Pharaoh's Taboo Gift

Chris kept his mouth shut. This was so far beyond his knowledge that the three other people in the room might as well be speaking Greek. Which, for all he knew, they might actually start doing at any time. His mother was fluent in at least six languages that he knew of, and he doubted that Professor Escobar was any less adept. And Sabah, of course, had to learn Greek and Latin in order to decipher the ancient texts which were her passion.

"Hatshepsut?" Sabah's forehead wrinkled. "She was a queen of Egypt, right? Way back?"

"Not just a queen." His mother's voice was reverent as she touched the map. "A pharaoh. The fifth ruler of the eighteenth dynasty of ancient Egypt. She was the wife of Thutmose the Second. And her child was too young to rule when her husband died. So she ruled in her son's name, and then later declared herself pharaoh in her own right. She was a woman who took power in a man's world. And kept it and wielded it, by the gods!"

"Exactly. We know a little about her reign. But not enough."

"Not enough," his mother agreed. She speared the shorter man with a keen glance. "All right, Gonzalo. You dragged me out here with a promise. Why shouldn't I turn around and fly back to New York?"

"Our lady was entombed with her father," the professor replied absently. "We have her mummified remains. But after her rule ended, her descendants did all they could to erase the knowledge of her rule."

"The damnatio memoriae," Sabah whispered. "Pretending that someone important never existed. Destroying images of an emperor so his memory would be lost and forgotten. They did it in Rome, too."

"And not just back then," their mother added grimly. "Check out the Soviet Union or Communist China. It's amazing how many old photographs have mysterious blank spaces in them, where some poor bugger ran afoul of Lenin or Stalin or Mao."

"But what if I told you," the professor said, his eyes suddenly sharp, "that we had found evidence of a temple, dedicated to the worship of Hatshepsut?"

"In the Valley of the Kings? Impossible." His mother's voice was flat. "That area has been surveyed and re-surveyed a hundred times. There isn't one rock sitting on top of another that hasn't been studied. And I thought this was supposed to be a tomb, not a temple."

"Not in the valley. Here." The professor's thick fingers traced a line, up into the craggy foothills west of the valley, away from the wide Nile. "Satellite photography is really very useful, you know. One of my friends knows someone at the ESA and got them to point their cameras down here as a favor to me. I thought having a really good map of the entire area would be nice. But it turned into something bigger." A second map, more detailed, was laid atop the first. "See?"

Even to his untrained eyes, the small, rectangular outcropping was easy for Chris to see. It stood out from the surrounding landscape like a sore thumb.

"How has no one ever seen this?" he asked. "I mean," he faltered, as every other eye turned towards him. "People have to know, right?"

"The rulers of Egypt were tied to the river," the professor said. "That is where they laid their remains. This is miles away. No one looked here because no sane ruler would ever bother to build here."

"One did, it seems." Zahira rubbed her fingers over the map. "But where's our proof that this is a temple to Hatshepsut? All I see is a foundation."

In answer, the older man passed her a third, smaller photograph. His mother gave it an absent glance, and then a longer one. When she looked up, her eyes were wild.

"Is this a trick?" she demanded.

The professor grinned. "I took that picture myself, Zahira. Two days ago. Right before I called you." He sat down heavily. "No one else knows. At least, not the details." He looked up, dark eyes sharp and worried. "I called you, Zahira, because you know more about that era than I do. And because I trust you. I need your expertise. But the credit goes to both of us, yes? Professors Escobar and Collins?"

"You could have kept this to yourself, and not even clued me in," her mother replied. "Agreed. Though if this turns out to be true, I think there will be plenty of fame for both of us." She studied the photo again. "A temple to Hatshepsut! It's incredible. Everyone knows the woman was ambitious as Lucifer. But she must have thought that she could rule even after her death, as a goddess."

Gonzalo rocked back. "I never thought of it that way."

Her mother patted his cheek fondly. "Of course not. You're a man. It takes a woman's eyes to see some things."

Four days later, they left for the Valley of the Kings. Although, Chris thought, his mother probably would have liked to leave immediately after that midnight conclave in the hotel.

But there were preparations to make: Food and water and transportation and the addition of three extra tents for his mother and Sabah and himself had to be purchased in Luxor, the nearest town to the site. Even though this wasn't a full-scale dig, but merely an exploratory reconnoiter, it was always better to be over-prepared than the opposite, his mother claimed. One never knew when something you thought would never be needed suddenly became crucial, dragging the entire process to a halt.

But four mornings later, as the sun rose over the river to the east, a small caravan left the city and headed west. Gonzalo drove the lead car, his mother in the passenger seat beside him, while Chris and Sabah sat in the back. In the rear of the large SUV were boxes and cases of supplies. Behind them were another three vehicles, driven by native Egyptians who had been hired for the task. Dust rose in a cloud as they left paved roads behind them and headed out into the desert.

"What about the government?" His mother spoke loudly to be heard over the rattling noise. Chris winced as they hit a particularly large pothole.

The professor's shoulders rose in an expressive shrug. "I've paid off all the right people. And I've kept the bribes low. It's when you start spending money like a sailor on shore leave that the officials start getting suspicious. All they know is that I'm doing some fieldwork up in the hills west of the valley.

"But we're going to have to be careful. You know what it's like around here. If word gets out there's a major dig going on, we'll have looters and poachers down on us quicker than hyenas on a fresh corpse. And then we'll have to hire armed guards to scare them off. Or even worse, ask the military to come in."

"Ew." Sabah curled her lip, looking out the window. Outside, when wind cleared the spiraling gray dust away, the sky was clear; a deep, rich turquoise. But as they left the city behind, the ground changed rapidly - greenery fed by the mighty Nile giving way to wind-scoured rock and bare sand, with only the occasional shrub breaking the monotony.

Soon they were out of the valley and beginning to climb into the hills. There wasn't a road anymore. Just a bare, dusty track that was little better than a goat-path. Up, over a cleft between two jagged spires of rock, back down again, and then a turn north, bouncing and shaking like peas in a tin can. Their speed slowed to a crawl as they wove their way between huge boulders.

And then, after a squeeze that Chris thought would surely scrape the paint off the sides of the SUV, they came out into a broad, sunlit expanse. To their left was a series of survey markers, bright red ribbons fluttering in the breeze.

"Last stop. Everyone out." Behind them, the other vehicles were coming to a halt.

The heat hit Chris like a blow as soon as he got out of the vehicle, even though it was barely nine in the morning. The sun was a white-hot coin in the sky. And under their feet, the rock soaked up the heat and threw it back at them in waves, so that it felt like he was inside an oven. Sweat broke out all over his body in seconds, and when he reached back into the SUV to pull out a hat to protect his head, the door-handle was hot enough to scorch his fingers.

"Why would anyone in their right minds build a temple way the hell up here?" he asked, joining his mother and the professor, who were talking quietly nearby. "It's hotter than the devil's asshole, there's not a drop of water in sight, and it's desolate as hell."

The two adults glanced at each other. "The boy has a point," Gonzalo conceded, his lips pursed.

"He always was the practical one," his mother agreed. "He's majoring in business. Has it in his head to be an accountant when he graduates."

"Well, someone has to make sure the numbers add up," the professor said. He grinned through his beard. The mere thought of having that much hair on his face made Chris itch. "Or hide the numbers, when they don't add up the way they should. But the temple? He's right. There was more than enough room to build down in the valley. So why do it way up here?"

His mother moved away from the survey stakes, looking east. At her feet, the land suddenly fell away in a cliff, rocks and scree littering the slope until it merged with the lower land below. Below her large, floppy hat, her hand shaded her eyes as she gazed towards the river.

"How far would you say, Gonzalo? Twenty miles?"

"About that, yes."

"Then there's your answer. It wasn't meant to be easy. This was built as a pilgrimage site. It would take all day on camelback to get here from the river. A person would leave at dawn, trek across the waste, get here so grateful they survived the trip that they would be in a mood suitable for worship or penance, stay the night, and go back the next day. It was made hard on purpose.

"Besides," she breathed. Look at that view. Can you imagine watching the sun rise over the Nile at dawn, looking at it from here?"

Gonzalo nodded. "Maybe. It's something to think about, at least." He clapped his hands, once, and nodded. "Let's get the campsite set up. Then we can get to work."

Luckily, Zahira's children hadn't lost their ability to camp in the rough. When she got back from supervising the digging of the latrine trench, Chris was on his knees, pounding a metal stake into the sun-baked ground with a hammer. As she watched, he slid two rods together, twisting them so they linked with sharp snap. One end was wedged into the ground. The other, into a loop in the lightweight fabric that formed the tent. In just seconds the front of the tent was off the ground. A few yards away, Sabah's was taking shape just as rapidly.

"Don't forget to set your cot up off the ground," she advised her son. "Remember Petra?"

"I was eleven, Mom. And that scorpion had no business in my tent."

Sabah snickered from her kneeling position. "I remember that. God, you screamed like someone was trying to kill you."

"Yeah?" he shot back as he put another rod in place. "You try waking up and finding a horrible murder-bug six inches away from your face. There." He stepped back and surveyed his work with a satisfied expression. "All done. You need some help with yours, Mom?"

"Thanks, honey." She stepped over to her tent, which was on the other side from Sabah's. "I'd appreciate it."

The two of them made quick work of it. Zahira put the rods together and set them neatly to the side, while Chris staked out the corners. She watched him admiringly from beneath her lashes as his strong young arms pounded the stakes into the ground.

Not like his father at all, she thought, a trifle smugly. Greg had rarely bothered to get his hands dirty when they were in the field, leaving it to other people, as if his exalted position meant that he didn't have to exert himself. But Chris didn't shy away from hard work at all. Like the rest of them, he was dressed sensibly in the heat. Jeans and heavy shoes were an unfortunate necessity when the surrounding countryside was full of biting bugs, stinging insects, and the occasional snake. But his white t-shirt was lightweight and his hat protected his head from both sunburn and overheating.

"Madam." He bowed gracefully, his long fingers sweeping out in a gesture towards the tent-flap. "The palace awaits your divine presence."

She smiled at her son. "You're a doofus." But she unzipped the flap and pushed aside the mosquito netting and entered.

Her tent was the largest of the three, meant to accommodate multiple people if necessary. The middle, unsupported, sagged down towards the floor.

"Hand in that last pole, will you, Chris?" she asked. Setting the butt-end on the floor, Zahira twisted, but the metal shaft stayed stubbornly inert. "What the hell?" she muttered. "This pole is supposed to extend, isn't it?"

"That's what she said!" Sabah's voice carried through from her tent next door, and broke off on a naughty giggle.

Zahira was grateful that the heat hid the flush in her face. "Chris, can you help me out, please?" she called, still twisting on the rod.

"What?" Chris asked, coming inside just as her finger pressed a metal button. She yelped in surprise as the pole extended to twice its length in a heartbeat, dropping it and stumbling back until she fetched up against her son.

"I've got you." His voice was a chuckling rumble in his chest as his arms caught her.

Zahira sighed. Just for a moment, she let herself savor this too-short moment of human contact. It had been so long. Nearly seven years since she had shown Greg the door. And almost two since she had broken off her last, ill-advised affair with the father of one of Sabah's friends. Caught up in the grind of career, where the motto was 'publish or die,' she had almost forgotten that sex was a thing.

Or that her body had needs. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of being sheltered by a pair of strong arms.

But it couldn't last. She stooped, breaking Chris' unintentional embrace, and picked up the tent-pole. In seconds, the shelter looked the way it should.

"All right," she said, dusting off her hands. "Let's get the rest unpacked."

She led Chris out of the tent, and the four of them set up a bucket brigade, transferring their belongings to their tents. Meanwhile, their hired help unpack supplies and put them in yet another tent for safe-keeping, dug the latrine trench and a fire-pit, set up work-tables under a canvas awning, and hooked up lines to the huge water-truck. Professor Escobar supervised that chore personally, since any problems with their water supply would mean an immediate end to the project. Without fresh water, they would be dead in days.

Zahira was just unfolding a set of canvas-seated chairs and setting them around the tiny table in the middle of her tent when there was a burst of activity outside; a clatter, a sharp scream, swiftly cut off, and the pounding of running footsteps, punctuated by an outburst of profanity.

"Mom!" Sabah caught her arm as she left her tent. Her face was taut with worry. "Come quick! The professor's hurt!"

Zahira ran across the encampment towards the water-truck. When she arrived, it was at a scene of pandemonium. Gonzalo was lying on the ground, his normally florid face pale. One of their drivers, a small, mousy man, was being harangued by his countrymen, who surrounded him in a circle of angry Arabic invective.

"All right!" She strode into the circle, Sabah at her side. Chris came trotting up, his face concerned. "What happened?"

Four voices rose up at once. "Quiet!" she ordered, holding up a hand. "Gonzalo?"

"Stupid, lead-footed idiot doesn't know the difference between the gas and the brake," the professor swore. "I was trying to guide him to a level spot and he backed the damned truck right into me. Threw me into that son-of-a-bitching rock right there." He tried to shift where he lay. If anything, his face went even more chalky. "I think my damned leg is broken."

"Chris. Go get the med kit. We need scissors to cut away his pants."

Her son departed at a run. "Now, now. No need for that, love." Despite his pain, Gonzalo smiled up at her, eyes twinkling. "I've wanted you to undress me for years. But I don't think we need an audience."

Zahira swallowed back laughter, while Sabah snorted. "Like you could even do anything if you got me alone right now, you old fraud."

Chris hurried up with the medical kit, and Zahira opened it up, her hands sure. This wasn't the first time she'd been forced to do first-aid in the field. She eyed Gonzalo's leg dubiously. "I don't suppose we can take your shoe off?"

The small man gritted his teeth. "If you can do it without moving my leg, maybe."

She shot her eyes to the side. "Sabah. Hold his leg still. Chris. Untie his shoe." As her children obeyed her, she gently eased it off his foot, ignoring Gonzalo's sulfurous swearing. Working quickly, she cut up the side of her friend's heavy canvas pants.

"Oh, yeah." She didn't need an x-ray machine to see the problem. The edge of the bone was actually pressing on the inside of the professor's skin, making it tent grotesquely. Sabah took one look, then turned away. "You definitely did some damage here. Looks like a fractured tibia to me."

"Are you a doctor?"

"No, but I play one on TV," she replied absently. "You and you." She pointed. "Get a couple of tent-poles so we can make a stretcher. You. Get one of the SUVs ready to go back into town."

She stood, dusting off her knees. "Well, old friend, guess you're getting a bit of a break. I'll take you into town and get you to a hospital."

"No!" He struggled up onto one arm, frowning. "You have to stay here, Zahira! If anyone comes, there has to be someone in charge. Can Sabah or Chris prove to the government that we have a right to be here?"

"Damn it," Zahira sighed. Gonzalo was right. "Fine." She looked at Sabah. "You're going back to town with him. Don't come back until you know he's in good hands. Wait as long as you have to. I don't want you trying to drive these roads after dark.

"You." She switched to Arabic and pointed at the man who had caused all the problems. "You're driving. And I want you to act as if you had your sweet old grandmother riding with you. Do you understand me?"

He bobbed his head. "Yes."

Good. Two of the other men came up, lugging a makeshift stretcher. "All right. Let's get to work."

An hour later, Zahira watched as the truck crawled back down the hill, wincing in sympathy at every jounce.

"He'll be all right," she told Chris, wishing she didn't sound as if she were trying to convince herself.

"Sure he will," her son answered. "He'll probably show up tomorrow on crutches, hopping around and giving us orders."

Her snicker was cut off as she spied the three remaining men. They were standing in a huddled circle near the vehicles. Over the faint sigh of the wind, she could hear their low-voiced mutters, and see the way they were casting nervous looks over their shoulders, up towards the low mound of the temple.

"Well?" she sighed. "What now?"

"We should leave, lady." A spokesman stepped forward. He jerked his head back at the temple. "This is a bad-luck place. All know this." His friends murmured agreement, and he made a superstitious sign with his fingers. "One man is hurt already. If we do not leave, maybe worse things happen. The spirits of this place are angry. Maybe we die."

"Fine," she shrugged, fishing a wad of bills out of her pocket. "Go. I can pay you now. We keep the supplies. You get one truck to drive back to the city."

The man grinned, displaying bad teeth. "And if we want to take all the trucks and leave you here? The man is gone. There is only this boy. Why should we not do as we wish?" His eyes traveled over her body, making her skin crawl. "Take what we wish."

His obscene smirk faded as she drew the revolver from the hidden holster in the small of her back. "Then no one will ever know what happened to you," she snapped as she lined the barrel up on his face. "There's all sorts of places around here where we could drop your body and leave it for the vultures."