Amjad awoke after the storm, buried on all sides by sand. He moved his hands and frantically began to dig, desperately trying to find a way out of his prison. As he struggled, his bedroll protector caved and sand rushed round his face. He managed to bring his feet up to the stone and pushed hard, frenziedly clawing at the silt above his head. He knew he did not have much time and used every ounce of strength he could muster to make agonizing progress.
When Amjad was a child, he foolishly played by the side of a well in the Great City. Hopping from the ground to the low wall that encompassed the deep shaft, he lost his footing and fell. He plummeted for what seemed an eternity, before hitting the chilling waters hard; momentarily stopping his heart and forcing the air from his lungs. The panic of those first few moments, as he desperately tried to stay afloat until his friends could raise the alarm, would be forever seared into his memory.
As the sand began to fill Amjad’s nostrils and burn his eyes, the same dreadful feelings returned. Redoubling his efforts, he clawed as hard as he could through the slowly heating sand, until a gust of wind on his fingertips told him the surface was reached.
A short while later, exhausted and coughing, Amjad lay in the late evening sun. Ignoring the shooting pain in his chest, he began to laugh. His new god had saved him.
Not four days hence had he set about his task. On the day he returned to find Pharaoh’s bodyguard searching his house, he was working on the pillars of a temple at the stone yard. His wife and children were outside in the street, kneeling together in a huddle and crying as pot after pot was thrown out of their dwelling.
It was the day he was hauled before the Pharaoh. The day his pursuant took away his family and incarcerated them deep in the Great Palace; smashing his pride like the remnants of the jars that lay scattered in the street. It was the first time he realised the folly of his actions. Little did he know then, it was to be the beginning of his journey, not the end.
People told him all his life that to look upon the Pharaoh was to look upon the gods themselves. As he was hauled through the majestic palace, resplendent in vibrant colours and artisanship so delicate it made the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end to gaze upon, he wondered what his first glance of a god would look like. He was startled by what he saw.
Pharaoh Smenkhkare was a tall, slender, and yet muscular man; adorned in gold and jade jewellery. He had a strangely long face, which started with a large, crowned forehead and tapered down to a point-like chin. His brow was prominent and his wide, brown eyes were spread far across his face. His nose was slim and met with a round, pouted mouth; more befitting a Nubian female than an Egyptian. However, most surprising of all, was the sheer enormity of the back of the Pharaoh’s skull. It was twice the normal size, and stripped of hair to throw its extent into greater relief. Smenkhkare was a powerful and foreboding man - a Godly man.
Smenkhkare talked in a whisper. His voice was stern and yet somehow pleasing to the ear. He spoke of futures and histories, and of a strange concept he called fate.
When Smenkhkare asked about Amjad’s work on deciphering the Great Monuments, he realised that he and his Pharaoh shared a common goal.
Amjad was promised an exalted place in the heavens, a tribute of viziers upon his passing, if only he would divulge what he knew, and how could he not? What he was offered was beyond his wildest dreams. To pass into the next life in such a manner almost guaranteed your ascension, and his ascension would guarantee his family’s.
Once the telling of his story was complete, the Pharaoh gave Amjad a task, to retrieve the items of the Zep-Tepi from their resting places in his lands. Upon its completion, he would be given everything promised. Thus, his fate was sealed, and his bargain with his new god, the triumphant merging of the father, the mother, and the son, made.
As the last fingers of faltering light licked the dunes at his back, Amjad reached the sacred mound on which the Great Monuments were constructed. Many died by his hand in order that he could make good on his promise to his god, but upon its completion, forgiveness would be his.
As Amjad approached, he could see the light thrown out by a fire that warmed the temple’s interior. During the day, the giant Sphinx stood as guardian over the entrance to the Great Monuments. Tonight, as the cool breeze of the desert drew close and encircled him with the chilling touch of the black, he finally realised why people believed this ancient statue was alive. The light from the fire played over its human face and he could almost see its lips move, the groaning of the desert making its visage distant and unfamiliar.
To Amjad’s left lay the temple created many eons ago to carry the soul of a mighty king to his final resting-place among the stars. To his right, was the temple of the Sphinx itself. Its mighty, granite block construction was many times more impressive than the statue laid by its side. He often wondered about its creation. Not even in these times of enlightenment and achievement could men possibly attempt to duplicate it.
Amjad knew the temple and the Sphinx were from a time of almost unimaginable antiquity. He knew that rescuing the Great Protector and the temples that surrounded it was part of the work undertaken by his grandfather. That story, two generations old, which his efforts would soon complete, began when the Sphinx called out across the desert to be rescued from its sandy tomb. He could not believe that story, so long in the making, was soon to draw to its close.
Amjad pushed on, as he fought against waves of exhaustion that ensnared his every action until finally, gratifyingly, he was walking through the simple entrance into the vast space beyond.
As he strode across the alabaster and granite floor, whose swirls and edges danced in the flicker of the torchlight, he spied movement.
“It is good to see you again stonemason.” said a familiar voice.
Amjad rubbed his eyes as two figures approached, finally catching his first, realised view. Both men were regally dressed and looked strangely similar.
The younger man was his Pharaoh, Smenkhkare. He was dressed in a fine white garb, hemmed with exquisite jewels and delicate golden seems. To his side, an older man strode with Smenkhkare, his face taking time to register. He was tall and slim, with crooked, pointy digits and an equally bulbous head.
Amjad’s thoughts swirled, as first recognition and then fear washed over him. It could not be! What part of Smenkhkare’s plan included a man who was supposedly dead? What manner of monster would propose such a lie?
With a wave of nauseous comprehension, he finally understood his part in his master’s devious plot. Smenkhkare’s words were fallacies; given to make him complete missions the Pharaoh could not do himself for fear of arousing suspicion.
The tortured revelation welled up within Amjad. There was to be no sharing. He had failed his grandfather, his father, and ultimately his entire family.
As the men closed on his position, Amjad caught two guards moving to surround him. He reached into his pouch and curled his fingers round the staff he recovered from the priests of Iunu. At the delicate contact, a tingle began to shoot up his arm and heighten his senses.
Steel drew over him as he felt power course through his veins. If this was to be the end, it would not be his alone.
Chapter 7