Keystone

by Talbot, Luke

  “Is there anywhere we can eat on the other side?” George asked cautiously. “It’s been hours since our last stop, and I’m famished!”

  In a service area earlier that afternoon they had enjoyed their first Egyptian fast food, couscous with spicy sausages, but they had not stopped since, and the smell of cooking emanating from the hotel beside them was obviously giving him ideas.

  She already had her bags in her hands and was heading towards the main door of the hotel as she shouted over her shoulder. “We’ll be quick, I promise!”

  Once Gail had presented her letter of acceptance to the excavations at Amarna, sent to her by the Professor from the Egyptian Museum in Cairo the previous week, the owner of the hotel had happily sold Gail and George tickets for the ferry. Normally, he had explained, the local tourism police would have had to escort them both on the other side of the Nile, but the letter was proof enough not to warrant alerting them. If they intercepted them boarding the ferry, they may insist on accompanying them anyway, but it was worth avoiding such a thing if possible, if only to save the cost of the baksheesh. A baksheesh was a tip, but was often synonymous with bribe.

  He advised them that the evening meal was normally served just before eight o’clock, giving them enough time to drive to the archaeological dig on the other side of the river and introduce themselves quickly, before catching the seven o’clock ferry back.

  The police nowhere to be seen, they shared the ferry with an old man at the wheel of an ageing Land Rover Defender. The 4x4 and its driver both came from the previous century, but nevertheless towered over the small, modern rental car and its occupants. It was far better suited to the rugged terrain ahead, and while George had enjoyed the luxury of the air conditioning that afternoon, he couldn’t help feeling that they would be better off in the Land Rover from this point forwards.

  Leaving the ferry, they drove onto the eastern bank of the Nile for the first time. They passed a small, seemingly deserted village on their way and George laughed nervously. “I’m not surprised they abandoned this place, it’s desolate!”

  “The photos I saw on the Internet showed that until recent years this whole area was green and fertile, maybe not on this side of the river, but certainly where we’ve just been.”

  George gestured to the remains of an even older village, mostly buried in the sand and stone. “It looks like this place has been like this for quite some time.”

  “I think this side of the river was probably always less cultivated. It’s very rocky,” she pointed at the cliffs ahead of them to illustrate her point. Their car moved slowly along the road; by now, the tarmac was mostly hidden beneath the shifting sand. They had followed the directions given to them by the Professor, who must clearly have owned a more appropriate vehicle like the old man on the ferry. “We’re not that far, only a few hundred yards or so.” She could sense that George was nervous about the car getting stuck. It was already starting to drift unpredictably at each turn.

  There were a couple of ongoing archaeological excavations at Amarna, but only the Professor’s was uninterrupted over the holiday period. He had been very happy to enlist Gail’s help for the four weeks, which made her think that he had been having difficulty getting people to sign up.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong. Up ahead they could see half a dozen white square tents, neatly lined up next to a row of six cars, mostly 4x4s. To the left of the tents, a group of a dozen or so people were sitting or standing around the edge of a trench, covered by a gazebo that during the day would keep out the harsh sunlight. They were talking animatedly while pointing inside the excavation. A tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed grey beard stood over them smiling, his wide-brimmed straw hat casting a shadow over his face.

  The car stopped and Gail jumped out, followed by George on the other side. To his amusement, he noticed the spring in her step as they approached the gazebo.

  “Which one’s the Professor?” George whispered.

  Before Gail could answer, the tall thin man turned, removed his hat, and ran his fingers through his short grey hair. Seeing them he grinned, displaying his impeccable white teeth that stood out in contrast to his dark skin. He placed his straw hat back on his head gingerly and started towards them.

  “Assalaam aleikum! The beautiful one has come!” His English was perfect, tinged with an American accent that betrayed his time at Harvard over thirty years earlier. “The beautiful one has come!” he repeated.

  George looked at Gail quizzically and she laughed. “Nefertiti,” she said looking back at him. He raised an eyebrow and looked back at the Professor who laughed at his reaction.

  “Welcome to Amarna,” he exclaimed throwing his left arm out behind him to show the site while thrusting his right hand out to shake their hands. “I am Professor Mamdouh al-Misri, but please, call me Mamdouh!” he grinned at Gail. “You have arrived at just the right time: come and see what we have found!”

  They shook his hand and he turned to lead them to the trench, where the group of people were now laughing and patting each other on the back. A young man in his early twenties climbed out of the hole in the ground, grinning widely.

  “Nefertiti?” George asked under his breath.

  Gail squeezed his hand tightly. “Yes,” she said. “That’s what her name means.”

  “I must have missed something. What’s what her name means?”

  Gail detected a hint of jealousy in her husband’s voice and looked up at him. “George, don’t be upset, it’s just a joke.” She smiled and looked back at the Professor, who was now getting down into the trench. Some of the group had turned towards them and were getting ready to introduce themselves. “That’s what Nefertiti’s name means,” she looked at him again and grinned, feeling happy that the Professor had paid her the compliment. “Nefertiti means The Beautiful One Has Come.”

  Chapter 6

  Since the late nineteenth century, the ancient city of Akhetaten at Tell el-Amarna had captured the imagination of historians and archaeologists across the world. But by the twenty-first century the site had still failed to gain the popularity and renown that other discoveries, such as the tomb of Tutankhamen, had enjoyed. The remains of Akhetaten were by no means spectacular in comparison to those of Thebes and the Valley of the Kings; characterised by short walls and foundations, most buildings were mere outlines in the sand. In effect it was difficult to see, in the dusty plain sandwiched between the Nile to the west and the cliffs to the east, that Akhetaten had at least briefly been one of the most impressive cities of the Egyptian world.

  Imagination alone could take the rare visitors on fantastic journeys to the time of Akhenaten and his most famous wife, Nefertiti, walking through bustling streets past grandiose temples and towering public buildings. For that, and because site access to tourists had traditionally been made difficult by the Egyptian authorities, the finds at Amarna went mostly unnoticed to the world at large. Now, one hundred and fifty years after its discovery, Akhetaten was at risk of being consumed once more by the shifting sands.

  Despite this the mystery lived on. Every now and then, the sands would reveal a surprise to the delight of the persistent archaeologists. A collection of clay tablets documenting sales of livestock and grain had in recent years sparked interest far away in Cairo, mainly because it had been found in a previously unexcavated part of the city, close to where Professor Mamdouh al-Misri was now basing his expedition.

  Gail and George had arrived in the middle of one of those rare moments of discovery. Three days of digging had uncovered countless pottery sherds and dozens of crumbling clay bricks, and all the evidence had been pointing to the fact that they were excavating a pile of rubble and rubbish. As unromantic as it sounded, that was exactly the sort of place the best archaeological finds were made, and just as George had been driving their car off the ferry, one of the young Egyptian students had lifted what he had thought to be just another clay brick.

  “It’s incredible,” enthused the Pro
fessor as Gail peered down into the trench, the bottom of which was by now quite obscure in the fading light. “We have been here for little over half a week, and already we have found more than we could possibly have hoped for.”

  She squinted to see, and the Professor passed her a torch. Its powerful beam threw the shadows back, and she could now make out in more detail the rectangular tablets, each approximately the same dimensions as a hardback novel. She counted ten of them in the bottom of the trench, plus the one that the Professor was holding out to her. Taking the tablet, she cast the torch over its surface. “It’s not hieroglyphs,” she muttered. “More like cuneiform?” she said tentatively. Behind her, George raised an eyebrow and looked at the Professor with interest.

  “Absolutely, Gail, I see you have done your homework! The writing is cuneiform, and the language it is written in is in fact Akkadian. You can see from the first lines that the letter is probably addressing Akhenaten, as it starts with the phrase ‘To the king, my lord, my god and my sun’. It is the formal address of a letter destined for the pharaoh himself. Akkadian was the most widespread language of the time, like English is today. As such it was the accepted diplomatic language in the city of Akhetaten. It will be interesting to decipher further to see if we can date it precisely to Akhenaten’s rule or not.”

  He took the tablet back from Gail and entering the nearest tent placed it in one of many plastic find trays on a trestle table. Covering it in bubble-wrap, he turned his head to them and smiled. “Like me, most of the team speak English, so you should have no need to worry during your stay. However, I expect you to learn some basic phrases by the end of the week.”

  “Of course,” Gail nodded seriously.

  “Let us start with greetings: next time I say assalaam aleikum, you should reply waleikum salaam.”

  “Waleykoom salum?”

  The Professor smiled. “Not bad. People aren’t saying hello, they are saying ‘peace be with you.’ That is why you should always reply ‘and also with you.’”

  He finished protecting the tablet and turned to George. “And I understand you will be leaving us tomorrow to do a bit of sightseeing?”

  It seemed almost too touristy to be visiting Thebes after having been introduced to the excavation at Amarna, almost as if to say ‘I’ve seen this, but I’d much rather take a look at some towering temples and impressive tombs!’ Conscious of this, George simply nodded and agreed. Mamdouh did not seem to mind though, and as they walked back outside he proceeded to give George a rundown of all the best things to see in the other ancient capital. As they approached the back of the tents, they saw the other dig members gathering around a freshly-lit campfire, drinking from bottles and clearly in high spirits. Gail and George had arrived just at the onset of dusk; with the departure of the sun, a lot of the heat had already left the barren landscape and Gail looked at the fire longingly.

  “Mamdouh,” Gail said cautiously. It was obvious she felt uncomfortable using his first name, but he had already insisted twice. “What will I be doing on site?”

  The Professor laughed and patted her on the back. “Gail, don’t worry about that, I have a very interesting job for you for the next couple of days, which I am sure you will find very useful.” He gestured for them to sit down next to the fire and they were given bottles of Coca Cola by a young student, who had enthusiastically introduced himself to them as Ben on the edge of the trench earlier.

  “Thanks,” Gail said to him.

  “Shukran,” the Professor corrected.

  “Shoe-cram,” George said with a grin.

  Ben laughed and clinked the side of his bottle against theirs. “Shukran.”

  For the next hour, conversation centred predictably on their finds. Ben seemed to be the centre of attention, and the running joke was that had the Professor not been watching over him, the priceless artefact would have found itself at the bottom of a pile of worthless clay bricks on the other side of the trench. For his own part, Ben seemed more interested in getting to know Gail and George. In his early twenties, he was fairly short and of medium build, his long hair held back by a baseball cap he wore backwards. His English was good, though heavily accented, and before long George was in the middle of a fascinating debate about football, religion and whether or not Indemnity translated well into Arabic.

  Looking at her watch, Gail realised with shock that they were about to miss their ferry; they were the only two people not staying at the dig that night, as everyone else was camping onsite. So they excused themselves and left the group of archaeologists celebrating around their campfire.

  “I feel bad, leaving so soon.” Gail mused as their car laboured along the track back to the river.

  “We can always go back,” her husband replied quickly, putting his hand on her knee. “There is a later ferry, we’re only getting this one so we can eat back at the hotel.”

  Gail thought for a moment then shook her head. “No, it’s better if we eat at the hotel, I wouldn’t want to impose on them tonight, and I’ll be camping there tomorrow anyway.” She looked out of the passenger window and across the sands, the black silhouettes of swaying palm trees catching her eye. Dusk had now given way to early night and the moon had yet to rise. The car was bathed in the silvery-blue light of a million stars.

  A smile grew on her face as she looked over to George in the driving seat; his hand was still on her knee and she covered it with hers and held it tightly. “Besides, I think that as this is our last night together until Christmas Eve, we should get an early night, don’t you?”

  George looked back at her and grinned. “Hotel it is!” he exclaimed and accelerated towards the ferry.

  Chapter 7

  The next day, George set off towards southern Egypt, dropping Gail and her luggage off at the dig and briefly saying goodbye to Ben, the Professor and the other students at the site.

  Gail was used to seeing her husband leave on work trips, and sometimes even enjoyed the time alone. But the foreign setting made this feel different, like more of a separation, a parting of ways, than a ‘see you later.’ As she watched George drive away in their little rental car, his arm waving out of the window, she knew she would miss him enormously, despite being busy. But there was also a feeling of jealousy, that George would see the incredible temples of Karnak and Luxor without her.

  Professor Mamdouh al-Misri coughed gently to get her attention, and she hurriedly wiped her eyes before turning round with a smile.

  “It looks like we’ve come across the remains of an ancient filing cabinet,” he explained to Gail as they walked towards the trench where the tablets had been found the previous evening. “The letter we found yesterday is from Shuwardata of Keilah, a Canaanite town under Egyptian influence.”

  Gail looked down into the trench, a rectangular hole twelve feet long by six feet wide. At its deepest it was about four feet down, where Ben had found the tablets. Carefully balanced over the tablets was a measuring grid: a square wooden frame with pieces of string stretched across like a tennis racket. It was exactly one metre square, each piece of string ten centimetres apart.

  One of the younger students stood over the apparatus, and through its one hundred small windows meticulously translated the finds onto a large piece of graph paper, periodically flicking her long hair out of her eyes.

  “Canaanite. Ancient Palestine, right?” she tested herself.

  “Absolutely, as much a source of tension three and a half thousand years ago as it remains today. In the letter, Shuwardata is complaining of another ruler, Abdu-heba, who has reportedly occupied some of his land by force.” Mamdouh peered down into the excavation, holding his hat to his head. “This mass of clay is the remains of the exterior walls of the building. The rest of the office should be over there,” he gestured beyond the edge of the trench, where three other archaeologists were already clearing away the top-sand ready to extend the excavation.

  “Most of the buildings at Amarna were built in a hurry. They used a combinat
ion of smaller limestone blocks that were faster to transport and build with than the larger blocks used in older sites to the south, and these poor quality clay bricks. The outside walls were then plastered and painted so that their outward appearance would have been no different.” He pointed to a particular brick, thickly coated along one edge with plaster. “Have you ever been to the old Soviet Union or one of its satellite states?”

  The USSR had disappeared over ten years before Gail had even been born, in another century. She had never heard anyone refer to it before as if it had actually existed. It was as if someone had just asked her if she had ever visited the old Roman Empire. She shook her head in reply and looked at Mamdouh curiously.

  “At the end of the Second World War, the Russians occupied many countries on its western front,” he explained, “a buffer-zone between it and capitalism, more specifically the Americans. Many of these countries had been at the very centre of European politics and economics for hundreds of years, countries like Hungary, Bulgaria, Poland and Romania. This was replaced with Communism, a harsh, unforgiving regime controlled by Stalin in Moscow.” He was now walking towards where the new trench was being started, Gail followed. “You can’t take everything away from people and give them nothing in return. You have to win hearts and minds, you have to make them believe that everything is alright, while at the same time re-asserting your power and authority. They tried to achieve this partly by constructing huge ostentatious buildings, government offices, and monuments. They built them quickly and poorly, weak concrete blocks covered in cheap plaster.”

  As he said this, he pointed behind him, towards the pile of clay bricks next to the first trench. “I went to Sofia, the capital city of Bulgaria, many years ago at the end of the last century. As I arrived at the main train station, I was awestruck by the sheer scale of the platforms, as wide as motorways and stretching far away into the distance. Leaving the station’s huge main building, you could see whole sections of plaster that had simply peeled away, leaving the rough concrete visible beneath, and breaking the illusion of a monumental stone block structure. ”