CURSE OF KING TUT
‘… Cursed Be He Who Moves My Bones’
When George Herbert, a British earl, dropped dead just months after financing the excavation of King Tutankhamun’s tomb in 1922 — and was one of the first to enter it — stories quickly circulated that his demise was due to a curse unleashed by Tut for Herbert’s desecrating ways.
A thrilling explanation, but not a likely one. For one thing, Herbert was already in poor health prior to the discovery of Tut’s tomb. In addition, more than 25 entered the tomb; their average age of death was 73 — higher than normal. Sounds like a lousy curse.
The idea of a curse of the dead was not new. It had been a theme of literary fiction since the 1860s. Bram Stoker (of Dracula fame) authored The Jewel of the Seven Stars in 1903, a book about … archeologists struck by a mummy’s curse.
William Shakespeare’s epitaph attempted to spook would-be entrepreneurial grave robbers: “Blessed be the man that spares these stones, and cursed be he who moves my bones.” Shakespeare didn’t believe in curses but figured a scare tactic might keep his burial place from being ransacked.
Disturbed tombs might unleash their fury biologically rather than occultly. In 1973, 12 conservationists opened the tomb of a prominent 15th-century Polish king. Ten of them died within months. A fungal mold, Aspergillus flavus, the second-leading cause of aspergillosis — a respiratory disease — was found in the tomb and likely loomed large in their deaths. These mold spores can lie dormant for many centuries but retain their potency. Stir them up in a confined area, and trouble might come knocking.
Moldy infestations have probably inflicted more terror on tomb raiders than actual curses. Curses, however, make for better headlines, books, and movies.
