The Mummy: The Tomb Robbers' Secret

Death of a Pharaoh

She leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. "That tomb is too dangerous. Maybe if I destroy it, I can also destroy the evidence. An over-eager looter could have blown it up looking for secret passages. What did we find anyway? A tomb with no hieroglyphs or cartouches in an out-of-the-way place in the desert. Who will even know?"

"Have you told Ardeth about your plans?"

"Yes, he agrees with me. No good has come of us finding it. Something lives in that tomb, and it has plagued us ever since Ardeth and I took shelter in it from the sandstorm. First, something followed me, then after we returned to the tomb it attached itself to Evie. I will not allow it to torment anyone else. I can't destroy the mummy in the museum, but I can destroy the mummy that we found. I am going to make sure there is nothing left.

"It may take a few days, but I can find what we need," Rick replied, "I'll rig the tomb with explosives and let you have the honor of pushing the plunger. You have the necessary funds?"

"Yes, I do. How long will it take?"

"A few days at most. I have friends from my days in the legion. I can purchase dynamite and not have it traced back to us. I'm with you, I want to burn that mummy and blow up that tomb."

"And when we get Evie back that is exactly what we'll do."

The morning dawned cool and clear, a good sign. The flowers that people spread along the sides of the streets were heaped knee-deep, their fragrance perfuming the air. The statues of the gods, Amun-Re, his consort Mut, and their son Khonsu were crowned with sun discs and draped in rich scarlet robes, embroidered in gold sequins. The preparations now completed, they were ready for their journey to the Temple of a Million Years that Ramesses III had constructed as his funerary chapel.

People lined the streets, some reverent, some cheering as they watched their gods being paraded on their journey to the golden barques that would bear them to the temple. The Nile's surface was piled with floating blossoms as the people honored the gods and their dead with flowers, food, and drink.

Sitamun woke with violent morning sickness. So severely ill was she that she was unable to rise from her bed, each time she tried to move she became so sick she had to lie down. Even bread and sweetened beer were impossible to keep down, and a physician had been sent for to prepare a potion to help her sleep.

Pentaweret, clad in his finery, came running to the women's quarters to see what was wrong with his young wife. He had counted on her presence beside him, but she lay there pale and wan, deep shadows under her dark eyes and looking helpless as a child.

"Are you sure you cannot attend the festivities, my love?" He stroked her finely shaped head with his long fingers, "I want you beside me to share my triumph."

"I am so sorry, my lord husband, but I cannot. The morning sickness has never been this bad, I try to sit, then stand, but I become so dizzy and nauseous that I must lie down. I do not understand, I was fine yesterday but today I am so sick."

He kissed the top of her head, "I would rather have you beside me but if you are ill, I want you to remain here and take care of yourself and our son. Perhaps you will be well enough tonight to attend the feast. You are the most important thing in my life, and I would have you well taken care of." He left, his attendants following him and Sitamun felt a sinking feeling in her heart.

A draught had been prepared for her and she drank hoping it would bring her relief, and if not relief, at least a restful sleep. She lay her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes, waiting for the narcotic to take effect.

Was she dreaming? Was she awake, she could not tell? She was in the middle of a crowd, surrounded by people dressed in their best clothes, throwing flowers at the procession of the royal family following behind their gods. The golden barque had stopped in front of the magnificent funeral chapel Ramesses had built for himself. The way to the temple was heaped with flowers and the bearers of the royal litters waded knee-deep through the colorful petals.

The statues of the gods were put reverently in their places, the priests swinging the censors filled with burning frankincense that could not overpower the scent of the flowers.

The pharaoh stood, surrounded by family and his courtiers in the place where one day offerings would be left to sustain him in the afterlife. It was here he would also receive the blessings of his gods and his priests.

She could hear the droning of the priests and from her place in the crowd, she could see the look of hatred that marred her husband's handsome face. Then, the slight movement of his arm as he brought out the dagger he had hidden in the folds of his kilt. The blade flashed in the sun as he raised his arm and in one swift movement, he slit the throat of the god-king who had given him birth.

She sat up, aware now that she was in her bed and not witnessing her husband commit the murder that spelled the end of them both. She called for her maids, not knowing how long she had been asleep only knowing, somehow, it was not a dream, but a vision. She knew without knowing why, but knowing all the same, that Pentaweret had killed his father, only hoping hoping hoping that it was all a bad dream.

Her maids came in, their faces grim and their kohl-lined eyes filled with tears. They fell to their knees, weeping loudly.

"What is wrong, what has happened?" She did not need to ask the question she knew the answer, "Why do you weep, my maids?"

"Oh, madam!" Nesi, the trusted slave she had brought with her from her childhood home of Abydos, took her hand, "It is awful, the most horrible thing has happened!"

"Tell me what it is, speak!" she commanded.

"The Pharaoh has been killed, it happened during the ceremonies in the Temple of a Million Years."

Sitamun held up her hand, "Nesi, Nane, you stay; the rest of you, go to your rooms and wait until you are summoned." The maids bowed and left the room. "You must help me get dressed, bring my finest linen robe and my jewelry, and my makeup, I must have my makeup." The maids bowed and busied themselves obeying her orders.

Her finest gown, her finest jeweled collar, her wigs, and her makeup were brought to her. Her pleated lined gown was wrapped around her and tied under her breast. The collar, which felt strangely heavy, was placed over her neck and shoulders. Nane was skilled in the art of cosmetics and rimmed her mistress's eyes with kohl, painted a little malachite above. Then, last of all, her finest Nubian wig with its multitude of braids was placed on her head.

"Now, go," she told them, "And I do not want to be disturbed until I call for you." She watched as they bowed and left the room.

She gently wiped the tears from her eyes, being careful not to smear her makeup. Her fingers with their hennaed tips carefully searched through her jewelry box until she found what she was looking for.

Sitamun drew out the fine-bladed stiletto with its jeweled handle with shaking hands. She had stolen it from her brother when they were young and had gleefully kept it hidden all these years. Now, it was to be her friend, her last hope in a world where she had lost all hope.

"I cannot bear to watch Pentaweret die," she thought, "And what would be my fate? Would my child be taken from me? Would he be killed? What would they do with the widow of the murderer of the Pharaoh? Would they believe me if I told them I knew nothing of it, I was not part of it? No, they wouldn't."

She took the blade, and carefully pushed it into her heart. The pain she did not expect, the throbbing of the wound, the heart struggling against the blade. But it was done.

The room was slowly growing black, and she felt cold. She lay down on her bed and closed her eyes against the darkness. The blood was flowing more quickly now, down her side and onto her linen sheets. Death was not so bad after all.