At some point, Simon, lost in miserable thoughts, stumbled harder than ever, fell face-down into the sand, and was dragged behind the chariot for several minutes (His chest began to feel as though it really was on fire, and he could hear the fabric of his shirt ripping.), until he managed to haul himself off the ground again painfully.

  Set guided the mares back to the Nile, going more slowly now, scanning the environment as they went, as though he were looking for something. At last the chariot stopped by an oasis, sheltered by palm trees and a greenbelt, behind whose canopy of leaves overhead the sky was crimson shot with dusky orange, at the riverside.

  Simon's lungs stung painfully, his tongue was as dry as parchment, and his feet were like concrete in his sweaty socks and ruined shoes. He stumbled against one of three palm trees in his vicinity, pulled the chain on his wrists tying him to the chariot as far as it would go, lay down on his stomach, and stretched out gingerly to lap a few drops of murky water from the river's edge; it was better than nothing.

  Half an hour later, their entourage arrived, and slaves began to build a camp. A large, colourful tent was erected in a sandy cove next to the Nile, then two more rather shabby ones for slaves and guards, and then a fire was kindled in the middle between them. A delicious scent of crispy, roasted meat and boiling vegetables wafted from it and into Simon's nose not long after, but he didn't kid himself thinking there would be any food for him. What was it to Set if he starved?

  Set visited him a while later, with the whip and a very unpleasant smirk on his thin face.

  “What do you say, Simon?” Set sneered. “Think your friends will come for you?”

  Simon grit his teeth and kept his mouth shut.

  “Oh, I forgot … They're not your friends... else they would have already come to rescue you, don't you think?”

  “You are merely Apep's whipping boy,” said Simon angrily, unwilling to let himself be provoked. “They're smarter than you.”

  Set drew back the whip and brought it down on Simon's cheek with a loud crack, sending the archaeologist's glasses flying into the dirt. Simon closed his mouth defiantly as a stinging sensation shot through his cheek.

  “Apep wants you dead,” hissed Set, his face dangerously close now.

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  “And you defied him. Do you think he will be impressed? Do you want me to thank you?” snarled Simon, glaring at the deity and spitting out a mouthful of blood from where the had bit his lip in an effort not to yell out at his feet. “Don't think I don't know you're scared of him.”

  In hindsight, he thought he probably shouldn't have taunted the god, but he couldn't help himself at that moment. All the frustration that had built up over the past few days finally needed out, and he paid dearly for it. Set struck him again and again, over both shoulders and back, until his skin under the torn shirt was raw and red.

  “I'm almost impressed by your stupidity,” Set said softly, as Simon continued to snarl at him in silence, intent on showing as little emotion as possible, biting back the tears stinging in his eyes and still unwilling to give the god the satisfaction of screaming. “But defiance won't help you here, you're nothing but a little boy who needs to be taught his place … Next time you'll think before you speak.”

  Once he was gone, leaving an apophis soldier to stand guard before the chariot, Simon plopped back down next to the chariot and tried to determine the damage to his body. It felt as though an inferno was racing over his back and his cheek burned like fire too, the weal left by the leather strap which he could see obliquely just underneath his left eye, gleaming bright pink. After a few tries, he managed to get his glasses back onto his nose somehow, with much fumbling and poking himself into the eye, but they were lopsided and grimy, with a crack in the left lens.

  He was exhausted, wanted nothing more than sleep; well, perhaps seeing his former companions and his cousin, but that was wishful thinking; in fact, he still hoped Nefertari and Horus weren't stupid enough to fall for this obvious trap and would stay well away from the camp.

  He tried to lay down on his stomach, his hands stretched toward the chariot in a grotesque praying position, as the chain pulled taut again. The metal of the manacles bit into his skin harshly on the right wrist, but his left only twinged uncomfortably against the rock solid surface the curse had built, and whose black tendrils had spread over his shoulder now, aiming for his chest. He was certain something bad would happen when the curse reached his heart.

  It was not until much later when night had already fallen, bringing with it the coldest wind yet, and the sky above was pitch black, that something unexpected happened.

  Simon, sprawled against the wall of the chariot, just able to see the guard on the other side, who was facing the fire, shivered in his rags; it was impossible to fall asleep like this, even though he was dead tired. Blowing warm air onto his stiff fingers, his teeth clattering as he tried not to freeze to death, he almost missed the quiet clanking sound to his immediate left. He jumped away from the chariot, half expecting to find a scorpion in the chariot, when he remembered that scorpions didn't clank. Looking inside the vehicle again, he gasped loudly in surprise. A falcon was perched on the platform inside, tapping its beak persistently onto the metal and observing him shrewdly with two intelligent eyes, which were glowing eerily and framed by a black, feathery pattern that looked like a wadjet; one eye was gold, the other silver, and they looked inexplicably familiar...