Eleven Arrows

1

Last God Standing

Iwant to die in an explosion. It would have to be an open-air explosion so my intangible essence and body parts could be strewn as high and as far as possible. That’s the finale I would choose if I had a say in my fate. Being buried doesn’t make sense to me anymore. Who would care for another tombstone that clearly states what one is going to find before they even start digging?

Here lies Frederick Baker,

the only child of Joseph and Margaret Baker,

who died peacefully in bed and

not in an explosion.

Maybe I will change my mind if I marry and beget my own unto this world. Maybe it’s just the heat that has me thinking of an end. For two hours we have been taking turns in rotating the hand drill. Two hours feels like six hours when you’re working during the summer in Egypt. Beneath a cloudless sky the sun treats all the same. Ten more turns, I told myself and, at that moment, a single, cool droplet landed on my neck and slid down my back, awakening my hunched spine. I turned towards the blazing sun above and a shadow blocked its stare.

‘I’ll take over,’ said Victor, as another droplet of his sweat cascaded down his nose and dropped on my cheek.

‘Ten more turns,’ I grunted.

I gave all to my last rotations of the drill and on the fifth turn the stone gave way and the drill reached the other side.

Victor gasped and leant over me again. ‘Leave it in place, Fred.’

I stepped back and watched as he marked the drill bit with spittle.

‘You might want to cover your nose,’ he advised.

I knew what he meant. When Victor withdrew the drill bit, air from the tomb would escape. That air could contain methane and bacteria. The methane was harmless so long as you weren’t smoking a cigar. I wrapped my cravat around my nose, as protection from bacteria in the trapped air. Victor had his handkerchief to his nose before deciding to follow my example.

‘You ready?’

I nodded and Victor withdrew the drill from the stone in one heave. We then watched the hole, listened and tried not to smell.

Victor jerked suddenly and pointed, ‘Did you see that?’

I looked closer and noticed that grains of sand were being sucked inside.

‘You know what that means, Fred?’

‘Possibly hot air is being replaced by cooler air.’

‘Or there is another hole in this tomb that creates suction.’

As I questioned what we had both just seen, our fellow archaeologists approached from the shade of the tent. Victor lowered his cravat to his neck and smiled proudly at the men approaching.

‘They’re through,’ said Charles. ‘Get your camera.’

Sean hurried back to the tent and returned a moment later with his tripod and camera. In the time he was gone, sand settled in the drill hole. The photograph would not have picked up the detail of a small hole anyway. The photograph, which I would see in print a few months later, showed Victor, Charles and me huddled around a flat stone at the base of a small dune of sand. May 1850 – Cairo was printed below.

* * *

And so it was that we spent the summer of 1850 beneath a cloudless sky excavating a buried tomb, twelve miles outside of Cairo. Like all archaeologists, my colleagues and I were hoping for a notable find, something that could be studied at greater length or direct us on a new quest. In the first chamber, we discovered the poorly mummified remains of twenty-two men, women and children. However, any artefacts that may have been placed next to them to take to the afterlife were missing. Once more, it became apparent that ancient grave robbers had visited this site long before it was lost to history. Despite our disappointment, we continued the unearthing process until the central chamber was accessible. It was there that we made a most significant discovery. Even in what we had been led to believe was a tomb for simple folk, based upon the haphazard approach to embalming that allowed most of the bodies to waste faster than their bandages, measures had been taken to protect their sanctuary. The workings of a successful trap were observable. Pinched beneath, what we would later learn to be, a ten-tonne stone block were the threadbare garments worn by the unfortunate, unsuspecting thief. Victor, our most esteemed colleague, sent word to London and assured us that, before the trees dropped their leaves, back home we would have all the supplies we needed and a cash grant that would make the grave robbers turn in their graves.

* * *

On the third day of September, our discovery was the feature article in The Archaeologist’s Companion, a great read for all those in the field. We did not receive a copy until early October though and, by then, we had a greater story to tell. The technique used to hoist and secure the ten-tonne stone block and how the trap could be activated or defied was invaluable knowledge. Finally, residing in the comfort of a guest home with fresh linen and prepared meals, Victor and I set about compiling our research. Our other colleagues, Charles and Sean, left Cairo for new appointments. I stayed with Victor for several more weeks and late into the night we would discuss the possible implications of our discovery in the modern world and share our personal opinion on what gave birth to the ancients’ beliefs. My main purpose for staying, however, was to proofread our final document. It was I who recorded most of our notes in the field and there was no room for error in a work that may be transposed in academic textbooks of the future.

* * *

Our stay in Cairo neared an end and it looked like Victor and I would be home before Christmas. The head of the Egyptian Archaeological Society invited us to a farewell dinner and there we met with many learned men and government officials, engrossed as we were by the subtle profoundness of a trap set by their ancestors. Lateef, the young man seated next to me at the table, was also an archaeologist and his stories of Greek mythology held me fascinated to the point of silence. He looked much younger than the other guests, though I knew the gift of olive skin hid a few years. His excitable dark eyes and untamed mop of hair gave him a childlike appearance and made his thick moustache seem out of place. I mused that it seemed as if it were held on with elastic as it moved awkwardly on his thin face during the telling of his grand tales.

After dessert, we moved to a sheltered balcony to drink and be entertained by buxom dancing women. Victor took both in his stride and decided it was time he let his hair down. He requested a full glass of imported English brandy and began swaying in time with the dancers and the strum of a lute before he had even taken his first sip. In our days studying at Oxford, Victor had swooned many a lady with his chiselled jaw, accentuated by long, golden curls always tied neatly away from his face in a low ponytail. Ten years later, he had only been blessed by age. Character wrinkles near his eyes showed that he was a happy man and his sun-soaked skin made his hair glow in contrast. He wiggled his hips and let his unfastened hair flip about as he stepped into the void between the entertainers and guests. His appreciation of the entertainment earned applause from the assembly of men and, before Victor engaged me in his celebratory antics, I slipped past the other guests, nodding politely, to a less occupied part of the balcony. Once more, I found myself speaking to Lateef.

He had entertained me at the table with tales of Greek mythology that seemed to have no end though, as the evening drew to a close, he also sought summation. Jumping forwards in time, Lateef began a recount of Alexander’s journey to India in the fourth century BC.

‘He was not called The Great without reason,’ Lateef explained, with sincere admiration. ‘From one side of the world to the other he travelled, and we do not need to dig in the places he visited to collaborate his accounts. Take the island of Icaria, in the Persian Gulf, for example. Accounts of his travels claim he visited there, naming it after the island of similar shape in his homeland. You will not find one Greek man or woman there, or encounter any such spoken language in your stay, but there are other tells. The way some shape their windows and doors to this day and the way they greet you upon arrival, all hints that Alexander or some of his party stayed long enough to build a structure there and immerse themselves in the culture. Stop me if I am boring you,’ he said assumingly and then, before I had a chance to express my maintained interest, he continued. ‘Alexander’s war trophies do more than just tell us where he travelled. We can place artefacts to a time in history and even establish the livelihood of the people who lived then, though only speculatively. I am envious of you, Mr Baker. What you and Victor Ascott discovered is not speculative. What I am working on is considered pretentious fable.’

I smiled humbly at Lateef. ‘Victor and I got lucky. We dreamed of finding scribed walls, statues and other ornaments. As it happened, we found cloth crushed beneath a stone. I am thankful though, don’t get me wrong. If we only discovered another poorly embalmed body, I would have hastened my return home before my true love accepted the hand of another.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ sympathised Lateef.

‘Before I know it, Christmas will have passed for another year and, with a full belly and paled skin, I will return to your land once more. With a new site and greater dreams, I am sure to be disappointed.’

‘Then you may be interested in staying on,’ supposed Lateef.

‘Learning more of Alexander’s conquests is of interest to me; however, my quest has always been to discover history that is lost. Unfortunately you have to dig for that kind of knowledge.’

‘Not if someone else has dug for you!’

‘Do you speak of your discovery?’ I inquired. ‘Is it written work?’

‘I would like to show you a Greek translation of scrolls that survived the fall of the Library of Alexandria.’

My eyes tightened and I stared at him questioningly for a moment. I’d always been fascinated by stories of the Great Library. It was part of the larger Temple of the Muses, arguably the first museum, and contained works from all over the world, including the still mysterious Orient. A lecturer at Oxford once spoke of Ptolemy III searching ships that sailed into the harbour of Alexandria for written treasure. How magical a place it must have been until its fall. Possibly during an Egyptian Civil War in the first century BC the library caught fire. Until now, I believed that all its contents were destroyed – the greatest collection of ancient manuscripts fuelling a blaze that started on the docks. I worded my next question carefully. ‘And these scrolls, do you believe them to be one of Alexander’s many war trophies?’

‘It is possible. The scrolls pre-date the Greek alphabet.’

‘Then that does interest me. Do you have a copy of this translation?’

‘I can show you the original work as well.’

A lump formed in my throat and, through the corner of my eye, I saw Victor approaching and knew that it was time to leave. In the morning, we had one final appointment to make before we had to be on the road to reach our boat in time.

‘So will you stay?’ inquired Lateef.

‘Party’s over,’ said Victor, ‘And we have a lot of packing to do.’

‘Victor, this is Lateef. He has informed me of a notable discovery that needs more attention. I wish we had more time.’

‘Do not let time control you, Fred,’ advised Victor. ‘It is what we do, not how long it takes, that matters most in the end.’

‘Then I will stay,’ I told Lateef. ‘I will see Victor safely off tomorrow morning and can meet with you in the afternoon if that suits.’

‘You won’t regret your decision, Mr Baker.’

‘Splendid,’ said Victor. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Lateef. I look forward to hearing of your work together.’

* * *

The next morning, I arranged to stay at the guesthouse for another two weeks – I would have to wait that long for the next boat to Marseille. After our meeting at the English Foreign Office, in the city centre, Victor and I went our separate ways. Lateef’s quickly sketched map showed the way to a privately owned library and, as it was still morning, I decided I would walk there at my own pace. Just beyond the city markets, I took refuge from the dry heat at a quaint teahouse. As I sat waiting in the small booth for my order of Moroccan mint tea and their version of English scones, I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket and carefully took out and unfolded the creased letter I had been carrying around with me for some time now. For many days, I had pondered how to reply and even questioned the need to reply at all. The waiter brought over my beverage and food and, as I sipped slowly on the sweet tea and savoured the scones’ familiar taste, I forgot temporarily that I was away from my own shores. I wrote a very simple reply.

November 13, 1850

Dear Gloria,

My work in Cairo is ongoing. Whilst I will miss the comfort of your sweet words, I understand your change in heart. You have my blessing on your proposed marriage. I wish you and Mister Johnston happiness and good fortune. Until I find another good woman like you, I will have to rely on Saint Helena, the patron saint of archaeology, to keep me strong.

Fond regards,

Fred

I considered adding a postscript comment that explained the delay in my reply but, without lying, it would only complicate things. My love for Gloria was real but in no way as consuming as my thirst for discovery. She was not the first woman in my life to be ignored at the faintest scent of ancient mystery. Hopefully, after my meeting with Lateef, my thoughts would be occupied once more by a new assignment.

* * *

Three blocks from the teahouse, I found the street and was immediately drawn to my destination. The library was larger than I expected, with Roman style pillars supporting the roof on the street face. As I walked up the cracked sandstone steps that led to the entrance, I heard Lateef call out from behind. Carrying a loaf of bread and with a small, well-conditioned knapsack hanging from one shoulder, he ran to catch up.

‘Good morning, Mr Baker! I hoped you would make it in time for lunch.’ He pointlessly attempted to pat his mop of hair into shape and wiped beads of sweat from his moustache before extending the same hand in greeting.

I reached around him and thumped his back, grinning broadly. ‘Call me, Fred, Lateef, and the truth is I’m quite excited. You said last night that the translation was considered fable. Fables can tell us a lot. The Bible, for instance, is an assembly of fables.’

‘That’s right, Frederick. It all comes down to interpretation.’

I smiled, ‘Call me Fred.’

‘Fred, I am very happy you decided to stay. Babu is expecting us. Let us talk more inside.’

Lateef led the way through the open front door and past a grand staircase to a long, dark corridor.

‘How old is this library?’ I asked, enthralled with the telltale signs of architecture from bygone eras.

‘The facade dates back to Roman times, though a lot of work has been done since. Can you smell the cedar?’ he asked, tipping his nose. ‘Most of the walls on this first floor were only added last year. Babu did not like his father’s open plan. It’s easier now to find a quiet reading place where you will not be disturbed.’

‘Babu. Is that an Egyptian name?’

‘As Egyptian as they come, Mr Baker. It was the name of Osiris’s first born.’

‘The God of death?’

Lateef paused at the door at the end of the corridor. ‘The God of the underworld, yes, though that in many respects also made him the holder of life.’ He knocked on the door and then entered without waiting for a reply.

Upon entering, a tall man behind a cluttered desk stood to welcome us. He looked to be in his forties and had long dark hair and a healthy beard. His upper lip was shaved but still shadowed by a large nose that curved downwards. Leather-bound books were piled high around his desk and scraps of paper with handwritten scrawl were strewn everywhere, like leaves fallen on a forest floor.

‘Babu. It is my pleasure to introduce you to Mr Fred Baker.’

‘The Egyptian ambassador speaks highly of you, Mr Baker, and Lateef here tells me you are a very personable man.’ He smiled kindly.

‘Thank you, I’m humbled. Might I also say I am honoured that you chose to involve me in your work.’ I walked forwards and extended my hand in greeting over the desk.

‘How rude of me,’ exclaimed Babu, when his hand was half raised. ‘A barrier between us on our first meeting.’ He walked around from behind his desk. ‘That is not proper, as the Brits would say.’

‘I wouldn’t have spared it a thought, I assure you, Babu.’

‘Good to hear. You are my guest and I want you to feel welcome. I already regret coming to my desk this morning in my slippers.’ He laughed as he gestured at his feet.

‘Again, something I would not have noticed.’

What I did notice was that his loose-fitting linen shirt was not strung and stretched open almost to his navel. Gloria, my lost love in London, would have referred to such a sight as repulsive but I was drawn to him for he wore the red cross of Saint Helena. Nestled amongst his thick chest hairs was a neck chain. It held large rubies set in gold that refracted every pinch of light.

‘Shall we move to the drawing room?’ suggested Lateef.

‘Yes,’ agreed Babu. ‘I will have my wife bring us some drinks. Is there something you prefer, Mr Baker?’

‘Water or tea if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Lateef?’

‘Tea, thank you.’

Lateef handed his loaf of bread to Babu and then led me through a side door to the drawing room.

The walls were shelved with books from floor to ceiling and in the centre of the room was a twelve-foot table, surrounded by finely crafted, cedar chairs. The scent of cut timber was only masked by that of old books.

‘Sit anywhere you like, Fred.’

I nodded at Lateef. ‘So this library is also Babu’s home?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, as he found a seat opposite me at the table. ‘He moved back to Cairo three years ago from London with his new family.’

‘London?’ I questioned for, though Babu and Lateef both spoke perfect English, their complexion, hair colour and other distinguishing features assured me they were of Egyptian descent.

‘He studied theology there and met his wife at the same time. This library, however, has been in his family’s possession for more than six generations.’

‘It is amazing. You could not read all these books in a lifetime.’

‘Funny you should say that. His father passed away only eighteen months ago and his dying wish was that his son attempt to do just that. Lukman, Babu’s father, and my most revered teacher, called this library his treasure chest. It is not known who built it or how long it has been a library. The majority of books are handwritten and, in this room alone, there are volumes of journals that date back to the Persian rule of Egypt.’

‘How is it then, I must ask, that men are not fighting to get inside?’

‘The officials, here in Cairo, involve Babu in much of their work.’

‘I’m surprised then that he was not invited to the dinner last night.’

‘Oh, he was, but how should I say? It is not his scene. I went in his place.’

‘I’m glad you did, Lateef.’

He smiled back and I watched him try again to shape his unruly hair that bared strange association with his perfectly shaped moustache. Lateef was a young scholar but the knowledge he shared made much of what I had learnt at Oxford superfluous, for all his knowledge was acquired direct from the source.

We both sat quietly for a while waiting out of politeness for Babu to return before raising any new topics. All the while, one thought kept playing on my mind.

‘Lateef?’ I prompted. ‘Would I be too far wrong in assuming that our meeting was not pure coincidence?’

He smiled at me before reaching forwards to unbuckle his knapsack. ‘A memorandum has been passing from hand to hand since your discovery. In a few words, it informs all readers that your find was a collaborative effort between the Egyptian and English Archaeological Societies.’ He handed me a slip of paper across the table. ‘You may note in your reading that it also acts as a reminder that unauthorised digs are by definition illegal.’

I quickly scanned the document and noticed the embossed stamp on the top left of the page. ‘This was issued by the Foreign Diplomats Office.’

‘Yes, it’s an official document yet one not made public,’ confirmed Lateef. ‘What it did tell Babu and I, however,’ and here he paused and bit his lip, contemplating whether or not he should continue divulging information, ‘was that, if we are going to delve deeper then we need good ties. You have made quite an impression in your time here, Fred, and we could use that sway. Private investors can support the unearthing of a tomb but an entire city requires approval by the highest authorities?’

‘No. Are you telling me that you have discovered a lost city?’ I wondered if he was jesting with me or perhaps he was finally revealing the naivety of his youth.

‘The site of the ancient city of Nineveh has been discovered but its