The chief, clearly astonished, spoke loudly to the crowd, eliciting a collective gasp. He stared at Gideon with something close to admiration, then made a brief pronouncement.
The crone said: “The Father decree you telling truth!”
Gideon caught a glimpse of Blackbeard at his chopping block, face dark with discontent.
So glad to disappoint you again, asshole, he thought with satisfaction as he was led back to the cage.
He staggered in and sank down onto the sandy floor of the cell. Garza and Imogen bent over him.
“How in the world did you do it?” Imogen asked.
Gideon lay back, legs stretched out, exhausted and in pain. Both of his fists had been clenched throughout the ordeal, and they remained clenched now. He looked outside the cage for a moment and then, keeping one hand obscured at his side, he slowly opened it. The smell of burnt flesh rose up: and there was a pebble, blackened and bloody, enclosed in the charred palm of his hand. He dropped the pebble, then balled his hand once again into a fist.
“How did—?” Imogen began.
“When I fell to the ground I palmed a fresh pebble from the basket and concealed it between thumb and palm. When they dropped the hot pebble in my hand, I left it there and put the cold one in my mouth instead.”
“That must’ve hurt like hell,” Garza said.
“It burned the shit out of my hand, but when I thought of that bastard waiting with his sword…well, let’s just say it made the pain more bearable.”
“Let me see your hand,” Imogen said. “I should tend to that burn.”
“No,” Gideon said, pulling his hand away. “We’ve got to keep it out of sight. Get rid of that pebble, too.”
“How did you pull it off with everyone watching?” Garza asked, tossing the small stone into the darkness.
“A simple combination of legerdemain and misdirection,” said Gideon. “As you well know, I used to be a magician.”
28
YET AGAIN, THEY were roused in what seemed the middle of the night. Yet again, they were led off to begin a long day of forced toil while stars still glittered hard in the sky. As he adjusted the rough garment he’d been given and tried to shake himself awake, Manuel Garza thought back to Gideon’s trial by fire. Had that really only been a week ago? It seemed far longer.
Garza wasn’t sure if they’d become slaves, or manual laborers, or what, but it was growing all too clear that—whatever their status—the tribe had no intention of allowing them to leave the valley. Things had quickly fallen into a routine: roused before dawn, sent out to dig irrigation ditches, collect bundles of wood, or repair corrals with a chain gang of half a dozen others, led by the hateful Blackbeard. They were given little food and water, and were yelled at or struck with sticks if they slacked off. Imogen’s attempts at communication with their fellow workers had met with little enthusiasm: all they’d learned was that the others were all native to the tribe, of the lowest caste in a small but clearly stratified society. Garza hadn’t bothered. The only thing that kept him focused was a fixed determination to learn the language, unbeknownst to his captors. Knowledge was power. He listened intently to every order, watched every gesture, and tried to memorize the responses. He had always been good at languages, having been raised in a bilingual family, and he’d already begun to pick up several words and phrases. Imogen, with her previous experience with ancient languages, had a significant head start. Gideon, on the other hand, was either a dunce when it came to learning new languages or else simply couldn’t be bothered.
At night, after the brutal days of labor, they talked about plans for escape. The only possible method hadn’t changed: steal camels and waterskins and make a break for it. Waterskins were easy to come by—every tent had one hanging next to the front flap. The problem was the camels. Camels were obviously how wealth was measured in this primitive culture, but everyone seemed to know which camels belonged to whom and so there was no theft. As a result they were loosely guarded, and then only at night, apparently due to some beast or beasts feared by all. Garza had overheard his workmates talking about it more than once. From what he could make out, it seemed to be a huge, one-eyed leopard. Apparently, the tribesmen believed it wasn’t a mortal animal, but some kind of demon that lived with others of its kind in a labyrinth of canyons beyond the valley. On numerous occasions it had crept into the encampment and dragged off a goat, causing consternation. They said it had taken more than one tribesman, too, and had a taste for human flesh.
These thoughts ran through his head as the work gang proceeded away from the main camp along a narrow mountain trail, with the obligatory escort of guards armed with spears and daggers. Blackbeard brought up the rear, carrying a whip coiled up and tied to his leather belt. The trail branched, and they headed off in a direction they had not gone before. Garza wondered with little interest what new form of arduous work lay in store for them now.
As they left the confines of the broad valley, the guards became watchful, even nervous. They walked for what seemed a long time but could not have been over half an hour. On reaching a high mountain pass, they stopped briefly to rest.
“Take a look down there,” said Gideon, coming up to him and speaking in a low voice. The sun was just rising over the rim of mountains, and the landscape below was emerging from the shadows. It was a peculiar-looking valley, narrow and sinuous, with steep cliffs and groves of trees among lush meadows of grass. There were no visible pockets of heavy fog: it seemed that, at least as far as this mountain was concerned, mist oases—an important source of water for the tribe—were confined to the eastern slopes. Here and there on the floor of the valley, curious stone structures about fifteen feet high peeped out of the vegetation. Garza squinted, trying to make them out. Imogen came over, staring as well.
“Pyramids?” said Gideon.
“Looks like it,” he said. “Miniature ones.”
Blackbeard yelled at them to rise and move on. Garza felt his pulse quicken. Pyramids. What else could they be but tombs? He had long harbored a secret hope that the Phaistos location might be the tomb of an ancient king.
As they descended into the valley, they passed the first few structures. These were built from carved sandstone blocks, and each pyramid had an inscription in Egyptian hieroglyphics. He exchanged a significant glance with Gideon. This was more proof, if they needed it, that Imogen was right: this was a pre-Islamic tribe, perhaps dating back as far as the time of the pharaohs.
Around a bend in the trail and past a large, raised stone table of very curious composition, they arrived at a worksite. A pyramid, similar to the others, was under construction. Massive sandstone blocks were laid out in rows at the base of the half-built structure. A long, sloping ramp of dirt led up one side, paved with wooden rollers. As Garza looked over the site, he quickly realized this was a primitive system for moving the massive blocks into position—dragging them up the earthen ramp using ropes and harnesses.
And they, no doubt, were to be the beasts of burden.
Blackbeard shouted and gestured toward the blocks, ropes, and rollers. “Bastard,” said Gideon.
Garza followed the others over. They were shouldering harnesses lined with palm fiber pads. Another man adjusted a net of ropes around a block. Garza, Gideon, and Imogen all took up harnesses alongside the others.
With a shout, Blackbeard waved his coiled whip, then gave it a crack. The group strained against their harnesses and the block inched forward. They slacked, then pulled again, then slacked off, in a rhythm punctuated by Blackbeard’s periodic cracks of the whip.