IN THE BEGINNING

The stinging slash of the whip snapped across his already raw back, and he squeezed his eyes tight against the burning pain. Rough fibers from the haul rope scraped puckering welts in the skin of his neck and shoulders as he strained against its tension. Two rows of wavering, beaten, weary men tugged on the huge line that was fastened to the massive keystone being dragged up the slope to the tomb's entrance. The ramp had taken weeks to build; baskets of sand, carried endlessly under a relentless, white-hot sun; the labourers cringing, to avoid further punishment from the hovering guards.

Long torturous hours in the broiling heat had seen several of the weakest drop from exhaustion, their thankless overseers beating them until they could not rise again. Even though his trade as a builder had conditioned him to hard, heavy labour, this was almost beyond endurance. What began as a patriotic command to duty, had become mandatory slave labour. Only the faint promise of freedom, to return to their homes, kept the strongest and most stubborn straining against the awesome load.

Impatiently awaiting its arrival on the small, man made plateau, in front of the tomb's entrance, the priests and members of the royal household sat beneath a silk canopy, indulging in a lavish, ceremonial meal. Arom grunted with exhaustion and fear as each threatening pop of the whip brought cries and moans from the men struggling up and down the lines. Finally, he reached the plateau, allowing his trembling legs to release some of their strain.

His entire body quivered like a bow string as he forced it to drag the huge keystone forward the last few yards, until, with a harsh command from the guards, it came to rest in front of the opening. Blurred visions of his wife and children calling to him, appeared against the colourless sky. A roaring sigh welled up from the labourers and they cast off the rope, collapsing in the sand from fatigue.

Scraps of murmured conversation reached him from beneath the canopy, and he recalled the rumours that buzzed daily in the marketplace, about the priest Akirfa del Qash. They told of his insatiable desire to be the supreme ruler and how his manipulation of the king had all but given him the necessary power. His greed for wealth became evident in the construction of the tomb, when several labourers, who had since disappeared, had hinted at a secret entrance he had ordered them to excavate.

Everyone agreed his purpose was to raid the site later and help himself to the king's treasure, though they were wise to keep their suspicions behind silent lips. The errant thoughts fragmented with the sound of excited shouts and pleas, as a water carrier moved down the line, surrounded by several guards.

Arom compelled his punished body to stand and be ready for his ration. He was determined not to miss out, as some of the others had done, when in their haste to drink, spilled their share on the ground or onto their bodies. When the carrier extended the dipper to him, he quickly grabbed it away and gulped down the full amount, fully expecting the bite of the guard's whip, which sent him sprawling in the dirt.

The sand ground into his open cuts, and he lay back, ignoring the almost unbearable pain, running his tongue around the inside of his parched mouth, and relishing the moisture it produced. The task was finally complete, and he now hoped fervently that he would be released to return to his village and his family.

On the other side of the plateau the priests were chanting their prayers for the entombed King Hasramus, who, along with the less fortunate members of his household, were about to be sealed inside by the keystone. Jeoph, the King's heir and new ruler, stood solemnly at attention as the stone was levered into its next to final position. Suddenly Arom was jerked roughly to his feet and thrust into a group of a dozen slaves all huddling nervously in front of the royal canopy. His heart began pounding in his chest.

Akirfa del Qash, the king's high priest, struck a self important pose in front of the royal gathering, a barely masked glow of triumph lighting his face. Today was the culmination of his dream, the final act that would give him the power and the wealth he spent his lifetime plotting for. He turned an appropriately serious face to the royal gathering and began his ritual tribute.

"Oh mighty God Haput, giver of all creation. Provider of earth and sky, air and water. We send to you our humble King Hasramus that he may journey through eternity in your care."

The priest stood, arms raised, shouting to the heavens, his staff of gold, depicting the sun mounted on a pair of silver wings, gleaming in the glare of the day.

"As assurance of his worldly restoration in your realm, the twelve Canopic jars containing his internal elements will be carried and guarded by the loyal servants who helped in the preparation of this his temporary resting place."

Arom felt his throat knot and the relief of a moment ago dissipated, leaving his mouth bone dry once again. The realization struck him with terrifying force, that this group, randomly selected, was about to be sealed alive in the tomb along with the King. The unfortunate slaves milled about nervously looking for some escape but the guards forced them into a rough line and prodded them in a single file past the high priest. Akirfa del Qash displayed a self-satisfied, sneering smile, as he handed each one a sealed jar containing the King's organs, touching them briefly with the staff while hypocritically intoning his endless prayers.

Arom resisted defiantly, incurring the wrath of the guard's whip handle across his shoulders and spine. Grasping the outthrust jar reluctantly, he screamed back at the priest and royal entourage as he was pushed into the narrow entryway.

"You will regret this day priest!" He screamed, struggling against the brutal guards, "I know your plan and I will not die in here. You will never succeed! This treasure belongs to the people not treacherous thieves such as you."

He staggered back boldly to the tomb's opening, accepting the lashes of the guards as he shouted his final words over the angry priest's protests,

"Remember my name priest, Arom Phat. I will not die in here! I and my descendants will be a curse on all your houses from now until eternity!"

With a final angry gesture, Arom hurled the Canopic jar high over the Royal canopy, still screaming, as the distinct sound of breaking glass skittered over the assembly.

"Seal the tomb. Now!" Jeoph commanded, waving to the guards. Pushing the frantic men back into the tunnel, the guards began whipping the other slaves into setting the stone. Inside, the shouts and whimpers ceased to be heard as the huge, fitted rock slid neatly down the short slope, snugging tightly into place with a distinct thunk, eliminating the last glimpse of light.

CHAPTER ONE

Jebediah Stone

"If I were a betting man, I would say somewhere in the 2600s BC, but then, I'm not a betting man." The tedious whish of the punkah stirred the hot dry air in the little shop where the old man sat examining the jar fragment. A dim yellow light seeped through the filthy windows, resting wearily on the battered desk top.

"Why that old?"

"I say that because there is very little decoration apparent, unlike those discovered from later periods. And, because I believe that's around the time of the first popular use of Canopic jars, and" the dealer set the object on the desk and withdrew a rag from the folds of his robe. "The discoveries we're more familiar with are actually quite lavish. This, as you can see, is quite plain."

Hilton Vanier picked up the jar and turned it slowly in his hands, considering the old man's words. Rustling sounds from behind the crowded clutter of goods made him think immediately of rats, and he moved closer into the centre of the tiny space by the desk.

"Is there any other place locally that I might get some further confirmation? I mean, since you're not a betting man."He glanced uncomfortably down at his boots.

"Don't you mean any confirmation? Remember I'm just offering a humble guess." The plump shop owner dabbed at his cheeks with the dirty cloth, turning it this way and that to find a dry spot, as he acknowledged the other's wry comment.

Hilton cracked a smile and slid a sideways glance at the antique dealer.

"Your guess, my friend, is probably better confirmation than I'm likely to find anywhere, outside of the museums of Britain, France, Turin or Berlin." The noise stopped and he looked down at his feet again. "I was just thinking of something maybe a little more official, you know?"

"Such a shower of praise is humbling," the old man gloated, reveling in the compliment. "To answer your question, there is a professor of some renown working in the University of Asyut. I hear he's over from America to examine the site at El Badari. Perhaps he might shed further light on your object."

Hilton waved his hand in annoyance, "I said locally. Idfuis is nearly two hundred miles from Asyut."

"In the desert, Hilton my dear friend, two hundred miles is local."

*****

Dusk dropped a shadowy veil over the city as Hilton left the dealer's shop. He paused at the door, looking about while considering his options. The dank odour of the street reminded him of wet animal fur and he instinctively collapsed his nostrils. Was a trip to Asyut worthwhile? The dealer's information indicated that it might be, but. . . Stepping out into the street, he jumped nimbly over the waste ditch, and strolled thoughtfully up the narrow roadway toward the square, his shiny boots making a thunking noise.

Gradually, darkness roused the street's eerie shadows, giving the cobbled road the suggestion of choppy water; his pace quickened, and he nodded satisfactorily as the idea for an alternate plan took shape. He would photograph the jar, and send the pictures off with a message to the professor at the university, tomorrow.

Content that his package would reach Asyut by the following day, Hilton patted the top of the mail box and wandered back through the square to a small cafe. He never noticed the squat, heavy set man that had trailed him to the photo shop that morning. Nor was he aware that the man watched him now, from a market stall across the street.

Hilton gave the waiter his order and as he waited, he opened his pack and took out the Canopic jar, setting it carefully on the wooden table. Maybe, just maybe, he'd finally come across something of academic value. Something that would vindicate his dogged efforts after so long, and vault him into the circle of respect he so longed for.

The waiting was stressful, but he cautioned himself to be patient. He left the cafe, day dreaming about the interest and attention his find would create; pictures in all the papers, his name on the lips of the scientific community. With his pack clutched tightly under one arm, he turned into the narrow street, anxious to get back to his hotel, still unaware of his watcher.

When it happened, it was so fast and unexpected, Hilton barely had time to feel the pain. The knife sliced through his back into his lung, ripping upward with a violent thrust. As he sagged to the ground, he felt his precious pack being wrestled from his weakening grip, and he collapsed face down in the dirty alley.

The visions he'd embraced moments before, faded, and scattered from his mind, leaving a blank look of despair in his eyes, and blood bubbling like spilled pop, from his slack mouth.