After traveling for three days across the desert like prey to the vulture sun, enduring the near-sight from the sandstorms and living on bread and flask water, you can imagine my relief when we finally reached the Red Sea. At its bright, foamy banks we took an inadvertent, but well-deserved, break from our journey. The men were angry—as they often are—that our ship had not arrived on schedule, but the other women, and the few children that had accompanied us, were pleased.

I had stopped wondering what we were doing in the desert after the first two days. No one had told me, of course; I had no real business knowing, being a woman. Even so, I wasn’t sure I even cared to know. I suspected it was something dishonorable—something I wanted nothing to do with.

Three days ago, my husband drew me in front of our house by the arm, his eyes dark and narrow, and helped me atop our camel. He jumped on in front of me, and we started away. I had been hanging linens to dry. As we plodded away, I looked back. The white sheets flapping in the wind were the last I saw of our home.

An eternity of silent hours later, after seeing nothing sand, a green smudge appeared on the horizon. As we got closer, I saw it was an oasis and, as we got even closer, I saw it was completely vacant. Even so, we waited there. Soon, others began arriving. They appeared as black dots in the distance, growing from three or four directions. All in all, there were about thirty of us, mostly couples, like my husband and I. Some were men traveling alone. The one I remember most was a bearded old man in heavy black robes, a theurgist priest.

Once it had been determined that everyone was present, we set off for the Red Sea. We arrived early, as I mentioned, and we had several hours to relax. I watched the children play in the surf. I’m sure they had just as little of an idea of what we were doing at the Red Sea as I, but they weren’t uneasy thinking about it, like I was. That’s the gift children have: to be ignorantly optimistic.

Soon a cry of joy rose up in the crowd; white sails emerged on the horizon and grew like perfectly square clouds. The vessel advanced quickly, and soon small boats were coming to take us to the ship. My husband seized my arm, and together we awaited our turn to board the boats.

For hours, days or weeks we may have been on that ship. As if it weren’t difficult enough to tell time while staring at endless waters, I couldn’t seem to stay awake. When we neared the western shore of the Red Sea, the ship dropped its anchor and we had to board the boats again, which would take us to shore. Once we were on the boat, I fell back to sleep.

When I awoke again, we were still on the boat, gliding south about 50 meters from the shore. My husband, seeing I was awake, whispered to me that we had missed our mark and needed to go farther south. It was dusk; darkness was falling quickly. I sat quietly, as did everyone else. Many people were sleeping. The rest had their eyes fixed on the shore. No words were spoken. The only sound was the tranquil disturbance of the boats cutting through the water.

Finally, one of the men at the front of our boat spoke, breaking the silence. “We are here.” As quiet as his words may have been in other circumstances, they shot through the darkness, startling everyone. “Let’s unload and prepare for the run,” he said as the boat neared the shore. Those who were awake began rustling. This woke up the sleeping ones, and soon the boat was rocking.

“Quiet!” hushed the man in front. “We cannot risk being found out.” The word “risk” hung in my mind. I simply followed.

To see the group of us would have been comic: a bunch of men and their wives, and a few children, all walking across the rocky desert; some of us in sandals and some of us barefoot; each of us with packs over our shoulders or worn like sashes. If we were “found out,” some curious questions would need to be answered. For example, why were most of our packs empty?

By sunset on our second day crossing the desert, everyone was exhausted. We had stopped only once for rest the whole time, and we had little food, of which the children got their fill first. All that was forgotten when, all of a sudden, the Nile became visible on the horizon. The mighty river, partially blocked by papyrus stalks and weeds, sparkled in the suns last rays, a beacon. Judging by the gasps of the others, I certainly wasn’t the only one who was pleased.

“I know you all must be tired, but we cannot waste a moment,” said the man who had spoken on the boat, our guide.

“But we are so weary!” pled one of the women. “Is there no way we can rest till morning at least?”

“Well, you may not know how important it is that we hurry, but in the interest of getting there at all, I think that is a good idea.” He was reasonable.

After a few moments consulting his map, the man guided us to a small, rocky valley not far away. Ours were the only footprints in sight; it was a safe spot. We unpacked our wares and arranged blankets in the sand. Someone made a small fire for those who needed the light, and I lay down, ready to sleep like a child. Looking up, I wondered whether there were more stars in the sky or grains of sand in the desert. I fell asleep within a minute. And how welcome it was.

By the time I woke up, about half of the others were awake. The women were preparing food, the men were speaking in cloister just outside the camp and the children were playing in the rocks. I got up to join the women and found a job stirring broth over a flame. We passed the time comparing lifestyles, husbands and histories. We stuck to these harmless subjects, I think because they helped us forget that we were in the middle of desert and had no idea why.

Soon the soup was ready, and everyone came to eat. It wasn’t much, but it was a welcome change to the plain bread we had gotten used to. The late-sleepers were roused, and everyone readied themselves for the impending journey as we rested off our lunch and watched the children play.

An hour or so after lunch, we packed up our camp, donned our packs and continued on our way. In a few minutes we had reached the east bank of the Nile and stopped while our guide explained the plan for crossing. At this point, though the river was wide, it was shallow enough to wade across, the men began crossing with the children on their shoulders and the luggage overhauled. After a few trips back and forth, everyone and everything were across.

Though we had successfully crossed the Nile, we were, of course, soaked. I found it refreshing, a buffer from the heat. But even after a few minutes, refreshing turned to uncomfortable. The water mixed with sweat, and my clothes stuck as the dripping stopped, and we carried on with each dreadful step. Fortunately this segment of the journey was relatively short, and by sunset we were overlooking a great valley.

“The Valley of Kings,” announced the guide. I had heard of this valley before, in the tales of the ancient Egyptians. It housed, for eternity, the bodies of countless great pharaohs. From our vantage point, I could see some of the fabled pyramids and sculpted tombs below, the final resting places for countless Egyptian kings, who were counted as gods. It took a wide eye to absorb the beauty of the scene.

We found an abandoned stairway—an entrance into the valley. The steps, long since stepped-on, were visible for the most part, except for in places where they had eroded or were hidden entirely by rocks. Without much hesitation, we began parading down the path in single file. I stepped prudently, having half a fear that a single misstep could cause a landslide. Once everyone was in the valley, we were all a lot dustier.

“Now, follow me,” said the priest in the dark robes. It was like hearing the shrill cry of a bird—difficult to listen to. He motioned forward with his arm and began marching, apparently the new guide. It seemed as if he had been here before; he knew exactly where he was going. We made our way through the necropolis past many tombs—a mix of mausoleums, small pyramids and caverns with decorous portals. We made a left here and a right there, cutting through tunnels every now and then.

We came to a short row of tombs, at the end of which was a portal like no other we had seen in the valley. The doorway itself was triangular and several meters high, with ornate carvings radiating from its dark center. Before the doorway were two austere rows of columns, headed by guardian sphinxes. Though all of this was carved from the same limestone as any other tomb in Egypt, it seemed darker.

“This is the tomb of King Sobekhemsef,” said the priest as he continued toward it. “Come.” We slowly approached the tomb, stepping reverently in the darkness. Up ahead some men lit torches, casting fierce shadows on the tombs at our sides, making the scene all the more ominous. As we passed between the sphinxes, the dancing light made it seem like they were moving, about to pounce on their intruders. The columns likewise seemed about to topple.

My eyes pointed skyward, I watched the stars disappear as we entered the cavern. Inside, the ceiling was ribbed with alternating beams of light and shadow. I tipped my head down, to watch where I was walking, and a new wonder filled my sight: There was a full pyramid constructed within the cavern. Our group gathered around the pyramid’s facade as the priest slowed to a halt, his eyes scanning the bricks. He walked forward and tapped his staff on a brick on the second layer, just above his head. Unsatisfied, he walked to the left and did the same with all the bricks until he reached the corner of the pyramid. The rest of us simply stood and watched while he worked.

Suddenly the priest planted his hands on a brick in the bottom layer and hoisted himself up. He continued to test bricks as he walked to the right. After a minute, he stopped dead and exclaimed, “Here it is!” He was standing at the right corner of the pyramid with his staff pointed at the brick in the next level above, his arm fully extended. Everyone gravitated toward him.

“Dehir,” he beckoned. “Take the tools from your pack and hand them out to the strongest of the men so that we can do this quickly. Men, if you receive a pick, come up here and have at it.” The young man did as he had been instructed. The copper picks made their way to a handful of the men, my husband included.

The priest jumped down, holding up his robes as he did so, careful not to trip. Immediately after, those with tools clambered up to where the priest had been and began swinging at the brick. Chunks of stone gathered at their feet while pebbles and dust flew over their heads. In a minute, the brick had been divided into a million pieces, a puzzle never to be solved. The excavators—followed by the rest of the crowd—gasped as the last of the brick disintegrated, revealing a hole.

“Well done,” said the priest. I still wasn’t accustomed to his voice. “Now please, move aside and let me through so we can continue.” He easily helped himself up and into the hole, again proving himself much stronger than anyone his age ought to be. The excavators dropped their tools and followed him, and everyone else was close behind.

After following a long, narrow tunnel, we found ourselves in an impossibly large chamber with sculpted walls, lit only by the flickering lamps of the few who had them. Wordless stories danced in the shadows: There were men and animals, leagues of soldiers, scenes of conquer and submission.

I was amazed to be in Egypt, standing inside the tomb of a great king, which had been sealed for eternity. I still wasn’t sure what we were doing there, and I was too dumbstruck to think rationally. So I stood like an animal, moving only with the herd around me, my eyes raised in admiration. We inched forward as the people in front cleared away the rubble.

When a path had been opened, we moved quickly through the next room, which presented another series of hieroglyphics and paintings. Upon leaving this room, we found ourselves in another narrow hallway lined with even more artwork—history—as well as long-since-used sconces here and there along the walls. The hallway wound for some distance, zigzagging back and forth.

Even there, in that forlorn claustrophobia, we were comforted by the priest’s calm manner. He continued confidently, rounding corners as if he knew exactly what awaited us ahead. I looked at the pictures on the walls as they passed, trying to make sense of them.

In a minute, we emerged in a large, circular room, a bit larger than the one we had just left. In this room, like the rest of the tomb, the walls were covered in pictures and hieroglyphics but, unlike the rest of the tomb, the floor was covered in gold jewelry and gems of all colors, along with the studded plates and urns of unbelievable royalty.

There was a small path through the center of the room, a clearing wide enough for a single person to walk down, leading into the next chamber. As the path led out of the room, it passed under and archway that bore a hieroglyphic sentence painted in gilded black. The next room was dark, but, even so, I could make out the silhouettes of two grand lumps.

“Okay, everybody,” said the priest quietly, as if he feared being overheard. “Fill your packs with whatever you please.” As soon as he closed his mouth, a mix of cheers, gasps and sighs of relief escaped from the mouths of the people around me.

People began scurrying around, collecting things like pigeons and stowing them in their packs. Some looked carefully and examined pieces of jewelry and gems, while others thoughtlessly scooped as much as they could into their bags, without looking at any of it. I simply stood, marveling at these people as they grabbed their fortunes. Before I knew it someone had snatched the empty packs from my back so that they could take my fill of jewels as well. Not that I cared—none of that interested me. I was content with my simple life in our small house.

My husband came up to me and showed me a beautiful necklace. Its gold and silver stands, entwined in a pattern I’d never seen, led to an emerald scarab pendant that caught the light in a thousand facets. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I almost reached out to tough it, but I resisted. I had to. I couldn’t allow myself to do such a thing, especially after passing such judgment on all the others. I shot my husband a stony glare, and he backed away to the piles of treasure, shoving the necklace in his bag as he bent over to grab more.

While I was watching everyone consumer the riches, I noticed the priest in my peripheral. He was walking slowly among the commotion, like a camel in a sandstorm, heading toward the next chamber. His eyes were glazed over in long-awaited victory, and his arms were wide as if getting ready to embrace an old friend. I saw that he tilted his head toward the inscription above the doorway and hesitated, as if unsure whether he really wanted to continue. But his feet were his will, and they carried him forward. Soon all resistance disappeared, and he continued forward more quickly.

The priest had no candlestick or oil lamp, but it seemed he could see well enough in the dark. I watched him curiously; I saw his silhouette rub its fingers over one of the lamps in the other chamber. It seemed like a chest of some sort. He opened the lid and peeked inside. At that moment I realized what those lumps were—I was stupid not to realize it before. We were in a tomb, of course, so what could the lumps have been, but the sarcophagi of King Sobekhemsef and his wife!

Just then a dry stench—the smell of decay—reached my nose. I knew the others smelled it as well when they stopped and looked up. In doing so they saw the priest in the next chamber and some of them ran into it, hoping to find more gold and jewels, which they did. The priest seemed angry that he was no longer alone, but he shook that off and continued digging in the coffin.

In a few minutes, the priest lifted a leather-bound tome from the coffin. Some of its pages were falling out, and he carefully secured them. He almost embraced the book, as if it were that old friend.

The priest walked back to the chamber I was in, oblivious to his surroundings. People were still scurrying like rat, nibbling up the last of the gold and jewels, their packs bursting.

I was still surprised by these people: Even a single piece of jewelry from that tomb was worth enough for a pleasant life—each day’s food, a home and a few luxuries. But the amount of treasure these people were collecting—and always wanting more—was unfathomable. Soon the last of the treasure had found its place in the nooks of already-full bags.

The priest, having come to his senses, said, “Alright, let’s head out of here,” as he stuffed the book somewhere in his robes. As they tightened their packs to leave, people glanced at the ground, careful not to miss any treasure. Upon leaving, the room was much different: It was almost empty, but for a few scattered articles of clothing and weathered flasks. I suppose people decided the space those things took up could be used better.

No one spoke on the way out. The priest walked calmly at the head of our group, and the rest of us marched slowly in following, weighed down by riches. The children slept on the shoulders of parents whose brains had iced over with thoughts of new homes, exotic rugs and Indian spices.

An hour or so into our journey back, the sun was nearly rising. The temperature of the cool desert night was slowly rising, and the weary soon found themselves more alert. In minutes the blood-red sun spilled over the horizon, staining the sky pink. The priest looked ahead without shielding his eyes, eager to get back to the ship. I am sure everyone else was just as eager to make it home.

As for myself, I was still bitter that the whole purpose behind this journey was to raid the resting place of an ancient king. I suppose I should have suspected it. I didn’t even try to find out our purpose... If I did, maybe I could have done something. Somehow I felt the whole thing was my fault, and I felt violated on behalf of the ancient Egyptians. It sickened me to look at my husband, stuffed like a bird with bursting packs.

About fifteen minutes after sunrise, that’s when it happened.

I remember seeing a great cloud in the distance. Just another sandstorm, I thought. But after a moment I noticed it was growing nearer to us, jerking wildly and stirring up violent sand as it came. As it neared, I could hear the faint whine of the wind getting louder and louder. My feet and mind were frozen by fear. I stood, like everyone else, immobile as the great cloud approached.

More than anything, I wanted to fall on my knees and shield myself in my hood, but my muscles were good for nothing. And then, before I knew it, pellets of sand fell upon us, hailing from all directions, biting like glass rain. The exposed arms and legs and faces of the people around me soon shone red with laceration. Blood running, only to be coated with sand. Everything was a blur; before long I couldn’t distinguish the forms around me. I only remember hearing the screams, faint as if they were a hundred miles away. I could not feel anything.

As quickly as it came, the whirling around me ceased. I opened my eyes slowly and looked around. Nothing. No sign of anyone else. Only sand as far as I could see. Unmodulated, as if no one had been there for years. I tried to walk, but I was buried to the knees, and it took some work to free myself. As I stumbled out of the sand, I noticed a glint up ahead. I walked toward it and reached out—for a second, I saw my husband’s face. It was the scarab necklace that he tried to give me, buried except for the pendant. I dared not touch it.

In a frenzy, being confused and having no other option, I walked forward. For longer than I can tell. The next thing I knew, I was back at home. Alone. Truthfully, I don’t remember much of my journey back. Only the weeping, and the many people I traveled with, all lost. My husband. It was just sad, the tragedy. And yet I cannot help but think they all deserved it. Their punishment for disturbing a king’s rest.

But what a punishment for them, to plague me for the rest of my life. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of them: What would they be doing right now, were they alive? Were they really bad people? No, I suspect they were just tempted by the riches and couldn’t resist. All gone now. They’re buried dead and bloody in the desert somewhere and I have to live with it.

I suppose I was saved because I didn’t steal the treasure, but now I’m much worse off than before. Maybe this is my punishment for not having stopped the journey to begin with.