The Third Gate

12

“A curse,” Logan repeated.

Christina Romero nodded.

Porter Stone had alluded to a curse. Logan had been wondering when the other shoe would drop.

“You mean, like the one supposedly on King Tut’s tomb? ‘Death shall come on swift wings’ and all that? That’s just a lot of rumormongering.”

“In the case of King Tut, you may be right. But curses were quite common in the Old Kingdom-and not only for private tombs. As the first king of a unified Egypt, Narmer wasn’t going to take any chances. His tomb could not be allowed to be desecrated-it could mean the dissolution of his kingdom. And so he left behind this curse as a warning.” She paused. “And what a warning.”

“What does it say exactly?”

Romero took back the photo of the inscription, glanced at it. “ ‘Any man who dares enter my tomb,’ ” she translated, “ ‘or do any wickedness to the resting place of my earthly form will meet an end certain and swift. Should he pass the first gate, the foundation of his house will be broken, and his seed will fall upon dry land. His blood and his limbs will turn to ash and his tongue cleave to his throat. Should he pass the second gate, darkness will follow him, and he will be chased by the serpent and the jackal. The hand that touches my immortal form will burn with unquenchable fire. But should any in their temerity pass the third gate, then the black god of the deepest pit will seize him, and his limbs will be scattered to the uttermost corners of the earth. And I, Narmer the Everliving, will torment him and his, by day and by night, waking and sleeping, until madness and death become his eternal temple.’ ”

She replaced the sheet on the desk. For a moment, the office was silent.

“Quite a bedtime story,” Logan said.

“Isn’t it a beaut? Only a first-class bloodthirsty tyrant like Narmer could have invented it. Although come to think of it, his wife could have done the job, too. Niethotep. Talk about a match made in heaven.” Romero shook her head.

“Niethotep?”

“Now she was something. One of those bathe-in-the-blood-of-a-hundred-virgins psychos, supposedly. Narmer imported her from Scythia, royalty in her own right.” Romero turned back to the photograph. “Anyway, about the curse. It’s the longest example I’ve come across. It’s also by far the most specific. You heard the reference to the god of the deepest pit?”

Logan nodded.

“Notice he’s not identified by name. Not even Narmer, a god in his own right, dared do that. He’s referring to An’kavasht-He Whose Face Is Turned Backwards. A god of nightmare and evil that the earliest Egyptians were scared to death of. An’kavasht dwelled Outside, ‘in the endless night.’ Do you know what ‘Outside’ meant?”

“No, I don’t.”

“It meant the Sudd.” She paused to let this sink in. Then she took the two sheets, rolled them up again, and returned them to the filing cabinet. “Within fifty years or so, the advancing waters of the Sudd would have made any secrecy unnecessary. The swamp took care of the hiding for him.” She looked over at him. “But you know what? I don’t think Narmer was particularly worried about concealment. Remember, he was considered a god, and not just in a ceremonial way. Anybody messing with the tomb of a god is asking for trouble. He had an army of the dead-and this curse-to guard him. Nobody, not even the most brazen tomb robber, would dare defy such a curse.”

“What is that business about the three gates?”

“The gates are the sealed doors of a royal tomb. So it would appear that Narmer’s tomb had three chambers-three important chambers, at least.”

Logan shifted in his chair. “And this curse is the reason I’m here.”

“There have been several-how would March put it? — anomalous events since work started. Equipment malfunctioning. Items disappearing or turning up in the wrong place. An unusually high number of odd accidents.”

“And people are starting to get spooked,” Logan said.

“I wouldn’t say spooked. Restless, yes. Demoralized, maybe. See, it’s bad enough being out here in the middle of nowhere, floating in the world’s nastiest swamp. But with these strange happenings… well, you know how talk gets started. Anyway, maybe with you poking around, people will calm down.”

Poking around. As she was speaking, Romero’s initial skepticism, if not outright hostility, had slowly returned.

“So I’m to be a rainmaker,” he said. “I may not do any good, but it’s comforting to see me on the job.” He glanced at her. “Now I know where I stand. Thanks for your candor.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t a particularly friendly smile. “You got a problem with candor?”

“Not at all. It clears the air. And it can be very bracing-even enlightening.”

“For example?”

“For example, you.”

“What about me?” she asked sharply. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I know quite a bit, actually. Although some of it is, admittedly, conjecture.” He held her gaze steadily. “You were the youngest child in your family. I’d imagine your older siblings were boys. I’d further imagine that your father devoted most of his attention to them: Boy Scouts, Little League. He wouldn’t have had much time for you-and if your brothers noticed you at all, it would be to belittle you. That would account for your instinctive hostility, your academic overcompensation.”

Romero opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again.

“There was a famous, or at least distinguished, woman a few generations back in your family: an archaeologist, perhaps, or maybe a mountain climber. The way you hang your diplomas carelessly on the wall, slightly askew, suggests an informal approach to academics-we’re all one big happy family, whether we have impressive doctorates or not. And yet the very fact you brought your diplomas at all suggests a deep insecurity about your standing on this expedition. A young woman, one of few among men, on a physically demanding mission in a harsh and unforgiving environment-you worry about being taken seriously. Oh, and your middle name starts with A.”

She looked at him, eyes blazing. “And just how the hell do you know that?”

He gestured over his shoulder with one thumb. “It’s on your nameplate on the door.”

She stood up. “Get out.”

“Thanks for the chat, Dr. Romero.” And Logan turned and left the office.