“So will we start digging at that ridge tomorrow?” I ask.
“Seems the right spot. Good instinct there, Eve,” he answers, but I can tell his focus is on the dance steps. I wonder when was the last time he ventured onto a dance floor. As far as I know, he’s never been cajoled onto Highclere’s.
I’m curious what Howard thinks about Hatshepsut’s rise, which we’ve discussed in general over the years. Does he share any part of Mr. Winlock’s view? I’ve been musing on it since I left the temple complex—among other questions.
“How do you think Hatshepsut came to power?”
“I’ve thought about that a lot. Especially in those years when I worked at her temple, and I saw all that destruction of her name.” He slows his dance steps as he speaks. Howard is even more rusty in the art of conducting conversation while traversing the dance floor. “I think she was a brilliant woman who used the opportunities presented to her—not unlike you—to try and do some good for her people.”
Had Howard just compared me to Hatshepsut? Knowing him as I do, this is a tremendous compliment. “Thank you, Howard.”
“Welcome,” he grumbles, uncomfortable at being thanked for hiskindness. “In any event, I’m hoping we’ll find answers in Hatshepsut’s tomb.”
This moment seems opportune for the other question rattling around my mind. Do I dare ask it? I’m not entirely positive I want to know the answer.
I push past my reluctance. “What happens if we find something?” I ask.
“If that ridge is the entryway to an undisturbed tomb, you mean?”
That wasn’t my exact question, but the answer will bring me to the same place, I think. “Yes. What if we find treasures beyond our imagining? Who does all the bounty belong to?”
He pulls back a little to study my face—as if my inquiry is a strange one. “To us, primarily. Your father, I mean. He has paid for the dig, after all. It wouldn’t have happened without him.”
“The Egyptian government won’t try to claim anything? Don’t they have the rights to something? I’ve heard you all speak about partage.”
“Well, artifacts can be removed from Egypt if the Antiquities Department had issued a commission to dig. You know that. And usually partage takes place before those artifacts leave the country—so the government will select some items.”
“So we are permitted to divvy up the spoils? Between us and Egypt?”
He chuckles. “Do you suppose your father would invest so much money and time in these digs—year after year—if he didn’t have the right to take some of the Egyptian artifacts home?”
I chuckle as well, although I don’t feel particularly merry. “I suppose not,” I say, then allow the smile to fade. My voice grows serious. “Does the license allow one to sell artifacts one hasn’t excavated oneself?”
Our bodies move in time with the song, but his face has grown still. “Why do you ask that?”
Have I gone too far? I don’t want to accuse Howard of anything, and I remind myself how patient and kind he’s been all these long years he’s instructed me. I will my voice to stay even and light.
“Just curious. Always a lot of objects around in the markets. I guess I wonder where they all come from.”
“Ah, putting aside the many fakes that have flooded the market, you mean? Because there is an abundance of those out there.”
I nod.
“Well, an archaeologist can sell artifacts obtained through the partage process, if he doesn’t want to keep them. Anything else you see for sale in the markets is usually dug up by locals without a license, and so is illegally sold. But the practice is so widespread the authorities generally turn a blind eye to it.”
I smile at Howard, as if his explanation satisfied my curiosity. But, in reality, I am more concerned than ever. Where on earth would he have gotten the early Eighteenth Dynasty toiletry set he tried to sell to the Metropolitan Museum of Art archaeologists? He certainly hadn’t dug that up on our site; it was no partage. Had he procured it from a local grave robber? If so, was he reselling wrongfully procured artifacts, like the souk shops that offer illicit goods or fence antiquities? Perhaps another archaeologist of Mr. Carter’s acquaintance asked him to sell his properly obtained items on his behalf?
Keeping the innocent smile fixed to my lips, I ask, “Or illegally resold on the local’s behalf?”
“That’s right. It’s really not considered illegal, though. It’s very commonplace,” he says with a brisk nod, oblivious to my misgivings. He then leads me around the floor one last time before the song ends. With an unexpected, wide grin, he adds, “Now, let’s hope tomorrow gets us one step closer to finding that treasure you’re so worried about keeping.”
“Hatshepsut’s treasure?”
“Hatshepsut’s treasure.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
MARCH 30, 1921
