“You have a girlfriend?” Moriarity sounded astonished. “Does she know that?”
“I’m going to give her the potsherd as an engagement present.”
“I see. Which potsherd?”
“The one with the wolf bearing its fangs. I passed it on my way back to our tent.”
Moriarity looked at the ramada in question and seemed to be trying to place which sherd Roberto meant. “That’s not a wolf, it’s a jackal.”
“Whatever. The fangs are cool. Just like the hookers on Colfax Avenue in Denver. They have these fake fangs they wear. You know? If a guy thinks she’s a vampire, he—”
“How do you know what hookers do on Colfax?” Moriarity scowled at him. “You’re sixteen.”
“Yeah, but thankfully I have degenerate friends.”
The entire table had turned in our direction. Sarah, especially, seemed completely absorbed by Roberto’s story. Her eyes were glowing. I was starting to like her. I figured it was to her credit that she could appreciate the debauched way Roberto’s mind worked.
When Roberto looked at me, the four pentagrams dangling from his ear caught the sunset and blazed with a reddish fire. “What was in the pit Samael took you to see?”
Samael tried to answer, but he had a mouthful of teff bread, so I said, “The grave of Cleopatra and Marcus Antonius.”
“What!” Roberto cried in shock. “Are you sure?”
“It’s two skeletons with their arms wrapped around each other and a big plaque, a stela, over them that says Cleopatra in Greek. So, I think—”
“That is pure speculation.” Moriarity’s brows lowered thunderously. “At this point, all we know is we have two skeletons and an interesting stela.”
“Any sign that they killed themselves?” Roberto had gone back to eating in earnest, shoveling food into his mouth, which he talked around with no apparent difficulty. “I mean, Antonius should have a sword cut on his ribs, right? He stabbed himself in the heart, didn’t he?”
“’Course not. It’s far more likely that he aimed too low and punctured his abdomen or guts. If so, he suffered greatly before the end.”
“Really?”
“Of course. No one wants to die from peritonitis. As the gut juices leak out into the body cavity, it’s horrifyingly painful.”
“Good tip, thanks.”
“That’s why Roman generals didn’t really like to kill themselves. They assigned the duty to one of their servants or trusted officers. In Antony’s case, the man was named Eros.”
“Then why didn’t Eros kill him?”
“Honor. He committed suicide instead.”
Roberto nodded. “Probably self-preservation. If he’d refused, Antony would have been really pissed.”
Roberto chewed pigeon while staring blankly at Moriarity, his mind far away. I figured he was still dreaming of Colfax Avenue. It was the only possible explanation.
A quirky smile had come to Sarah’s lips. I swear it looked like true love. Although, I had to admit, what I was interpreting as appreciation could just as easily be morbid fascination. That would be more typical of female responses to Roberto.
“Hey, Robert,” Sarah said. “When you’re finished eating, let me show you our excavation, okay? The Roman bath is beautiful. It’ll only take a half hour. Unless you want to stay longer, and then my schedule is open.”
Hope tinged that last sentence. Roberto noticed it, too. He gave her a slightly mystified squint, but said, “Yeah, sure. Hal and I have got the time.”
Her face fell. She sighed and went back to eating tagine.
“I think I’ll pass. I’m really tired. See you at the tent when you get back, Roberto.”
“You sure?”
From the corner of my vision, I saw three Egyptian Army soldiers walking together along the fortress wall. I wondered if they took their dinner in a different place.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll see you back at the tent.”
Since we’d left Colorado, we’d never been more than a few paces apart, and always within yelling distance in case one of us was in trouble. But Sarah’s Roman bath couldn’t be that far away, could it?
Roberto said, “I’ll only be gone thirty minutes, Hal.”
I tipped my water bottle and finished it to the last drop, then crushed the plastic in one hand and said, “Have fun.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
After Sarah and Roberto left the table, Samael looked at me with shining white eyes.
His soft old voice was shaky. “This is one of those rare nights where you can feel Duat bleeding into this world.”
“Can you?”
His head tottered in a nod. “Oh, yes. Ghosts and demons have slipped through the breach and walk all around us right now.”
Accidentally swallowing a bite of pigeon whole, I had to force it down my throat, before saying, “Do you see them?”
“They are everywhere, Halloran.” For a few seconds he closed his tired old eyes and rubbed them. “You must promise me something.”
“Sure. What?”
He reached out, took my hand, and pressed something into it, then closed my fingers around it. Very quietly, he said, “When I was Charmion, she made a final request of me. She knew she would probably be resurrected, and if she was, she would need an army to take back her country. Please, now and then, add a weapon, for her army to come—”
Moriarity said, “I can’t hear you, Samael. Could you speak louder, please?” He leaned across the table to get as close as possible to hear better.
Samael sucked his lips in over his toothless gums and sat that way for a time, before he replied, “Just telling Halloran that I must go to my tent. It has been a long day for me. Will you help me, Hal?”
“Happy to.”
Rising, I waited for him to slide down the bench, then extended a hand to help him up. The old man held tight to my fingers, grunting as he rose to his feet.
“Wait.” Moriarity stood up. “I’ll take him, Hal. I need to speak with Samael.”
For an instant, the old man went rigid, as though afraid. “Don’t forget, Halloran. I won’t always be here to remind you.”
“I won’t forget.”
Moriarity walked over and pulled Samael’s hand from my arm, then took him by the elbow. “Let’s go to your tent where we can talk in private.”
“I just thought Hal would like to see the grave,” Samael defended. “I saw no harm in—”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing! I just . . .”
They walked off, leaving me standing alone, my mind already spinning hypotheses about their conspiracy of silence. What were they hiding? Opening my hand, I stared down at the gift Samael had given me. It was a stone amulet of the demon Ammut, the handmaiden of The Judgment. Her crocodile head was tilted up to stare at me.
“A prayer for justice. There are many such charms found here at the site. Tomorrow, I will find one for you to wear. It will protect you against destruction. Evil against evil. You see?”
But the amulet in my palm was not just some charm he’d found at the site. It was his personal magical protection. No doubt about it. The same leather cord. The same symbol. Why would he give me his amulet?
Slipping the cord around my neck, I tucked the amulet inside my shirt. Which, frankly, was a little terrifying. The entire table full of graduate students stared at me. They did not look happy to have me around. Probably because Jones and Bates had been telling unflattering stories about me and Roberto. Unfortunately, I suspected most of the stories were true. We were ignoramuses when it came to archaeology. To make matters worse, the legendary Samael seemed to gravitate toward us whenever he needed help, which apparently created a lot of envy among the crews.
After I’d walked a short distance away, I heard heated conversations break out. My name was passed aro
und, as well as Roberto’s, and the tones of the speakers’ voices were none too pleasant.
I didn’t care.
Twilight was settling over the delta, bringing with it the scent of the sea and the lush green fragrance of the marshes. Though I was really tired, I felt better after dinner, so I headed out into the forbidden part of the site. No one tried to stop me, which I found mildly interesting. Either no one saw me, or they wanted me to get into trouble. I’m sure it would have pleased quite a few of the graduate students if Moriarity threw me into a Jeep and drove straight to Port Said to dump me at the airport.
As I picked my way across the sand, trying to remember the route Samael had used to find the Caesarian grave, I worried about how fast darkness fell out here. In Colorado, twilight hung over the peaks for ninety minutes to a couple of hours, depending upon the time of year. Here it seemed to fall like a hurled rock. The tents already blazed as lanterns were switched on, which gave the field camp a soft glow. After about fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly, I saw the temple ahead of me. At this time of night, it looked like a big black circle floating in a gray ocean of sand.
Trudging onward, the stone steps materialized in the twilight.
When I arrived, I discovered that the interior of the temple was not nearly as dark as it had looked from a distance. I didn’t even need my flashlight yet. If I waited until I was in the bottom, the approach to the Kingdom of Osiris, before I pulled my flashlight from my pocket and switched it on, there was a good chance no one in camp would be able to see the gleam.
I took the stairs down one at a time. Unlike mornings, the steps were not slick with dew, but dry and warm from the heat of the day. When my hiking boot hit the floor of the temple, I heaved a sigh of relief. Empty and unbelievably quiet, I felt as though I’d stepped into another world, a magical place where the ghosts of ancient Egyptians reverently moved around me, going about their sacred duties to the gods. Whispers—almost not there—wafted through the temple air, along with the faint scent of something sweet and exotic. Sandalwood? Myrrh? Samael’s words about Duat bleeding into this world rang in my ears. I couldn’t get his words about Charmion out of my mind. It finally occurred to me that Samael had wanted me, and me alone, to go into the demon cave. Why? What could I. . . ?
A crack sounded to my left, and my heart almost stopped.
When I whirled around, breathing hard, all I saw were collapsed walls and tumbled stones. The first stars had been born above me, and their pale silver light flickered over the flaking hieroglyphics. I thought the painted figures moved, turning to face me, as though they only came alive at night.
Tugging my flashlight from my jeans’ pocket, I turned it on and shone the beam around the temple. The whispering ghosts died. Even the exotic fragrances vanished beneath the unnatural onslaught of modern technology.
I wandered around, studying everything that cast a shadow, and eventually worked my way over to the sarcophagus. It remained barely excavated, just as I’d seen it at dawn, but the woman’s beautiful eyes shimmered in the starlight, which made me wonder if ancient artists added crushed emeralds to their paint? It was spectacularly unearthly. Her lips were so red they seemed to be melting, like red crayon held over a flame.
Shining my flashlight around, the tunnel to the north swallowed the beam.
My feet seemed to move of their own volition, taking me to the tunnel whether I wanted to go or not. An eternal two minutes later, I found myself squatting in the mouth of the tunnel, aiming my light down the throat at a descending rock-cut stairway that extended thirty or forty feet into the earth.
It must have been excavated just today.
I stepped onto the first stair, and my boot grated on what seemed to be large pebbles. Strange moldering scents encircled me as I continued down. When I hit the bottom step, I discovered a stunning corridor to my right. Maybe five feet across, the white plastered walls gleamed. My flashlight illuminated dozens of cartouches stamped into the plaster. I’d seen the cartouche of Tutankhamen, so I knew what a cartouche was—an oval ring encircling the hieroglyphic name of a person. As I leaned closer, I realized this cartouche was the face of the god Dionysus: the god of wine and revelry.
Did this corridor connect the temple with a subterranean burial chamber of the gods? Fabulous images of King Tut’s tomb paraded through my memory.
Slowly, I edged forward, trying to take everything in at once.
By the age of twelve, I’d studied pictures of every artifact found in Tut’s tomb and read every historical report about its discovery and excavation. When the museum exhibition came to Denver, my parents took me to see it. They almost couldn’t get me out of the museum. I spent all day staring at the wealth of gold and jewels. Mesmerized by the painted face of the boy king, they’d had to drag me away from that exhibit because the museum was closing its doors. The last person to step outside, I’d felt completely hollow and stunned, as though leaving ancient Egypt had torn my soul from my body.
And here I was, staring down a corridor just like Howard Carter had in 1922. On November 26th, he’d made a small hole in a blocking wall and inserted a candle. Looking into what would become known as the Antechamber, Carter felt hot air blowing around him, escaping from the chamber. He later wrote, “. . . presently, as my eyes grew accustomed to the light, details of the room within emerged slowly from the mist, strange animals, statues, and gold—everywhere the glint of gold.”
Trying to control my excitement, I walked faster. Cartouches flickered beneath my bouncing flashlight beam. Twenty paces later, the corridor dead-ended. As I studied the wall in front of me, I wondered what lay on the other side. A tomb? Dirt? This might be an ancient ruse, a blind corridor designed to mislead tomb robbers, but faint images of gold flitted through my . . .
Scratching.
I tilted my head to listen.
What is that?
Clothing catching on eroded stones in the tunnel above? Or an animal? Mice? Snakes slithering along the floor?
A sudden sweltering rush of air filled the corridor. Jewelry clinked, and the scent of sunbaked stones slaked with water blew around me.
I distinctly heard footsteps.
Barely audible, a voice whispered. I concentrated, trying to understand the words, but I couldn’t. I was afraid to move, afraid the person would hear me. Perfectly aware that the abject terror pulsing through my veins was unwarranted—because, of course, the voice came from someone in the camp—my adrenaline level was so high I was shaking like a leaf in a gale. It occurred to me that it was probably Roberto. He’d returned to our tent, found me gone, and come looking for me. I wanted to call out to him, but some instinct told me to stay quiet.
I listened, straining to hear more. The corridor had suddenly gone as silent as the old abandoned goldmine shafts that sank into the mountains in Colorado.
My right hand started to ache from being clamped around the flashlight. I forced myself to move it from my right hand to my left, and let my right arm fall to my side, hoping to restore circulation. In no time, a fiery tingle stung my fingertips. Forcing myself to think, it finally occurred to me that as soon as the person in the tunnel stepped down into the corridor, they’d see my flashlight. If they hadn’t already. I turned it off.
Absolute darkness, warm and heavy with camphor, enveloped me.
My panicked breathing was loud. I fought to control it.
In the back of my mind was the knowledge that by now anyone in camp who knew me would have called my name. No one had.
A foot thumped as the person stepped off the last stair and entered the dark corridor ahead. I could feel them looking down the corridor. More footsteps. Whoever was coming toward me was ghostly quiet.
Gulping air, I held my breath.
“Halloran? Are you here?”
Hearing her call my name was so shocking my knees went weak. I sagged against the wall. Cleo? Or is th
at the demon calling me?
Fumbling for the switch, I turned on my flashlight.
Cleo stood in front of me wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Black hair hung to her shoulders, framing her pretty face. She smiled. “Don’t be afraid, Halloran. It’s just me.”
“You’re not here,” I whispered. “You can’t be. You’re dead. I held you in my arms when you died.” Grief struck like an avalanche inside me. I sobbed, watching her through a blur of tears.
Her smile faded to an expression of love. “I miss you so much. I came to warn you. You must listen to me . . .”
She walked forward with her arms out as though to embrace me, and sheer terror exploded in my body.
Like a chased animal, I wildly ran straight at her, tripping and stumbling down the corridor, trying to get out.
As I shoved past her, knocking her back into the wall, she cried, “Please, don’t go back. They’re waiting for you!”
I lurched into the tunnel and scrambled up the stone stairway like a madman. When I emerged in the starlit temple, I sprinted around the ancient stone walls, and leaped up the stairs two at a time to get out, then ran headlong for camp.
“Hal?”
Spinning around, I saw movement, a blurred face, coming fast.
I crashed into the tables by the cook tent, and fell hard on my left shoulder. Splintered wood cartwheeled around me, followed by startled voices as the field camp came abruptly awake and people began to stagger outside.
Before I could get to my feet, something heavy hit me from behind, flattening me, then pinning me to the ground. I cried, “Let me go! What do you want?”
“You’re too clever for your own good, Hal Stevens.” The man patted me down with the expertise of a police officer, paying special attention to my legs. “Where is it?”
“What?” I screamed, trying to get the attention of someone in camp.
People started running my way, their flashlight beams jerking around wildly in the darkness.
My assailant slammed my head into a broken table leg, which knocked me half-senseless, then he pressed his mouth against my ear to whisper, “If it’s not in your tent, and it’s not on you, you hid it somewhere. Is that what the old man was trying to dig up?”
Cries from the Lost Island Page 21