Meneg drew a long, heavier sigh and turned his eyes once again to the unfinished wood carving before him. Anubis the jackal, this great, wise animal god, would be guardian to the king’s tomb. The old wood carver had executed such a piece many times before and ordinarily it presented no difficulty to him, but on this occasion he was without the passion he had felt in times past. As he steeled himself to continue his work, he looked towards the darkened pyramid of natural rock that dominated his skyline, its silhouette crisply cut against a backdrop of violet evening light.
Meneg blinked. He was tired and his eyes were having difficulty accommodating themselves to the closeness of the work, especially in the subdued twilight. Glancing up to absorb the remaining drops of sunlight he caught sight of a dark, slim figure moving with some determination across the entrance to the alleyway.
The jackal stopped and scratched itself. It stood still with ears erect, listening for any sound that might betray the ubiquitous rodent. At the same time it sniffed the air, searching the odours of the evening cook fires. The dog’s silhouette was poorly contrasted with the dim background of the closely packed houses, but as his eyes once more became accustomed to the dimness Meneg could clearly make out the familiar shape. Elegant in stature, slender of build the pickings were slim for a scavenger in the desert long and bushy of tail, aquinine in snout, large and erect stiletto like ears a fitting guardian to any king. Above all he was black, death black as the most moonless of nights. Observing the flowing lines of his live form helped lift Meneg’s spirits.
The jackal turned its head to look down the street at the figure crouched behind the partially formed piece of wood. There was something familiar about the shape but no recognisable scent. As the animal turned its head forward once more, the light of an oil lamp in a nearby porch flushed the retina of one eye and, for an instant, a blood red spot of light flashed back at Meneg.
Impressionable as always, a deep fear conjured within the old wood carver. ‘The god speaks! The king on his funeral barque is impatient for his escort to the afterlife. He is angered at my slothfulness, at my carelessness, at my loss of purpose. This is a warning!’
As the dog loped away, the energy of fear welled within Meneg. He turned back to his work and picked up a scoop shaped copper chisel. He instinctively tested it for sharpness with a stroke of his left thumb. A tiny bead of blood squeezed from the shallow cut. Meneg licked it with his tongue and set to work. The skilled, old hands began working around the chest of the figure, bringing the bones of the ribcage up in high, deliberate relief. A sublime confidence built within him. He felt the familiar inner assurance that, after all, the outcome of this work would be as good as any he had yet created.
This Anubis, black as pitch and elegantly lying on its charge, would watch over the king, protect his body and his disembowelled organs, and stand vigil beside the ark of his voyage through all eternity.
It was early spring. The Upper and Lower Niles would shortly have a new king, new rules and, in its own way in the order of things, a new way of life. The boy king was dead murdered, some said taken from his people prematurely after a reign of little more than early promise. Certainly it had been sudden a terrible bleeding from the nose one night. He never awoke to cry out. And now there was much to be done and very little time.
As was the custom, the site for his tomb had been selected at the time of his coronation. The entrance had been cut at the base of the cliff face within the extreme upper reaches of The West Valley, closer to the sunset. But that had been only nine years ago. Excavation had been progressing without any sense of urgency. As the traditions of the period dictated, the design laid out lengthy corridors and intermittent processional staircases which would extend ever deeper inside the valley flank, joining one palatial chapel to the next and culminating in the burial chamber. Smaller, ancillary store rooms would supplement the larger chambers. But at the time of the king’s death the masons had barely started on the well room. Within the time remaining before the funeral there was no way now that this tomb could be completed as originally intended.
An almost finished but much smaller sepulchre, originally selected for a noble who was yet still living, lay in the bottom of The East Valley, close to its centre and almost opposite the similarly small tomb of his brother. This became requisitioned as the boy king’s final resting place. Ultimately it would consist of just four rooms clustered together and separated only by the thickness of their shared walls. As the king’s body was prepared for mummification the rooms of the tomb were hurriedly enlarged to hold the multitude of grave goods, the walls being dressed by as many masons as the cavity could effectively accommodate.
The artisans had a little over two months before the funerary ceremonies would begin.
Chapter Two
A Beginning
Thousands away in time and space...
Norfolk a boy in his early teens bicycles through country lanes resplendent with the anxious, frenzied life of spring. The lad’s appearance is not remarkable. He is small for his years, rather thin, and his skin tone is pale, but a strength of character and single-mindedness shows in the lean face. His chin juts out strongly, the mouth is full lipped, the cheekbones are high, and the nose long and prominent. Beneath the thick eyebrows the eyes are a deep brown.
He cycles in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his jacket rolled up in the pannier strapped to the handlebars. He wears a tie thickly knotted at the neck and his best trousers, clipped at the ankles. There is determination in his pedalling. Pushing his body forward over the handlebars, he presses purposefully ahead.
With the spring weather so gently sunny it is a pleasant ride. Best of all, he is alone, away from the over indulgent care of his two aunts and the confines of their modest cottage in Swaffham. He is on his way to an environment that could not be more different.
He takes the sweeping single lane road that bypasses the villages of Cockley Clay and Foulden. Like a verdant corridor it runs between tall hedgerows across almost imperceptibly rolling countryside. The odd cock pheasant, casual and indefinite in his direction, fat from the bounty of spring and unaware he has been luckily spared by the hunter, waits in confusion and at the last moment moves out of his way. Just after Swaffham Gap the boy turns off to the right along a narrow track until he reaches Didlington hamlet. Here the road divides about a tiny triangle of grass. In the centre of the triangle stands a solitary parish notice board announcing forthcoming local diocesan events and little else. The lad cycles off to the left.
Almost immediately he spies the old church enclosed within its small graveyard on the far side of the field ahead. The clear, bright morning light reflects off the flint knapped walls still unsoftened by years of inclement British weather. As if studded with diamonds, the building virtually sparkles. The boy stops and dismounts.
His birthright has endowed him with a sensitive artistic skill and an eye for detail. He has his drawing instruments with him and settles down on the grass verge with his sketchbook open on his knees. Tongue licking lips in the intensity of his concentration, his delicate pencil strokes accurately follow the outlines created by those who had laboured to build the place. He is very precise. He makes no errors. Each of the headstones in the churchyard leaning, mildewed, many now anonymous from the attrition of time each is faithfully documented. In twenty minutes a near perfect copy has been transferred to paper. He records at the bottom, ‘St Michael and All Angels, Didlington. Howard Carter, 1888’.
He gathers up his things, picks up his bicycle, returns his drawing pad and instruments to the basket on the handlebars and pedals on. The entrance to the grounds of the hall itself is no more than a short walk south of the church. He free wheels up to the massive front door, dismounts and places the bike against the outer wall. The butler had seen him coming and the door opens before he can reach for the bell pull.
“Hullo, George,” he says. “Is his lordship in?”
“Yes, sir. And m’lady is on the terrace playing b
all games with the children.”
“Oh.” He has not come to play. But it is customary and polite for him to present himself first to the lady of the house. “Perhaps then I should go and join them. Thereafter maybe they will permit me some time in the library.”
“Of course, sir.”
“First, though, I have a picture for you.” Howard pulls out his sketchpad and tears off the drawing of the church. “I hope you will like it.”
“Sir. How kind.” The butler regards the drawing for a moment. “His lordship’s family church. A very faithful rendition, sir. You are very good, you know. I will get my wife to find a suitable frame for it. Thank you, sir.”
“Oh, George, it’s nothing. Certainly not worth a frame. A memory... for your scrapbook.”
“Thank you all the same, sir.”
Howard trots through the house and out through the tall French windows at the rear. Typical of such a home the garden is a designed affair, walled all about. The back of the house is laid out to an immaculately manicured grass terrace. This falls away to a large croquet lawn backed by formal flowerbeds enclosing an ornamental pond. A classical stone arbour, festooned with clematis, overlooks the pond.
Before he casts his eyes on the group playing below the terrace, he looks to his left. Spread evenly along the rear façade are seven elegant, serenely seated stone statues of Egyptian goddesses. They stare fixedly out over the alien estate toward the southeast and a distant land of contrasts, a land of barren sand and luxuriant greenery; their land, the land they had previously inhabited undisturbed for millennia. Their enigmatic expressions, their cold, bland, open eyes, give no hint of personality. But, for the young Howard Carter, the silent conversations he had held with them during previous visits to Didlington held more magic and delight than he could ever get from engaging the very English souls that now surround him.
He is jolted out of his preoccupation by a greeting from the lawn below.
Lady Amherst, the energetic young mother of the house, waves to him from beside the pond. Well aware of her station in life she gives the boy, whom both she and her husband have grown to like very much, a friendly but not overly familiar welcome.
Although his mind is not focused on garden and ball games, he converses in politely trivial pleasantries with the menagerie of ladies and children for as long as he can stand. When the conversation turns to the latest styles in haberdashery he finally spots his moment.
Howard asks if he might be excused and go to the library to talk with his lordship. “If he is not too busy with other things, ma’am.”
“Summon Amherst, George, if you would be so kind. And tell him Master Carter has need of his attention in the library.”
The boy politely takes his leave of the garden group and purposefully struts back into the house to seek out the library. At every visit he has felt stunned by the sheer multitude of objects it contains. He walks through the double doors directly to the piece he first wishes to examine. The small ushabti lies in its usual place on a table alongside a number of similar objects. He picks the figure up gently and with a light puff, blows off the dust. He regards it closely. The colours are paled by time. As it lies in his right palm he runs his left forefinger over its painted face, along the arms crossed over its chest, over the abdomen and legs covered with hieroglyphs. He tries to picture where it had originally lain, probably little more than twenty feet from the dead king for whom it was supposed to serve the Pharaoh whose needs it was commanded to satisfy throughout the tortuous labyrinth of the afterlife.
This is the reason he comes to this place the sight and touch of the Amhersts’ collection of Egyptian antiquities; their personal historical commentary and good counsel; their answers to his questions. Both husband and wife were much accomplished in the Egyptology of the time.
Lord Amherst is not long in coming. He is not a large man and is still relatively young. He has fair hair, straight combed on either side of his face to just over his ears, a well trimmed moustache, deep eyes, and the receding bottom lip attributed so often by commoners as an affliction symptomatic of the aristocracy. But he is a highly educated man with a natural sensitivity, the talent and the pocket for picking out the very best of ancient Egyptian artefacts. He very much enjoys talking with one so young and who takes such an active interest in the subject. Such encounters bring welcome relief to the business and social burdens of the office he holds.
“Howard, m’lad!” he exclaims, as if he has not seen the boy for ages. “I have a new acquisition which I have been anxiously waiting to show you. Put that down and come over here. Tell me first what you think. Then I will fill you in!”
Lord Amherst beckons the boy over to the darker, furthest corner of the room. Being distant from the small windows, the area is poorly illuminated; the dark stained, oak panelled walls absorb what little light falls on them.
“What do you think of that?” Amherst asks expectantly.
As he moves over to the area his lordship is pointing to, the boy’s eyes become more accustomed to the gloom. He begins to make out a large object, somewhat larger than life-size and upright, humanoid in shape. As he approaches within an arm’s length, the full, imposing majesty, beauty, reverence and sheer size of the wooden, mummiform coffin absorb all his senses. He is dumbstruck. He stares back at Amherst with his mouth agape.
His lordship is full of himself. He begins telling the lad how he came to acquire the piece from where, from whom, from what time and the name of the mummy it had once contained. Howard examines the painting on the coffin. In the midst of his excitement he barely hears Amherst’s lecturing. Nevertheless the grandee’s words become firmly fixed in the catalogue of his mind. He will have no trouble recalling them. The immediate registration and clear recollection of such facts are quite natural to the boy.
Now seventeen years of age, Howard Carter continued to spend much of his time at the Amhersts’, but, on the few days that he had sufficient money to take the train up to London, he would make his way to the British Museum. There he would squat amongst the Egyptian exhibits with a pad of cartridge paper across his knees, and a palette of watercolour paints on the stone floor beside him. He would pick out a sculpture, mix up a wash of colour similar to the hue of the stone and spread it across the page. Taking a pencil he would sketch the shape, faithfully reproducing the bold, smooth line of the ancient artist. He resisted the temptation to restore the original vividness of the colours. The mixtures of paint he used were subdued, very much on the pale side and true to today.
The public tapped across the paved floors from exhibit to exhibit, pausing now and then but for far too short a time to truly appreciate the presence of the piece before them. Over the years the lad had trained himself to become oblivious to the traffic around him. The work took concentration and a steady hand.
He was so focused on his work that he barely felt the gentle touch of a woman’s silk gloved hand on his shoulder. “Lady Amherst!” he exclaimed, startled and almost embarrassed at the interruption. He scrambled to his feet. “How nice to see you, m’lady.”
He held up the almost finished watercolour in his left hand. “Do you... Do you like it?”
She took it from him and studied it at arm’s length, glancing once or twice at the statue he had copied.
“You are so good at this, Howard,” she said. “You bring life to dead things. Look,” she continued hastily, “now I have interrupted you I must tell you why I am here. This meeting is no accident. Your brother William told me you would be here all day, so I came quickly up to town to bring you what I hope will be most agreeable news.... Howard, how would you like to go to Egypt... to the excavations taking place there... all expenses paid, plus a little very little I’m afraid pocket money besides?”
In his surprise Carter dropped his paintbrush on the floor. He quickly bent down to pick it up and replace it in his palette. He closed the lid carefully and pulled himself back up to his feet. “What...? What for? I mean... to do what, Lady Am
hurst?”
“Why, just what you are doing here, of course. Doing what you do best. Mr Newberry is someone who needs a fellow to help him copy the wall paintings at Beni Hasan and I have told him of you and your skills and he has agreed to take you providing your work meets with the approval of Mr Griffith, of course...”
“Mr... Mr Griffith?”
“...And there are other projects there, besides, at least two of which his lordship is supporting. What do you think of that, now?”
The teenager couldn’t believe his ears. He was in shock and unable to grasp the sense of purpose in her words. All he could summon in response was, “When?”
“We start right now,” Lady Amherst said, “right here. I am to take you downstairs to Mr Griffith’s rooms. He is not expecting us but he will receive us. The BM has much to thank the Amhersts for.”
“But I... I don’t think I am ready for this...”
“Nonsense!” Lady Amherst tugged at his sleeve so hard he almost dropped his sketchpad. Stumbling to recover his composure, he kicked his watercolour paint box across the floor.
“Pick it up and follow me, Howard. No time to lose. I have come a long way just for this. I am not of a mind to return to the Hall without the satisfaction of knowing that you have been accepted.”
“But my parents... My aunts...” he wittered on.
With the single-minded determination and self-centredness that accompanies wealth, she ignored his pleading and led him down the marble staircase to a solid door emblazoned with gold lettering: ‘EGYPTOLOGY ARCHIVE’.
Tutankhamun Uncovered Page 4
