Chapter Thirty
LUXOR, EGYPT
I wait until I’ve passed through the Valley of the Kings. Once I’m certain Papa and Howard are out of sight, I instruct the man leading my donkey. “Don’t go directly to the dock. Please turn toward the temple.”
He turns back toward me. “Are you sure, mademoiselle?”
“Quite. We will be making a stop before we take the Nile barge back to the Winter Palace.”
Our donkeys approach Hatshepsut’s temple. Although I see the astounding structure every day as we travel from the Nile to the Valley of the Kings—and I’ve toured it before—it never fails to inspire awe.
“Can we pause for a moment?” I call up to my guide.
He glances back at me again strangely, but does as I ask. For a long moment, I observe the enormous elevated, colonnaded terraces cut into the cliff so that they make one uniform, monochromatic compound. Might Hatshepsut have stopped in this same place and gazed upon her creation?
At my signal, we resume our progress. As we draw closer to the temple proper, I see groups of workers near colossal statues that must be ten feet high.
The statues are in varying states of disrepair—some almost completely reconstructed from disparate stone chunks and some still a heap of rubble.
One fully reassembled figure had already been put in its original place at one corner of the lower terrace.
How magnificent the temple appears with its adornments restored.
Several of the workmen stare at me, and I notice they have many more children at the site than we do at ours.
Like the reis and workers at our site, I suppose they may find it odd to see a woman at an excavation site, and an English one at that.
My mother and I are the only two I’ve ever seen in the Valley of the Kings, apart from the tourists.
But, though they may gawk, not one of the men stops working.
I begin to wonder about the wisdom of this impromptu visit when a dapper gentleman in European garb carrying armfuls of photographic equipment approaches. “May I help you?”
“I hope I haven’t disturbed your work. I’m Lady Evelyn Herbert and I’ve come from”—I point behind the temple—“the Valley of the Kings where I’ve been working with my father, Lord Carnarvon, and Mr. Howard Carter.”
“Ah, right, I believe we met last year when you visited with your father,” the man says, “and Mr. Carter, of course. I enjoyed hearing about the early years of excavation here at the temple he undertook. We are indebted to the work he did here starting the reassembly of the structure—and his fine drawings. I am Harry Burton, the Metropolitan Museum photographer.”
The face of the esteemed photographer is suddenly familiar from that tour. Mr. Burton had accompanied us along with Mr. Winlock, the Metropolitan Museum of Art director of this site. I’d been struck by the atmospheric beauty of the images he shared with us afterward.
“My apologies, Mr. Burton, for not recognizing you straightaway. Your photographs are so memorable. The way you capture not only the clarity of objects and interiors but the sensation of timelessness and wonder. One could almost imagine being back in Hatshepsut’s day when studying your images.”
“You flatter me, Lady Evelyn.” His cheeks seem redder, but perhaps it is simply the heat of the day. “Where are my manners? How can I be of assistance? And can I get you some tea? I know the route from the Valley of the Kings to the temple can be dusty and dry.”
“That is very kind of you, but I am fine. I was returning to the Winter Palace earlier than planned today, and I thought I might stop and take a brief look at the work being done at the temple. But I certainly don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“You could never be a nuisance,” he exclaims. “I only apologize that Mr. Winlock isn’t here to show you around personally—”
“Please don’t apologize,” I interject. “I should have made arrangements. I’m certain he’s busy with the undisturbed room he discovered in the tomb of Meketre last season. I understand it was filled with wooden models that tell the story of daily life at his estate.”
I know quite a bit about the tomb of Meketre, who had served as vizier under Pharaoh Mentuhotep II.
Papa had railed on and on about Mr. Winlock’s find, the hundreds of miniature mortuary figures, some rowing in boats, others guiding oxen.
It had been salt in the wound of our failure to unearth any other objects after the cache of vases last season.
“You are very well-informed,” Mr. Burton replies.
“Well, since I don’t have access to the formal education more and more Egyptologists seem to be getting these days, I must learn other ways. I use independent study, observation in the field, and conversations with experts like you.”
“And Mr. Carter, of course.”
“Especially Mr. Carter,” I add, wanting to leave the conversational niceties behind and move on to the reason I came—to tour the site again. “It must be wonderful to work with an expert like Mr. Winlock.”
“It is. But he’s not at the tomb of Meketre. That’s been cleared and studied. He’s in the hills examining the tomb of a royal servant called Meseh. Supposedly an intact papyrus has been found inside.”
“How exciting,” I remark. Such a find would indeed be noteworthy, as papyri rarely survive the millennia.
“Yes, we hope it proves meaningful. In the meantime, perhaps I could escort you around the temple complex so you can get a sense of the reconstruction efforts.”
“I would be very grateful.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Mr. Burton answers politely, as he leads me toward the first terrace.
We pass groups of workers who are engrossed in the task of reassembling the statuary.
Mr. Burton and I linger at each one, hazarding guesses about the identity of the figures.
When I speculate that one partially reconstructed statue appears to have the head of a lion—and therefore may well be the powerful female goddess Sekhmet—Mr. Burton nods in surprised agreement.
When we reach the first terrace, I wander off by myself for a moment.
Standing between two of the soaring columns, I stare out at the immense courtyard and ramp leading to the terrace, imagining what it would have been like to be Hatshepsut gazing upon her people.
Did she ever find the burden of leadership daunting?
Or was she so confident in her gods-given power to rule that she stood on this terrace with unwavering assurance?
How perfectly the temple is incorporated into the cliffside, I think as I take in the setting.
The temple’s situation is emblematic of the way Hatshepsut herself was meant to be a sacred manifestation of her land.
Even though this is a mortuary complex, and thus would have been fully unveiled only at the time of her death, it would have also served as a reminder of her divine authority during her lifetime.
I know the reliefs that have been reconstructed on the temple walls very well.
Howard had made detailed sketches of them when he worked here and I’ve studied them.
They tell Hatshepsut’s story, the one she needed to craft to support her pharaonic role, anyway.
I pass a carving of her divine conception as a daughter of Amun, a justification for her claim to the throne.
An image of Hatshepsut with her father, Thutmose I, demonstrates her royal lineage and the righteousness of her title.
A wall relief detailing the success of her trade mission to Punt follows, which she displayed to show her prowess as pharaoh.
Taken together, these exquisite images inform viewers that Hatshepsut’s reign was divinely and royally inspired—and a success.
Certainly they exemplify the honorific bestowed upon Hatshepsut that runs underneath these reliefs: “In all her splendor.”
I linger at the more private images scattered around the temple, some on walls and some on pieces of stelae and statues yet to be reassembled.
An exquisite wall etching of Hatshepsut and Thutmose II’s daughter, Neferure, resplendent in elaborate crown, topped with soaring bird.
A relief of Senenmut—Hatshepsut’s “Great treasurer, architect, and chief steward to her daughter, Neferure”—adoring her, in an unusual example of a nonaristocratic person appearing in temple artwork.
Amidst these images, I envision Hatshepsut as she might have been, surrounded by those she loved and loved her in return, and I suddenly feel her presence alive all around me.
“What an appropriately magnificent monument to a pharaoh with such a prosperous reign,” I say to Mr. Burton when he joins me, shaking my head in wonder.
“I mean, she restored trade with Asia, ensured work and food and services for her people, created one of the most ambitious building plans of any pharaoh, and did it all without constant war.”
“You know quite a lot about Hatshepsut.” Mr. Burton nods approvingly.
“As I said, I don’t have access to formal training, so I cobble together bits and pieces wherever I can. Besides”—I pause and smile at this kind man—“Hatshepsut is a particular favorite.”
“I admire her as well”—he leans toward me, as if imparting a secret—“although I’m in the minority.
The prevailing view around here is that she must have been an ambitious and ruthless woman to have climbed so high.
Since women weren’t typically allowed power, she must have seized it through illicit means when her husband, Thutmose the Second, died and her stepson Thutmose the Third assumed the throne.
That sort of thing. Why else would someone have wanted to scratch out every mention of her?
She must have been unnatural, according to some.
Or, at best, manipulated by her courtiers into assuming the throne. ”
“Does Winlock think her co-regency with Thutmose the Third was somehow unlawful as well? Co-regencies with young pharaohs were very common in ancient Egypt,” I point out. “From there, assuming the mantle of the pharaoh wasn’t much of a leap.”
“Let’s just say that Winlock has trouble imagining a woman co-regent—or the idea that Hatshepsut could jump from co-regent to pharaoh without avarice and misdeeds,” he says with an apologetic tilt of his head. “I disagree.”
I’m not surprised by Mr. Winlock’s opinion, simply disappointed.
I’d hoped that a scholar like him might see beyond the commonly held, narrow-minded views about woman rulers.
I’d been optimistic that he might embrace an understanding of Hatshepsut as a civic-minded, upstanding female leader with the blessing of her people.
We amble past more workers as we progress toward the second terrace.
I hesitate when I see six of them gathered around several large granite pieces of statue, chatting excitedly.
They stand before a stone elbow. The corner of a symbol of an ankh.
A lone finger. The drape of clothing over a collarbone.
A full half of a face framed by the very distinctive striped linen nemes.
Suddenly, I can see how all the pieces fit together. And who is represented here.
“That’s Hatshepsut,” I exclaim. “It’s an image of her just as she transitioned from queen to pharaoh.”
Mr. Burton races to my side. “Are you sure? How do you know?”
I point to the granite half face. “Here, lying over the head, is the nemes, which only a pharaoh can wear. And yet”—I point to the stone fragment of clothing—“here you see that the figure is wearing female clothes. You can even see the swell of a breast. This kind of nod to her femininity disappears later in her reign when she embodies the full male pharaoh image.”
“My God, you’re right,” Mr. Burton says.
“There is imagery all over Egypt of Hatshepsut in her changing roles. She is depicted one way as a young princess, another as a queen, still another as a regent, and then finally as a pharaoh. Different clothes, different symbols of power, different physical features even, as she transitions.”
Mr. Burton is staring at me. “My goodness, Lady Evelyn, you should be working here instead of some of the so-called archaeologists we have on staff. You certainly know more.”
I smile at the kindly photographer. How I wish I could work here, among the many faces of Hatshepsut, I think.
What insights I might be able to bring to the understanding of the great ruler.
But these academics would never accept me.
My only entrée into the world of ancient Egypt and Hatshepsut is through Papa—for however long that lasts before society claims me.
Two mustachioed men approach us, each in their stiff, European clothes.
Mr. Burton calls out to them, “Mr. Lansing, Mr. Hauser, I am pleased to present Lady Evelyn Herbert to you. She’s come from the Valley of the Kings concession, the one excavated by her father, Lord Carnarvon, and Howard Carter. ”
The men and I exchange introductions, as we’d not met on my previous visit to Hatshepsut’s temple.
Then Mr. Burton blurts out, “You’ll never believe what Lady Evelyn just discovered.
” I can see that he’s eager to describe my discovery of Hatshepsut in one of the statues that their team is reassembling.
The bespectacled Mr. Hauser asks, “Have you found some artifacts you’d like to offer?
Mr. Carter brought by a lovely early Eighteenth Dynasty toiletry set to us the other day.
It had the usual bronze mirror, razor, and tweezers, but it also contained a most ingenious kohl tube and applicator with a wire loop and bolt to hold the lid. ”
I am perplexed by his query. Why would Howard be selling anything to anyone?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
At the same time Mr. Burton barks out, “What sort of question is that to ask Lady Evelyn?”
Mr. Hauser stares at me and Mr. Burton quizzically. “I just assumed that Lady Evelyn had ‘discovered’ some object we might be interested in. Why wouldn’t she be engaged in the same business as her family—antiquities dealing?”