Elisha’s Bones (2 page)

I’m as intrigued as is he by the incongruity of the barren outer coffin within a sepulcher—indeed an entire tomb—that is patterned after those of the pharaohs. And I have no immediate answer.

I wipe my brow, aware that I’m leaving a film of red dust under my hairline. Now that we’ve found something unexpected, I’m more bothered by the fact that Jim is not here. It’s worse than Will’s absence. At least my brother has a concrete reason for missing an event important enough to earn the presence of two
National Geographic
photographers. Jim wouldn’t give me a reason that carried any kind of weight; he was merely insistent that the events of the morning proceed. Not that he had to do too much arm-twisting; were he here, I would still be the one walking the Scooby Gang through their paces. Even so, there’s an unspoken rule that something of this magnitude should only take place under the watchful eye of the archaeologist of record. I shake my head, consoling myself with the thought that Jim’s absence means the guys from
National Geographic
will have to put my face on the cover of their next issue.

I field a sudden urge to light a cigar and my hand moves to my breast pocket, but I let the impulse pass, the dust in the chamber making it hard enough to breathe.

Several members of the team are jockeying for position around the sepulcher, shining their small lights into the crack. For the few moments that I afford myself to watch them, I have to smile at their exuberance. I’m not much older than most of them, but at this moment they seem younger than I ever remember being.

Almost on their own, my eyes find Sarah. She’s a Connecticut girl, with the superior and privileged vocal intonations to prove it. She’s one of the few on the team who has halted her education with a graduate degree.

But I can tell that she loves the work. She is as attentive, detailed, and driven as any of the others working alongside her. And she’s easy on the eyes. I’ve always been a sucker for a brunette, and Sarah has deep brown eyes to go with her lustrous locks.

As if she can sense my gaze, she looks up and, after a pause, gives me a small smile. That’s another thing about northeastern women: a smile can convey a great deal.

I’m the first to look away, and Brown saves me from having to consider what that says about me.

“Dr. Hawthorne?”

The puzzlement in his voice has me at his side in an instant. I crouch and follow the beam of his flashlight as it passes back and forth over a portion of the outer coffin. All I can see is a slight curve, yet it’s enough to hint that it’s at least vaguely anthropoid. I’m about to ask Brown what I’m supposed to be seeing when the light flashes by a faded irregularity in the wood. I’m not certain how long it takes before I recognize the abnormality as script, but when the revelation comes, it adds another mystery to the tally.

“Coptic,” I say, and Brown nods in my periphery.

The find draws me closer, until I’m breathing the stale air, squinting to make sense of the words carved into the wood. There is little that is new in excavations conducted in the Valley of the Kings; everything has a corollary. KV9 is what comes to mind, with its walls decorated with ancient graffiti in a mixture of Coptic and Lycian. But this isn’t graffiti; this is something else entirely. For a brief moment Nag Hammadi passes through my mind, solely for the Coptic element, but I let the thought go before it can find purchase. Playing connect-the-dots without even the most basic evidentiary support is seldom productive.

The narrow opening and the inconstant lighting make it difficult to decipher much, but I engage in a round of serious squinting until I’m able to pull a few words from the darkness. And, in so doing, I feel a twinge of excitement creep up my spine even as a frown lodges on my face—which is what happens when the happiness of a new discovery is marred by the potential effects the find will have on the timeline of the larger work. I make a conscious decision to allow the former reaction to prevail, since the one phrase I can identify is so unusual. If I’m correct, it translates, albeit roughly, to
bones of the holy man
. I’d have to look at the whole of the text to verify the translation. What’s more intriguing is how the writing could have appeared inside a sealed sarcophagus that, to this point, had borne every indication of having been preserved inviolate.

A kink in my back cuts my survey short and I stand and place an impatient hand on the lid of the sepulcher. I’m tempted to give it a push, a small nudge—just enough so that I can see what other surprises await me on the other side of the granite. What stops me—besides the ugly specter of archaeological protocol that mandates an incremental removal of the obstacle—is another, equally important, code which says that Jim should be present for this. I don’t know his reasons for missing the opening, but I must give him the option to lead the team in investigating something so unexpected. And this isn’t the kind of thing I can relay over the radio. I want to see his face when he hears the news—that whoever is interred in 65 might be some kind of Egyptian seer. I see the
National Geographic
guys loading film. I shake my head; Jim might wind up on the cover after all.

“Take a break, folks,” I tell my plebes. The one who looks most disappointed is Brown, who was probably hoping I’d give the lid a prodigious shove. With a last glance around the burial chamber and one long look at Sarah, who has her perfect nose almost inserted into the crypt’s crack, I turn and walk away.

The antechamber I enter gives me an immediate feeling of solitude, and it has the benefit of seeming some degrees cooler. Our team has already picked through this room, and we’ve begun a cursory study of the contents of the annex on its western side. I walk over and around chalk lines and tape, following in the path of countless footfalls through the eight-meter-long room. Leaving the antechamber, I step into a long and narrow corridor leading to the stairway that will take me topside.

I reach the stairs and start up, watching my footing on the roughhewn steps. The gloom starts to give way to natural light, and before long I am standing beneath a blazing Egyptian sun. The first thing I do is pull a cigar from my breast pocket, a Dominican. Once it’s lit, I take a long and satisfying puff.

The Valley of the Kings sits in the shadow of al-Qurn and the peak, fittingly, has a pyramid shape. It’s red and barren, and time-weathered in a way that makes it seem like the embodiment of age—the patriarch of the Theban Hills. In the bright sunlight of the valley, I see what the dust beneath the ground has done to my clothes. I attempt a few halfhearted brushes at my sleeves before giving up and starting for our camp. From around the other side of the hill come the sounds of my brother’s team. I’m not really bothered by the fact that Will hasn’t been around for the events temporarily halted somewhere beneath my feet. Had he not decided to stay the course with the bypass tunnel to the treasure room, it would have been going against form. When we were kids, Will would leave presents ignored beneath the Christmas tree if he’d opened one that caught his attention. It’s a single-mindedness that can be maddening to everyone around him. I think he is scheduled to reach the tomb wall sometime this morning, and I try to set some mental Post-it Note as a reminder to be there when it happens.

Our camp consists of an RV and three pickups, which is a bit light for a dig of this size, but we’re not out in the middle of nowhere. Most of the team is set up at a hotel in Luxor, where we also keep provision. As I cover the distance to the camp, though, I see another vehicle, a new BMW, parked next to one of the pickups.

I’m almost to the RV, ready to start up the steps, before I hear the voices coming from inside. On most occasions I wouldn’t give it another thought; this is the command center, with people coming and going at all hours. What gives me pause now, beyond the unfamiliar car, is that the muffled noises I assume to be conversation sound decidedly unfriendly. Before I can make a decision about potential eavesdropping, the door swings open.

There is a moment when I think the first of the two men at the top of the stairs is going to fall on top of me as he brings himself to a sudden halt, unprepared to find another person blocking his exit, but that moment passes and he finds his balance. He is perhaps thirty-five, dark-haired, and too fair-skinned to call this place home. He wears a gray suit, and shoes that look far too expensive to be forced to endure this kind of environment. He stands there for as long as it takes to give me a single sour glance and then he’s down the stairs. It’s a strange passing— oddly close—because I haven’t moved away from the bottom of the steps. Belatedly I step to the side, and as he walks through the space I’ve just vacated, he half turns and gives me a slight smile that sends a psychic shudder running up my spine.

Our inspector, courtesy of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, is the man following. Magdy descends the stairs and offers a polite nod when he reaches the bottom. He hurries after the other man, who has almost reached the BMW. When they drive off, I watch until I lose sight of the car behind one of the hills. I turn back to the RV and see Jim standing in the doorway.

“Trouble with Magdy?” I ask, even though it’s obvious that something’s amiss. The tension I’ve stumbled into is as palpable as a Scottish fog, even if it has dissipated with the men’s departure. Jim’s answer is a grunt and a step back to allow me into the RV. Only when we are both inside, and he has claimed a chair at the small table in the kitchen area, does he respond.

“The SCA is drafting orders for us to cease the project.”

For one of the few times in recent memory, I am left speechless.

Jim gives me a wry smile. “That’s essentially what I said. Only with a good deal more cursing.” He chuckles and takes a sip of ice water.

“We spent months getting approval to excavate 65,” I say, feeling a dull pain take hold along the base of my neck. “They can’t make us pull up now.”

Finessing an application through the SCA’s Department of Foreign Archaeological Missions is a level of hell missing from Dante’s book. Meticulousness and a genuine love for tedium are required skills for those trying to fight their way through the minutia of the application process. If even a single item is missing or incomplete, it can set a project back by months. That’s the reason I know our potential ouster has nothing to do with a flaw in the application; I’d swear to the document’s integrity right down to the molecular level.

And to the best of my knowledge, our inspector has been satisfied with the excavation and the subsequent preservation work, and with the timeliness of his pay.

I think Jim is allowing my indignation to suffice as his own, because I can almost see the anger leaching away from him. He leans back in his chair and starts drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Technically, they can.” Then he winks. “But if we file a protest with the director’s office, we might gain a month or so before they force us out.”

James Winfield, Professor Emeritus at the University of Canberra, is a throwback to the time when scholarly men met in quaint taverns and downed pints of dark beer while arguing points of philosophy, theology, and hard science. When I studied at his feet, I thought he looked like Oxford—at least the Oxford in my imagination. I’ve since been to Oxford, and I prefer my naïve fancies. He’s also the man who taught me the value of a good cigar and the reason I associate refinement with the practice.

I can follow Jim’s line of reasoning, can even be somewhat assuaged by it. What I can’t understand is the reason behind the sudden removal of SCA support.

“Why?” is the only question I can muster.

Always a step ahead, Jim says, “Not why, but
who
.”

“I don’t follow.”

“In one variation of the question, who within the SCA wants our project shut down?”

Running a hand through my dusty hair, I nod. But Jim’s phrasing isn’t lost on me.

“What’s the other variation?”

“I would think that’s obvious,” Jim answers, forever the teacher. He waits until I track with him, which does not take long.

“Who was the other guy?” I ask, referring to the man accompanying our inspector. I have never seen a foreigner employed by the SCA, although it is not unheard of for them to bring in a foreign consultant. Too, KV65 is an important work site, and we’ve entertained more than the usual share of interested parties in the months we’ve been here. I’d just assumed our mystery man fit that category. Although, now that I think back on our near collision and the strange vibe I got from the guy, I reconsider—especially because Jim wouldn’t have said anything had he not detected something odd about the man.

“I’m not sure,” Jim answers. “It seemed obvious that his presence unnerved our beloved inspector. Magdy acted like a small insect in a large web.”

That prompts a smile, if for no other reason than that an SCA inspector is the bane of an archaeologist’s existence.

“What I do know,” Jim adds, fingers drumming the tabletop, “is that he was one of my countrymen.”

“A consultant?”

He lets my question hang there, and the look on his face suggests he is struggling to corral his thoughts. After a while, he shakes his head and looks up.

“Consultant is likely,” he says, though his voice lacks conviction. He offers a dismissive wave. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. A few phone calls and the whole business will be cleared up.” Then he brightens as if only now remembering something. “How are things going below?”

While still reeling from the possibility of having to abandon KV65, I’m grateful for the redirection. Placing this other issue aside, I’m about to tell Jim what we’ve found when the RV makes a minor shift beneath my feet.

When the moment has ended, a silence fills the vacuum, and it seems almost as threatening as whatever set the vehicle to shaking. Jim and I lock eyes and then he is out of his chair and we are both heading toward the door. Our time in this country has given us ample experience with incidents of seismic activity; neither of us need to verbalize that what we just felt was something else.