by Overton, Max
Cases containing scraps of papyrus and shards of pottery followed, but Bashir's interest waned, though Rusul attempted to make it interesting. He described how paper was made from the papyrus reeds, and parchment from the hides of animals, and then talking about the clays used to make the fragments of pots on display.
Bashir stifled a yawn. "Perhaps I could see the other Eighteenth Dynasty exhibits now?" he asked.
"Of course, Minister. Please follow me."
They ascended to the first floor and entered the hall of Tutankhamen. Gilded furniture and tables inlaid with ebony and lapis, ivory and faience greeted Bashir's wide-eyed gaze. Little figurines--human shaped but animal-headed--stared back at him, and his eyes were drawn to the splendid death mask of the young king, molten gold in the warm glow of the spotlights. The face of the boy-king, framed by a gold and blue striped nemes headdress, showed a calm acceptance of his position as pharaoh, his painted eyes fixed upon eternity and the false beard of kingship jutting incongruously from his clean-shaven visage.
Bashir stared at the gold and felt his heart beat faster. Somewhere out there was another tomb as rich as this one had been, and if he found it, none of the artefacts would languish in a museum, being gawked at by tourists. The great wealth would be his.
"Where is the mummy of the king?" he asked.
"It is in storage in the basement," Rusul replied. "Many things were put on display in the museum but other things stayed there, including the mummy in its sarcophagus. One day, we may even return it to the tomb so he can truly rest in peace."
The account of the discovery of Tutankhamen's tomb in the Valley of the Kings in 1922 by Howard Carter was displayed in framed posters on the walls of the hall, together with numerous photographs of the tomb as it was when it had been discovered. Cabinets lined the hall also, containing a mass of artefacts from the tomb, jewellery, toys, baskets and weapons. Bashir wandered along, peering into the glass-topped cabinets, but soon lost interest, returning to the boy-king's golden mask. He stared at it, mesmerised by the blank golden gaze of the long-dead youth. Eventually, he tore himself away and turned to Rusul.
"Where to next?"
"May I suggest the Hall of Akhet-Aten?" Rusul suggested. "The findings at el-Amarna?"
Rusul led the way into the next hall, a chamber dominated by a head-and-shoulders statue of Pharaoh Akhenaten at one end and a glorious representation of the sun's disk at the other. The painted Aten extended its rays downward, each one ending in a little hand, some of which held the ankh, symbol of life. It reminded Bashir of the painting of the Aten in the first chamber back in Syria.
"Impressive," Bashir murmured. "And the king's quite...how do I put it? Deformed?"
The statue of Akhenaten stared back at him, an amused sneer on his full lips, his hooded stone eyes holding a secret. The long face was framed by a Nemes headdress and looked unworldly, almost inhuman. The arms were crossed over the chest and they held the broken remains of crook and flail, symbols of kingship.
"Was he really that odd-looking, or are his features exaggerated for some reason?"
"The king was dolichocephalic," Rusul said. "That is, he had an elongate skull, as did Tutankhamen. Some scholars point to the similarity as proof that Tutankhamen was the son of Akhenaten."
"Or at least a close relative, I suppose. Could Tutankhamen have had other parents? I have heard that he might have been the son of Amenhotep III and one of his daughters."
"It is possible," Rusul admitted. "I am no expert, however."
"What about Princess Beketaten? She was a daughter of Amenhotep III and sister of Akhenaten."
Rusul frowned. "I am not familiar with the name, sir. I believe there were several daughters though..."
"What of King Smenkhkare?"
"I...I'm sorry, sir. I don't know that name either."
"Smenkhkare. He was the king following Akhenaten and preceding Tutankhamen."
Rusul frowned. "I do not know of a pharaoh of that name. Perhaps he was a Vizier or other high official of the court rather than a king?"
"Who in this Museum of Antiquities might know the answer?" Bashir demanded. "I am interested in this specific king."
Rusul licked his lips nervously, apparently fearful of appearing ignorant in front of his superiors. "Er, there is the Director--Jamal Nasrallah. He is on duty today."
"Excellent, take me to see him."
"Yes, Minister. Please follow me."
Rusul took the stairs to the next floor and then up another narrower flight past a sign that read 'Staff Only', arriving in a dim corridor lit by the occasional grimy window. He knocked on a heavy wooden door and opened it immediately, poking his head inside.
"Director Nasrallah, Minister Bashir wishes to speak with you. He has a question I cannot answer."
Footsteps sounded on the carpeted floor of the room and the door was thrown open. A middle-aged man with a carefully trimmed beard stared out at the two men. He straightened his jacket and dipped his head perfunctorily.
"Minister Bashir, you are welcome. Minister ul-Haq at the Ministry of Culture said you might be paying us a visit. Please come in and have a seat. I will do my best to satisfy your curiosity." He waited until Bashir had crossed the threshold before addressing Rusul. "Coffee, at once." He shut the door in the young man's face.
Nasrallah sat down behind his desk and looked across the polished surface to his visitor sitting in one of the two comfortable chairs. "How may I be of assistance?" he asked.
"I wish to know about two persons of the Eighteenth Dynasty. The guide Rusul seemed ignorant of their very existence."
"Regrettable. I shall have a word with his supervisor. Who are the persons concerned?"
"King Smenkhkare and Princess Beketaten."
One of Nasrallah's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Obscure names indeed. No wonder Rusul did not know. I doubt there are more than a dozen people in the Museum who might know."
"But you do?" Bashir asked.
"Yes."
There was a soft tap on the door and Rusul entered, bearing a silver tray with a coffee pot, sugar, and two fine china cups. He placed the tray on the desk, bowed and retreated, closing the door behind him. Director Nasrallah served his guest himself and then settled back to enjoy the strong coffee.
"Pharaoh Smenkhkare is something of an enigma. The name exists in the records, and fits into them at around the time of Akhenaten. You are aware of the heretic Akhenaten?"
Bashir nodded, and Nasrallah continued.
"It is believed that Akhenaten was succeeded by someone called Neferneferuaten, and then by Smenkhkare in the capacity as co-regent, followed by Tutankhamen. However, there are indications that this Neferneferuaten was female--possibly Akhenaten's Queen Nefertiti. Some identify Smenkhkare with this Neferneferuaten. Others say Smenkhkare was a..." Nasrallah pursed his lips. "How to phrase this delicately? That he had an unnatural physical love for the heretic." He shrugged. "Either way, he was a minor figure in Egyptian history."
"Is his tomb known?"
"Not with any certainty. Howard Carter discovered fragments of a box bearing the name of Neferneferuaten close to the site of Tutankhamen's tomb. Then there is the tomb known as KV55 in the Valley of the Kings. Some scholars say it is the tomb of Akhenaten, others that it is the tomb of Smenkhkare--or somebody else." Nasrallah allowed himself a small smile. "Nothing is certain at this juncture. We can only hope that future discoveries will shed light on this obscure part of history."
"I see. Thank you. And Princess Beketaten?"
"She existed, but almost nothing is known of her. She was the youngest daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep III and his Queen Tiye. That makes her a full sister to Akhenaten."
"That much I know. What else can you tell me?"
"Her name is found twice in inscriptions, both in the tomb of Huya, the Steward of Tiye. She is associated with Tiye in both, but some scholars believe Tiye was her grandmother rather than mother, and that Akhenaten fathered her on a lesser wife call
ed Kiya."
"Is that what you believe?"
Nasrallah stroked his trim beard thoughtfully. "I see no reason to think of her as anything but the child of Amenhotep and Tiye. There is no mention of her after Tiye's death and it is likely she died."
"Is her tomb known?"
"No, Minister Bashir, but that may not be surprising. The tomb of a child would not be a rich one or as well guarded as that of a prominent person. If it was robbed in antiquity, there would be no record of its existence. Also, the bodies of children were often buried with their parents and have no separate identity."
Bashir looked thoughtful and sipped at his cooling coffee, wondering if there was anything else he could usefully ask. The Museum Assistant Director cleared his throat.
"May I ask the reason behind these questions, Minister?"
"Just curiosity. Your museum is such an interesting place it stimulates a spirit of enquiry."
"It is kind of you to say so, but those questions could not arise from a perusal of our exhibits. There is only a hint of Smenkhkare's existence, and none at all of Beketaten's. I am curious as to where you came across their names."
Bashir hesitated again, debating whether to release any details of the account in the Syrian chambers. "In confidence?"
Now it was Nasrallah's turn to hesitate. "Within the limits of my duty as custodian of Egypt's ancient treasures."
"What does that mean?"
"Only that I cannot keep silent if archaeological treasures are endangered."
Bashir refused to meet the Director's eyes, instead wiping the rim of an impeccably clean coffee cup. "That is not the case."
"Then there is no problem," Nasrallah said.
Bashir cleared his throat and hesitated a moment longer. "I came across an Egyptian inscription."
"In Egypt? May I ask where?"
"On a...an artefact discovered in Syria."
"I would very much like to see this artefact. Could that be arranged?"
"It is in, er, private hands."
"A pity, still, there it is. Private collectors hide away much that is useful in the proper study of Egyptology. What did the inscription say?"
"It, er, referred to Smenkhkare and Beketaten."
Nasrallah stared keenly at the Minister. "Just that?"
"That is all that I can remember--the cartouches, you know--they were translated for me. It piqued my interest though, so finding myself in Cairo, I thought I'd see if I could find out anything about them."
"A pity you cannot remember anything else."
Bashir thought of something. "You said the tomb of Smenkhkare was in the Valley of the Kings--a tomb known as KV50, was it?"
"KV55, Minister, and that is only a possibility. Nothing is certain."
"Could his tomb be elsewhere? Not in the Valley of the Kings?"
"There are royal tombs scattered up and down Egypt--Giza, Saqqara, Valley of the Kings, el-Amarna, to name some of the main sites--but most New Kingdom tombs were in the Valley of the Kings."
"New Kingdom?"
"The period we're talking about. Dynasties Eighteen to Twenty. Smenkhkare and Beketaten were associated with the Eighteenth Dynasty."
"Ah, I see. So you think there's no possibility of Smenkhkare's tomb being elsewhere?"
"I think it unlikely--if he was a legitimate king."
"Meaning?"
"If he was a claimant or a pretender to the throne, he might be buried elsewhere."
Bashir thought about the description in the account--the slash of green pointing the way, the notch in the cliffs lining the valley of the Nile. "Perhaps in the Nile Valley itself or in the cliffs?"
"Unlikely. The ancients had a reason for burying their bodies in the desert valleys or on the dry plateau of Giza. It was imperative that the body and the tomb furnishings remain intact. Water would cause them to disintegrate. If we ever do manage to positively identify Smenkhkare's tomb--or even that of your Princess Beketaten--you can be sure it will be in an arid environment."
Bashir nodded thoughtfully. "I must thank you, Director Nasrallah. You have been most informative. You are undoubtedly a busy man, so I won't take up any more of your valuable time." He rose to his feet and reached out to shake the Director's hand.
* * *
Director Jamal Nasrallah smiled as he ushered his visitor out but as the door closed his smile slipped and he was frowning by the time he sat down and poured himself another cup of now tepid coffee.
"Now what was that all about?" he murmured.
An obscure Syrian politician was unlikely to be well informed about matters of ancient Egyptian history, so where had he come across the names of Smenkhkare and Beketaten? Was it from an artefact in the hands of some collector, as he said? Or something more sinister? What sort of collector would show a Government Minister such a valuable object that must surely have been looted from a tomb--unless the object had been confiscated--but then it would have been handed back to the Egyptian authorities, would it not?
The names of Smenkhkare and Beketaten were almost unknown outside of academic circles and he had been exaggerating when he said a dozen people within the Museum knew of their existence. He suspected it was far fewer. This was an interesting puzzle indeed.
Nasrallah put through a call to Minister ul-Haq at the Ministry of Culture and after several minutes was put through to him.
"I have just been paid a visit by Under-Minister Bashir from Syria."
"Ah, yes, good. The visit went smoothly?"
"Indeed, Minister, however, he mentioned something that seemed strange."
"Strange, how? Of concern politically? Economically? Security? How?"
"Nothing like that, Minister," Nasrallah hurried to explain. "He had access to specialised knowledge concerning Egyptology and I wondered if..."
"He's probably just interested in the subject. You should be flattered. Now, if there's nothing more, I have a busy schedule today."
"There is one thing more, Minister. Do you know if Minister Bashir made any sort of discovery recently? Or if the Syrian Government arrested any black market dealers in Egyptian artefacts?"
"Nothing that I know of."
Minister ul-Haq cut the connection and Nasrallah returned to pondering the hidden meaning of Bashir's revelation.
Return to Contents
* * *
Chapter Eight
Outriders of the Bedouin appeared on the third day. Marc was out in the early dawn light relieving himself behind one of the date palms when he looked up and saw two horsemen watching him from a dune some two hundred yards away. He stared back and the horsemen spurred toward him, their mounts slipping and sliding down the face of the dune. Marc took to his heels, running back into the centre of the oasis, shouting for the others.
Muammar was sitting by the still-warm embers of the previous night's fire, trying to coax a flame from the ashes. He looked up as Marc came running and saw the horsemen beyond him, one levelling a rifle as he rode. Leaping to his feet, he bellowed out a phrase in Arabic that meant nothing to Marc or to Daffyd and Dani who were now emerging from the tents, but evidently did to the horsemen. The man behind the rifle refrained from firing, and both horsemen galloped up to the four people among the date palms and brought their mounts to a halt amid a spray of sand.
The rifleman barked out a demand, and Muammar replied at length, gesturing toward his companions and patting himself on the chest. The other horseman spoke, and Muammar replied again, placatingly. The two Bedouin sat on their horses, robes enveloping them from head to toe, fierce hawk faces staring at the foreigners and rifles pointing in their general direction.
"Who are they?" Dani asked.
"They are my uncle's men, and they are very angry. They say they saw Dr Andrews performing an act of disrespect toward their sheik's property--relieving himself against a palm tree."
"Jesus, what's all the fuss?" Marc complained. "The tree was probably grateful for the drink."
"I have told you before that w
hen your body seeks relief you must go out into the desert, scoop out a small hole, perform your function, and cover it up again. This is basic hygiene, whereas your action has soiled my uncle's home and perhaps introduced disease."
"The latter is unlikely," Daffyd murmured. "Urine is usually sterile."
"I realise that," Muammar said. "However, these men are largely uneducated and ruled by superstition and archaic beliefs. They have not had the advantage of a western education. What concerns me is that they will report this incident to my uncle and he will withdraw his hospitality before it has been offered. If that happens, you have no way of getting over the Egyptian border."
"Can we make amends?" Dani asked. "Perhaps if we apologised?"
"It couldn't hurt." Muammar addressed the tribesmen once more, eliciting another spate of angry responses from one after the other. Muammar translated when they had finished talking.
"They say that forgiveness is in the hands of the sheik, but for themselves they would wipe out the insult with blood. One of them--the one with the red k�fiyyah,--insists that the offender abase himself. If that happens, he says, he will tell the sheik, my uncle, that the insult was unintentional."
"Then you'll have to do it Marc," Dani said.
"Blowed if I will. Look, Muammar, explain that I'm sorry if I caused offence by peeing on the damn tree, but I'm not about to abase myself--whatever that involves."
"If you do not, this venture of yours is at an end. My uncle will not welcome you into his tents or help you. Your choice will be to either go home to England, or try for Egypt alone--in which case you will die within a day or two. The desert is harsh and unforgiving."
Daffyd looked at Marc. "You're going to have to do it, boyo. For Dani's sake if nothing else. This is her only chance of getting into Egypt and...you know what."
Marc swore and glared at the impassive Bedouin on their stallions. "What do I have to do?" he snarled.
