Of Biblical Proportions (2/11) II Methos sat in his hotel room, eyes glued to the TV screen. The camera panned out, revealing the desert complete with the Sphinx hovering over several teams of archeologists digging within the semi-rocky sand. The news story was just one of many that had captured the oldest Immortal's attention since Joe Dawson had left earlier that morning. "This settlement we're unearthing appears to have belonged to a prosperous community," the head archeologist was telling the reporter. "We have found evidence of family homes, and even an infirmary of sorts." Methos found the words unsettling. "Why have they found this now?" he asked himself. Jumping up from the edge of the bed, he grabbed another can of beer from the hotel fridge and downed it without stopping. His eyes stayed riveted on the screen. His thoughts were jumbled. First, he had to contend himself with the possibility that they might find the ancient scrolls that had been entombed by Sihathor. Now, another of his homes was about to be violated. However, what bothered him the most was the cache of writings he had buried there during Cleopatra's reign. "This seems to refute the theory that the pyramids were built by slaves," the TV droned on. "Whole families lived here. Brewers and bakers, wives and children made their homes alongside strong men who slowly built the specimens we see before us." Methos laughed humorlessly. "Of course the builders of the pyramids were men with families. It took multiple generations and skilled craftsmen to design and put together the magnificent structures." The people his ranting was directed toward could not hear. "Is the digging going to continue much longer?" the reporter asked. "We have only touched on the treasures we may find here," the archeologist responded. "Treasures like my scrolls," Methos yelled at the TV as he paced in the room. He couldn't imagine the scientists' surprise if they unearthed his wine cask containing writings from two thousand years ago in a settlement four and a half thousand years old. During Cleopatra's reign, historians firmly believed that slaves built the pyramids. How could the world back then believe that story if they had known about this particular settlement? It didn't bear thinking about. He had to retrieve his belongings; there was no choice in the matter. With a precision born of tens of centuries of practice, Methos lost one persona, took up another, then headed for Giza. His papers stated that he was employed in the Anthropology Department at the University of Manchester. The other two researchers also from Manchester were from the Chemistry Department and most likely wouldn't know or care who he was. They'd be too busy doing their own studies. He drove his vehicle into the parking area located south of the dig. It was amazing how much they had unearthed in such a short amount of time. Methos took a moment to just look at his surroundings, letting memories wash over him in technicolor vividness. He had been so young back then. Ignorant of what life had to offer and things he needed to learn. Only Pharaoh existed and the need to pay homage to their gods. "Who the hell are you?" a voice broke into his thoughts. Methos turned his eyes away from his inner thoughts and directed them onto the inquisitor. "My name is Dr. Pickett. Adam Pickett," Methos responded, sounding young and bemused, with a distinctive British accent. "I just arrived from Manchester. It's taken me several days just to find my way here. I thought someone was supposed to meet me at the airport and after waiting--" "I'm sorry you weren't met, but things are really hopping here," his suspicion dissolved into an apology. "I guess we couldn't spare the people," Methos smiled with understanding. "Do you know who I'm supposed to report to?" "Dr. Hawass is in charge of everything, but Samir Farid is his assistant. What's your specialty?" "Translating script. Any scrolls or inscriptions found?" Methos tried not to let anxiousness creep into his voice. "All of the writing we've seen have been on the walls. I imagine that biological material would've decomposed by now, despite the dryness of the desert." Inwardly Methos agreed. It was just that what he was looking for wasn't four millennia old, but only two. "Let me give you a tour," his young guide told him. "I'm Kevin Dunn." The two men walked from the makeshift parking lot into a hive of activity. The Sphinx stood sentinel over the proceedings, and Methos gave the stone guard a brief nod of humble respect as he passed. The small human face still seemed out of place, Methos having first gotten used to the magnificent lion's features so many years ago. They entered the outskirts of the excavations. Large squares of area were roped off, and many workers were sifting through the sandy debris. Methos spared a glance toward the position where his own home had been. When he had come to bury his library copies and memoirs, the city had been underneath the desert and only his memories told him the location. Now deep pits were dug, outlining walls, delineating the spaces where the inhabitants had lived and worked. String demarcated boundaries between individual excavations. A bite of nostalgia for "the olden days" made Methos gasp then he exhaled slowly. "Pretty cool," Kevin said conversationally. "Who'd have ever thought that we'd ever uncover something so profound." The old Immortal turned to the American anthropologist. "I am always surprised and awed at what we find on digs." And a little homesick, Methos added to himself. A student archeologist came over to them carrying a large ceramic jar, the kind used for storing beer. Methos felt his mouth watering for a taste of the kind of brew he used to make all those years ago. Swallowing abruptly, he turned to the two students. "Tell me what you've discovered so far?" They began describing their initial finds in great detail, which required little response from Methos other than a brief comment at the appropriate time. This enabled him to scope out the surroundings up close. As far as he could tell, the area in which he had buried his belongings was still under the sand. In fact, that whole area hadn't been touched. He decided to help as best as he could and then return later that night and rescue his cache. The day turned out better than Methos had hoped. The workers, a hodgepodge of nationalities, banded together and made some real progress. Methos helped identify the brewers' abode, which had belonged to him. None of them had any idea of what went into brewing beer in ancient times, so Methos gave them an impromptu lesson. "Do you see this?" Methos pointed down into a hollowed out basin within the rock. "This is where the brewers processed the emmer wheat. Spikelets of the wheat were vigorously ground in order to break open the tough chaff and release the grain trapped inside." His companions peered closing into the holes and saw the indentations in the rock where fossil-like wheat spikelets had decayed and embedded into the stone. "I didn't know they had beer that long ago." Methos shook his head in exasperation. "Beer has been around as long as man. It was an intricate part of their daily life. It gave nourishment and calories to an overworked population. Remember they didn't have TV and stereos. They worked all day and slept when they could. It was a hard life and they needed a lot of complex carbohydrates to keep going. Meat was rare, but I see an area over there that might be some kind of butcher's block." The four archeology students went over to investigate. "This is cool," one of the students exclaimed. "One of the walls showed that they slaughtered cattle, but Dr. Hawass wasn't buying it. He said that it was representative, not an actual occurrence. But look at this," he said, pointing to the edge of a shelf, "cow bones!" And so the day progressed. Methos enjoyed his time and considered staying a few more days. The "children" were so enthusiastic that it became contagious. Hawass' assistant, Samir Farid, with his superior attitude became easier to ignore. Kevin showed Methos where the students had pitched their tents and offered to share his. Methos kindly thanked him, but insisted that he would use his own tent. Supper was cooked over camp stoves and then they all went to bed early so that could be up with the sun and start work again. Methos retired to his tent, ready to sleep, but set his watch alarm to go off at two thirty-seven. He had a small shovel in his backpack and a ready story in case someone found him digging. If they found him with the cask, it would become much more difficult to explain. III Dr. Amy Zoll carefully packed. Part of her mind was methodically folding and placing her clothes within the suitcase. The rest of her was fuming at Dawson. She had just finished talking to the older Watcher and he had given her flimsy excuses and half-truths. She knew that something more had happened inside that room between the Immortals and Murray. What it was, Dawson wasn't saying. The only explanation he had seen fit to give her was that Murray had assembled the Methuselah Stone and while Duncan MacLeod had been trying to knock it away from Murray, the ball of energy had disappeared inside the Highlander's body. That was it. Dawson's excuse was that MacLeod wasn't talking. Likely story. MacLeod told Dawson everything. With the older Watcher now in Paris, Amy felt compelled to travel to Cairo and find Pierson. In her own mind, she wasn't sure if it was because she was curious to discover exactly what he was doing, or to inform him of MacLeod's plight. She slammed the zipper home and lugged the heavy case off her bed. Using the built-in handle and wheels, she rolled it to her front door. The only helpful information Dawson had given her was where Pierson was staying and under what pseudonym. The phone rang, interrupting self-indulgent tantrum. "Hello?" "Amy, am I glad you catch you in." Her friend Julia Harami was calling from Egypt. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to pick you up at the Cairo airport." "What happened?" "I was just informed that Methos showed up at the Giza dig. A non-Watcher friend of mine pulled some strings and got me a pass." "You know Dawson told me that Pierson didn't come back to Paris because he saw a TV show where some archeologists were digging up an old home of his." "You're kidding." The amazement came through the telephone wires loud and clear. "The site is dated to over four thousand years ago, and there's evidence that the former occupants were pyramid builders." Amy felt the same awe. "So, you're going there. Do you plan on keeping out of sight?" "I'm sure he doesn't know me. I've never met him or been in the same place back when he was a Watcher. I'll be just another face in the crowd." "I hope you're right. If you're not coming to the airport, do you have someone else lined up?" "Yep. Hashira Jahiel will meet you out front and take you to my place. I've got my cell phone, so once you get settled, give me a buzz. I can't wait to see what's going on." Amy was anxious, too. "Thanks. I haven't seen Hashira in over a year. I look forward to catching up on old times. Good luck at the site." She hung up the phone and then took another quick look around her apartment. Her plants were all watered, the sink was empty of dishes, and the timer on her lamp was turned on. Her watch beeped. She glanced at it, noticing that she had another ten minutes to wait for her taxi. Her phone rang again. "Hello?" "Dr. Zoll? This is Keith Trenton. We finished packing up the things in Murray's home. There were several volumes that looked to be journals. We took all the books and any other personal effects to Headquarters." "Very good, Mr. Trenton." Amy smiled to herself. She bet Dawson was going to be upset that he hadn't gotten the first look at those journals. "Thank you for letting me know. I'm on my way to Cairo. If anything else comes up, you can get a hold of me through Julia Harami." They said goodbye just as the taxi pulled up in front of her apartment.