The Lost Army of Cambyses (45 page)

someone styling himself 'The Scribe of Amun, Son

of Ipu'. One of the ancient necropolis workmen,

probably, who must have sat in this very same seat

more than three thousand years ago, enjoying the

same view as Khalifa, and listening to the same

silence, and perhaps even feeling the same things.

He reached out and touched the inscription.

'What should I do?' he sighed, running his

fingers across the crudely incised images. 'What's

the right thing? Tell me, Son of Ipu. Give me some

sign. Because I sure as hell—'

He was interrupted by a clatter of stones. He

turned and looked up. A gaunt, filthy man was

staring down at him from a shelf a few metres

above.

'Sorry sorry forgive me Allah have mercy!'

gabbled the man in Arabic, slapping his head.

'Clumsy stupid fool tread in the wrong place.'

He tied his djellaba in a knot around his waist

and, swinging his emaciated legs over the edge of

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the shelf, clambered down the cracked rock face.

'You talk to the ghosts!' he jabbered as he

descended. 'I talk to the ghosts too. Hills full of

ghosts! Thousands of ghosts. Millions of ghosts.

Some good, some bad. Some are terrible! I have

seen.'

He was on the ground now and scrabbled round

to crouch at Khalifa's feet. 'I live with the ghosts.

I know them. They are everywhere.' He pointed

behind Khalifa's head. 'There is one. And there is

another. And there, and there, and there. Hello

ghosts!' He waved. 'They know me. They are

hungry. Like me. We are all hungry. So hungry.'

He fumbled among the folds of his robes, pulling

out a crumpled paper packet. 'You want scarab?'

he asked. 'Best quality.'

Khalifa shook his head. 'Not today, my friend.'

'Look, look, very best, no better in Egypt. Just

look. Please.'

'Not today,' repeated Khalifa.

The man glanced around and shuffled a little

closer, lowering his voice. 'You like antiquities? I

have antiquities. Very good.'

'I'm a policeman,' said Khalifa. 'Be careful what

you say.'

The man's smile faded. 'Fake antiquities,' he

said hurriedly. 'Not real. Fake, fake. Make them

myself. Make the fake. Ha, ha, ha.'

Khalifa nodded and, pulling out a cigarette, lit

it. The man stared at him, like a dog waiting for a

titbit. Feeling suddenly sorry for him, Khalifa

threw him the pack of Cleopatras.

'Have them,' he said, 'and leave me in peace.

OK? I want to be alone.'

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The man took the cigarettes. 'Thank you,' he

said. 'So kind. Ghosts like you. They tell me to tell

you. They like you very much.' He held his hand to

his ear as if listening. 'They say if you ever have

problems you come up here and talk to them and

they give you many good answers. Ghosts will pro-

tect you.' He stuffed the cigarettes into a pocket of

his robe and stood. 'You want guide?' he asked.

'I want to be left in peace,' said Khalifa.

The man shrugged and, blowing his nose on the

hem of his djellaba, set off along the path at

the foot of the cliff face, oblivious to the rocks

beneath his bare feet.

'You want to see Kings Valley,' he called over

his shoulder, 'Hatshepsut, tombs of nobles? I

know all places round here. Very cheap.'

'Some other time,' Khalifa shouted after him.

'Not today.'

'I show you places no-one else see. Very good

places. Special places.'

Khalifa shook his head and, turning away,

gazed out across the empty hills. The madman

stumbled on, until he was almost at the point

where the path curved out of sight behind a high

shoulder of rock.

'I take you to secret places!' he cried.

Khalifa ignored him.

'New tomb that no-one else knows! Very good!'

He disappeared round the shoulder of rock.

There was a brief hiatus and then, suddenly, as if

someone had kicked him from behind, Khalifa

flew to his feet.

'Wait!' he shouted, his voice magnified and

echoed by the rock walls. 'Wait!'

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He scrambled down to the path and ran after

the man, who, on hearing his cry, had stepped

back round the corner.

'A new tomb that no-one else knows,' panted

Khalifa, coming up to him. 'You said a new tomb

that no-one else knows.'

The man clapped his hands. 'I found it!' he

cried. 'Very secret. The ghosts took me there. You

want to see?'

'Yes,' said Khalifa, his heart racing. 'I do want

to see. I want to see it very much. Take me.'

He clapped the man on the shoulder and they

set off together up into the hills.

At first Khalifa couldn't be sure the madman's

tomb was the same as the one Nayar had found.

As al-Masri had pointed out, these hills were full

of old shafts. It was more than possible his guide

had stumbled on a completely different one, one

that had no relevance at all to the case he was

dealing with.

Then, after much cajoling, he persuaded the

man to show him the antiquities of which he had

spoken and his doubts were dispelled. There were

three
shabtis,
each identical to the ones he'd found

in Iqbar's shop, and a terracotta ointment jar with

a Bes face stamped onto it, again identical to the

one from Iqbar's cache. It was clear they all came

from the same hoard. He handed the artefacts

back and reached for his cigarettes, realizing only

when his hand was in his pocket that he'd given

them away.

'Give me a cigarette, will you?' he said.

'No!' replied the man. 'They're mine!'

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It took them over an hour to reach the top of

the gully and a further thirty minutes to work their

way down to the tomb entrance. The last part of

the descent, when they had to clamber down the

six-metre rock face above the tomb, was par-

ticularly painful for Khalifa, who had never liked

heights. The madman swarmed down without a

care in the world. Khalifa, on the other hand, took

five minutes just to pluck up the courage to begin

the descent, and when he finally did start climb-

ing, he inched his way downwards so slowly and

with such care that he seemed to be moving in

slow motion.

'Allah protect me,' he mumbled, pressing

his face against the reassuring solidity of the rock

face, 'Allah have mercy on me.'

'Come, come, come!' The madman laughed,

jumping up and down below him. 'Here's the

tomb, why do you wait, thought you wanted to

see it?'

The detective reached the bottom eventually

and, scrambling through the entrance, sank

against the wall of the corridor, breathing hard.

'Give me a cigarette,' he panted. 'And no argu-

ments, or I'll arrest you for possession of stolen

antiquities.'

Grudgingly the pack was proffered and Khalifa

took one, lighting it, closing his eyes and inhaling

deeply. After a couple of drags he started to relax.

He opened his eyes again.

A thin shaft of sunlight was pushing through the

tomb entrance, just enough to illuminate the

corridor and, at its bottom, the dark well of

the burial chamber.

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'How did you find it?' Khalifa asked, looking

around.

'The ghosts tell me,' said the madman. 'Seven

days, ten days. Not long. They tell me to come

down here. They say there is something special. So

I come down and here it is, beautiful tomb, very

secret, very special.'

He hopped to the entrance and pointed at the

gap through which they had climbed.

'See, here, when I first come there is a wall, big

wall, cover up all the door so you can't see inside.

But I knock down the wall and get inside, just like

the ghosts tell me. Very dark inside, very secret,

goes down down down. I am scared, I shake with

fear, but I go down because I want to see, like

someone is pulling me.'

His voice was getting faster. He started to move

down the corridor. Khalifa followed.

'A room,' he said, pointing downwards. 'Dark,

black, like night. I light match. Many things

inside. Hundreds of things. Wonderful things, and

terrible things. Very magic. Home of ghosts.'

They were standing in the doorway to the burial

chamber now. As Khalifa's eyes adjusted to the

gloom he could make out vague colours and

images on the wall opposite.

'Treasures, treasures, so many treasures,'

gabbled the man. 'I stay here for a night. I sleep

here with the treasures, like a king! Many dreams

I have, many strange things come to me in my

head, like I am flying over the world and see every-

thing, even what people think.' He jumped down

into the chamber. 'Later I tell my friend.'

'Your friend?' asked Khalifa.

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'Sometimes he comes in the hills, when he has

drunk, we talk, he gives me cigarettes. He has a

picture. Here.'

He pointed to his left wrist. To the spot where

Nayar had had his scarab tattoo. The detective

was starting to understand.

'I tell my friend what the ghosts have shown me.

He says, "Take me!" So I take him. He laughs very

loud. He says, "You and me will be very rich! You

and me will live like kings!" I must leave it to him,

he says. He will take things to show special

people. He will buy me a television. I mustn't

come here again, he says. I mustn't say anything.

And so I wait and wait and wait. But he doesn't

come back. And then the others come at night.

And I am alone. And there is no television. And I

am hungry. And only the ghosts are my friends.'

He sniffed and wandered forlornly round the

room, trailing his hand along the walls. Khalifa

jumped down too, noting how the section of wall

to the left of the doorway had been destroyed. He

squatted beside the pile of smashed plaster on the

floor, shaking his head, dismayed at such wanton

vandalism.

He could see the chain of events clearly. This

man had stumbled on the tomb. He had told

Nayar, Nayar had removed certain objects, includ-

ing, presumably, a piece of the wall now lying in

ruins at his feet. Sayf al-Tha'r had got wind of it.

Nayar had been killed. The rest he already knew.

He stood and began to examine the chamber.

His eyes had adjusted to the gloom now and much

of the decoration was visible, although the sides of

the room were still lost in impenetrable shadow, as

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though hung with black drapes. The man sat

down on the floor, staring at Khalifa through dole-

ful eyes, humming to himself.

'Have you been back here,' asked Khalifa, 'since

you found it?'

The man shook his head. 'But I have seen. I hide

in the rocks, very quiet, like I am a rock too. They

come at night, every night, like jackals. They take

things from the tomb, one night, two night, three

night, every night more things.'

'Last night?'

'Last night they come. Then they go. Then

others come.'

'Others?'

'Man and woman. White. I had seen them

before. They go into the tomb. They are eaten.'

'Killed?'

The madman shrugged.

'Killed?' repeated Khalifa.

'Who knows? I have not seen them with the

ghosts. Maybe they live. Maybe they don't. The

man I had seen . . .'

'What?'

He wouldn't say any more, however, and fell to

drawing patterns in the dust with his finger.

Khalifa turned back to the walls. He worked his

way slowly round the chamber, using his lighter to

illuminate the decoration where it was too dark

to see with natural light. He spent a long while in

front of the triptych that had so interested Daniel,

gazing intently at each of its three sections, and

then moved on again. He peered into the canopic

niche, at the image of the two Persians, the Greek

man before his table of fruit, Anubis weighing the

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heart of the deceased, examining every inch of the