"Amenti?"
"An Egyptian word referring to the underworld. Though Wady Biban al-Maluk is certainly a place of mystery. Actually that desolate valley under the cliff at Deir al-Bahri was selected in a search for secrecy."
It was painfully obvious that I was following none of this, and the sheik poured me some more coffee.
"Forgive me, Doctor, but tales of the ancient land are endlessly told round campfires under the desert sky. It was the great king, Thutmose First of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who made the decision. The age of the pyramids was over, for their very size was a magnet to the grave robbers, and no secret doors or false passages could outwit them. So the great military pharaoh decided to construct a secret tomb wherein his mummy might remain, inviolate, for the after-life. He selected this valley beneath the cliff, which he could see from his capital, Thebes. His tomb, constructed by the architect Ineni was a hidden thing, and its secret was preserved until the nineteenth dynasty. How this was done but six miles from Thebes amazes me."
I had difficulty remaining in my seat. "Six miles! Why, I thought this Valley of the Kings was at least a day's march away!"
The sheik displayed his perspicacity. "Had you known it was so near, you would have attempted the journey?"
"Why—yes," I sputtered.
"Perhaps I've misled you, Doctor. The entrance to the valley is six miles from the west bank, but the place itself is sizable. Fully forty Egyptian monarchs were buried there, and some of the tombs are enormous. If I knew where Mr. Holmes was headed . . ."
"I don't think he knows himself."
"But you feel he may be in some peril?"
My memory stirred and I responded automatically. "All things are possible in the caravan of life. Holmes said that recently."
The man startled me with a burst of laughter, and he slapped a knee under his robe forcibly. "He has not forgotten. It was I who told him that." He seemed to reach a decision. "Come now, Doctor, you would be with your friend, if possible?"
"My dearest wish."
"Then it shall be fulfilled. Dearest wishes are the divining rods of destiny. The Scots are gone by now, for they would wish to reach the valley before dark, but even their ground-eating, in-cadence march cannot rival the swiftness of the finest Arabians on these plains. Let us depart, for we have an appointment with Anubis, the jackal god of the dead!"
Chapter Sixteen
The Charge of the Light-Horse Irregulars
In looking back on those later years of my association with the greatest detective the world has ever known, I cannot but wonder if madness had not become my lot. Here I stood on the west bank of the Nile but a few miles from stark and foreboding cliffs beyond which stretched the vast Sahara. I was better than three hundred miles from Cairo, and that city was, by design and style of life, a million miles from where I belonged. My habitat, by training and inclination, was Harley Street, where my conflicts should have been women with real or imaginary ailments and sniveling tots who needed to have their noses blown. Instead, I stood beside a scurvy-looking band of ruffians as sinister in appearance as their steeds were magnificent. What knew I of them or their leader either, despite his open and ingratiating manner? And yet there had been that moment in Luxor when he had spoken of Holmes and I had seen that flash in his eyes. A picture plucked from the scrapbook of time and projected like a magic lantern slide onto the mirror of his mind. I had seen that look before—in the green eyes of Wakefield Orloff and the brown ones of von Shalloway of the German police—in the bland eyes of Slim Gilligan and the roguish ones of Burlington Bertie. I'd have staked my last shilling that the sheik belonged to that esoteric fraternity, the friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Upon our arrival at the Arab's camp, that grimy Bedouin who had assisted in my bandaging of the sheik descended upon me, all grins, and jabbering in Arabic.
"Mahoot is quite taken by you, Doctor Watson," said the chieftain. "He refers to you as the 'man of magic.'"
"I would have use for the arts of Cagliostro at this moment," I admitted, looking towards the towering cliff that seemed so near. "Nightfall is upon us. Can we make the valley now?"
For an answer, the sheik swung into the saddle of a superb Arabian stallion, signaling to his men as he did so. Mahoot, who seemed to derive a savage joy at the prospect of action, assisted me onto another Arabian, and in a trice the entire group were mounted and ready.
"Our horses are sure-footed, Doctor, and the rocky terrain we shall soon encounter holds no terrors for them. But be alert, for Arabians swerve quickly."
The sheik had no doubt noted the difficulty with which I had gained my seat. As we started out at a slow canter, which accelerated into a flowing gallop, I felt comforted that my saddle was much larger than the English type. There was but one rein, a curb undoubtedly, which made things easier for me, and I tried not to hold in my animal too tightly but let it take the lead, which it did, matching speed with the sheik's horse.
The set of tropicals that I wore featured large coat pockets, rather like a bush jacket. I transferred my trusty Smith-Webley, which I had with me, fortunately, shoving it into my belt where it would be more available. The band of fierce-looking Arabs that accompanied me made my firearm unnecessary in anything but a major crisis, especially since every one of my unusual companions was armed to the teeth. One's mind plays strange tricks. Here I was racing over flat and lush terrain, for all the world like my hero, General Gordon, surveying his defenses at Khartoum before that ill-fated and final battle. What was I thinking of? I blush to mention that I was wondering what the sedate members of the Bagatelle Club might think if they could see me now.
The graceful gallop of our steeds ate up distance, and in a short while the ground began to slant upwards. Fertile soil had faded away to sand, which was now replaced by rock, though the narrow road we followed was reasonably clear of obstacles and passable. Ahead of us loomed the stark cliffs of the Theban hills, and I knew that we were upon the entrance to the remote valley.
We curved to the right in the lee of the cliffs and our pace slackened to a fast trot as we followed a serpentine course. Then the valley was before us. But a short way back, the land was cultivated and there were date palms and greenery and the black, rich soil brought by Nile floods. Now all was limestone and flint with naught growing, a place of desolation. It was much larger than I had anticipated, though I sensed this rather than noted it visually since the sun was now gone and the last traces of it in the sky had disappeared. The moon was low and its light not revealing, and I wondered how the horses picked their way between boulders and outcroppings, but they did, for the desert was their element. Obviously this strange place was the result of violent flood waters that through eons of time had cut this crease in the cliffs that had become the place of the dead.
Then we heard it. There was no mistaking the sound. Gunfire! The entire party reined up, and we paused to consider the next move.
The sheik was gazing into the darkness, and he exchanged words with several of his followers before turning his bearded visage towards me.
"A rather brisk battle, Doctor, in the vicinity of a half-moon of graves almost due west."
With a small-scale war in progress, I did not feel that the withholding of information was practical.
"Holmes is in search of an undiscovered tomb of one of the pharaohs. Possibly he and the troopers found it."
"Only to discover that it was guarded, hence the gunfire. What now?"
I regarded him with a startled expression. "Why, we reconnoiter the situation."
"Well said," was his brief reply, and he whirled his horse and pressed forward at such a rate that I was hard pressed to keep up with him. Behind us the Bedouins formed a tight group, their eyes wide and their teeth flashing in the moonlight. Close by, Mahoot was sniffing at the air as if to catch the welcome smell of gunpowder. I recalled tales I had read of the American West. Was it not General Lou Wallace who had described the Indians of the American frontier, such as the Sioux and the Cheyennes, as the finest light cavalry in the world? That may be, but it occurred to me that the horse was not indigenous to the Americans but came by way of the Spanish conquistadores, whereas I was with those who had ridden their mounts since the memory of man and, at the moment, would have matched my companions against any mounted irregulars in the world.