carefully as I watched Astiza. Then he leapt, landing where I had. The bridge held firm. ‘Follow me!’
It was a bizarre, mincing dance, all of us mimicking the hops of the woman. Another Arab missed and fell shrieking as still another block gave way, transfixing us all for a moment. ‘No, no, that one!’ Bin Sadr shrieked, pointing. Then the deadly game commenced again.
At the centre of the span I couldn’t see a bottom at all. What kind of volcanic throat was this? Was it this navel that the pyramid had been built to seal?
‘Ethan, hurry,’ Astiza begged. She was waiting for me to make sure I stepped on the right star stones, even though it gave Bin Sadr time to spy them as well. Then she was finally at the wet stairs, swaying from the tension, and I made a final leap, landing on the polestar. With a triumphant stride I made the granite stairs and turned, holding Bin Sadr’s snake staff in readiness to stab him. Maybe he’d make a mistake!
But no, he came on implacably, eyes gleaming. ‘There’s nowhere left to run, American. If you give me my staff, I’ll save you to watch while we have the woman.’
He was only steps away, his three surviving men bunched behind him. If they rushed me, it was over.
The Arab stopped. ‘Are you going to surrender?’
‘Go to hell.’
‘Then shoot him now,’ Bin Sadr ordered. ‘I remember the last stars to touch.’ Muskets and pistols began to be levelled.
‘Here then,’ I offered.
I threw the staff up in the air, high, but so he could catch it. His eyes widened, gleaming. Instinctively he stretched, leant, snatched it with the quickness of a reptile, and in the course of doing so unthinkingly moved his left foot for balance.
A keystone piece at the end of the bridge gave way.
The Arabs froze, listening to it smash as it ricocheted into the pit below.
Then there was a groan, a sound of rock splintering, and we looked down. The missing block had begun a disintegration. The bridge’s connection with the granite stairs was dissolving as blocks popped out, the untethered end beginning to dip remorselessly into the pit. Bin Sadr had made a fatal misstep. The Arab’s henchmen cried out and began to stampede back the way they had come. As they did, heedless of where their feet were, more stones gave way.
Bin Sadr leapt for the wet granite stairs.
Had he let go of his staff, he might have made it, or at least got a hand on me and dragged me down with him. But he held his favourite weapon too long. His other arm was still wounded and weak, his hand slipped on the wet rock, and he began sliding down into the abyss, trying to hold both himself and his staff. Finally he let go of the rod in time to grip a knob of stone to arrest his slide. The staff fell out of sight. He was dangling at the precipice, a skein of water streaming down past him to dissolve into steam, his legs kicking. Meanwhile his companions behind screeched in terror as the bridge rotated downward with a roar, collapsing toward hell, taking them with it. They plummeted, limbs flailing. I watched them disappear into the fog.
Bin Sadr hung grimly, looking at Astiza with hatred. ‘I wish I’d butchered this whore like I did the one in Paris,’ he hissed.
I took out my tomahawk and crept down toward his fingers. ‘This is for Talma, Enoch, Minette, and every other innocent you’ll meet on the other side.’ I lifted the hatchet.
He spat at me. ‘I’ll wait for you there.’ Then he let go.
He plunged down the side of the pit, struck a steep slope of sand, and tumbled, soundless, into the dim red mist below. Small rocks rattled with him, tracing his slide. Then there was silence.
‘Is he dead?’ Astiza whispered.
It was so quiet that I feared he’d somehow find a way to climb back out. I peered over. Something was moving down there, but for a while we could hear nothing but the roar of the water at the top of the wet stairs. Then there came, faint at first, the sounds of a man beginning to scream.
By this time I’d heard more than my share of screams, both in battle and among the wounded. There was something different about this sound, however, an unworldly scream of such absolute terror that my stomach clenched at whatever unseen thing or things were prompting it. The screams went on and on, rising in pitch, and I knew with grim certainty that it was the voice of Achmed bin Sadr. Despite my enmity for the man, I shuddered. He was experiencing the terror of the damned.
‘Apophis,’ Astiza said. ‘The snake god of the underworld. He is meeting what he worshipped.’
‘That’s a myth.’
‘Is it?’
After what seemed an eternity the screams sank to an insane gibbering. Then they stopped. We were alone.
I was shivering from terror and cold. We hugged each other, all retreat impossible, the pit’s red glow our only light. Finally we started up the wet staircase, its waterfall smelling of the Nile. What underworld test would we face next? I didn’t have the energy – the will, as Napoleon would say – to go much farther.
We reached a trough that ran across the top of the stairs. Nile water was racing from a pipe-like opening in the cave wall to fill the stone canal to the brim, and then disappearing in another tunnel at the other end of the stairway. The current was pouring out with such force that there was no possibility of ascending it. Our only exit would be to go the direction the water was running, into a dark drain.
There was no room, I saw, for air.
‘I don’t think Moses came this way.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘Moses was an Egyptian prince who knew how this chamber was constructed,’ Astiza said. ‘He didn’t trigger the granite plugs like foolish Silano. He left by one of the shafts.’
‘And at low water, this trough might be a possible escape route,’ I said. ‘But at high water, the only time that door to the pyramid would open, it’s full to the brim. There’s no air. If you get in you have to use the correct exit to get out or it’s a trap.’
‘But why, then, a bridge that tests your knowledge of the constellation?’ Astiza asked. ‘It must be possible to leave this way, but only for men who know its perils. Maybe this was a last resort for the architects, in case a mistake left them trapped. Perhaps it’s a test of faith that we can get out of here.’
‘You can’t be planning to try to ride this sewer to the Nile.’
‘Worse than waiting for a slow death in here?’
She did have a way of getting to the heart of things. We could sit on the wet stairs for eternity, contemplating the broken bridge and the granite plugs high above, or take our chances in the sluiceway. Maybe Thoth had a sense of humour. Here I was, fugitive, the medallion used and broken, beaten to a fabled book by a desert prophet some three thousand years before, tired, sore, in love, and – if I could ever use the metal hanging on my body – fabulously wealthy. It’s a wonder what travel will do for you.
‘Suffocation is quicker than starvation,’ I agreed.
‘You will drown if you don’t get rid of most of that treasure.’
‘Are you joking? If we’re supposed to jump into this sluiceway, maybe the ceiling opens up ahead. Maybe the outlet to the Nile isn’t that far away. I haven’t come this far to come away with nothing.’
‘And what do you call nothing?’ Her smile was mischievous.
‘Well, except for you.’ It seemed we were a couple; you can always tell when you start tripping over what you say. ‘I just meant it’s nice to have a financial start in the world.’
‘We have to save the world, first.’
‘Let’s start by saving ourselves.’ I looked at the dark rushing water. ‘Before we try, I guess I’d better kiss you. Just in case it’s the last time.’
‘A sensible precaution.’
So I did.
She was so good at returning the favour that it gave me all kinds of ideas.
