Without a word, they drew shields and spears from the donkey’s load and made sure their smaller weapons were close at hand. Bak patted his dagger, seeking reassurance.
Imsiba hung a mace from a segment of belt adjoining his dagger. Mery drew a rock he liked from the heavy leather bag tied to his belt and loaded the sling. They strode on, studying the ridge and the rolling sandscape, searching for a sign of life, finding none. The footprints led them to the fissure, which formed a good-sized entryway, crossed a thick layer of sand on the floor, and disappeared in a chamber at the rear.
They eyed the tracks that vanished in the dark, tempting them to follow. Chisel marks dimpled the walls where the natural crack in the stone had been widened and smoothed.
The open doorway at the back, carved and painted in the ancient style but too faded to see well, revealed nothing in the blackness beyond. A large boulder lay across the space overhead, forming a roof of sorts, shading much of the entryway. Wensu-or someone-had to be inside. Why, then, was the tomb so silent?
“A single set of footprints, probably Wensu’s, and no trace of Userhet.” Bak scowled at the dark portal, troubled by the scarcity of revealing signs. “I think it best, Imsiba, that you stay outside. I’d not like to be trapped in there with no one the wiser.”
“Nor would I.” Imsiba looked as concerned as Bak.
Mery hurried to the donkey and dug out a torch, the drill used to start fires, and kindling. Kneeling, he rapidly rotated the stick to get a spark. Bak shifted the tools from the animal’s back to the entryway, while Imsiba climbed the ridge in search of footprints or any other sign that another man was lurking nearby.
The dried grass and twigs soon flared and Mery held the torch to the flame.
“Have you found anything?” Bak called.
Imsiba, towering above him atop the ridge, shook his head. “The track of a jackal, that’s all.”
Not entirely satisfied, but unable to think of any further precautions they could take, Bak took the torch from the boy and led the way into the tomb, his body taut, his senses alert, his spear poised to fend off attack. Beyond the entryway, they found themselves in a room twice as wide as it was deep, the walls blackened by campfires of wandering tribesmen, the ancient drawings indistinct. Two square columns that had once supported the ceiling lay broken on the floor.
The room was empty, the silence so dense Bak could feel it.
Drawn to a doorway at the back, Bak plunged into a second chamber, which was as wide as the first and twice as deep. This, too, was empty.
“Where’s Wensu?” Mery whispered, his eyes wide, scared.
“I don’t know.” Tamping down his own unease, Bak raised the torch high, casting the light over walls, columns, floor, ceiling.
The chamber, when first adorned, must have been magnificent. In the flickering light, colorful figures of men and women and children, all a hand’s length in height, marched and danced and wrestled across the walls, working and playing as they had in the distant past. Hunting and fishing, plowing and harvesting, weaving, making wine and leather and pottery. A large painting of the deceased held pride of place on the back wall, seated with his family and fawned upon by his minions. Three octagonal columns still stood, while a fourth lay in good-sized chunks where it had fallen near the back of the chamber. The smooth stone floor was dusty-gritty but, like the antechamber, had been too heavily trod upon to reveal its secrets.
A wooden sledge leaned against the fallen column. Several rollers lay beside it. A large wooden box had been shoved into the corner behind the column. Its dimensions were roughly those of an outer shrine-shaped coffin, but it had no lid and the wood was plain and unpainted. Surely Wensu would not have thought to save himself by hiding inside!
Bak hastened to look-and found the box empty.
Curiosity got the better of Mery’s fear. He got down on his knees and began to sift through the small piles of sand that had collected around the fallen column. “I see no sign of a burial. Not a bead, not a piece of rotted wood, not even a broken bit of pottery.”
“The ancient tombs in Kemet have a deep shaft going down to a burial chamber.” Bak glanced around. If this was the tomb Intef had found, the shaft would be open. But where could it be? His eyes settled on the wooden box, shoved back in the corner for no apparent reason. Unless…
He walked to the box and moved the torch slowly around its lower edge. Mery came close to watch. A flicker of flame, the play of light and shadow drew Bak’s eyes to a patch of disturbed dust beside the container and a pale, fresh gouge in the stone. A narrow strip of black spoke of a void under-neath.
“That’s it!” Mery said. “The shaft!”
Propping the torch against the fallen column, Bak leaned against the box and pushed hard, putting all his weight behind it. The container refused to budge. He wiped the sweat off his face and tried from the opposite end, but he could not get it to move.
“I’ll bring the tools,” Mery said, already on his way, his feet skipping across the sandy floor.
Bak bent low to examine the base of the box. One end, he saw, had dropped into the shaft and was firmly lodged there, probably no deeper than the width of a finger, but enough to hold it tight. The shaft had been covered deliberately-and recently-he was sure. But why? If Userhet’s goal and Wensu’s was to cut and run, why not simply abandon the tomb?
Puzzled, he sat down on a broken chunk of column to await Mery and the tools. His thoughts returned unbidden to the footprints they had followed, seeing no other sign of man or beast. Wensu had surely come from his ship, for the trail had led unbroken from the cove to the tomb. Userhet might well have followed-or even preceded-his confeder-ate, with the second man taking care to walk in the first man’s steps. But where had they gone? How had they managed to disappear without leaving signs of their passage? Had they backtracked over the same footprints? Were they even now hiding somewhere outside, lying in wait for the chance to entrap him and Imsiba and the boy?
A chill crept up Bak’s spine. He rose to his feet, anxious to leave the tomb, and at the same time chided himself for an overactive imagination.
Mery hurried into the chamber, laden with tools. The boy shoved a lever at Bak, dropped the rest on the floor, and let the rope slide down his arm and onto the turned-up end of the sledge.
“Did you see Imsiba?” Bak demanded.
“I didn’t look.” Mery glanced up, noted the tension on Bak’s face. “Is something wrong? What…?”
A startled squeal cut him short. Hooves clattered along the entryway and across the antechamber floor. The donkey burst through the door. The portal was narrow, catching the burden on the beast’s back, holding it. The creature fell to its knees, eyes wide with fear, and pulled back its lips and brayed. Suddenly the rumble of stones filled the tomb and rocks rattled across the floor of the antechamber. Dust bil-lowed through the air. The torch flared. The donkey gave a second terrified shriek, heaved itself up, and jerked forward, tearing the burden from its back. It plunged into the room and, with a rat-a-tat of hooves took a quick turn around the standing columns and headed back toward the door.
A groan sounded outside. The donkey stopped in its tracks, hooves planted wide apart and firm on the stone, and screamed. Bak leaped to the animal’s head and caught the rope halter. Beyond the doorway, he glimpsed overturned 244 / Lauren Haney baskets spilling loaves of bread, food packets, the waterbag, and weapons around the sandy floor of the antechamber and he saw Imsiba lying among them, his legs and arms flung wide. The rest of the room was dark, the floor around the exit littered with stones, the entryway blocked by fallen rocks. They were trapped inside the tomb.
Chapter Sixteen