Kathlyn Trent, Marcus Burton 01 - Valley of the Shadow

VALLEY OF THE SHADOW

By Kathryn Le Veque

Copyright 2001 by Kathryn Le Veque
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Printed by Dragonblade Publishing in the United States of America

Text copyright 2001 by Kathryn Le Veque
Cover copyright 2001 by Kathryn Le Veque

She always kept interesting books in the house and instilled in me a love of history.

Thanks, Mom!

"....Yea, though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I shall fear no evil...."

23 Psalms
 

PROLOGUE

Egypt, 1319 B.C.

Against the dark velvet night, the moon glittered with unnatural brightness. The air was warm and strangely still. Below, on the heated sands of the Sahara, a wretched scene marred the beauty and serenity of the desert heaven.

Soldiers dressed in the attire of the Egyptian military herded a group of distraught people. Some officers were on horseback but most were on foot. A large man in a warrior's chariot rode behind the rag-tag flock of captives, his gaze cold and heartless. He listened to the weeping of his hostages, but he was unmoved. Their fate remained sealed.

His attention was drawn to a small woman in the center of the group. Clad in a pleated fine linen gown with small golden sandals upon her feet, she wore her black hair long and straight. Usually, she wore a curled wig with a cone of fragrant pomade melting over the carefully arranged style. Upon her face, kohl generally lined her unusually green eyes and rouge danced upon her cheeks, but not tonight.

She was without the trappings of her royal station. Yet her dignity remained strong, even as the soldiers glared at her, even as the man in the chariot watched her with hard, calculating eyes. From the boat that had carried her down the Nile to the ancient sands upon which she now walked, she knew that she had to remain focused and calm. It was essential that she show no fear. All must know the Queen, above all, would not reduce herself to a quivering pile of flesh.

They had walked for nearly an hour inland at a slow pace. Hills had formed all around them and the jackals cackled in the distance. As they proceeded, a valley leveled out in the hills and the woman recognized the landmark. It was very clear to her, since she had seen it only days before. The Valley of the Kings in the Theban wilderness closed in around them.

It was rocky terrain. Her delicate sandals were not made for such walking and they had already grown frail and dirty.  The hem of her white gown was brown from the dust, but she made no fuss. A broken sandal, a dirty dress, had no bearing on her mind at the moment. She spent most of her energy trying to remain cool, struggling to maintain every dignified step. She knew what was coming, as did they all. But she would meet her destiny with nothing less than the grace she had been born with.

The valley grew exceedingly narrow. Dark, rolling hills rose threateningly on either side. The anxiety in her little group blossomed and gave way to wailing. The man in the chariot barked orders to his men, who began jabbing their captives with their spears. They corralled them toward a series of steps carved into the slope and leading up the hillside. At the top of the steps loomed a dark, uneven opening like a great mouth gaping in the darkness. The woman in the white robes recognized the opening; she had been here, mere days before, to bury her husband and grandfather, Ay.

The man in the chariot approached her from behind. While his men prodded her subjects up the stairs, he took the woman by the arm and pulled her aside. He was a large man with intense brown eyes and a flat, rounded nose that gave him the look of a pig. He wore a fine white kilt with a gold belt about his waist. A heavy sword hung from his left side. The woman refused to look at him, watching instead her people stumble and cry as they clamored up the steps.

"It does not have to be thus," the man said quietly. "You hold the power of your own life, not I."

The woman's gaze moved off into the distance. She was young and possessed her mother's legendary beauty. "I have no power, my lord. All has been taken from me. See how you prove how powerless I am by bringing me to this place to commit this unspeakable deed."

"This deed is by your choice. I have no alternative if you will not grant me what it is I seek."

"You seek something I cannot give."

The man studied her in the moonlight, the delicacy of her features and the silken texture of her hair. He took her refusal to marry him as a personal insult. The first rejection had come after the passing of her brother-king husband; the second had come months ago after the death of her grandfather-king husband. The daughter of the heretic Pharaoh Ankhenaten was stubborn and willful, like her father.  She would not live to marry again.

"You are not thinking clearly," he said quietly. "Your value as Great Royal Wife to me would be immeasurable. You would have everything you dreamed of and more. You were married to a child and to an old man.  Now see how a strong husband of the right age would benefit you."

The woman sighed faintly, watching the last of her vassals disappear into the side of the mountain.  "You would quickly tire of me," she said. "And I have no desire to be married to a murderer."

The man smiled, his features distorted in the darkness and shadow. "You speak as if something terrible and uncommon has been done.  All is for the good of Egypt; in the end, you will understand that."

"I was witness to the murder of two kings, both orchestrated by you in your hunger for the throne. How is that good for Egypt?"

"One man was a child, the other old and senile. Egypt deserves a strong warrior who can lead her." He wanted to shake the woman to bring her to her senses. "I need your help to accomplish this. Can you not comprehend?"

The woman looked up the dark slope, feeling her anxiety rise. "This is the last of my understanding, General. Do with me as you will."

He was regretful of what needed to be done. But she would be a thorn in his side, a constant threat, should she remain alive and unattached to him by marriage. She was still very much aligned in her heart to her boy-king husband, long dead these four years. And for the grandfather who had married her, she held particular fondness. 

"Then you will not marry me," he wanted to give her one last chance.

"I will not legitimize your reign."

"Then someone else will."

"Let them. I would rather die alongside my husbands."

Her answer inflamed him. She was foolish and deserved to die. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her up the thirty-one steps rooted into the side of the hill. As they disappeared into the crude shaft at the top, already, the sounds of screams from deep within could be heard.

The terror deep in the pharaoh's tomb had begun.

Dig Site – Valley of the Kings, Egypt

Search for Rameses VIII Tomb

University of California at Paso Robles

Dr. Marcus Burton, Site Director

Dr. Jobe McGrath, Dean of the Archaeology and Anthropology Department

Louis Bardwell, Department Chair

In conjunction with:

Southern California University (SCU)

Dr. Kathlyn Trent, Senior Field Archaeologist, Biblical Sciences

Dr. Ronald Abrahams, Archaelogical Sciences Department Chair

and

World Geography Magazine, Inc.

World of Exploration Channel, LLC

Walter Dougray, CEO

Dr. Kathlyn Trent, Senior Special Correspondence

CHAPTER ONE

Valley of the Kings, Egypt

October, Present Day             

"She's a quack. I don't want her anywhere near my dig."

"Marcus, she’s not a quack. She has a doctorate just like you and credentials as long as my arm. She just does things a bit differently, that's all."

"She's a goddamn quack."

Tents had been used for thousands of years to provide shelter and were, in theory, supposed to keep temperatures bearable in the midst of searing climates. That was the hope, at any rate. Inside the tent of Dr. Marcus Burton, however, the degrees were in triple digits and not simply because the blaring Egyptian sun was beating them to death. Dr. Burton’s fury was evident from the top of his dark head to the bottom of his size 14 feet. Planted in the corner of the tent that did double duty as his bedroom and field office, his enormous arms were stubbornly crossed.

A man stood across from him in cool khakis and a white shirt. He had silver hair, premature for his late forties, and skin that suggested he spent a good deal of time in the sun. Covered with a layer of fine brown dust, the man clutched a Panama hat in one hand and tried not to appear too intimidated.

"I understand your position," the man said patiently, "but the university is firm about this. They've called her in as a consultant whether or not you like it."

Marcus was ready to explode; he was a very big man at four inches over six feet and around two hundred and fifty pounds. He had worked his way through college on a wrestling and football scholarship, his extraordinary brawn nearly overshadowing his phenomenal brain. He had a photographic memory and there wasn’t much he didn’t know or at least couldn’t figure out. But he was rigid, stubborn and aggressive, and couldn't hold his temper very well. It wasn't a good idea to upset him in any fashion.

"Why in the hell would they call Kathlyn Trent in as a consultant?" he fumed. "Her expertise is in Biblical Archaeology. My dig has nothing to do with her field.”

The man put his hat down on a dusty table in a gesture that suggested he was going to stay awhile.

"She's been called in to consult before, and not merely in the genre of Biblical Archaeology,” he said evenly. “In the Yucatan, she helped locate the tomb of the Jade Jaguar King, Xochitlmatcl, and she also helped locate the additional cache of Caucasian mummies in Takla Makan. The woman has traveled to the Ahora Gorge on Mount Ararat to take pictures of, allegedly, Noah's Ark, and she has spent years researching the whereabouts of the Holy Grail and has managed to solidify the theory that it is sealed within the stonework of the Prentice Pillar of Roslin Chapel in Lothian, Scotland."  He sat down on a folding chair, an ironic smile on his lips. "Whether or not you like it, Burton, she's done quite a bit for archaeology. And Bardwell...."

Marcus' stone face cracked. "Bardwell, hell...."

"Bardwell," the man said louder, more insistently, "wants her here. He's the department chair and you can't argue with him, so you might as well shut up and live with it."

Marcus glared at the man before turning away. He had cobalt blue eyes that could drill holes through steel if he set his mind to it. The Egyptian workers were afraid of Dr. Burton's penetrating gaze, which was an effective tool when he wanted more work out of them than they were willing to give.

"You know what I'm saying, McGrath," he finally said. "Kathlyn Trent is a joke to scientific archaeology.  All she does is run around, find things, and move on. She shoots for the big things like arks and grails and other crap that all reasonable archaeologists won't touch because they know it's a load of bull. She's a sham."

"She's a dedicated archaeologist and a hard worker."

"Oh, hell, she doesn't work at all. If she's ever lucky enough to find anything, she leaves the real work for the field archaeologists. She's nothing but a performer.”

"But you're missing the key point, Marcus," Jobe McGrath, Dean of the University of California Paso Robles Archaeology and Anthropology Department, was in a tight spot. He couldn't go against the department chair and he didn't want to completely enrage Burton. "She finds things. Whether or not she has any real talent in excavation or science is irrelevant. More than one credible scientist has sworn she has a sixth sense with these things which is why Bardwell wants her here. You've been three seasons on this dig and have yet to locate the tomb of Ramses VIII. He doesn't want to waste any more time or money without some real results."

Marcus looked at him, torn between rage and concern. "He thinks I'm wasting time and money?"

McGrath held up a soothing hand. "Not in the least. You’re his golden boy, you know that. And you have managed to come up with some remarkable artifacts and ground scans of the Valley of the Kings. Your work will put a whole new twist on maps of the area and have shown some valuable insight to the ancient paths and roadways of the area. But the fact remains is that you set out to find the tomb of Ramses VIII, one of the last great remaining tombs yet to be discovered. We don't even have his mummy which may suggest the tomb, wherever it is, may still be intact. Your lab and study work was flawless, your proposal overwhelming. Even the Supreme Council for Antiquities thought so, which is why you are the first foreign archaeologist in eighty years who’s been granted a permit to dig in the Valley of the Kings. But we've yet to see even a hint of the tomb where you said it was and Bardwell is understandably anxious."

"So he's bringing in Trent."

"If she can find it for you, why not? She won't have anything to do with it beyond that."

Marcus was having a hard time with the concept. He shook his head bitterly. "I've used ancient maps, ancient manuscripts, sonar scans, geology reports and my own two eyes. What makes you think she can come in here and find it where I have failed?"

"Because she's done it before. Sometimes a fresh perspective is essential. You've been too close to this for three seasons."

From outside the tent, a car horn sounded. As if on cue, the tent flap was pushed aside and an African American man stood in the doorway. He was a tall man with pale cocoa-brown skin and built as if he ate trucks for breakfast.

"Marcus, she's here," he said.

Marcus didn't move, but he could hear the camp outside hustling. Everyone knew who Kathlyn Trent was and Marcus was probably the only one who didn't care. Him and possibly Lynn, who was still standing in the tent doorway as if waiting for the word to throw her out of camp. He'd do it, too.  Dr. Lynn Davis was the most fearless man Marcus had ever met, a trait that came in handy. The two had met in college and had been best friends ever since. Lynn was from Watts, California, and hadn't known archaeology from airplanes when Marcus first met him. But Marcus had pulled him into a basic archaeology class and the man had been hooked.

McGrath stood, eyeing Marcus. "Are you coming?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

Marcus cast him a long, disapproving glare before moving from the tent. Lynn stepped aside to allow the men through and together the three of them moved through the camp towards the area designated for cars and other storage items. 

The sun was blistering in the late morning and Lynn wrapped a tee shirt around his scalp, something he shaved every morning just as he did his face. Along with the bandana across his forehead, he looked like a gangster, but some of the Egyptians had taken to imitating his style. They thought he looked like a movie star.

From across the compound they were joined by the third member of the American-run archaeology team. Dr. Dennis Reams was a short man with broad shoulders and long, curly blond hair that he pulled into a ponytail. He was Irish to the core, his demeanor suggestive of an irate leprechaun, as he was always hopping around and mad about something. Today was no exception with the impending arrival of Dr. Trent. Dennis held his hand up, shielding his suspicious eyes from the desert glare.

"Is that her?" he demanded. "She's in a damn taxi."

"What did you expect her to come in, a limousine?" Lynn muttered.

"Why not?" Dennis looked at him. "She's from SCU. They've got money coming out of their ears."

"Southern California University does not have money coming out of their ears," McGrath was trying to keep the attitude about Dr. Trent civil. "She's a working archaeologist, just like the three of you."

Lynn and Dennis exchanged glances but refrained from comment. Southern California University and UCPR were rivals from way back, in everything from football to benefactors. One institution was public, one was private, and it was odd how the two had singled each other out over the years as the primary source of collegiate animosity. It was much like the Dodgers against the Yankees, acrimony that generations of alumni understood.

"I'd say that’s a questionable statement," Dennis finally said. "I hear she's got World Geography Magazine bankrolling her and their cable channel, The World of Exploration, is offering her a lot of money to do shows for them. The woman is rolling in dough."

Marcus lifted a dark eyebrow, watching the taxi doors swing open. "Money isn’t going to gain her any respect here."

As they watched, three more taxis pulled up, followed by a convoy of trucks. Marcus and the others watched the chaos unfold. Television cameras and tripods were produced. Numerous people bailed from the trucks and began unloading them where they stood. From the original taxi, a woman finally emerged from the passenger side wearing sunglasses and, oddly, a long beige duster. The rear doors opened and a man and another woman, both wearing typical desert clothing and sunglasses, climbed out.

The man was Hispanic, of stocky build, and the woman was Caucasian, lean and attractive. They began grabbing the heavy bags from the trunk of the car and setting them on the ground.

Marcus broke from his inactive stance and marched forward, annoyed with all of the commotion. Even though he had expected it, still, it irritated the hell out of him. He walked up to the woman in the duster as she struggled with three heavy bags.

"I'm Dr. Burton," he growled. "What the...?"

Before he could finish his sentence, the woman turned to him and smiled broadly. "Dr. Burton, a true pleasure, sir," she extended her free hand. "I'm Kathlyn Trent. I can't tell you how excited we are to be here. I've heard so much about you and your work that I feel as if I already know you."

Her manner was friendly and genuine without being a kiss-ass, which surprised him. More than that, she was damn beautiful, which threw him off his guard completely. He'd seen her, of course, on television on occasion, but he'd never paid any attention to her until now. He'd been so busy loathing her manner of work that he'd never given any thought to the actual person. 

Marcus took the offered hand, hesitantly. It was warm and soft. "What are all of these cameras doing here?" he asked.

It sounded rather rude, but if she thought so, she didn't let on. She rolled her eyes as if the cameras annoyed her, too.

"SCA," she said, removing her hand from his. "They want to film us, as if I'm going to walk around with a divining rod looking for your tomb."

“Is that so?”

“I’m afraid it is. The Supreme Council for Antiquities is kind of funny that way. They’re very protective about their historical sites, and rightfully so. Naturally, they're very interested in my presence.”

“Is that what you told them?”

“Excuse me?”

“That you’re going to locate the tomb with a divining rod?”

She laughed. "Hardly, Dr. Burton." She indicated her two companions, now standing behind her. "This is Dr. Juliana Maurer, and Dr. Mark La Coste. We do everything as a threesome because we're too stupid to do anything on our own. In this case, three brains add up to one."

Mark and Juliana snorted at the joke at their expense. It was a self-depreciating sense of humor that caught Marcus even more off guard. The ratty duster was blowing open, revealing shorts and a skin-tight tee shirt on a shapely body. He could smell faint wisps of gardenia, too.

He was quickly falling into lameness."Dr. Lynn Davis, Dr. Dennis Reams," he jabbed a finger in the general direction of his colleagues. “And this is Jobe McGrath, Dean of the department."

Kathlyn turned on the personality for McGrath, who of course ate it up, and Marcus took the time to study her more closely.

She was about average in height, maybe four or five inches over five feet, and she had a cascade of dark blond hair that was pulled back into a neat ponytail. Her face was stunning, as he'd noticed initially; she had big green eyes and a pert little nose that hovered over full, lush lips. She had great calves, but he couldn't see much of her thighs, not that it mattered. She had big work boots on that would have looked stupid on anyone else but her. Her torso, from what he could see, was trim and her breasts proportionate. He rather liked the shape of her neck too, strangely enough. All the better to strangle you, my dear.

Someone propped up support poles for a tent right in his parking lot. Marcus tore himself away from studying Kathlyn's figure long enough to snap his fingers at Lynn and Dennis, who were immediately off, shouting at whoever was attempting to pitch a tent. Kathlyn heard the shouting, turning to see what was happening. Marcus was about to charge off into the melee, but she put her hand out to stop him.