and two other savants ran to the door and pounded at it. But at almost the same time, the noise ceased. The men exchanged a worried look, and then opened the door.

“God!”

Lord Gordon lay dead on the floor in a puddle of blood and tea. His throat had been cut; the shard of teacup still lodged in the wound.

One man groaned and covered his eyes. De Corcy crossed himself.

“But how?” Ali leaned against the wall in shock. “It was only a minute.”

From the doorway, the Institute’s cat growled and hissed furiously, then fled down the hall.

Across the city, Ibn Rashid collapsed unconscious on the floor; he was smiling.

#

Rashid awoke hours later. Painfully, he got to his feet and found that walking was difficult. He took a cane from beside his front door and cautiously stepped out into the dark street. A glance at the sky assured him that he had plenty of time before the first call to prayer and all the witnesses that would bring, and he began the trek to the Egyptian Institute. The hours that he had been unconscious were enough, he hoped, for the chaos brought on by Gordon’s death to have abated.

It appeared that he was correct, and he was able to enter the building with little difficulty, although Gordon’s door was locked, and, with regret, he knelt and called on the ushabti again. The doll, now more rust than any other color, stirred from the floor and, with some difficulty (it was slightly stuck to the rugs’ fibers) and strode purposefully to the door.

Following Rashid’s instructions, it climbed up the door, and unlocked it. He gasped on hearing the lock click, sweating again, and remained on the floor a moment before rising and entering the murder-room. Immediately, he picked up the ushabti from the table next to the door and studied the stains marking its tiny body.

Nodding approval, he tucked the doll back into his sleeve and began a search of the room, or rather, what was left of it. Since the discovery of Lord Gordon’s body, many of the artifacts had been removed, and it soon became apparent that the gold seal, if it was still at the Institute, was not in this room. What had been left were the things that were too heavy to move without great difficulty.

Angrily, Rashid struck the wall before leaving the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. He had just reached the stairs when he thought of de Corcy. The Frenchman had spoken of trying to make copies of the seal before it was taken away; perhaps it was still in his office. The thought calmed him enough to remember the need for stealth.

By the time he reached the door, Rashid, though he gritted his teeth, was barely using the cane. This time he was in luck, and the door was unlocked. Holding his breath, he began to open the door, only to bite his tongue and stifle his curses.

De Corcy himself was asleep at his desk, back, fortunately, to the door. His fingers were black with charcoal. Rashid craned his neck to look into the room. Seeing nothing, he reached into his sleeve and placed the ushabti just inside, and closed the door.

When the call to prayer sounded two hours later, de Corcy was too startled by the manner in which he had spent most of the night to notice the intruder on his desk as he tried to get his bearings. Anticipating attack, the blood-stained figurine reached for a letter opener.

Rashid, once again on hands and knees on the floor of his house, abruptly stopped his own prayers to Thoth, lifting his head, eyes wide in alarm. “No!”

The doll froze, remaining motionless as de Corcy stumbled out of the room, rubbing his neck.

Exhaling in relief, Rashid lowered his head piously and continued.

#

Andre de Corcy carefully made his way through the unfamiliar quarter of the city, until he reached the address on the paper clutched in his hand. He rapped on the door, but no answer.

He tried again, hopefully calling, “Rashid?”

Once again there was no response. After a moment, de Corcy tried the door. Finding it unlocked, he hesitated a moment then stepped into the house.

Almost immediately, he paused again on seeing the interior of the house. The walls exploded with color, in the ancient style. Hieroglyphs covered large swaths of the space, while the ancient gods and goddesses loomed over any inhabitants of the room. Painted flowers blanketed the ceiling.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, quietly.

Seeing a light further ahead in the house, he cautiously ventured forward into another colorful room. He noticed that there was very little modern furniture. Most of the space was taken by other ancient relics, which would not be out of place at the Institute, or even one of the continental museums.

The source of light proved to be a lamp on a desk. Curiosity getting the better of him, he went to the desk (the only modern item) and looked at the stack of papers next to the lamp. The writing was in French, and he was able to quickly scan the top page, surmising that it was the work Rashid had spoken of before: concerning the cruel Webensenu.

Then he was suddenly challenged.

“What are you doing here?” Rashid suddenly appeared.

Startled, de Corcy jumped back a few inches before inclining his head apologetically. “Forgive my intrusion. It’s been so long since anyone saw you at the Institute that I was concerned, especially given all that’s happened.”

When Rashid remained silent, he continued. “I also came with bad news. I’m sure you’ve heard of Lord Gordon’s death?”

“Yes.”

“It was a horrible day.” De Corcy shook his head. “The artifacts were still sent to London as he wished. I was able to copy the seal in hopes we could work from it, but my copy was stolen.”

Rashid sighed, opened a drawer of the desk, and then laid the stolen rubbing on top of the manuscript.

“You?” The savant sounded more hurt than anything else.

“My need was urgent.” Rashid said. “I am sorry; I return it now. It no longer matters.”

“I don’t understand. What about your research could be so urgent that you would steal from me?”

“I’m tired. So very tired.” The Egyptian sighed, and, indeed, for a moment he looked worn, sunken, almost like a death mask, before he straightened up. “There is an explanation, and I admit you deserve it. Come to the inner room with me, and I shall explain. Bring the light.”

A little against his better judgement, de Corcy did as he was told, following Rashid into the next room. This room was bare, devoid even of the color of the other two rooms. Gradually, the lamplight revealed the remnants of a recent sacrifice, as well as the ushabti. The doll was mostly green and white again, although it now rested with its hands at its sides, the baskets residing on the floor.

“You interrupted my offering to Anubis,” Rashid said, casually.

“I… Anubis?” De Corcy sputtered.

“You knew I am not like the other Egyptians. Ibn Rashid is not my true name. In truth, I am Yuya, son of Webensenu.”

De Corcy did not trust himself to speak, merely watching the other man cautiously.

“If I am mad, it is not a delusion of identity.” He stepped back, raised his hand, and the ushabti took three steps forward then stopped. When the Frenchman gasped, he smiled darkly. “Listen.”

#

I am Yuya, a son of Webensenu. I was his seventh son; for that reason, and because my mother was not his Great Royal Wife, I was destined for the priesthood. My half-brother, Amenhotep, was the heir to the throne.

Our father was a remote presence. We worshipped him, but he might as well have been another rendering of Amun-Ra. My true devotion was to my oldest brother. I worshipped him, knowing he would rule after our father’s death, and I worshipped him out of love.

Why he loved me in return was something I never understood. He was six years my senior. He had two full brothers, out of the same mother. For some reason, he chose me. He taught me everything the priests and scribes did not. He could make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe.

I suppose it was for my gift with spells that Amenhotep loved me. I still remember the look of wonder on his face that I could summon with even sleight-of-hand.

Of course, once we were men, we saw less of each other, often only at state occasions. One day, however, he surprised me as I finished my noonday prayers in the temple. My brother had set a plot in motion, and he wanted my help. He planned to kill Webensenu and take the throne for himself.

It broke my heart.

“I cannot forsake my vows to uphold the crown of Egypt,” I told him. “But I won’t stand in your way.”

Amenhotep embraced me and assured me he understood. I then waited for the next few days scarcely daring to breathe, desperate for news. I didn’t know what to think or hope; my regular duties, which I normally loved, dragged on endlessly.

On the night of the third day, the news reached us at the temple. Amenhotep’s plot had failed spectacularly. Our father was not even scratched.

We priests thanked Isis for her protection of the ruler, but I could barely say the words. I was foolish; it didn’t occur to me to worry for myself. My only thoughts were for my brother and what would befall him.

For that, I did not have to wait long for the news to reach me. Before noon, I was summoned to preside over his impalement. Looking at Amenhotep was almost more than I could bear, but if I could not meet his eyes, then he might have thought it was I who betrayed him. He would not die—I would not watch him die—thinking that. So, I met his gaze, and I held it.

It broke me. I say that without exaggeration… I felt it. When his body was pierced, my own went numb. Even my mind. I could feel nothing. Not even the heat.

Then Webensenu approached me, followed by Amenhotep’s mother, who was weeping, and my own mother.

“Walk with us, Yuya,” he commanded.

I followed him, stupidly. My mouth failed to form words, when I tried to respond to him.

“Your brother was the son of a pharaoh,” my father said. “And twice the grandson of one through his mother, our Great Royal Wife. He will be buried as is fit for his blood.”

“Your Majesty is gracious.” I replied, with difficulty.

“A shame that I should lose two sons in one day.” He continued, “But I have ten yet.”

I was surprised that my part was known, but I was not fearful yet. My head was still too full of the image of my brother’s blood for self-preservation. He may even have been playing with me. I shall never know.

What I said was, “I will gladly follow Amenhotep in death, if that is my fate.”

Webensenu struck me with his flail. “More gladly than you followed him three days ago, Yuya? If he was impatient, and swayed by Set, Amenhotep had more courage than you. Your silence… that is a crime far worse than his, and it warrants a greater punishment.”

My mother screamed as guards suddenly seized me and dragged me into the next chamber, where the coffin made years before against my death lay at the center. I screamed, too. I struggled. I called out to all the gods as the bandages were wound around my body, even when they reached my face, but it was for naught. They had forsaken me, and the last thing I knew for a long time was the lid closing over me.

#

The Egyptian’s eyes were feverish and streaming as he concluded his story. “When the seal was pried off my sarcophagus, I awoke.”

De Corcy, startled though he was by the ushabti’s movements, hesitated to believe the story, and, so, in lieu of replying offered his handkerchief.

Instead of accepting it, Yuya clasped his hand very hard. “I saw you, too, through the fire... blackened hands, blood in your hair.”

“And that’s why you sought me out, years later?” He flexed his fingers cautiously, and his hand was released.

“I learned what I could, first. The languages… things like that. Yes, I thought that the seal could help me… that it could end my suffering. I was desperate for it. Yet, I was wrong. It kept me from death, yes, but it will not grant it to me.”

De Corcy was deeply touched by the naked devastation apparent on the other man’s face. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and gently laid his hand on Yuya’s upper arm. “What would end it?”

“A particular spell, prayers to Anubis and Osiris.” Yuya tilted his head back, composing himself. “My father’s tomb is not far from mine… I know the location still, after all this time. He would have them concealed there among his grave goods, against any friend of mine who might have offered me relief.”

“Then I must help you find it.”

#

De Corcy adjusted his hat and glanced behind him, as though afraid someone might be sneaking up on him. At his side, Yuya stoically watched the diggers excavate the area around his former tomb. Ever-professional, if the diggers were aware of the unusual nature of their job, it didn’t seem to impact their pace. Under the direction of their foreman, Adnan, they made admirable progress.

“I won’t be able to keep them for very long,” de Corcy said, guiltily. “With Lord Gordon’s… accident, everything is in flux, but it won’t be long before a new head of the Institute is selected, and—”

“Accident?” Yuya interrupted.

“The possibility of suicide was suggested, but it would have been out of character,” he continued. “As for murder, what man have entered the room and escaped so completely?”

“Indeed.” He tried to smile reassuringly. “Sons, even ones guilty of treason, were always buried near their fathers. Two, perhaps three days, and we shall uncover Webensenu.”

“Your brothers are here, too?” De Corcy asked, intrigued.

“Yes.” Yuya produced a piece of paper from his sleeve. It showed a rough map of the tomb complex, beginning with his own. He pointed to a spot to the left of where he had marked the funerary chambers of his father. “Amenhotep, rests here.”

“Should we attempt to excavate there, too?”

Several minutes passed before he replied. “No. Not on my account, at least. If I was to only satisfy myself, I would remember him as a boy.”

De Corcy nodded. “Pardon me. I only wondered—”

“I don’t blame him for what happened to me, but I don’t wish to see him again. I want nothing to do with any of them, but I have no other option but to face my father a final time.” He sighed, discreetly clenching his fist, then relaxing it. “Are you a religious man, de Corcy?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I thought so.” Yuya looked over at him, eyes bright. “As a young priest, I worried about keeping faith to my gods… I haven’t any such worry now. I know they ruled, and I know they shunned me. That knowledge is worse than any uncertainty I ever felt in the past… that I have practically nothing left to lose.”

De Corcy regarded him silently a moment, considering his reply. “Then I shall pray for success in our mission.”

“Pray you never know my certainty.”

#

Bundled up against the cold desert night, two figures slipped cautiously into the dig-site. They picked their way down to the tomb complex’s winding, theft-deterring corridors, until they reached the sealed door leading to the pharaoh’s funerary chamber. The slower figure, Yuya, knelt next to the door, carefully tracking the wall with his fingertips.

“We need not disturb the seal,” he said. “There are secret entrances to all of them… for priests, officially, but also in the event that the successor’s reign proved insolvent.”

De Corcy tutted. “That’s rather indelicate.”

“Our god-kings were more human than divine. Here!”

He pressed a secret lever concealed within the space between two large blocks of stone. Creaking terribly, one panel slid to the side, just enough that each man could barely squeeze through.

“Light,” Yuya said, curtly.

De Corcy hurried to light the lamp he’d brought. The tiny flame caught the other man’s eyes alarmingly, and he nearly dropped it. Recovering, he raised it, letting their surroundings bathe in the frail glow.

The Egyptian laughed. It was a harsh sound in the silent chamber. “It seems my brothers have been here. There’s so little left.”

To the professor, the tomb was still filled with wonders, a sensation at odds with the horrible feeling of wrongness that had gnawed at him since they had left his home that night. He said, “Tell me what I must do.”

“Come to the coffin.”

He obeyed, unable to keep from gasping at its magnificence. The sarcophagus which had once contained Yuya had been much smaller, perhaps only ever intended to be the inner coffin. It also lacked the jewels glinting at him now, and its only gold had been the magic seal. Webensenu’s resting place was awash with the precious metal. It would take perhaps as many as half a dozen men to raise the lid of the old pharaoh’s coffin, assuming they would have the courage, given the fearsome statues of the jackal-headed Anubis which mounted sentinel at its head and feet.

A sudden crunch underfoot interrupted De Corcy’s reverie. Looking down, he frowned at the rat skeleton he had just trod upon, and then turned his attention back to the sarcophagus. Yuya stared down at the gilded face, his feverish eyes nevertheless darting from place to place before abruptly settling on his companion.

“You will stay with me?” He asked. Before receiving a reply, he laughed again. “I have waited so long… I swore to do whatever was necessary, but with true death at hand… I would not be alone.”

“I’m here,” de Corcy replied.

With a nod, and an excited breath, Yuya ducked down behind the coffin before the imposing god of the dead. De Corcy cautiously followed him, remaining standing as the other man knelt. As he had with the entrance to the tomb, the Egyptian’s sensitive fingers probed the highly decorated base under Anubis’ feet, exclaiming softly in triumph as a panel slid back.

There was another crunch as Yuya discarded a few bones before withdrawing an ivory box. The lid boasted an intricately carved image of Isis in bird-form reviving Osiris, and hieroglyphs lined every side. With a trembling hand, he lifted the lid.

Inside the box was a pile of papyri shreds, gnawed beyond salvage.

Roaring in rage, Yuya flung the ruined scroll on the floor. The cry echoed throughout the room, making the air tremble. He hung his head for a moment, looking up sharply when he felt de Corcy lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I must pray to Osiris.” His voice cracked, depleted by the cry. “It’s all that’s left. The light.”

“Here.” Squatting down, de Corcy carefully set the lamp on the floor. “I’ll stay.”

Fervently, Yuya entreated the powerful deity for aid. He repeated the prayer encircling the sides of the box once. And then again. He began a fourth time, but then broke off with another cry as he sprang to his feet. The lid with its images of resurrection clattered to the floor, as he used the box to beat the likeness of Webensenu.

“Are you pleased, Father?” He shouted. “One moment of weakness, and I deserve this? Thousands of years, I’ve been in pain… I’ve killed men only to find my last hope eaten by rats?”

“You killed—?” De Corcy exclaimed, but it fell on deaf ears. “Did you kill Gordon?”

The beard cracked off the sarcophagus, and the box crashed brutally against its nose a second later.

“You couldn’t just kill me like Amenhotep… you had to be cruel beyond reason…”

He threw the box onto the floor, where it jarred the lamp, plunging the tomb into darkness. Producing a knife, he stabbed the wooden eye of Webensenu. Straining, he pulled the blade out and attacked the remnants of the nose.

“I condemn you back! Let your soul be lost as mine! Damn all of you, gods, kings, princes, emperors and priests! All of you!”

“Yuya!” De Corcy threw his arms around the Egyptian, pulling him away from the sarcophagus. “Yuya, no!”

He struggled, but the professor was stronger. “Let me go!”

“He is past hurting.” De Corcy argued. “Please. This must stop.”

Panting, Yuya looked over his shoulder, and then went limp. De Corcy had to relax his grip to stay on his feet.

“Yes,” he agreed, pulling free from the savant’s grip. “This must stop.”

The knife was still in his hand, and now he plunged it into his own chest. He gasped, collapsing back into de Corcy’s arms a second later.

“What have you done?” De Corcy pressed his hand around the blade, easing them to the floor. “No, no… why?”

“Did you ever believe me?” Yuya asked, raising his head with difficulty.

“I didn’t understand.” De Corcy moved his hand away from the knife and took Yuya’s hand. “It may not be so bad… I don’t feel any blood.”

Despite neither man touching it, the knife suddenly clattered onto the floor.

He laughed in reply: ghoulish, hysterical, relieved. “I’m dying, Andre.”

De Corcy hissed in fear and disgust as his hand was pressed onto the wound: a gaping, ever-expanding maw, that was somehow dry. Yuya’s hand released his, dropping onto the floor, with almost a crackle, like old kindling. Gingerly, he took the dying man’s head in his hands; it was too dark to see his eyes, but he imagined he could.

“Will you find peace now?” He asked.

“I don’t… know.” Yuya’s reply was almost too faint to hear.

Tears in his eyes, de Corcy lowered his face as much as he dared and promised, “I will pray that you do.”

There was no reply, and within two minutes, his hands held nothing but dust. For a long time, he stayed where he was. When at last, he could bring himself to move, he crawled along the floor until he found the lamp. Relit, it provided just enough light for him to find the secret panel leading to the burial chamber’s exit.

“I believed you,” he said.

As the cold, night air struck his face, de Corcy paused at the mouth of the tomb complex to keep his promise. Beginning the long walk back home, he wondered now if he, too, would find peace.

About the Author

Kathy Sherwood is a writer from Wisconsin. She grew up on classic monster movies, history, and mythology, whose influences she still feels today.

Visit her at kathysherwoodwriting.wordpress.com.