Chapter Fifty-Nine
VALLEY OF THE KINGS, EGYPT
Chairs are arranged in a semicircle before Tutankhamun’s chamber as if it’s a stage.
The rows face the only remaining objects in the antechamber—the two black-and-gold guardian statues.
The nearly six-foot-high figures stand as wardens against the ancient wall we will be tearing into today.
They’ve been guarding against the intrusion of the present into the past for millennia, and today we will be relieving them of their charge.
Howard and Papa pace the area in front of the statues, their nerves obviously on edge.
In order to enter the tomb, everyone here today has to pass by the press, who, along with the tourists, arrived in feluccas, donkeys, sand carts, and horse-drawn cabs and are camped outside the tomb on the hills.
The journalists’ ire over being squeezed out of the story has increased as today’s ceremony approached, especially that of the Egyptian reporters, and they’ve made no secret of it.
They hurled epithets at Papa and Howard, and barraged guests progressing toward the tomb with questions.
Egypt has perpetuated itself through the ages, I think to myself, shouldn’t this new generation—including its reporters—have the opportunity to rest on the laurels of the old?
I feel torn between my allegiance to Papa and Howard, with their promise of ongoing archaeological work, and my sympathy for this Egyptian position.
When the seats fill and the guests—archaeologists like Mr. Winlock; government officials; the Times representative; Uncle Aubrey; and the unanticipated Beauchamps, of course—settle down, Papa clears his throat and offers his welcome, and then Howard gives his speech.
Taken together, their words express appreciation for all the support they’ve received and endeavor to anchor this discovery in the annals of history.
Most guests aren’t familiar with Tutankhamun, and Howard attempts to share a bit about his New Kingdom reign and his most important legacy, the restoration of the polytheistic ancient Egyptian religion after his father, Akhenaten, attempted a shift toward a monotheism with the sun god Aten.
Howard then holds out his pick and begins to chip away at the mortar.
Because we’ve already undertaken this exercise in the dead of night nearly three months ago, I know that the audience will receive a glimpse of the interior soon.
Before my watch shows that a half hour has passed, I hear a gasp from Lady Beauchamp.
Quite to my surprise, the normally reserved woman stands and cries out, “I see gold!”
The rest of the guests rise, craning for a look.
At Papa’s signal, Howard allows a single-file line of onlookers to peer through the opening he’s just created.
When it’s my turn, I see what I expect—a corner of the ornate gilded box.
Howard and I exchange a brief smile, and then the audience members are quickly shepherded back to their seats.
The removal of a portion of the wall large enough for people to enter will take some time.
How I wish this excitement had landed on the worthier Hatshepsut, I can’t help but think. It’s hard to see all this fuss for a pharaoh who only ruled for nine years, when a magnificent, impactful ruler lies uncelebrated somewhere nearby in the Valley of the Kings.
Howard returns to his labors; and ladies, some in impractical silk dresses, pull fans from their purses.
Even though the tomb entrance is open to the elements, the air is close, still, and very warm.
If these hothouse flowers knew what it’s like to actually excavate they might not be even temporarily enamored of Egyptology, I think.
I glance over at Brograve, who appears every bit as enthralled as the other guests but not the least deterred by the heat.
It bodes well. He catches my eye, and we smile at each other.
The minutes tick by, and then an hour. A few of the guests leave the tomb for some fresh air, but quickly return.
The bombardment by reporters is too intense.
Finally, finally, at the two-hour mark, the opening is large enough for even our biggest guests to squeeze in, and Howard motions for me and Papa to come over.
Stepping through the hole and three feet down into the tabernacle, as Papa has taken to calling it, we enter Tutankhamun’s inner sanctum.
Torches leading the way, we walk the narrow perimeter of the room, gazing in wonder at the glorious scenes of Tutankhamun in the underworld decorating the walls, the colors as vivid as the day they were painted three thousand years ago.
Papa reaches for my hand as we turn to admire the enormous pink quartzite sarcophagus etched with images of goddesses protecting Tutankhamun with outstretched wings.
The gold box I’d briefly glimpsed and assumed was his coffin is actually a sumptuous gilded canopic shrine surrounded by statues of Isis, Nephthys, Neith, and Sereket.
Amidst all this splendor, the objects that move me aren’t the lavish gilt ones.
They are the hopeful, human ones. “Howard, look,” I call to him, pointing out the wooden items leaning against the corner of the chamber, “it’s the seven oars that Tutankhamun believed necessary to ferry him to the afterlife.
” In this moment, I feel less like a discoverer and more like an invader into Tutankhamun’s very private past.
Speechless, overwhelmed, and awestruck, we pause while Egypt’s director of antiquities, Pierre Lacau, takes a turn through the burial chamber. For fifteen long minutes, he strings electric cables and lights, and we then summon the rest of the guests. One by one, they tread into this sacred space.
Papa, Howard, and I wait near the antechamber entrance to say farewell to the guests as they exit the tomb.
Standing in this hot, dusty three-thousand-year-old room, I feel like I’m part of the world’s strangest receiving line.
I keep my eyes on the Beauchamps, who I’d instructed to enter the tomb last so they could head directly to Castle Carter with Papa and me after we closed up the tomb.
We’d planned a dinner party at Howard’s house for this evening.
The months since discovering Tutankhamun have been exhilarating, but filled with pressure and turmoil, and everyone could use a night of mindless celebration without a journalist in sight.
As Brograve and I leave the stuffy darkness of the tomb behind and head outside into the blinding sun, whispering excitedly about the treasures, I see that the reporters are ready to pounce.
They’ve assembled into groups, and are inundating everyone exiting the tomb with a litany of inquiries.
Two of the workmen are doing their best to defuse the situation, and I’m about to guide the Beauchamps, with Ahmed’s help, into a vehicle headed to Castle Carter, when I hear Papa and Howard yelling at each other.
Depositing the Beauchamps in the automobile and excusing myself, I head back into the tomb. There, Papa and Howard stand face-to-face, red-faced and screaming.
“This is not a goddamn play in the West End,” Howard shouts.
“This is the biggest archaeological discovery of all time. If we continue to shut down our work to let your friends in for private tours, who knows what damage will occur to the artifacts? And we will be unlikely to finish cataloguing and storing the artifacts before the season is over. Not to mention we leave ourselves wide open for the tomb robbers.”
“Carter,” Papa yells back. He only ever uses Howard’s last name when he’s angry. “I’m not asking you to halt your progress indefinitely—just for a few weeks, for a few key people. I can hardly refuse a tour to the Queen of the Belgians or the dowager sultana!”
“That’s exactly the sort of thinking that has turned this excavation into a bloody circus!”
“Be careful what you say, Carter. You seem to be forgetting that I’m paying for this circus,” Papa seethes.
“With money you got from the Times for its damned exclusive coverage!” he parries.
“How bloody stupid could you be? Cutting out the Egyptian press from the biggest story ever to come out of their own country? How could you not realize that you’ve handed a match to the nationalists—maybe even to Zaghloul himself—to light the flame of their new government?
A government that will want to keep Tutankhamun for itself! ”
“How dare you—” Papa shoves Howard, who responds in kind. But we both know that Howard is right. The nationalists have seized upon Tutankhamun as a symbol of Egyptian prowess and independence.
I’ve had enough of this behavior.
Inserting myself between the two men, I place a hand each on Papa’s and Howard’s shoulders.
Then I shout back. “Enough! What’s done is done.
We have to find a way to manage this extraordinary situation, one we are lucky to find ourselves in.
And given that you two seem unable to play together nicely at the moment, I am going to separate you for a bit until you cool down. ”
Papa sputters, and Howard stares. I don’t think either one of them has ever seen me in the fullness of my personality. I drop the pleasing facade and take charge.
“Howard, you will announce a temporary closure of the tomb, to ensure its stability. Make up whatever excuse you need in order to do so. You can continue to work on it behind the scenes, however. I do know the time left in the season is short. But there will be no more tours for the time being. The Queen of the Belgians will have to wait.”
I turn to my father, who looks depleted and diminished, even ill, after all this strife.
“Papa, you and I are going to take a break from Luxor for several days. No tomb, no Winter Palace, no interactions with the press, no tense meetings with the government. Howard will send you regular updates, but you will otherwise rest on board a dahabiya as we sail south to Aswan, which I will organize with the Winter Palace manager.”
I glare at each of them in turn. Neither man can meet my eyes, but they stare sheepishly at the ground. “When we come back together, we will have a firm plan—for the press, for the government, and for this tomb. The past deserves a respectful present.”