City of Screams by James Rollins Page A

left, wind ruffled the flaps of the camp’s tents and scattered sand across the excavation site.
    Flying grit blinded her until she could blink it away. Sand invaded everything here. Each day her hair changed from blond to the grayish red of the Israeli desert. Her socks ground inside her Converse sneakers like sandpaper, her fingernails filled up with grit, even her mouth tasted of sand.
    Still, when she looked across the plastic yellow tape that cordoned off her archaeological dig, she allowed a ghost of a smile to shine, happy to have her sneakers planted in ancient history. Her excavation occupied the center of an ancient hippodrome, a chariot course. It faced the ageless Mediterranean Sea. The water shone indigo, beaten by the sun into a surreal, metallic hue. Behind her, a long stretch of ancient stone seats, sectioned into tiers, stood as a two-thousand-year-old testament to a long-dead king, the architect of the city of Caesarea: the infamous King Herod, that monstrous slayer of innocents.
    A horse’s whinny floated across the track, echoing not from the past, but from a makeshift stable that had been thrown together on the far end of the hippodrome. A local group was preparing an invitational race. Soon this hippodrome would be resurrected, coming to life once again, if only for a few days.
    She could hardly wait.
    But she and her students had a lot of work to finish before then.
    With her hands on her hips, she stared down at the skull of the murdered baby. Perhaps later today she could jacket the tiny skeleton with plaster and begin the laborious process of excavating it from the ground. She longed to get it back to a lab, where it could be analyzed. The bones had more to tell her than she would ever discover in the field.
    She dropped to her knees next to the infant. Something bothered her about the femur. It had unusual scallop-shaped dents along its length. As she bent close to see, a chill chased back the heat.
    Were those teeth marks?
    â€œProfessor?” Nate Highsmith’s Texas twang broke the air and her concentration.
    She jumped, cracking her elbow against the wooden slats bracing the walls from the relentless sand.
    â€œSorry.” Her graduate student ducked his head.
    She had given strict instructions that she was not to be disturbed this morning, and here he was bothering her already. To keep from snapping at him, she picked up her battered canteen and took a long sip of tepid water. It tasted like stainless steel.
    â€œNo harm done,” she said stiffly.
    She shielded her eyes with her free hand and squinted up at him. Standing on the edge of the trench, he was silhouetted against the scathing sun. He wore a straw Stetson pulled low, a pair of battered jeans, and a faded plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose well-muscled arms. She suspected that he had rolled them up just to impress her. It wouldn’t work, of course. For the past few years, fully focused on her work, she acknowledged that the only guys she found fascinating had been dead for several centuries.
    She glanced meaningfully over to an unremarkable patch of sand and rock. The team’s ground-penetrating radar unit sat abandoned, looking more like a sandblasted lawn mower than a high-tech tool for peering under dirt and rock.
    â€œWhy aren’t you over there mapping that quadrant?”
    â€œI was, Doc.” His drawl got thicker, as it always did when he got excited. He hiked an eyebrow, too.
    He’s found something .
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Nate bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to dash off and show her.
    She smiled, because he was right . Whatever it was, she wouldn’t believe it until she saw it herself. That was the mantra she hammered into her students: It’s not real until you can dig it out of the ground and hold it in your hands.
    To protect her work site and out of respect for the child’s bones, she gently pulled