I knew Beamish quite well — he was the Pasha’s beloved dog, the most precious creature of God to his heart after his wife and children. He lived a spoiled and honored life in the Pasha’s palace — attended by the staff and servants, and visited by a veterinarian once every month. Each day he was presented with meat, bones, milk, and broth — this wasn’t the first time that the Sa‘idis had pounced on Beamish’s lunch.
The thief was an unmixed Upper Egyptian, marked by the looks of the ancients themselves. It was clear from his dress that he was wretchedly poor. The Pasha fixed him with a vicious stare, interrogating him gruffly, “Whatever induced you to violate the sanctity of my home?”
The man replied in fervent entreaty, panting from his efforts to fight off the servants, “I was starving, Your Excellency, when I saw the cooked meat scattered on the grass. My resistance failed me — I haven’t tasted meat since the Feast of the Sacrifice!”
Turning to me, the Pasha exclaimed, “Do you see the difference between your unfortunates and ours? Your poor are propelled by hunger into stealing baguettes, while ours will settle for nothing less than cooked meat.”
Then, raising his cane in the air, he wheeled back upon the thief and struck him hard on the shoulder, shouting to the servants, “Take him to the watchman!”
As the man was handed over, Dr. Pierre laughed, inquiring of the Pasha, “What will you do tomorrow if the natives get a whiff of the heaps of gold in the treasure of Shaykh Jadallah?”
The Pasha replied instantly, “I’ll surround it with a wall of sentries, like the Maginot Line!”
We — the Pasha and I — bade the others farewell, and I followed him silently to where Shaykh Jadallah seemed about to transform himself into a great archaeologist. He was a man completely absorbed in his work — he and his helpers alike. They hacked at the earth with their hoes, lifting the dirt with baskets and throwing it aside. Shaykh Jadallah — his eyes flashing with a sharp gleam of hope and resolve, his scrawny arms charged with an unnatural strength — was nearing his goal, to which his divine insight had guided him. To me, his anomalous person represented Man in his activity, in his belief, and in his illusions — for the truth is that we create for ourselves gods and hallucinations, yet we believe in them in an extraordinary fashion. Our belief makes worlds for us of extreme beauty and creativity. Did not the ancestors of Shaykh Jadallah — whose face reminds me of the famous statue of an ancient Egyptian scribe — make humanity’s first civilization? Did they not create loveliness equally on the surface of the earth, and beneath it? Were they not inspired in their work and their thought by Osiris and Amon? And what is Osiris, and what is Amon? Nothing much, on the whole. As for their civilization, it could be compared with — indeed, it is — our own civilization today.
We stood about watching the devout old shaykh. The Pasha smiled derisively, while I was sunk in my dreams. Neither us knew what Fate had concealed from us under those piles of dust. The labor appeared fruitless, and the Pasha grew bored. He suggested that we sit on the veranda — I followed him quietly. But we had hardly reached the stairs when Shaykh Jadallah ran up to intercept us, gasping from his gap-toothed mouth, “My lord. . my lord. . come and look!”
We turned toward him automatically. My heart was beating queerly from the shaykh’s appeal. He reminded me of his old counterpart who had cleaved my life between failure and success, between despair and hope. We hurried down the stairs, because the man had gone back the way he came — we both followed him, fighting our wish to run.
We found the three men moving a huge stone, approximately a square meter in size. As we drew nearer to them, we saw that the stone covered an opening of similar dimensions. I glanced at the Pasha, and he looked at me with eyes filled with astonishment and stupefaction. We then looked into the opening and saw a small staircase that ended in a corridor that led to the interior, parallel to the surface of the ground. The sun was about to go down, so I said to the Pasha, “Let’s have a lantern.” He sent a servant to fetch one. The man returned with the lantern, and I ordered him to walk before us. But he balked; I considered seizing the lamp from him. Shaykh Jadallah, however, reached him before me. He seized the man by the hand, reciting verses from the Qur’an and strange incantations. Then, sure-footedly, the shaykh went down; I followed him, and the two restive servants followed behind.
We found ourselves in an underground passage no more than ten meters in length. Its ceiling hung several inches over our heads. The ground was simply soil, but the walls were granite. We advanced in slow steps until we met a stone door that blocked the path to intruders. Its appearance was not unfamiliar to me, nor were the symbols carved in its center. I ran my eyes over it, then glanced at the Pasha — whom I told in a shaking voice:
“Your Excellency, you have discovered an ancient tomb — for here lies General Hor, one of the most powerful figures in the Eighteenth Dynasty.”
Violently piqued, Shaykh Jadallah declared, “Behind this door are riches — so says the book that does not lie!”
I shrugged my shoulders, “Call it what you will, the important thing is to open it.”
“Opening the treasure is hard,” the shaykh rejoined. “The only way to smash down the door and make it yield is by long recitation, which I will start doing now. That will take until dawn — are you ritually clean?”
His speech greatly affected the two servants, who looked at their master with embarrassment. They believed that they were soon to find themselves in the presence of the hidden power — but there was no time for ablution and the incantation of prayer. I reproved the shaykh firmly, “We didn’t reach this door through recitation, so it seems more fitting to open it by force, as we did the one that came before it.”
The shaykh was about to object, but could find no basis to do so, while the Pasha upbraided him. I kept quiet, as the shaykh looked at me askance. They resumed work once more: I snapped out of my reverie and set to work with them, until the insurmountable obstacle was sundered — and we found before us an opening into Hor’s place of eternal rest.
As I was an expert at this sort of work, I directed them to stay in their places awhile until the air had recirculated. For all of us together, it was a tense hour of waiting. The Pasha was silent and confused like one caught in a powerful dream, while the two servants looked on earnestly at the man in whom they placed their faith. The shaykh was warning me of what might befall us because of my contempt for his beliefs. As for myself, I was perhaps imagining what my eyes would behold. “Do you conceive what could happen if you acquire such a great antiquity, one that would become the highlight of the immortal museum in Paris?” I mused.
Then I went inside. Behind me entered al-Arna’uti Pasha, followed by Shaykh Jadallah; the servants deemed it wiser to remain in the outer corridor. But when the light of the lamp vanished, and the place plunged into darkness, they both leapt inside and cowered in a corner.
The burial chamber was just as its exterior indicated — I have seen its like numerous times in the past. The sarcophagus was in its customary place: on its surface was an image of its owner in gold. Next to it were three life-sized statues, one of them of a man — most probably Hor himself. Another was of a woman; from its position next to the man, this was undoubtedly his wife. In front of them both was a statue of a young boy.
Across from them were some sealed boxes, plus a number of colored vessels, chairs, tables, and military tackle. The walls were covered with paintings, signs, and inscriptions.