After an hour of backbreaking work they had finally inched the block to the top of the ramp and fitted it into place. Blackbeard now roared orders to get started on the next block. Garza’s shoulders were already aching from the rough fiber pads.
“Now we know we’re slaves,” Gideon said as they walked back down the ramp. “Do you suppose this is some kind of promotion for good behavior? I preferred digging ditches.”
“This is how the great pyramids were built,” said Imogen, slipping into a harness. “Hasn’t changed in three thousand years.”
“Who do you think it’s for?” Garza asked, gesturing at the half-finished structure.
“Who else but the chief?” said Gideon. “He’s not exactly a spring chicken.”
Blackbeard roared at them, swinging his whip for silence.
“This is getting old really fast,” murmured Gideon as he adjusted his harness.
The whip cracked and they began pulling up another block.
They spent the morning inching blocks up the hill. Finally, with the sun almost at the meridian, Blackbeard called for a rest. A lunch of chickpeas with boiled goat meat was served: far better than their usual fare. Blackbeard retired to a rectangle of shade under a hanging rock and sat down, playing idly with his bracelet of human teeth, which he seemed inordinately fond of. Maybe, Garza speculated idly, it was some symbol of status in the tribe. It wasn’t long before the man went to sleep, snoring loudly. The other guards settled down, resting and watching over their charges.
Garza ate lunch with Gideon and Imogen. They were so tired they hardly spoke. After lunch, Gideon and Imogen dozed under an overhang. Garza, meanwhile, retired to a shady spot with a stray piece of rope and some sticks he’d collected from a pile of discarded rollers. He looked around the flinty ground, found a sharp rock, struck it hard along the edge with another stone, and knapped it to a sharp blade. He unraveled the discarded piece of rope into its individual strands and used them to lash the twigs together, creating a scaffolding. Using the sharp stone, he then carved a crude pulley wheel from rounds cut out of a broken pole lying in the nearby dust, cored it, slid it onto the twigs, and then lashed it to the scaffolding.
“What are you doing?” came a feminine voice. Imogen and Gideon had wandered over and were watching him work. “Haven’t you already slaved enough in the Home of the Dead?”
“The what?”
“The Home of the Dead. That’s what the other coolies call this place.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t know about the rest of you Israelites, but I’m tired of dragging those fucking blocks up a ramp.”
“So what’s this?”
“A demonstration model.”
“Of what?”
“Of how to do it better. I’ve been thinking about it all morning.”
Gideon shook his head. “Once an engineer, always an engineer.”
“Instead of the smart comments, how about some help?”
Garza set them both to work carving more pulley wheels with sharp flakes he knapped out from the flint, which he in turn mounted in series on the scaffolding. He fashioned a crude crane out of sticks that could rotate using two strands of rope. Finally, he passed another strand of rope through the crane and tied it to a sling, threaded it through the pulleys, and attached it to a swatch of headcloth. Into that he put a rock.
“Now pull the string,” Garza said to Gideon. “Carefully.”
Gideon pulled the strand and the pulley apparatus lifted the rock, held in place by the scaffolding and crane.
“Now watch.” Garza maneuvered the crane and it swiveled on its fixed base, carrying the rock.
“Now ease the string down.”
Gideon let the thread slide through his fingers, lowering the rock into a new spot, atop a small mound of sand Garza scraped up.
“You get it?” Garza asked. “Each pulley wheel provides a mechanical advantage. Four wheels reduce the force required to lift something to one-quarter.”
“Physics?” Imogen asked.
“Physics. With a four-wheel pulley system, a thousand-pound block of stone can be lifted with only two hundred fifty pounds of force. No more damn dragging.”
“Yeah, but can we get them to try it?” Gideon asked dubiously.
“Hence the demonstration model.”
From their resting places, the guards had idly watched Garza build the model. There had been no comprehension in their eyes, but it was obvious they were curious.
Now Garza motioned to them to come over. With gestures and broken phrases, he demonstrated the model by lifting and moving the rock several times. Now some of the other workers came over, gaping.
Garza gestured at one of the more alert-looking workers. “You try it. Try it.”
The worker stepped forward and knelt, taking the strand of rope in his hand. He pulled it gingerly, lifting the stone, pushed the swiveling scaffold, and placed it on the small hill of sand. A smile appeared on his face and he nodded, realizing that the stone did indeed move more easily.
Garza gestured at a guard. “You. Try.”
The guard came forward and, looking nervously around, tried it—again with an expression of amazement at this seemingly magical contrivance.
Garza launched into a broken exhortation of words and gestures, explaining that they should built a larger version of the apparatus over the pyramid using the poles and rope lying around to construct the scaffolding, pulleys, and wheels.
Suddenly a roar came from the worksite and the guards jumped as if struck. Blackbeard came swaggering down, his whip out. With a curse he lashed Garza across the shoulder so violently that it knocked him to his knees. Blackbeard brought his massive foot down on the model, stomping and grinding it into the sand and reducing it to a mass of broken sticks.
Garza, seeing his model destroyed, blood streaming from the lash on his shoulder, rose with a furious cry and ran at Blackbeard, who was still occupied in destroying the model. He took a swing and caught the overseer by surprise with a blow to the head; the man went down but quickly surged up in a fury, drawing his dagger and slashing at Garza.
Jumping back, Garza just missed being cut. Blackbeard rushed him, stabbing and slicing while Garza stumbled back, trying to keep out of the way of the blade. Gideon and Imogen immediately tried to come to his aide but the guards turned on them, knocking Gideon down and pinning Imogen, holding them at spearpoint.
Blackbeard drove Garza up against the cliff wall, blocking further retreat. Seeing that his quarry was trapped, a cruel smile broke over his face. He stepped forward and placed the dagger on Garza’s throat, still scabbed from the previous cut. He pressed the point slowly in, and Garza could once again feel the blade bite into his skin. Blackbeard’s breath, reeking of mutton, washed over his face.
“Aghat mu!” the man yelled, pushing the point deeper into Garza’s throat—when a voice rang out.
Blackbeard ignored it. The blood was running more freely now and Garza could feel the blade digging toward his windpipe. The sadist was going to make it slow.
The voice rang out again, much sharper. It was the chief, being carried down the trail in a litter. The bearers stopped at the worksite and the chief stepped out, swept his robes around his shoulder, and spoke angrily a third time to Blackbeard. This time the man hesitated, and then Garza felt the pressure on the knife lessening. Finally, it ceased altogether.
Breathing hard, his face creased with wrath, Blackbeard stepped back. The guards released Gideon and Imogen. With obvious effort, the chieftain came over and, ignoring Blackbeard’s scowling face, spoke to Garza, gesturing with his staff at the ruined pile of sticks. It became evident that the chief had been watching the entire scene play out from the trail overhead. He’d seen the model from a distance, but had no idea why it had generated so much excitement. Now, it seemed, he wanted Garza to rebuild it. The chief pantomimed his way through a long explanation that Garza did not understand, but assumed it meant that he was very old and wanted his tomb completed in a hurry—and judging by the man’s wan and sallow appearance, Garza wasn’t surprised.