Tutankhamun Uncovered (82 page)

The king thoughtfully ran his fingers over the wings of one of the guardian angels carved into one corner of his sarcophagus. Then he turned and walked back up the sloping entrance corridor, climbed the sixteen stone steps and emerged into the cold night air. Exiting the walled enclosure which surrounded the entrance to his tomb, Tutankhamun turned to his right and walked around the bend and up the closest arm of The Valley. He stopped at the first tomb entrance. He contemplated the doorway for a moment. The cavity before him fell away into the ground. The murderer’s the usurper’s grand edifice! He walked down the steps and into the first corridor.

It was no surprise to him that the general had seen to it that his own final resting place was far richer and more decorative than that of his victim richer, perhaps, than any other contemporary dead Pharaoh entombed in The Valley of the time. One hundred and fifty cubits into the tomb, and still he had not reached the burial chamber. The boy king felt a good deal dismayed at the grandeur of this place. Compared with the futile smallness of his own sepulchre, this was a palace indeed.

Tutankhamun hesitated. The tomb was as grand as any Pharoah’s should be. It had been cleared. As all had been. But in the burial chamber... Did the body of the infidel still lie there?

He walked down some steps and stood on the floor of the largest room of all. Now he was at the threshold. This was the important one. This was the room he had to see. The sarcophagus, in design not unlike his own, lay open just like his own. It stood parallel with the far wall. The decoration on the walls which surrounded it was vastly more elaborate than that in his own tomb but it was incomplete. That the general had expired with his grand design still in the process of execution was a most satisfying discovery, and Tutankhamun relished the thought of a vile life foreshortened. He pictured the artisans scampering out, happily leaving their artwork unfinished partly painted reliefs; partially sculpted reliefs; drawings awaiting the sculptors’ chisels; drawings in progress; the architects’ guidelines awaiting the draughtsmen; totally blank areas awaiting the architects.

All most satisfying. At least in his own sepulchre, small and unambitious though it was, his faithful artisans had fully and reverently completed the decorations before the doorways had finally been sealed.

He walked over to the sarcophagus and peered inside. Nothing... Nothing but the dust of ages. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned to leave.

It was then that he spied it. Through a doorway to an otherwise empty side chamber, alone on the far west wall, a life-size figure of Osiris painted within the outline of a shrine. The picture of the god pointed the way to the afterlife.

The boy king instinctively made a low bow of respect and prayed that the tomb’s violators had destroyed Horemheb’s mummy before its ka had had a chance to follow the god’s signal.

He turned and walked back out of the tomb. As he emerged at the top, The Valley and its tributaries were bathed in the darkness of the moonless night. Tutankhamun could see all as if it were as bright as day. He ran from tomb to tomb, investigating each to the burial chamber itself. But for that of Pharaoh Amenophis II, there were no bodies anywhere. His, violated but rewrapped, was one of only two still to be contained within their original arks.

And this man they called Howard Carter, it was he who was responsible for the preservation of both!

Satisfied that he had exhausted all the sepulchres in the royal necropolis, the boy king climbed the hill which lay to the east and above his own tomb and sat down on a boulder. Before him, plateaux of limestone separated by slopes of scree were spread out like the layers of an enormous cake. Below lay the open throats of cavities of earlier and later pharaohs than himself.

He contemplated the heavens. He had never once seen or heard of any Pharaoh outside of his own time walking the heavens along with him. All he had were his own people, those he had trusted, just as it was during his life on earth.

Where had all the others gone? Could it have been that ultimate preservation of the body in its original place of rest was the only prescription for survival of the king’s soul, that of his wife, and that of every one of his loyal subjects? Could it be so? But if this were the case, where then is Pharaoh Amenophis?

He looked towards the Valley entrance. The open mouths of the tombs of Ramses II, his sons and daughters, of Ramses IV, and of many others lay there now all exposed; empty of everything and everybody.

He looked up the valley arm behind him. The kings, Ramses I and X had once slumbered there. Father Seti I also. None of them had slept unhindered for long.

He looked south.

So many kings had lain in so many crypts, all now removed; if not destroyed in antiquity by the vandals of the time, now placed irreverently on show in the museums of the world.

There was no question in his mind. Of all Pharaohs he, and he alone, through his body’s continued presence in The Valley and the preservation of his grave goods albeit removed from his tomb to another place but preserved all the same had survived. He would continue to be the only one to live in eternity.

The central portion of her husband’s mortal remains now a gold encased amulet about her neck, Ankhesenamun felt in possession of new powers. She sat cross-legged beside her husband and happily reflected on the final outcome of their hard work in influencing the course of events at the site of the tomb.

That Horemheb had made some efforts of his own to cause their plans to fail; of this they continued to be blissfully unaware and would remain so for ever.

For Horemheb, he would never know that the outcomes he had observed were the product of their labours. He forever retained the belief that he had caused eternal anguish in the mind of the boy king. He may not have deserved to have been left with thoughts so personally pleasurable as these, but the fact that he was mistaken in this belief was blessing enough. Being personally convinced that Tutankhamun was now in eternal hell meant that he had no cause to trouble him further.

So it is that Tutankhamun remains convinced of Horemheb’s destruction, and also of his own survival. To this day, the two remain blissfully ignorant of each other’s eternal existence.

Chapter Twenty Eight

“One last time.” Carter signalled his colleagues to wait for him as he turned to descend the steps of the tomb. Everything had been evacuated but for the quartzite sarcophagus with the second coffin and the body within it. These remained, these last, never to be removed. He walked down the sloping passageway and stopped at the threshold. Standing for a moment at the entrance to the antechamber he peered in, sweeping the room with his eyes. It was so clean, almost anonymous.

He tried to recall that first sight once more. It was there, as clear as a bell, just as if it had occurred that very morning his first breath; the rancid taste of stale air; an overpowering vision of gold shimmering in the faint light of the flickering candle flame; that weird pink glow from the fungus (One of the bacilli which inhabit the walls of the tomb is known to be responsible for the consumptive deaths of a number of visitors who also suffered from some degree of immune deficiency) which had attached itself to every wall; Carnarvon pulling at his sleeve like an impatient schoolboy.

Carter made the step down onto the floor of the antechamber and looked to his right. Where the plastered wall had once stood, there was now a large square opening. Beyond, lay the lonely sarcophagus. It looked strangely lost down there in the well of the large room, once so crowded with the sheer walls of the great, enclosing golden shrines and a literal multitude of precious objects clustered in the rooms all around it.

The rock dust crunched loudly beneath his feet as he walked over to the side of the great stone sarcophagus and peered down. Within the colourful coffin, the boy king lay at peace. But he was without his treasures. There were no boats for him to sail the cosmic waters; no servants to tend to his every need; no food; no clothes or jewellery to wear; no goddesses or jackals to protect him on his eternal journey; no games to pass away the long hours; no music to entertain him; nothing to hunt with; no chariots to ride on; no ornaments to decorate his celestial palaces; no furnishings to relax on or beds on which to slumber; even his children had been taken from him.

Carter felt remorseful. But there could be no going back. Of the thousands of individual articles removed from this tiny, crowded mausoleum, very, very little had been lost or damaged in its passage from tomb to museum. The record of how it had been when first discovered was perfect and complete, almost. He would find comfort in his near exemplary professionalism. He could be proud of the achievement.

In the symbolism of a fond farewell, he touched his hand to his forehead and saluted the coffin. Lucas called from the mouth of the tomb. “Carter! Carter, old chap! Come up here... Quickly! Carter!”

Carter gently touched the sarcophagus one last time and turned to leave. As he hurried back to the entrance corridor he put his hand to his cheek it was warm. He wanted to turn back to check the temperature of the stone casket but Lucas’s calling grew all the more urgent.

He ran up the stone stairway. Lucas and Burton were standing close together at the top of the stairs and within the pit surrounded by its protective dry stone walls.

“What... what is it, man?” Carter panted.

“Look what I have found.”

Lucas, who had maintained his back to Carter for greater effect, at once turned and thrust his cupped hands under Carter’s nose. It was a blue glass headrest complete and undamaged. It had a single inscription on the base of the stem. The inscription included the cartouche and prenomen of Tutankhamen.

“Where... where’d you get this?”

“Found it here... There...” Lucas gestured at the base of the wall. “...Behind that rock. Must’ve fallen from one of the trays when we were carrying the stuff out and got kicked in there. Can’t imagine how it’s avoided being missed all this time.”

“Not possible,” said Carter emphatically. “Everything’s been accounted for at Cairo. Nothing missing. Besides, can’t have been dropped, let alone kicked. No damage. It’s perfect.”

His eyes were alight with pleasure. He thought for a moment. “This ground has been refilled. The damn thing must... it must have been placed here.”

The Egyptologist faltered as he felt the temperature in his cheeks rise. Then it dawned on him. Carnarvon’s cache! He never did show everything to me. He looked at his colleagues. “Oh my gosh, how do we get out of this one?”

“Howard, old chap,” Burton started after a moment’s silence. “I... I think it best we keep it to ourselves, don’t you? I mean, if we bring it to the attention of the wogs at this stage we could really start something, don’t y’ think?”

“’Fraid you’re right, Harry. Big, unnecessary trouble. To be avoided at all costs. Would be a less than fitting end to almost ten years of abject slavery. Let’s toss for it!”

“No thanks, old man,” said Lucas. “Not a betting man, myself. You and Burton play for it. Go ahead.” His sentiment was not gratuitous, rather more akin to superstition.

Carter looked at Burton. The photographer reached in his trouser pocket and pulled out an American nickel. “Heads or tails?” He flicked it, sending

it spinning into the air.

“Heads!” yelled Carter, unable to contain his excitement.

The coin fell into the dust, tails up. Carter handed the piece to his friend. “Congratulations, old man.”

Burton couldn’t disguise his pleasure. His face beamed from side to side. He took his camera out of its substantial leather box and replaced it with his new acquisition.

“Something a little more precious than the tools of my trade!” he quipped. He bent down and picked up the nickel, dusted it off and handed it to Carter.

“Here. Take it. A lucky nickel. It’ll remind you of our last day.”

Carter took the coin happily, kissed it and stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket. “It’ll never move from there unless I have it cleaned. Nobody else will see it. This is one story I can tell no one.”

The three laughed and walked off towards KV15 to finish their tidying up.

The knock at the door to his London apartment was expected.

Carter himself at last was able to epitomise the great Francis Griffith, the man who had, many years since, stood in judgement of the teenage Carter’s abilities and subsequently provided him the opportunity to launch a career. Now Carter could or could not, at his discretion, do the same.

The young candidate’s name was Cyril Aldred. He was eighteen years old and infatuated with Egyptology, just as Carter had been. He was ambitious. He had a most deliberate nature and was confident he had the ability to excel in the profession.

As Carter opened the door, the young man smiled and removed his cap. He presented himself well. He was dressed respectably and cleanly manicured, his immature moustache like to mimic that of Carter. He was quite terrified.

Carter welcomed his visitor warmly. “Please take a seat, Mr Aldred. Would you like a drink of something? It is my fancy to have a whisky at this time of day. Will you join me?”

“Thank you, sir, no. I do not drink.”

“How about some tea, then?”

“Thank you, sir, no. I am not in need of refreshment.”

“As you wish. But I hope you will not think it remiss of me to partake while you do not.”

“Of course not, sir!”

Carter poured himself a Scotch and soda and swung into the seat immediately opposite the young man. “Well. Let’s get to it. You’ve a hankering for Egyptology, I understand.”

“Yes, sir. Most definitely.” It showed in the boy’s eyes.

“Well then... Well up on your studies are you?”

“I... I believe so, sir. Yes.” He knew a test was coming and he dreaded it.

“Indeed.” To increase the stress of the moment, Carter paused. He remembered all those agonising hours with Petrie the one-way monologue; taking orders; having his every move watched. He wasn’t going to make it any the easier for Aldred.

“Indeed. Well... What period do you think this piece comes from?”

Carter drew out a small ushabti from his desk drawer and handed it to the young man.

Aldred examined it for a few moments, turning it over in his hands. Carter noticed the boy’s fingers were trembling.

“Er...” The young man’s expression appeared confused.

Carter smiled with contentment.

“Umm...” He turned his face towards Carter. “Er... New Kingdom?... Circa 1350BC... Amenhotep III... Valley of the Kings.”

Carter was astonished, but he did not show it in his expression. He calmly handed the man another piece a small alabaster jar with a hieroglyphic inscription on it.

Once again the young man turned the object over and over in his hands, examining closely every facet of the piece. After a few moments, the same puzzled look. “Er...” He paused a moment. “I... Er...”

“Yes... Yes. Come on, my boy... Speak up.”

“Er... 11th Dynasty. Mentuhotep I. About 2010BC.”

Carter couldn’t contain his pleasure and surprise one moment longer. “Mr Aldred! Two absolutely fine, precise, and most impressive identifications! Tell me, sir, how did you do it?”

The young man looked confused.

“Well? Come on. I know you have not seen the pieces before. Tell me, how did you deduce their age and even their provenance?”

After a moment, Aldred took a deep breath and looked Carter directly in the eyes. “Well, sir... You see, sir... Er... Well it is written on the labels underneath them, sir. See?” He turned the last object upside down.

Aldred had thought it a trick but Carter had totally forgotten that the pieces were labelled. He laughed out loud. “Oh, my boy! While your Egyptological expertise has not yet been severely tested, your integrity certainly has!”

To Carter, the boy’s honesty was as strong an attribute as any academic knowledge. Carter decided this had been test enough and chose to turn the entire interview around.

“Mr Aldred. Is there something anything you would like to ask me about my experiences in Egypt these past forty-one years?”

The young man’s eyes lit up. There most certainly was.

By the time he’d downed his second Scotch, Carter was in full cry. He was in his element. The stories were rolling out one after the other and in explicit detail. Not all were technical. He talked about the troubles in Egypt; dealing with officialdom; dealing with visitors; pandering to dignitaries; balancing the archaeological work with administrative responsibilities; organising the fellahs; their pay; the equipment; the supplies; the lunches; the parties; the tours; the security; the concession agreements; the laboratories; the photography; the lifting tackle; the problems; their solutions. Not like a lecture this time, just stories, blow by blow, just as if they were really there. It was all so fresh in his mind. Once more, he felt the excitement of the planning, the anticipation, the discoveries new and wonderful things, one after the other.

The nature of Aldred’s perceptive enquiries was all Carter needed to make a most favourable assessment of the young man. He was really most agreeably impressed with his grasp of the subject and the depth of his knowledge. The boy had schooled himself most judiciously.

“And now, sir,” said Aldred, after Carter had concluded another story, “what next?”

“Ah!” responded Carter. “After Tutankhamen? Good question, my boy. Tough act to follow, as they say.” He looked wistfully out the window. Now nothing was real any more. Now he had to lie. It came easily.

“After I’ve completed the scientific work Tutankhamen’s not finished until that’s been done after that... Alexander. I fancy having a crack at finding ‘Alex’. Got some ideas, y’ know. Need to follow them up. I return next season. Would you like to accompany me? You’d be admirable help, I am sure, and you will learn a great deal.”

Aldred smiled. He had passed! “Sir, I am truly flattered by your kind offer. I know I would gain much from the experience. But I am currently set upon a course of education and would like to complete this before I apply myself in the field. I am fully committed, I am afraid.”

“Oh? And where would that be, Mr Aldred?”

“King’s College, sir... London, sir. I hope you understand, sir. Terribly sorry to miss the opportunity, but thanks all the same. Perhaps in a few years when I have completed my studies if you have not made the discovery by then, of course!”

Carter was not disappointed and fully comprehended the young man’s direction. ‘Well balanced. Makes his plans. Sticks to them,’ he thought.

He sighed. “Well, if I don’t find Alexander the Great within a couple of years or so I think I’ll be for hanging up my trowel and watching the antics of the likes of you, my boy. Damn good luck to you.” He smiled warmly at the young man.

They shook hands firmly and Aldred took his leave. There would not be a second meeting. Carter wrote his official recommendation on Aldred that very evening.

During his winters in Luxor, Carter was not accustomed to receiving letters, so this one came as a bit of a surprise. He took it from the silver plated salver balanced on the waiter’s fingers and looked at the address on the envelope. He was pleased to note that it was not a telegram, so surely it would not be urgently unwelcome news. It was written in an educated hand, but not one he recognised. He slid his finger beneath the flap and eased the paper out. It was a single sheet inscribed on both sides.

Clouds Hill, Nr. Bovington Camp, Dorset

1st. Feb., 1935

My Dear Carter, Forgive this impulsive note. Out of the blue, I know, but I am sure a gentleman with your capacity for observation will remember our meeting, lamentably all those years ago.

I brought to you a miscellany of artefacts which I had been fortunate to come by in the deserts of my recent travels of the time. I am sure you will recall.

The reason for my letter is that I have just finished reading the third and final volume of your ‘magnamopus’ in three parts ‘The Tomb of Tutankhamen’ and am so impressed with the achievement that I felt myself compelled to communicate with you at once.

By a stroke of damnable luck, I departed Cairo just three months prior to your magnificent discovery. This irks me deeply.

So, sir, I am writing belatedly to congratulate you on your work. But I know that this is only the ‘trailer’, as they say in the moving picture theatres. You have great plans, I am sure and, no doubt, you are already hard at work upon it, and at great pains to complete the scientific study that should accompany such a find of this magnitude. I look forward to the publication of this future work and humbly request that you reserve a first pressing for this brief acquaintance of yours. A bit of a nerve, I know, but I can recall from our first meeting more than a passing commonality in our interests. Besides, you owe me, do you not?