Well, comes a knock on my hotel door: J. P. O’Toole looking down his nose at me, and next to him a perfectly round little man I recognised from newspaper photographs as Heinz Kovacs, though O’Toole never introduced him, and he barely spoke throughout our meeting. (You remember what happened to Kovacs, I think in the late 1930s? It even made the newspapers in Australia. Jesus, that was ghastly.) In they strode like they owned the place, sat in the chairs by the window, and O’Toole talked at me in his Irish brogue: “You’re a detective, yes. Then haven’t we got a wee spot o’ detecting for you to do.”
We had new clients, Macy, and the first thing I learnt from them was what would drive Finneran to play Holy Family and vanish off to Egypt in the dark of night. In the previous eighteen months, the man had gone well past bankrupt, I can tell you now, seeing as the news certainly comes thirty years too late to prevent your uncle from marrying my Margaret! Yes, Finneran was quite out of money, his shops were in danger, and as I’d deduced, he’d gone to O’Toole and company for sizable sums on several occasions, with quite harsh terms. The last time, he’d sold them on Trilipush and his no-fail Egyptian excavation as a way for him to raise money to pay back his debt. O’Toole and Kovacs had played along, even loaned him more money to buy his share of the expedition, when his credit should’ve been long exhausted. What’s more: “We put money of our own into this venture,” O’Toole said. But now, to their “vast disappointment,” Mr. Finneran had departed for points unknown, leaving only a very vague word that he would repay everything as soon as he’d returned, a very vague date. This far I understood everything, and I was expecting a simple tracking job for us, Macy: they were going to ask us to find an address for their frightened and empty-handed Mr. Finneran-in-Hiding. Off the angry debtor had run in desperate hope of finding his wretched son-in-law-to-be, somehow squeezing money out of the rocks, and now after him would follow the irritable creditors, in the person of Tailor Enquiries Worldwide, Sydney Branch. Not a new story, a case I’d handled a hundred times before, though the details of this edition certainly intrigued. A simple enough task, and not inconvenient, since my itinerary was bound for Egypt anyhow, and one did like to have multiple clients paying expenses.
All correct, but I’d missed one wrinkle. “The man abandons his own home and daughter,” warbles O’Toole, “to run off and spend his ill-gotten gains all alone. Quite a wretched thing to do, you’ll be quick to agree.”
“Ill-gotten gains?” I must’ve sounded a bit thick.
“Quite. We’re owed most of what the professor found, that’s all square and legal, in writing, nothing mysterious about it.”
“It’s in god damned legal writing!” bellows Kovacs, flecking saliva everywhere, the only six words he spoke the whole meeting.
“First, Mr. Ferrell,” continues O’Toole, unaffected, “you’ll discover with precision what amount our friend Mr. Finneran has already received by way of proceeds from the professor’s digging and you’ll report it to me discreetly. You’ll let me know by cable where Mr. Finneran is, and where the gold is, and you’ll await my instructions, which will be explicit.”
This I hadn’t seen coming, had almost forgotten the possibility: O’Toole and Kovacs were entirely convinced by Trilipush’s cables reporting great finds and their share in them. They were sure there was treasure all right, and Finneran had already pocketed his dividends from it, which he should’ve used to pay back his debts, not to mention O’Toole’s and Kovacs’s dividends as well. But instead Finneran had run off to steal it all for himself, they thought. Until this moment, I’d been rather undecided on the question of an actual treasure: either Trilipush had found it and was planning to run off with it, or he’d never found it and had just taken Finneran’s money to burnish his appearance to find some new victim to steal more money from in turn, to pay for his deprivations and his English estates. The question of actual treasure hardly mattered to my murder case, but O’Toole and Kovacs were believers. Did they think Trilipush was in on it with Finneran, the two of them were off stealing the gold together? “Don’t be daft,” O’Toole said. “Why would Trilipush wire us the news if he means to cheat us? No, the professor’s on the up and up.” O’Toole and Kovacs feared worse than that: either Finneran had already received money he’d no right to and now had sailed off with it never to be seen again, or he’d gone to Egypt to steal even more of O’Toole and Kovacs’s winnings by ambushing Trilipush and lifting the whole load. “We don’t care one way or the other what becomes of the Englishman,” admitted O’Toole. “However, if as a result of anything untoward happening to him, then the number of partners is reduced by one, and our percentage of the final haul grows accordingly. But, to give our Chester the benefit of the doubt, he may be going over to secure the entire pie in some fashion that should not offend us silent partners. I could certainly understand this in his situation, and so be it, since this would mean he could acquit more of his responsibilities to us. And if that’s the man’s honourable intent, then that’s cheering and fine with us, and he can come home in perfect confidence. Tell him that from me, detective.”
We’d a peculiar brief, Macy, and things unsaid hovered, thick-like.
I set off to New York on the 3rd and caught the steamer for Alexandria on the 12th. I felt refreshed and daily stronger. Leaving America was just the ticket, and I remember standing on the deck, despite the swirling snow in New York Harbour, looking out to sea and knowing that we were coming to the end now, the end of ambiguity, the end of lies and hidden truths, of wealth protecting evil.
Finneran had taken his partners’ money into his own accounts to send to Egypt. What had happened to it? He told me he never sent it. Did he lie? Either he’d wired that money to Trilipush or he hadn’t. Meanwhile, either Trilipush had found his treasure or he hadn’t. If he had, either Finneran was going to steal it or Trilipush already had and Finneran was trying to stop him. Either way, Trilipush was in immediate lethal danger from none other than Finneran, and ironically, I was Trilipush’s best hope for protection. I hoped I wouldn’t be too late. Finneran wanted revenge or treasure or both—I’d seen that clear enough. But I didn’t want any more death in the desert, Macy, not I. Your aunt deserved better, and besides, the murders of Hugo Marlowe and Paul Caldwell, murders of which I no longer had the slightest doubt, were still to be accounted for, and I would not be thwarted. Justice and truth in the person of an Australian detective and his young American assistant were closing in on the malefactor. Would they arrive before petty vengeance and greed (in the person of a Boston businessman) reared their ancient and immortal heads?
Saturday, 2 December, 1922
WALL PANEL B: “THE MAGNIFICENT RISE TO POWER OFATUM-HADU, FINAL LORD OF THE TWO KINGDOMS”
Text: Atum-hadu—may he live mingled with the body of the god and in the company of Isis for one million years—was strong and brave. He made himself a soldier in the army of the old king Djedneferre Dudimose, who had seen the Lower Kingdom consumed by enemies as the young of a turtle are consumed by even an extremely lazy crocodile. Foreigners from the north and east plundered. Little men near the mouth of the Nile dressed themselves as kings just as children do but killed those who would not play with them. The few victories in these days came from the bite of Atum-hadu’s arrows. All who saw him knew that Montu [the god of war—RMT] favoured him.
When at last General Atum-hadu seemed to have stopped the million enemies, the old king called for this son of Seth. Atum-hadu came to Thebes. The court was full of animals and acrobats, but there was not food. The people had their heads upon their knees, and had no desires. There was fear.
Atum-hadu [entered] the palace. He was beautiful and strong and bloodied from battle. He was rubbed with oils, given food and drink, and he took a young woman whose limbs pleased him, and no one knew if they should tell him that she was the old king’s newest queen. Behind a curtain she showed Atum-hadu the colour of her limbs, and he was pleased. A messenger brought Atum-hadu to the king.
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bsp; Illustration: The animals are not bad, it must be admitted, and show a certain improvement in style over Wall Panel A. The vast illustrations must have taken hours if not days to complete, and the artist’s skills progress over the course of the wall; he controls his materials better, with less dripping. I would draw the tourist’s eye to the depiction of the young Atum-hadu, embracing a woman with a warrior’s hunger, then feeding dates to a giraffe. I would point out the tenderness displayed in his obvious love for the animals of the dying king’s menagerie. The court of Djedneferre Dudimose is depicted with great care, and the array of statuary, furnishings, flower-garlanded pillars, and other trappings of royal power is elegantly achieved. The couch with the carved lion-head footboards, upon which Atum-hadu takes the reigning queen (with her remarkable birthmark), is a marvel of decorative arts, both as a painting and as it must have once appeared (and perhaps still does in an unopened chamber, or a nearby tomb annex elsewhere in Deir el Bahari). The broad lapis necklaces on the court’s women are jewellery depictions of the first order.
Analysis: We have confirmation of Atum-hadu’s historical context, as he comes after Djedneferre Dudimose, until now recognised as the last king of the XIIIth Dynasty.
Journal: Tired from my translation and transcription. Wedge my door into place and hobble down to the ferry. No post. Bank closed—a pity, as I am hoping that O’Toole and the other partners might take up the responsibilities CCF has so far fumbled. Feed the cats, though now I must approach the villa with as much discretion as I do the tomb. Return to my work after a sad and prolonged farewell to Maggie and the Rameses.
WALL PANEL C: “ATUM-HADU IS CHOSEN BYTHE DYING KING DJEDNEFERRE DUDIMOSE”
Text: The old king, Horus resident in the palace, could not rise. He said, “General Atum-hadu, I have lived 110 years. All around me are those that hunger to be king, though I cannot say why, as there will never again be joy in the black land. I do not fear death, Atum-hadu, but I fear that all that we have received will be lost. Guidance must be preserved for those who might someday restore our land. I pray there is time for scribes to write the glory of our past and hide the texts. This is all one can hope the next king might achieve, and even for this strength will be necessary. No man who is clever would wish to be king, but only a man who is clever can succeed. My ministers are not clever, and so they scheme for the throne. Atum-hadu, will you take my grand-daughter’s daughter? Take that girl and our two kingdoms and our palace and our land and all the people of the land.” And Atum-hadu said, “I will have them, King, though long will you still rule in health and life.” And Djedneferre Dudimose said, “Oh, yes, of course, and crocodiles will fly. But now in seriousness, will you vanquish the priests and ministers who would see you fail?” “I will.” “And will you, with your strength, preserve what can be preserved of the story of our land before night falls?” “I will.” “And will you forsake all other tasks and pleasures to preserve and hide our glories?” “I will. I will do all that and more, King. I will drive out the invaders. I will defeat the rebels in the Delta. I will make the two kingdoms whole and strong to the sea. I will see the gods worshipped correctly as they have not been for many years. I will give to you many descendants, and I will assure your name is sung by all.” And Djedneferre Dudimose said, “Do not exhaust yourself before you have taught my pet monkeys to shoot bows and arrows. Now stop talking. You have been surrounded by enemies from the moment you entered my chamber. Except for your queen-to-be and my Master of Largesse, who will support you. Forsake glory, it is too late. Only strive to preserve the memory of our great land.” And the king was seized in the doom of death.
Atum-hadu called for the court. “The king has been seized in the doom of death,” he said. “And behold before you Horus resident in the palace.” And he slew the treacherous ministers. He called for papyrus, and he wrote a verse, and he told the scribes that they were to write about all of the land but only Atum-hadu would write about Atum-hadu. Then the Master of Largesse fell to his knees and swore fealty. Then Atum-hadu took as his queen the daughter of the daughter of the daughter of the dead king, and he moored himself to her and explored her grotto, and was well pleased.
Seventy days passed, and the Overseers of the Secrets finished preparing the mummy of the old king, great Djedneferre Dudimose. Atum-hadu sent everyone away and with his own hands carried the king’s mummy to a secret place and buried him with his books and treasures and food, and sealed the tomb himself.
Illustration: A few highlights. We have here in the old king’s retorts what is perhaps the first example of sarcasm in recorded history, and if this wall were more forgiving, it would be clear that the artist intended to depict the old king rolling his eyes at Atum-hadu’s boastful plans, as if to say, “You do that, Atum-hadu. Tell me all about it in the underworld.” One would see also the dying king’s panicked frustration that the young buck was not taking the king’s assignment seriously but was instead preparing to hold power for conventional reasons without taking the historical, last-man-turns-out-the-lights task to heart. Unfortunately, the artist was forced to paint on this dimpled and uneven stone, particularly bumpy here at Wall Panel C, quite difficult enough just to draw the glyphs, and was no doubt, after all this painting and composition, exhausted, hungry, dirty, thirsty, in pain, and swimming in smoke.
Analysis: Obviously, I do not know what anonymous scribe and artist decorated these walls, and the painstaking work of copying down the glyphs and translating the vast inscriptions into my notebook, all while carefully double-checking against my philology texts and the Budge dictionary, is taking a great deal of time, so I cannot say what is still to come. But I can say this: for those who are not experts, allow me to clarify what I have discovered in these wall chronicles so far: the clear determination of royal succession at the previously blurred end of the XIIIth Dynasty, an explanation for the lost tomb of the previously debatable Djedneferre Dudimose, further details of the life of the unquestionably real Atum-hadu, and a crystal-clear explanation as to why the only written proof of Atum-hadu’s name had previously been found in the Admonitions written by the king himself. Carnarvon shall be the second man allowed in this chamber in 3500 years, and I will relish his dawning excitement at what all this might mean!
Sunday, 3 December, 1922
WALL PANEL D: “THE EARLY YEARS OF THE REIGN OF ATUM-HADU,FINAL KING OF THE TWO LANDS”
Text: For ten floodings of the Nile, Atum-hadu made good his boasts. The Hyksos were stopped.
Where Atum-hadu ruled, business was conducted and crops gathered and the gods were worshipped and the scribes did as the old king instructed and the permanent night was held at bay and the palace was lit not by the fire of war but by the heart of Atum-hadu, a master of all things, the incarnation of Horus, but also of Atum, and with his own hand he created the world anew for the pleasure of his people.
Atum-hadu brought the wicked men of his youth to see his palace. He showed them the vast array of foods. They hungered at all they saw but were not permitted to eat, while Atum-hadu bit into a plum wrapped in a map of the night sky. The king gave his visitors a chance to apologise for rudeness delivered to the king when he was a boy. At dinner, the priest of his childhood was skewered like a veal and placed over the flame, and Atum-hadu spoke quietly to the large man, who wept in his anguish like a little boy. “Are you sorry?” Atum-hadu asked quietly. “I am, I am, master.” “And do you think that your regret suffices?” “I do not know, master.” “It does not. You stole something of mine, and it is not in your power to return it.” “Tell me, great king and master, how I may serve you now.” “Are you suffering?” “I am.” “That is all the service I require of you.” And Atum-hadu called for the priest’s nieces and sisters and mother to be brought, and this surprised the priest, and in front of the dying priest the king engaged with the women of the priest’s family in different combinations, sometimes with violence and weeping. Later the doom of death seized the priest, and when Atum-hadu deemed his
flesh cooked, Atum-hadu removed him from the skewer himself and sliced pieces of the man’s flesh, which he fed to the animals of the court. The priest’s heart Atum-hadu did feed to the favoured royal dogs so this man’s name and ka are forever forgotten.
Illustration: The wall seems to have been more forgiving here, and this text is accompanied by an illustration that again shows the artist’s gradual technical improvement. In the most affecting of the dozens of scenes, the priest—naked, splayed, pierced most brutally, his muscular form no defence now against the grown and vengeful king—sobs. Atum-hadu’s face displays an expression of relief, as if this exercise brought the king some measure of peace.
Analysis: This is a remarkable passage for two reasons. First, if historically accurate, it allows us a glimpse of the inner man, a man tormented even at the heights of royal power by his thirst to avenge his childhood. His soldiers were sent to gather his enemies, and his vengeance sessions (apparently more than one) were choreographed to provide him the maximum pleasure and his former tormentors the maximum shame and pain. Second, the story itself was of such importance to the king that it was included as an element of his illustrated biography to carry with him to the underworld.
Per immortality, it should be noted that the destruction of the priest’s heart would mean that he could never be admitted into the underworld, where every applicant’s heart is examined and weighed against a feather prior to admission. And, for good measure, Atum-hadu made sure that the priest’s very name would never again be uttered in this world, further insurance that immortality was impossible for the roasting, rotten priest.
The Egyptologist Page 32
