Four Ways to Pharaoh Khufu (5 page)

“I will beat the living shit out of you. You lousy old bastard!” Asim jumped up and rushed towards the chemist, reaching for his concealed sword. He suddenly stopped short as he came to his senses. “Nassar, what have you done?” he asked, breathing heavily despite his best efforts to control his lungs. “Am I going to die?”

“Without any doubt,” the chemist said quietly, remaining absolutely calm. Asim looked at him in disbelief. “However,” the chemist added slowly. “The outcome of your fate depends entirely on you now. As promised, you have received the poison from me, free of charge.” He paused, a dangerous smile playing across his lips. “But you will have to pay for its antidote. A unique chance to survive,” he paused, his smile gone. “Your only one.”

The Medjay’s eyes glowed dangerously, unable to mask his fury. His forehead dripped with sweat as his internal temperature began to fluctuate wildly. “How much?” exclaimed Asim forcefully, as dizziness overtook him. “Just name your price, and you will receive it.”

“I repeat, money has no interest for me. Your payment for continued life will take another form.” The chemist paused for a moment, his dark eyes boring into Asim through his thick glasses. The Medjay looked back at him, puzzled.

“If you wish the death of another person, no matter the motive, I believe you must suffer the same as the person that you wished to kill would have suffered. You must fully grasp what you have wished upon another. You claimed, without a second thought, that you would suffer the same way the German engineer would have suffered were you to poison him, in order to protect your stolen relic. If I were to assure you that I would make sure the greedy foreigner met his death swiftly, would you accept your own death as a part of this grandiose design?”

“It would be an honor!” Asim exclaimed as he sank to the floor. He proudly raised his head as all sense of anger drained from his body. “I’m a Medjay warrior in my heart and in my soul. If you assure me that Schulze will die, then it will be a great honor for me to die knowing that the secret of the stele, preserved throughout the ages by my fellow Medjay, will die with him.”

* * *

When the door was closed and bolted securely behind his nocturnal visitor, Nassar stored the remainder of the antidote potion in his locked safe. Approaching the small makeshift slit window, he watched Asim’s silhouette fade away amidst the shadows and spirits of the mysterious City of the Dead. He smiled to himself, knowing justice had been served.
What a noble people are the Medjay. Nowadays it is impossible to find a more trustworthy and fair pe
ople.

Chapter 5

Giza Plateau, Egypt

Monday, September 18

8:00 a.m.

T
he Pyramids! Michael Doyle stood at the edge of the Giza Plateau enraptured by the most magnificent creation erected by the ancient Egyptians. Michael’s lifelong dream to see and touch the pyramids with his own eyes and hands was finally reality. At that moment, nothing else seemed to matter at all.

His arrival at eight o’clock in the morning proved to be fortuitous, as he soon discovered that the tourist masses did not begin so early in the morning. He seized the unexpected opportunity to take unobstructed and stunning photographs. He worked his digital camera Nikon D3100 non-stop as he captured the unforgettable, breathtaking views of the Giza Plateau.

He walked over and positioned himself next to the plateau’s entrance, trying to imagine what it might have looked like 4,500 years ago, the theoretical time of the Great Pyramid’s construction. In the time of the pharaohs, the white outlines of the pyramids must have shone brilliantly in the rays of the ancient sun. Their apexes, covered with thin gold plates, must have blinded the eyes of all those who gazed out across the desert at them. Michael stood there for another twenty minutes thinking about the many different theories that attempted to explain how the pyramids had been constructed. He enjoyed trying to imagine which theory he thought was more likely to be accurate.

As his eyes scanned the horizon, he focused on a nearby livestock stand. Horses, donkeys and camels awaited their tourist-riders for prices of mythical proportion. He chuckled as the guidebooks had warned him away from such excesses. The books had also claimed that the best site from which to observe the pyramids was where he was currently standing. Happily, he had to agree. The pyramids played tricks on the visitors’ imaginations by appearing smaller than they really were and taking much longer to reach than expected.

While he could not be sure of how the Giza Plateau had looked in ancient times, presently, it was a lifeless plateau with pyramids rising out of its sands. Michael imagined that this barren sight likely contributed to the idea that the stone blocks used to build the pyramids were transported along an artificially created sand mound. This theory held that the mound was increased in height in equal proportion to the increased height of the pyramid. Using the sand mound theory, Michael assumed that it would be quite possible to raise blocks weighing several tons. It seemed, however, impossible to him that such a method would allow for lifting blocks weighing tens or hundreds of tons, especially since the Great Pyramid was 487 feet in height. He doubted any sand mound was capable of holding that kind of weight without starting to crumble. In addition, this theory could not account for the criticism of the assumption that these blocks were transported along the masonry. From his studies, Michael had to agree that the masonry simply would not be able to sustain the block’s prolonged movement and would begin falling apart during the construction process, meaning there had to be a more reasonable approach.

The longer Michael stood there, the more he fantasized about how the Great Pyramid could have been built. It seemed to him that none of the current theories made any possible sense.
There had to be another way. And perhaps I will discover it,
he mused. Then his thoughts took on a darker tone as they led him to imagine what would happen if the multi-ton pyramid mass suddenly crumbled to the ground in millions of pieces. This thought caused his breath to catch in his throat, suddenly bringing back the painful memories of the terrorist attacks on September 11
th
, 2001, that had led to the collapse of the New York City Twin Towers. Those memories were still fresh and vivid in his mind.

Despite the passage of time, he could recall those images just as if it had happened yesterday. His father took him to his office that fateful morning. After the first plane had hit that morning, his father’s workplace, located in a midtown office building on the Avenue of the Americas, had immediately closed and everyone had been dismissed. After leaving the building, his father and he started walking toward the Brooklyn Bridge to go home. But then Michael got an idea. He stopped at a corner store and purchased a disposable camera. He and his dad left the shop walking quickly but, realizing the danger around them, started to jog and then run. Meanwhile, every once in a while, Michael would pause and take a photo of the disaster exploding all too near them. Despite being in the midst of all of the chaos, he had managed to snap multiple, unforgettable photos of the dying Twin Towers: thirty-six to be exact.

Those thirty-six images, taken on the worst day in American history, were one of his most prized possessions, despite their low resolution. On their canvas, the pulverized concrete and shattered pieces of the steel perimeter columns, which had been thrown out of the towers during the horrific stages of the unimaginable collapse, were forever immortalized. The debris ejecting and the immense volume of crushed materials generated from the collapsing towers could only be compared to an explosive volcanic eruption. A pyroclastic flow of debris could be clearly traced in some of his photos as he had literally raced away from the collapsing structure and down the street to relative safety. He recalled his journey to work that fateful morning as seeming so peaceful: much like this day. The horrific flashback of devastating images and chilling thoughts were juxtaposed inexplicably with his memory of that otherwise sunny, cloudless and ordinary September day in 2001. These disturbing thoughts kept Michael lingering on the Giza Plateau for another few minutes before he could shake them off and a smile found its way back onto his lips.

He began walking toward the pyramids and his dreams. The closer Michael got to the pyramids, the more immense they appeared. The Great Pyramid was amazingly beautiful in the light of the morning rays. It seemed as if its apex, abutted against the sky, burnt out to the brightest blue. Its surface appeared to merge with the very desert sand as its exterior mirrored its color so closely. The pyramids were like a mirage sailing along the hot air.

Man fears Time, yet Time fears the Pyra
mids
.

Michael had memorized this old Arab proverb from one of the countless pyramid books he had read. As he arrived at the foot of the magnificent structure, he could finally understand the proverb. The Pyramid of Khufu, though not the oldest in Egypt, had become a symbol of long lasting durability. For this reason, the Great Pyramid was chosen as an icon on the reverse side of the U.S. dollar bill.

Michael timidly bent down to touch the pyramid’s granite bedrock foundation. Trembling with excitement, he began his climb up the external carved-in-limestone stairs that led to the entrance. His head rushed with scraps of thoughts and facts about the pharaoh’s curse of terrible diseases and impending death that was supposed to pursue anyone who attempted to disturb Khufu’s final resting place. He figured that if that were truly the case, there would be a lot of sick and dead tourists, so he was probably safe.

In spite of a timid feeling brought about by the pyramid’s majestic sublimity, he stepped inside the Great Pyramid. As soon as he had fully entered the pyramid, he stood in reverent awe of having fulfilled a lifelong dream. A fitting inscription found inside King Tut’s tomb in the King’s Valley came to his mind:

Death will slay with his wings anyone whoever disturbs the peace of the pha
raoh
.

This threat, which seemed to be soaring around the pyramids in a whispered warning to all the unsuspecting visitors, did not seem to deter them in the least or lead them to be wary of what awaited them inside. Like those who had come before him who ignored the forewarning inscription, Michael made his way to the inner entrance. He found it necessary to crouch over and bend his legs to keep his head inclined away from the low ceiling. This was difficult to do, as he had to try not to slip on the wooden steps that were nailed to an inclined wooden plank that served as the stairs.

Once completely inside the pyramid, Michael heard a familiar American-English dialect coming from a group of tourists ahead of him. Michael approached the group. Their tour guide, despite his typical American name, Steve, was in reality one of the local Arab guides that had been assigned to the group. Unable to go around them, he lingered nearby.
I should have signed up to take a tour as well,
Michael scolded himself slightly as he started paying attention to Steve’s speech.

“The Great Pyramid at Giza is the only one of the original seven wonders of the ancient world still standing. It was built as a tomb for the fourth dynasty Egyptian pharaoh, Khufu, or Cheops, as the Greeks called him. This pyramid was constructed over a 20-year period and has an estimated 2.3 million limestone blocks. These blocks were transported up and over a mound of sand constructed next to the pyramid,” Steve lectured.

Ok, time to go
, thought Michael, deciding that the tour guide’s speech was useless.

The tour guide started rushing the group through the pyramid with a rocket’s acceleration. Always with a keen eye to the tiniest details, Michael usually took a long time to examine things. He did not plan for this exploration to be any different.

While Michael was still examining the Queen’s Chamber, the American group was already quickly making its way up to the King’s Chamber. Without warning, a man in a white cloak brusquely rushed by Michael and almost knocked him to the floor. Startled, Michael steadied himself, observing a tall guy with a distinctive bushy Afro hairstyle hurrying away.
What arrogance! He didn’t even say excuse me
, thought Michael as the stranger glided down the stairs and disappeared.
I hope he had a real emergency
, he thought with disgust as he turned to continue his journey.

Next, he began following along the horizontal passageway that ended at the entrance to the Grand Gallery. As he approached, a marvelous view appeared before his eyes, and he wished that cameras were allowed inside. The design of this long gallery, with its incredibly high ceiling, was ingenious. Its walls consisted of thoroughly connected stone blocks. These limestone blocks were packed so that each subsequent layer covered a portion of the previous layer. Lost in his thoughts, Michael was completely consumed by the Grand Gallery as he scrutinized every detail of its grand corbelled ceiling.
Somewhere there it’s gotta be
. . .

“Help!” The cry was barely audible but unmistakable. Curious, Michael glanced down the Ascending Passage and observed another tourist group that was making its way up.
That scream was too weak. It definitely didn’t come from down there. So, where did it come from?
He had just convinced himself that it was just his overactive imagination when it sounded again.

“Help!” Again, the same hollow call echoed faintly through the Grand Gallery. This time Michael knew for certain that he was not imagining it.

It definitely came from the top,
Michael decided as he searched with his eyes. About thirty feet away, in the middle of the Grand Gallery, he finally made out the silhouette of a lone man collapsed against the wall, barely visible in the looming darkness. Michael sprinted forward as the man slumped into a crouched position despite trying to support his body weight against the handrail.

“Sir, excuse me sir, are you OK?” Michael asked upon his arrival. The man struggled to open his droopy eyelids. Michael bent over the man, “Sir, are you feeling all right?”

The man struggled to lift his chin up, and fought to choke some words out.

Michael placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, “Sir, are you OK?”

“Can’t. Breathe,” the man choked out.

Michael turned and bellowed at the top of his lungs toward the group that was entering the Grand Gallery “Somebody, anybody speaks English?” His deep baritone voice echoed thunderously throughout the Grand Gallery and into the chambers beyond. Even minutes later he could still hear his voice reverberating throughout the interlocked blocks of the Grand Gallery.

Almost instantaneously, several tourists replied, “Yes!”

Michael spoke quickly, “This man is having trouble breathing. I need someone to run back to the entrance for help and to call an ambulance.” Several people immediately turned and dashed back towards the entrance. Michael turned back to the stricken man, “Sir, I need you to lie down and try to relax. You will be okay. I know CPR and will try to help you restore your breathing. What’s your name, sir?” Michael reached to check the stranger’s pulse, but at that moment the man collapsed into his arms. The man wheezed that his name was Günther Schulze. Michael held no doubt that Schulze was German: the accent and the name never lie.

Michael immediately knelt down, rolled the German onto his back, and began performing chest compressions. He looked into Schulze’s face and saw that his eyes were partially open.

Schulze reached up and Michael paused his CPR efforts. The man fumbled inside his jacket pocket, removing a white business card.

Michael leaned his ear to Schulze’s barely moving lips. “Promise… call her,” Schulze whispered “I was poisoned. … Beware … dark man … Afro …” Michael nodded and grabbed the card, stuffing it inside his jeans pocket. He resumed performing CPR. But the German was not about to give up easily. Again, he reached for an inside pocket of his vest. Michael put his hand inside the man’s vest and felt a small notebook in an interior pocked. He pulled it out. Schulze nodded feebly. “Find four ways…” Schulze’s lips contorted, but the rest of his speech was incomprehensible. As Schulze’s eyes rolled back into his head, his body went limp. Michael placed the notebook on the ground and continued to perform CPR as he waited for the ambulance to arrive. Each minute was desperately counted as Michael watched the seconds on his “Timex” watch slowly roll forward. It was a long and desperate wait.

A pair of local paramedics made their way into the Grand Gallery, loaded Schulze’s body onto their hand-held gurney, and fighting the narrowness of the passageways, rushed back to the entrance. Michael picked up the notebook and stuffed it under his arm. He followed the paramedics, trying to tell them what had happened, but he was not sure if they understood a word he was saying. Finally, they were in the open air and the paramedics were preparing to load Schulze’s motionless body into the ambulance. Schulze’s arm twitched and Michael reached out to take his pulse. To his relief, he felt a slight pulse. Schulze was still alive!