closed behind him.
Gabriel was alone.
The interior was designed to resemble the King’s Chamber from an Egyptian pyramid. Gabriel had seen the real thing several times and this was not a bad facsimile. The pyramids had been built as elaborate tombs for the pharaohs, intended to provide them with a comfortable home in the afterlife, though ancient notions of comfort had never struck him as all that comfortable. You’d generally have a large throne made of a single piece of carved stone; the one here was set upon a pedestal with six steps leading up to it from the floor. You’d have your statues of Egyptian gods—here, several man-sized ones stood flanking either side of the throne and much larger ones in each corner of the room were posed as if holding up the ceiling. Smaller statuettes were scattered around, alongside pedestals bearing basins filled with water. A sarcophagus stood on the right side of the chamber, its stone cover intricately decorated with jewels and gold inlay.
“Bow, American. Bow before your pharaoh.”
The voice echoed through the room. It was crisp and commanding, with a hint of a Middle Eastern accent, but only a hint.
Gabriel moved toward the throne. He was off to one side and could see that it was still empty—and there was no one behind it, either. But as he watched, a man suddenly appeared, stepping out from a patch of shadow.
Khufu was as Lucy had described him, dressed in the vestments of an Egyptian pharaoh, from the wood-soled sandals up to the ornate
nemes
, the striped royal headdress. The
nemes
had fine accordion pleating onlappets, folds that were held to the forehead with a metal band. And below that band, covering his face, the man wore a carved mask of a falcon. Gabriel recognized it as the face of Horus, the god of pharaohs. The man also wore an ankle-length transparent robe—transparency once signified an Egyptian’s wealth and importance—and beneath the robe he wore a loincloth. Aside from several gold bracelets on his arms, the rest of his sinewy body was bare. He held a golden scepter in his right hand, its head curved like a cobra about to strike.
“You shall bow to me, American,” Khufu said. “Willingly or no.”
Gabriel didn’t move. “This is quite a display,” he said, “but that’s all it is. A display. Any man could build it, if he was rich enough and had a thing for King Tut. I’m not impressed.”
“You are insolent,” the masked man said, advancing toward him. “Amun told me it was so.”
“Good,” Gabriel said. “That’ll save us some time.”
The man leveled the end of his scepter in Gabriel’s direction. “We agree: there is no point in wasting time.” He gestured with the scepter—and suddenly Gabriel found himself blinded with an agonizing wave of pain.
It was as if he’d licked a finger and stuck it in an outlet. A jolt of high-voltage electricity shot through his body, making every hair stand on end and every nerve ending burn. He felt himself flung to the floor with tremendous force. He slid backward a few feet, stunned by the charge.
Khufu stood motionless, still pointing the scepter.
What the hell
was
that thing
?
He tried to stand but Khufu aimed the scepter at himagain. Gabriel put his hands up before him. “Okay, okay, I get—”
Another jolt of electricity shot through him, causing every muscle in his body to clench tight as a fist. He felt it in his eyelids and the soles of his feet. He could smell his hair singe.
“Those who cultivate the seeds of disobedience,” Khufu said, “reap only pain.” He lowered the scepter. “Now, rise. If you can.”
Gabriel slowly rolled over, groaned involuntarily, got to his hands and knees. He finally managed to stand. His entire body ached and his knees trembled.
“You are strong,” Khufu said. “But no man is strong enough to withstand the fury of the gods. If I smite you once more, your innards will cook inside you, your bowels turn to water; once more again and
Gabriel was alone.
The interior was designed to resemble the King’s Chamber from an Egyptian pyramid. Gabriel had seen the real thing several times and this was not a bad facsimile. The pyramids had been built as elaborate tombs for the pharaohs, intended to provide them with a comfortable home in the afterlife, though ancient notions of comfort had never struck him as all that comfortable. You’d generally have a large throne made of a single piece of carved stone; the one here was set upon a pedestal with six steps leading up to it from the floor. You’d have your statues of Egyptian gods—here, several man-sized ones stood flanking either side of the throne and much larger ones in each corner of the room were posed as if holding up the ceiling. Smaller statuettes were scattered around, alongside pedestals bearing basins filled with water. A sarcophagus stood on the right side of the chamber, its stone cover intricately decorated with jewels and gold inlay.
“Bow, American. Bow before your pharaoh.”
The voice echoed through the room. It was crisp and commanding, with a hint of a Middle Eastern accent, but only a hint.
Gabriel moved toward the throne. He was off to one side and could see that it was still empty—and there was no one behind it, either. But as he watched, a man suddenly appeared, stepping out from a patch of shadow.
Khufu was as Lucy had described him, dressed in the vestments of an Egyptian pharaoh, from the wood-soled sandals up to the ornate
nemes
, the striped royal headdress. The
nemes
had fine accordion pleating onlappets, folds that were held to the forehead with a metal band. And below that band, covering his face, the man wore a carved mask of a falcon. Gabriel recognized it as the face of Horus, the god of pharaohs. The man also wore an ankle-length transparent robe—transparency once signified an Egyptian’s wealth and importance—and beneath the robe he wore a loincloth. Aside from several gold bracelets on his arms, the rest of his sinewy body was bare. He held a golden scepter in his right hand, its head curved like a cobra about to strike.
“You shall bow to me, American,” Khufu said. “Willingly or no.”
Gabriel didn’t move. “This is quite a display,” he said, “but that’s all it is. A display. Any man could build it, if he was rich enough and had a thing for King Tut. I’m not impressed.”
“You are insolent,” the masked man said, advancing toward him. “Amun told me it was so.”
“Good,” Gabriel said. “That’ll save us some time.”
The man leveled the end of his scepter in Gabriel’s direction. “We agree: there is no point in wasting time.” He gestured with the scepter—and suddenly Gabriel found himself blinded with an agonizing wave of pain.
It was as if he’d licked a finger and stuck it in an outlet. A jolt of high-voltage electricity shot through his body, making every hair stand on end and every nerve ending burn. He felt himself flung to the floor with tremendous force. He slid backward a few feet, stunned by the charge.
Khufu stood motionless, still pointing the scepter.
What the hell
was
that thing
?
He tried to stand but Khufu aimed the scepter at himagain. Gabriel put his hands up before him. “Okay, okay, I get—”
Another jolt of electricity shot through him, causing every muscle in his body to clench tight as a fist. He felt it in his eyelids and the soles of his feet. He could smell his hair singe.
“Those who cultivate the seeds of disobedience,” Khufu said, “reap only pain.” He lowered the scepter. “Now, rise. If you can.”
Gabriel slowly rolled over, groaned involuntarily, got to his hands and knees. He finally managed to stand. His entire body ached and his knees trembled.
“You are strong,” Khufu said. “But no man is strong enough to withstand the fury of the gods. If I smite you once more, your innards will cook inside you, your bowels turn to water; once more again and
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