Chapter Twenty-Nine
MARCH 18, 1921
VALLEY OF THEKINGS,EGYPT
“Good morning,” I greet Mansur Mohammed el Hashash, the longtime headreisof Papa and Mr. Carter’s excavation.
He gives me a brief bow, which I deem an improvement over the past few weeks when he seemed uncomfortable acknowledging me. Even though I’d been present on last year’s dig, he’d never gotten accustomed to a woman working side by side with the men, especially not a lord’s daughter. And while he still isn’t quite used to me, he’s resigned himself to my presence.
Groups of men—about a hundred in number—have gathered around the periphery of the pit we’ve been working on these past five weeks, and I spot the littlest worker. The eight-year-old Ali, his galabia already dusty, smiles at me.
Bending down so we are at eye level, I say, “Good morning, Ali. How are you today?”
“Good morning, Lady Evelyn. I am well, how are you?” he says in heavily accented English.
Ali’s grin and twinkling dark brown eyes are so engaging that I must squelch the pang I always feel watching him work at the site. I’d protested to Mr. Carter when I saw the child bringing water to the laborers and fetching their lunches, but he’d told me that this employment was far easier and more profitable than working in the fields, which he would otherwise be doing. And, anyway, his father and uncles had worked for Mr. Carter for years.
“Ready for a new day,” I answer, giving him the parcel of fruit and croissant I’d brought for him from the hotel.
I descend into the pit the men had so painstakingly dug at our instruction. The movement of tons of sand, soil, and rock hasn’t yielded anything yet, other than a few unmarked shards, jar fragments, and several amulets that date from approximately six hundred BC, far later than the time period we want. But I’m not disheartened.
I reach for a handful of sandy soil, and as the grains pass through my fingers, I tip my head back and allow the sun to warm my face.Imagine, I remind myself for the millionth time,this is the ground upon which Hatshepsut tread, the sand that touched her skin, and the sun that graced her cheeks. I envision her as an unmarried princess, then a queen married to her half brother, and finally the ruler of all Egypt—staring out at the same valley as I am.
It is heady stuff. And artifacts or not, tomb or no, it is enough. For the moment.
“Lady Evelyn.” Mr. Carter interrupts my reverie when he climbs down into the pit. “You’ve beat me to the site again today.”
“I’m up before the sun, ready to make the crossing before anyone else has risen from their beds. I can’t help it,” I say, thinking of all the mornings I spend alone at breakfast because my parents cannot rouse themselves. How they can stand to waste a minute in the Valley of the Kings, I really don’t know. “And,Howard, I thought we’d dispensed with the formal names. Please call me Eve.”
“I’ll do my best. But old habits are hard to break, especially since we must resume them in the company of your parents,” he says, walking around the pit’s perimeter to join me. “What do we see today, Eve?”
I brush my hair out of my eyes with a sandy forearm. Grainy particles stick to my sweaty forehead, but it’s as if they are irritating someone else, somewhere else. Because my mind is now entirely focused on the grid spread out before me, the framework of string we’ve laid over the pit.
Although quite methodical in his excavating and recording, Mr. Carter—Howard, I must remind myself—had been open to mysuggestion. I didn’t tell him that I learned about the systematic practice that helps record the location of objects found in an excavation from a lecture by Augustus Pitt Rivers I heard in London. I know how he and my father feel about the academic archaeologists who’ve “invaded” Egypt, and while Pitt Rivers is an aristocratic archaeologist, I worry that his scientific approach and slow, slow progress might make his theories off-putting to Howard and Papa. But I thought it might be useful to try this new method.
When Howard and I mapped out possible dig sites over the summer, we decided to avoid the area near Pharaoh Merneptah’s tomb, since last year’s excavation there hadn’t turned out exactly as hoped. The vases were a solid discovery, but they divulged nothing about Hatshepsut and none of the riches Papa sought. It had been challenging to settle on a new site. The Valley of the Kings has neither been systematically excavated nor its findings recorded, and so we’ve had to cobble together information from collectors, archaeologists, local farmers, thieves, a few published papers, catalogues for exhibits and auction houses, even ancient legal records prosecuting citizens for tomb robbing. Even then, it was often guesswork as to where excavations—successes and failures alike—took place, what was found there, and when. It didn’t help that every excavation left its own towering pile of rock and dirt.
But finally, Howard and I agreed upon one triangular corner of the area between the tombs of Ramses II and VI and Merneptah. A few artifacts related to both Tutankhamun and Hatshepsut had been found there. To my surprise, Papa had readily agreed. I’d expected him to bristle, and to push for a site near the Ramses VI tomb where Theodore Davis had once found an artifact referring to Tutankhamun. But Papa had been preoccupied over the summer with more than the usual number of arguments with Mama over certain paintings and furniture Papa wanted to sell. This gave us an easy victory.
Howard and I are quiet as we study the grid. I only hope that our efforts bear fruit. I’ve sensed a mounting agitation in Papa these past weeks, and nothing good ever comes of his restlessness.
Our silence is interrupted by angry voices floating down from thetop of the pit. For a moment, I think it might be my parents continuing last evening’s disagreement, but then I remember Papa was busy today and Mama had begged off from the excavation. In any event, as the voices grow louder and more distinct, I realize they are Egyptian.
“Will you excuse me for a moment, Eve?” Howard asks.
“Of course,” I say, curious about what fight thereiscannot handle by himself.
But I’m more curious about where we should start digging. I study the grid, noticing a faint indentation to the left. It almost looks like a straight line drawn in the sand, perhaps from the outline of a stone or a step. From what I’ve read in academic journals and what Howard has told me, such markings could indicate a step or the opening to a tomb.
He clambers back down into the pit, and as we survey the expanse of sand again, I ask, “Everything all right, Mr.—” I pause. I’m having a hard time shifting over to first names after so many years of formal ones. “Howard?”
“Just a small skirmish between two of the men. They mistakenly believed one was getting paid more than the other. Nothing a little reassurance couldn’t smooth out,” he says with a brisk nod.Back to work, I can almost hear him think. “So what do you think, Eve? Is there one section calling out to you?”
Pointing to the left, I am about to call his attention to that slight fissure when I hear my name. “Eve! Carter! Where in the devil are you?” an unmistakable voice calls out.
It is Papa. I’m surprised to hear his voice. I’d thought business would keep him in Luxor all day.
“Down here!” I call up.
