Four Ways to Pharaoh Khufu Read online

  “Is that what awaits me?” Amset asked, almost in a whisper.

  “Calm down, my dear boy. The goddess Hathor has not determined your fate yet. You have not learned enough yet: only the method of the accomplishment of fate. Leave unexpected contingencies alone and it is quite possible you will live to reach an old age.” He motioned to Amset for the stele. Amset carefully placed it into the old priest’s hands. The priest reached deep down into the table’s secret compartment, reverently placing the stele back into its hiding place. “That is all I have for you currently.”

  “Old age,” repeated Amset to himself as he slowly walked away, his guard behind him, leaving the old priest alone in the chamber.

  Ur Senu once again ascended the stairs to stand above the gates and gaze out to the west towards the desert. The sun was setting rapidly below the desert. The violet light of evening became thicker as it spilled on the sands. The shadows became more drawn.

  A disconcerting anxiety crept into the heart of the supreme priest. What would the god Ra deliver in the morning to the old priest? What would be awaiting him along with the crimson light of dawn, the singing of the birds and the sparkling transparency of the air? What if dawn brought with it the information of the boy’s death? Would his soul be able to reconcile the fact that this death was just fate and that the great goddess Hathor stood guard over the highest legitimacy? Ur Senu sighed with helplessness.

  * * *

  Thirteen days later, Jibade stood over the lifeless body of his sovereign while the women wept and wailed around him. Amset had contracted a mysterious illness at the temple of Hewet-ka-Ptah. Unfortunately, it had progressed far too quickly before anyone could intervene. He had been only sixteen years of age.

  Although stunned by complete disbelief, Jibade knew deep in his heart what a heavy burden had suddenly been placed in his arms. He knew he would never compromise the secret of the stele. He owed that much to Amset. Fervently, he vowed that the integrity of the stele would die with him.

  Chapter 3

  Sahara Desert, Egypt

  Wednesday, September 6

  10:25 a.m.

  Wearing a long white cotton cloak, Jibade sat on his snow white horse at the top of a sandy dune. The Sahara stretched out before him in never ending miles of sand dunes sculpted over time by the powerful desert winds. The heat from the sand rose up to meet the pale blue sky in the quiet afternoon. As the fifty-five-year-old Chief of the Medjay tribe reflected on the immensity of the desert that surrounded him, the wind slowly waved his curly hair, which was arranged in a distinct Afro style. Off in the distance, Jibade’s tribesmen patiently waited on their horses for the return of their leader.

  Disquieted, Jibade pondered his predicament. The Medjay tribe had valiantly maintained guard over the ancient holy stele throughout the centuries. The stele itself had been carefully passed down his family line, as the tribal leaders, from one generation to the next. But now it was in the hands of a foreigner. That German paid the ultimate price for his godless action. But the stele has not yet been found. He frowned, furrowing his brow. The tribe must not know. And the stele must be returned to its place. That is the gods’ law. Nobody in his tribe, besides the ruling triad, knew about the disappearance of the stele. He planned to keep it that way by all means possible.

  Despite his distress, Jibade looked younger than his age. He was a Medjay, the desert Nubian. His high forehead and black eyebrows set off his dark eyes, shining with intellect and slyness. High cheekbones and a square jaw line intensified the masculinity of his looks. As all Medjay, he favored earrings worn in a pierced lobe and crafted of silver wire formed into hoops with overlapping ends. Jibade had broad shoulders and long, muscular arms that ended with strong hands and long fingers. By relying on his fighting skills and leadership abilities, he had become the warrior he was today. But now his tribe’s oath had been compromised by the theft of the stele. It was time to check the trustworthiness and steadfastness of his tribe.

  Staring out at the unending desert, he contemplated several thoughts. Did he feel useless now that the stele had disappeared? Did its disappearance mean that his tribe would have nothing to do? Certainly, that was not the case. There were still many necessary tasks for the warriors of the tribe: to guard against the neighboring tribe’s constant thieving and pillaging from them for one. Yet tribal wars had been going on for centuries and would likely continue long after he had gone onto the afterlife in the Duat country. His mind wandered as he envisioned his future: repelling attacks from the neighboring tribes, marrying a worthy wife, having children, watching them grow up, and watching himself becoming old and dying.

  He must find the stele by any means possible. Otherwise, he saw no meaning in his life. The stele was like a bridge that spanned the celestial sky connecting the mortal world to the immortal. It would bring him, as well as all of his potential future descendants, a step closer to their gods. Jibade waited for answers in the hot desert sun: none came.

  Growling in frustration, Jibade wheeled his horse around and galloped back to his men. He signaled for them to follow and headed home. The Medjay tribesman needed no landmarks to guide them back to their village. An hour later they were riding down into their small valley, lined with numerous tents and children playing.

  As the warriors arrived, they were greeted with a cheer. It did not matter whether they were returning from fighting the enemy or merely re-supplying their stocks, the celebratory greeting had become routine. It was, however, a ritual that seemed far out of place to Jibade under the current circumstances. As he brought his white mustang to a thundering stop beside his tent, Jibade swung his leg over the back of his stallion, dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting horse wrangler. “Take a good care of him.” The youth bowed before walking Jibade’s horse into the corral to attend to it.

  Glancing over the village quickly to make sure nothing was amiss, Jibade entered his tent. He had only taken a few steps inside when he heard a familiar voice coming from the corner. “I finally took the time to come over and greet you myself.”

  Jibade instantly turned and saw a familiar old warrior sitting calmly in a shadowy corner. He had grayish hair and was wrinkled with age, but his eyes still sparkled in the darkened tent.

  “You delight in my anguish,” Jibade said coolly, as he leaned his ancient crusader sword against the table. “If I die, it will be from you giving me a heart attack.”

  The old warrior chuckled in amusement, “Is that how you greet your own uncle?”

  Jibade sighed, “Good afternoon, uncle.”

  “Such a heavy sigh. Am I to understand that the responsibilities of the tribe are too great for you?”

  Jibade sat down cross-legged on the carpet and slowly leaned back against a large pillow as he closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. After a few moments he opened his eyes and looked firmly at his uncle. “No, uncle.” Despite his attempt, he could not disguise the frustration in his voice.

  “Then what?” asked the old man, staring keenly at him.

  He doesn’t know? His uncle was a very powerful man and always received information firsthand. Jibade put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes again.

  “I feel emptiness inside of me, a loss…” Jibade frowned, unable to continue.

  “The oath of the Medjay is an ancient responsibility borne by our people, one that has kept our tribe going. But you, as their leader, have failed it. Now, a heavy burden will descend upon us.”

  Jibade’s eyes flew open. “How did you . . .?”

  “I have my sources. You weren’t planning to keep this from me, were you? Don’t you trust your own blood?”

  Jibade groaned. “The stele will be found. It’s only a matter of time. The wicked soul of the one who stole the stele has already been fed to Ammit, the devourer.”

  “And the tribe?” asked the old warrior.

  “Nobody beside
s the triad knows, and I trust them with my life,” Jibade replied proudly.

  “Yes, let’s keep it that way. We don’t need to start a panic now,” the old man agreed, gazing out the tent’s narrow window. “Our people look to you to keep our nation strong. If they were to learn of this, they would be at a terrible loss of direction and faith.”

  “Yes, dear uncle,” Jibade exclaimed vehemently. “The stele will be recovered.”

  His uncle gave a curt nod, “Any progress on finding it?”

  “Asim, my fearless warrior, and Police Inspector Suliman, whose services we’ve used in the past, are working on that as we speak. I should hear from both of them tonight.”

  “Keep me informed.” The old man stood up and walked over to his nephew, bending down to kiss his forehead. “May peace be upon you,” he whispered before stepping outside the tent. Lost in his thoughts, Jibade watched him through the small window as he departed.

  Chapter 4

  City of the Dead, Cairo, Egypt

  Wednesday, September 6

  9:50 p.m.

  For the past two excruciating hours, Asim, a hulky thirty-year-old fearless warrior from the local Medjay tribe, had been searching for a makeshift tomb-turned-into-house in the City of the Dead, located in Cairo’s outskirts. Over six feet tall and donned in a long white cotton cloak covering a crusader-type sword slung behind his back, Asim did not blend into the crowd. In fact, the locals were staring cautiously at him and his curly dark hair, which was arranged in distinctly bushy Afro style.

  Asim had long strayed that afternoon among the ancient, unkempt tombs and mausoleums. In his hand was a crude map that his chief Jibade had scrawled on a crumbled, torn piece of paper. It was very little help. Uneasy and turned around, he strode up and down the haphazard streets, puzzling over his map with its crude pencil-scratched directions and comparing it to the few signs he found.

  As night fell and darkened the shadows between the living and the dead, his heart filled with dread. He had heard many ill rumors about this place. He had never been to the City of the Dead before, nor had he ever had any inclination to visit such a place. But, tonight was different; he was on a secret mission. His great chief’s orders compelled him into the heart of the City of the Dead; a place known to the people of Cairo simply as el’arafa, meaning “the cemetery”.

  Brimming with tombs and mausoleums, the City of the Dead was a magnificent centuries old necropolis that was spread out in an immense hodgepodge fashion at the base of the Mokattam Mountains. Its foundation dates back to the Arab conquest of Egypt in 642 AD. When the Arab commander Amr ibn al As founded the first Egyptian Arab capital, the city of Al Fustat, he also established his family's graveyard at the foot of the al Mokattam Mountains. Now it is a four-mile long cemetery that stretches from the northern to the southern part of Cairo. Paradoxically, the City of the Dead thrives with its own robust life and intriguing activities. Amidst the marble headstones and crypts, people live and work amongst their dead loved ones and ancestors in the slummy makeshift town. It has everything from barbershops to cafés and even a bazaar that takes place on Fridays.

  Two hours later, Asim stopped in front of a rotten, two-story, makeshift edifice constructed over two adjacent mausoleums. It looked like an old military barracks made of crumbling, plaster walls. He glanced at the chief’s directions and found that the street and the number coincided at last: Ebn Roshd Street, number 19. Relief appeared across the Medjay’s drooping face. Ascending the old, creaking stairs, Asim was baffled that the chief’s famous expert, a legendary chemist, lived in such bestial conditions. Who would’ve imagined? He thought, wondering what would possess a man to live in a hovel.

  At the top of the dark flight of stairs, Asim found a brown door bearing the name of “Nassar” elegantly engraved on a faded, dull metal plate. Asim leaned forward, pressing his ear firmly against the door. He could not hear anything, only the eerie silence and the omnipresence of dead corpses. He knocked resolutely. Soon he heard a rustling from within. The door gradually opened until it was stopped by a thick metal chain. A stooped, gray-haired old man with a large nose and glasses peered from behind the door.

  “To what degree would I oblige your visit?” His voice was very hoarse as he spoke, his small eyes blinking behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  “As-salaamu aleyka, Nassar,” Asim quickly answered. “I have come to you under the direction of my great Chief Jibade, who is familiar with your very alluring business.”

  “Lately people have not come to me on matters other than the non-alluring,” the old man replied solemnly, carefully studying every single detail of his late-night visitor. Satisfied, he unlatched the door chain and beckoned him inside.

  “I feel honored to be recommended by the great chief,” announced Nassar as he quickly closed the front door, twisted shut the three deadbolts and fixed the heavy chain behind his visitor. Asim was surprised to see three deadbolts on the door. Something of great value must be hidden behind these deadbolts. Glancing around surreptitiously, Asim could not imagine what of any value could possibly be hidden in this shack. The only thing he could imagine being housed here were long departed souls.

  The main room, which looked like the old man used as both his bedroom and dining room, smelled of dampness and mold. Taking up the majority of the room were two massive tombs that doubled as makeshift tables, the tops covered with various books and manuscripts. Stretched between these tombstones was a clothesline with the old man’s laundry hanging on it. In the far corner of the room was a large, modern wooden cabinet with glass doors. Asim could see that it was crammed with various jars, bottles and flasks.

  Chief Jibade had explained to Asim that Nassar was considered an eminent and brilliant poison expert. For that matter, there probably was not a single contact, gas or ingestible poison, natural or synthetic, that he could not reproduce or analyze in his laboratory. Several years ago he had suddenly retired to the City of the Dead and was now living over a tomb in a wooden, makeshift house fit for a peasant. The only people who visited the old man were individuals such as Asim: strangers with very alluring problems.

  Nassar broke the silence, “How can I be of service to your great chief?”

  “My name is Asim,” the visitor introduced himself. “I’m Medjay.”

  “I noticed that,” the host replied quietly. “I knew that you were Medjay the moment I saw you at my doorway. I notice a lot of things, young man,” he added, chuckling softly.

  “May I ask you a question?” asked Asim.

  “Please, call me ‘Chemist,’” the old man replied quietly, nodding. “And please, have a seat.”

  Asim sat. “I was just wondering why with your position, title and reputation do you choose to live here in the slums of the City of the Dead?”

  The chemist nodded his head thoughtfully and sauntered over to a worn sofa where he sat. “My home was constructed more than a hundred years ago by my grandfather. My father was born and raised here. I spent the majority and the best part of my life here. Indeed, I could be living in a mansion in downtown Cairo, but here, in the City of the Dead, is where my life began and where I intend to conclude it. The two massive tombs you see in front of you are indeed the graves of my beloved grandfather and father,” he said, sighing deeply, a small smile finding its way to his lips at a distant memory.

  His smile faltered as he continued, “My late father was poisoned for a measly five Egyptian pounds. Justice was never served as his killer was let go because of a lack of evidence. That is why I left to study poisons. I am the best, which has led many people to use my potions and knowledge.” Nassar paused and looked at Asim firmly, “As a toxicologist, I am the best. You were sent to me for something?”

  Slightly concerned that he had insulted the chemist, Asim sat up straighter and spoke respectfully, “Our great chief knows that you are an expert on poisons, that there is no equal wit
hin your field. He also understands that you have amassed a unique collection of poisons, many of which are very difficult or in some cases impossible to identify.”

  The chemist nodded his head gently.

  “My chief says that from time to time you, so to say, ‘help people’ by supplying them with a means to get rid of certain problems. Am I not mistaken?”

  The chemist paused. “You are not mistaken,” he answered somberly. “I can supply a poison, if the cause is just. Despite my age, I have not become a humanist. I do understand that taking a life is sometimes the only way to solve a vital predicament. However,” he added, steadfastly looking at Asim through his thick glasses. “I do not provide poisons to whomever so desires them, and I certainly do not help everyone with every situation. I believe in taking a life only for the good of society. I do not condone murder. However, if a society finds itself unsuccessful in punishing bastards such as murderers, rapists, tyrants and torturers, then I provide a means. That’s also partly why I live here in the City of the Dead. I wish to be acquainted with death in a way most people wouldn’t comprehend.”

  Asim gave the chemist a surprised look.

  The chemist continued, ignoring his startled expression. “But, the motive is very important to me. If it’s compelling enough, I would never refuse my expertise.”

  “Chemist,” Asim spoke solemnly, “your help is vital to my people. There is no other way out for us. The great chief is willing to pay any amount of money for a reliable and swift poison that cannot be identified.”

  “First, young man, I do not take money for my services. Secondly, each poison I supply to my clients is unique. None of these poisons can be identified by modern medicine yet. Even the best pathologist will diagnose it as a heart attack, an insulin shock or anything else you would like, but never a poisoning. Thirdly and most importantly, I repeat that it is necessary for me to know the motive of the poisoning.” The chemist got up from his comfortable position on the shabby couch and stood in front of Asim’s armchair, straighter than Asim would have imagined possible for such an old man. “Therefore, Asim, either tell me why such a poison is necessary to you and your chief or leave. I must warn you that I have no difficulty in distinguishing a ruse from the truth.”