The Gold Seal

Andre de Corcy cursed under his breath as the charcoal split in his hands, smudging the rubbing of the sarcophagus seal. It was his fourth copy, so the mishap was hardly surprising if still inconvenient. He needed a half a dozen in all, some to be sent back to Paris and other learning centers for study and hopefully translation, while a few were for the other savants still with Bonaparte in Egypt. Standing up, he wiped his blackened fingers on a rag and decided his makeshift study could do with a bit more illumination. There was a great deal of work still to do before he would feel satisfied with the day’s output.

As he carefully lit a candle from his small oil lamp, a noise in the street caught his attention. Drunken rambles were common enough sounds in the Cairo markets, but they were never this close to his workspace. The scholars tended to live and work away from the others for that reason—to avoid distraction and disturbance, as well as simple convenience to where they dug and researched. Instinct told de Corcy to lock his door, but before he could reach the handle, he was knocked back several feet by the force with which it opened.

A burly, sunburned French soldier stormed into the room, flanked by two smaller companions. All three were armed.

The biggest man seized the savant by the collar. “We could have gone back to France by now if it wasn’t for you people!”

“We wouldn’t have come here in the first place if it wasn’t for him,” one of the slighter soldiers remarked, tearing apart some of de Corcy’s papers at random.

“Let go of me!” De Corcy demanded, trying to free himself. “You’re drunk; you’re not thinking clearly!”

He took a fist to the face for his trouble, but the big man was drunk enough that the blow wasn’t very strong. In fact, the soldier had loosened his grip to deliver it. De Corcy wiggled free and straightened up in time to see a crate of artifacts upended to the floor, while a scroll of papyrus was fed to a candle.

“No!” He rushed at the soldier, managing to yank the flame away, but not in time to save the fragile artwork.

“Damn it!” The rapidly disintegrating papyrus burned the soldier’s hand, and he punched the scholar in retribution.

This shorter man was either more sober or more vicious, for he used his elbow instead of his fist, which knocked de Corcy against the wall. He kept ahold of the candle, but the wax slipped free of its metal holder and fell to the floor, extinguishing on impact, plunging part of the room into shadows.

The big soldier hit de Corcy again, this time in the stomach, momentarily winding him, while the short one went back to tearing up papyri.

A crash from the other side of the room brought all action to a halt. The third soldier had upended the sarcophagus itself, by kicking out one of the wooden supports underneath it.

“Don’t damage it!” De Corcy half-coughed, swinging wildly to escape.

He clipped the big soldier in the nose with the candleholder, but in return his head was smacked against the wall. The shorter man left the papyrus to join his friend and struck de Corcy again, this time knocking him out. The soldiers dropped him onto the floor and crossed over to examine the sarcophagus.

“This is important.” The big man toed the box experimentally.

“It’s valuable.” The third soldier pointed to the seal on the box’s side, which was made of gold. “Come on, Philippe.”

The seal proved unwilling to part with the coffin, and the short soldier went back to the work table in search of a better tool. His careless efforts produced a chisel, which got the job done. With a dull clink, it fell into the third man’s lap.

“Look at that!” Philippe exclaimed. He reached for it, but the third man slapped his hand away.

“Light.” He ordered.

The short man squatted down to admire their plunder while Philippe retrieved the candle from the floor and relit it from the lamp. “What do you think, Rene?”

“Enough to get home and then some,” the third man predicted.

“Is there more?” Philippe asked, holding up the lights, making the gold sparkle.

“There’s nothing back there but papers,” the short man said.

“What about inside?”

“Maybe,” Rene allowed. He tossed the gold down, more or less equally away from all three of them. “Give me the candle. I’ll watch the door. You and Jean get that thing open.”

“Alright.”

With the seal broken, the lid lifted off with some effort.

“Jesus!” Philippe took a few startled steps backward, tripping on the seal.

“Are you a coward?” Jean asked derisively. “We’ve all seen dead men before.”

“Not like that! It’s unnatural.”

Rene stood on tiptoes to peer into the sarcophagus. “Does it have boots?’

“Just bandages,” Philippe shivered, even though he was sweating in the desert heat. “Nothing but bandages.”

“Then take the gold, and let’s go.”

Philippe bent to retrieve the seal from the floor when Jean suddenly whimpered. Looking up, the big man fell over when he saw the bandaged hand clutching his friend’s wrist.

Rene fled through the open door and into the desert without a word. Before either of the two remaining soldiers could move or react, the bandaged figure suddenly sat up, still holding onto the short man’s arm like a vice. The mummy’s shadowed eyes darted feverishly from one point of the room to the other. His mouth opened, but all that came out was a dry, rattling croak.

“Help me!” Jean tried to pull away and stand up at the same time, but his knees gave way, and he upended the light placed by the sarcophagus lid. The tumbling flames alighted on the torn papyrus scraps, and all three screamed.

Philippe mimicked Rene and ran.

“Let go!” The short man begged, still pulling.

The mummy snarled furiously into the Frenchman’s face, and he fainted. Only then did the bandaged figure release him, letting Jean’s unconscious body fall onto the flames. His dead weight was enough to smother the worst of them, but the pain immediately brought him round.

He screamed again at seeing the mummy rise on shaky legs, but as it looked down at him, the sound abruptly changed to hysterical laughter. The sound began to rouse de Corcy, and it ensured that, aside from the pain in his head, the only thing of which he took precise notice when he opened his eyes was his former assailant.

#

Nearly five years later, a polite knock interrupted Andre de Corcy’s work. Cautiously, he put down the letter he was writing and opened the door to his house, regarding the figure on the other side with surprise. A thin man with dark eyes, a carefully trimmed beard, and a rather loose turban stood on the other side of the threshold.

“Good afternoon,” the stranger said in passable French. “I call myself Ibn Rashid, and I am a scholar of our ancient history. I wish to offer my services to the work of your Institute.”

“Oh.” De Corcy blinked in confusion, but then he smiled. “That’s very kind of you. Please, come in.”

“Thank you.”

Rashid walked into the house. He moved gingerly, not quite limping, but like he expected the movement to hurt. He sat down quickly, without waiting for an invitation.

“I’ll get some tea.” De Corcy offered.

“I drink wine.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled in surprise. “It’s good to find someone else who does. One moment.”

He disappeared into another room, reappearing with two glasses of ruby liquid in hand.

Rashid accepted his gratefully, taking a long swallow. “Very good.”

 “My favorite,” De Corcy nodded. “Now, I must ask why you would come to me, rather than my superiors, or to the Institute itself.”

“Several years ago, there was a find connected to your name… the desecration of a royal sarcophagus, which intrigues me.”

“That unpleasantness.” He sighed and took a sip of his own. “The exterior was so badly damaged… the British let us keep it after Bonaparte—pardon, the emperor’s departure. I fear the poor soul whose tomb it was will never be identified. The mummy itself was destroyed in the fire.”

Rashid drank a little more wine. “I hope you received justice, at least, for your own injury.”

“If I did, it was certainly disproportionate. One of the men was never seen again. Another killed himself, and the third one went mad. He died of the plague a year later.”

The Egyptian did not smile, but his eyes glinted as he listened to the soldiers’ fates. He said, “One would almost think there was a divine element at work.”

“Perhaps.” De Corcy frowned. “Royal? I’m still not certain what sort of tomb was uncovered, although it was definitely that of a man of some importance. The gold seal told us that.”

“The tomb of a simple bricklayer or architect would hardly seem worth such tragedy, would it? But, I admit, my information could be more gossip than truth.” Rashid set down his glass, empty. “Even so, I think you’d find me quite useful. The ancient Egyptians did not bury their dead in isolation. There will be other tombs connected to the one you found under your emperor. No doubt far grander in scale… perhaps something to rival the Rosetta Stone.”

De Corcy smiled and drained his own glass. “If you’ll come to the Egyptian Institute tomorrow, I’ll show you around and make things official.”

#

Rashid followed de Corcy into a dim storeroom of the Egyptian Institute. In the darker, cooler space, the bearded man’s movements were more assured and less painful, almost eager.

“There, you see.” The savant pointed his light. “Such a pity; you can see how beautiful it still is, in spite of the fire. Are you alright?”

“Forgive my momentary weakness.” Rashid rubbed his knuckles absently over his heart. “I am no longer as strong as I once was.”

“Of course.” De Corcy smiled politely. “I am subject to violent headaches, myself, after…. But now that we are here, do you feel up to examining it?”

“Of course.” Rashid replied tartly. He knelt carefully beside the scorched coffin, exhaling deeply. “The light, if you please.”

“Oh, yes. Forgive me.”

De Corcy brought the lamp closer, watching curiously. “I’m sorry it has taken so long to get you down here, but once Poisson heard you speak of the Nile’s flooding patterns, there really was no choice but to let him—”

“I understand.” He looked up sharply. “Was there no surviving papyri?”

“Very little. Just my copies, as a matter of fact. They’re here, somewhere. Perhaps in one of these crates. Focus was redirected.” De Corcy shrugged and attempted to open one of the boxes in question. “I’m very curious to hear about this research of yours.”

“It’s hardly worth your attention.” He ran long, elegant fingers over a few scratches that were millennia older than the more recent damage. “Until I can find confirmation of my theories among the tombs, it’s supposition.”

“Humor me, my friend. I really do want to know.”

Rashid frowned, looking almost pained. “My work concerns the cruelest pharaoh to rule over Egypt.”

De Corcy opened his mouth to wittily inquire if this was the pharaoh of Exodus, but thought better of it. Something in the other man’s eyes proclaimed that this would be a foolish move. Instead, he asked, “Who?”

“His name was Webensenu. I believe,” he added, quickly. “You are aware of the difficulties in translation.”

“I’m not familiar with his reign,” the savant replied. “He must have predated the Greeks. Do you believe that is his tomb?”

“No pharaoh would purposefully be buried with so little gold,” Rashid sniffed. “It was bare by design, not due to plunder.”

“I see.” De Corcy stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We were very fortunate that the seal was not lost. Oh, forgive me… I’ll open its crate.”

With an eerie creak, the box in question opened, and the tablet glinted in the lamplight. The Egyptian sprang to his feet, and stretched out his hand almost hungrily. Receiving it, he stared at the hieroglyphs intently.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” De Corcy asked. “If only we could read it.”

“Yes.” Rashid agreed, holding the light closer.

The cellar door banged open and a sunburned Englishman with thick eyebrows stormed down the stairs without a lamp. “What goes on here?”

“Lord Gordon.” With obvious patience, de Corcy stepped forward and nodded to his companion. “This is Ibn Rashid, who has been such a boon to the geologists of late. His personal research is akin to mine.”

The newcomer shook his head. “It stops immediately. Word’s come from London. The king wishes to present more artifacts in London. We shall need that item.” 

“You can’t,” he protested. “Once I was nearly killed for this seal, and since then I’ve put my work aside to assist the others. It’s insulting to just take it away at a whim!”

“I’m sorry.” Gordon sighed, hinting that there was likely truth in what he said. “But it isn’t my whim. Only the most beautiful objects will be considered acceptable for His Majesty. Tell your man to hand it over.”

Rashid turned around and spoke coldly. “I speak English.”

“You do?” De Corcy exclaimed, incredulous.

“The past few years have necessitated I learn a great deal very quickly,” he replied.

Gordon shrugged. “Well, it’s of no matter whether I tell you or if he does. Royal decrees can’t be disobeyed, old fellow.”

“No.” Rashid agreed. He spoke almost inaudibly, but his eyes burned with unmistakable fury.

His Lordship preferred not to look at them and quickly turned and walked back up the stairs. “Then I’ll leave you to it. I want it ready for transport on the next ship to England.”

De Corcy cautiously approached his colleague and rested a hand on his elbow. “We might have time to make a few more rubbings. So we’re not completely cut off.”

“I… can’t.” Rashid clasped his heart. He stared hard at the scorched sarcophagus a moment, and then seemed to collect himself, shaking off the supporting hand. “This upset has made me rather ill.”

“I see.” He accepted the seal from and met the Egyptian’s feverish gaze. “Do you need assistance?”

“I am capable of finding my way home.” Gingerly, Rashid began to climb the stairs. “That old fool has no idea what a mistake this is.”

“Indeed,” de Corcy agreed, sadly.

#

In the innermost room of his house, Ibn Rashid knelt on the floor in front of a loaf of bread, an onion, and a melon. Despite the hour, it was very dark, with every source of light either extinguished or covered. He murmured quietly in prayer to himself as he pulled a brilliantly painted ushabti doll from his sleeve. Mostly white, with a green headdress, and red limbs and face it held a basket in each hand, ready for to assist its owner in the Field of Reeds.

“Set,” he said, placing the doll before the bread, which he then broke in sacrifice. He produced a knife and pierced the onion, letting some of its juice drop onto the doll, before repeating the gesture with the melon. “Sutekh.”

The ushabti unfolded its arms, and then stretched itself out: arms, neck, and, finally, legs. Eyes wide, face tight with concentration, Rashid fell onto all fours as the doll faced him, raising its hand in greeting. Drawing in a deep breath, he raised his right hand and pointed to the door.

“Gordon,” he said.

The doll bowed its head, set its peaceful tools down on the floor, turned, and walked quickly, if a bit stiffly, across the room, and then out of the house. Rashid stayed on the floor where he was, still murmuring his prayers to Set. He lived a long way from the Egyptian Institute. It would take a while for the ushabti to accomplish its task.

Nevertheless, the doll determinedly made its way through the streets of Cairo. The streets were so busy, almost no one noticed it. Knocked down by a cart, it got to its feet again and marched forward, punching a basket out of its way.  A child excitedly pointed the tiny figure out to her mother, but was pulled along without a look. A mongrel growled and ran away, and a donkey was startled, but both instances were unremarked upon except as the animals’ strange temperament.

Meanwhile, Rashid sweated from the effort of maintaining control of the ushabti, and struggled to maintain position on the hard floor. Then he could suddenly sense that the doll had arrived at the Egyptian Institute. It was as though he could see the building himself, the door opening for a geologist, and the doll slipping unnoticed over the threshold.

“Set,” he entreated, in relief. Then, to the ushabti, he said, “Gordon.”

Lord Gordon was, in fact, shut away in his office going over the Institute’s various correspondence. He didn’t look up when there was a knock at his door, just calling “come in.” A short, black man entered the room with a tea tray and set it down by the window. He turned and made to leave the room, nearly stumbling as he opened the door.

“What’s the matter, Ali?” Gordon turned around.

“I’m not sure….” Ali glanced at the floor, puzzled. “It felt like something touched my foot.”

“Mice,” the Englishman suggested. “We need another cat. Or a terrier.”

“Yes, sir.” He showed himself out, not seeing the tiny colorful figure standing stock-still in the shadows behind the door, as if it was there by mishap.

As the door closed, the ushabti raised a straight-pin that it had obtained somewhere along the journey and strode forward.