This is what happens when you catch a bit of a programme about tomb-robbing when you're doing the washing-up...
A Place of Rest (943 words)
Hengst eased himself through the gap, into the familiar scents of stone and earth. He was cautiously triumphant. He had not been at all sure this tomb actually existed, and worried that someone would have got here before him. But although there had been some disturbance around the entrance, it was old and minor; it might have been animals.
He lit his torch, looking for curses. A good curse meant there was something here worth taking. The wall-paintings alone were some of the best he’d seen. He paused to admire a pair of blonde lovelies bearing platters of fruit no less perfect than their breasts.
Ah, and there was the curse. May death enfold him who would disturb this resting place.
Somewhat unimaginative, that. Hengst went deeper, experience allowing him to ignore the dead-ends and false doorways.
When he finally broke into the central room, he stood gawping, the torch drooping in his hand. The space was dominated by a great bed supported on two carved lynxes inlaid with shell. All around, on tables of fine wood and coloured marble, stood boxes of cedarwood thick with gold, their seals promising spices and jewels. A throne gleaming with agates and silver. Lamps of pierced brasswork fine as lace. Statues of cattle and soldiers and servants in finest work.
Hengst’s heartbeat sounded loud in his ears as he wandered around the room, the torchlight dancing on gilding and jewelled caskets. So much to get out! He’d left his horse tied some distance away. He needed a cart. How would he stop anyone else suspecting what he’d found?
Should he take one or two of the smaller pieces now? A jar of rare spice; no. Too big. And too obviously a tomb-piece if he were seen with it. The tiny perfect statue of a general, glaring furiously above his beard? Hengst picked it up. Where it had been the procession looked gappy, like a mouth missing a tooth. He put it back.
It was only when his stomach groaned that he realised he was ravenous. At some point he’d lit several of the lamps; the oil was still good, and they cast a warm rich light scented with herbs.
Hengst reluctantly blew them out and made his way back towards the entrance.
When he peered through, white light hurt his eyes. Daylight! Not only daylight but a bright midday, cloudshadows scurrying like the ghosts of sheep across the green hillside. How long had he been there?
He hesitated. If he went out now, he would be as obvious as a fly in a mug of beer. All it would take would be one passer-by.
He had some water and a little food. He could wait.
Hengst wandered among the offerings. Everything here was so perfect. He lived simply himself, not wanting to draw attention; this dark torch-gilded richness was like nothing he had seen in a long career of plunder. He realised he was tired. Not as young as he was. He looked at the bed, and thought, with a little surge of resentment, Why not? Never in my life have I lain on such a bed, and if the priests are right, in the afterlife I’ll not either; more likely have my liver torn out by wolves or some such thing. Personally, he thought at death you got a few feet of earth to lie in, no more. Wolves probably did eat your liver, but you would neither know nor care.
Still, he felt a little daring, as he lit two of the lamps, blew out the torch, and laid himself down. He had never had such a mattress; it was like lying on water, or a cloud. He drew the thick fur cover over him.
Two life-size statues of women leaned above the bed, their arms outstretched, their breasts gleaming. He imagined how it would be to be served by such women.
Some time later Hengst woke, and went up to the hidden doorway. The bright afternoon had turned to a windy, rainspattered night. He couldn’t take anything out in this; exposed to the weather, things might be ruined. The thought of the beautiful carvings stained and cracked, the spices losing their scent, was painful. He withdrew again, to walk, murmuring, among the treasures, his fingers tracing curves of stone and silver.
The next day it had stopped raining, but Hengst saw a distant figure walking along the hillside. Did the figure look his way, searching, greedy? He scowled and withdrew.
***
A carpenter’s apprentice was trudging along the lane when he saw a good, broad-backed gelding, tied to a tree. It had eaten the grass bare in a circle around it, and started on the bark of the tree. Its reins were worn almost to snapping where it had tugged at them, trying to free itself. The boy called out a few times, for duty; but it was obvious the horse had been there several days. He was good with horses; it came easily to his hand when he untied it.
The boy mounted, and tapped the horse with his heel. His master had told him he’d found a horse wandering this lane before, some years ago, and had sold it for a good price. He’d be pleased, and maybe show the boy how to carve the wonderful lilies he was making for the old King’s burial-casket.
They rode off into the darkening afternoon. Above them, on the hill, a patter of earth loosened by recent rain fell into darkness, and a stone tumbled after it. In the fast-growing summer, soon there would be no sign there had been an entrance there at all.
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