The minutes tick by, and then an hour. A few of the guests leave the tomb for some fresh air, but quickly return. The bombardmentby reporters is too intense. Finally, finally, at the two-hour mark, the opening is large enough for even our biggest guests to squeeze in, and Howard motions for me and Papa to come over.
Stepping through the hole and three feet down into the tabernacle, as Papa has taken to calling it, we enter Tutankhamun’s inner sanctum. Torches leading the way, we walk the narrow perimeter of the room, gazing in wonder at the glorious scenes of Tutankhamun in the underworld decorating the walls, the colors as vivid as the day they were painted three thousand years ago. Papa reaches for my hand as we turn to admire the enormous pink quartzite sarcophagus etched with images of goddesses protecting Tutankhamun with outstretched wings. The gold box I’d briefly glimpsed and assumed was his coffin is actually a sumptuous gilded canopic shrine surrounded by statues of Isis, Nephthys, Neith, and Sereket.
Amidst all this splendor, the objects that move me aren’t the lavish gilt ones. They are the hopeful, human ones. “Howard, look,” I call to him, pointing out the wooden items leaning against the corner of the chamber, “it’s the seven oars that Tutankhamun believed necessary to ferry him to the afterlife.” In this moment, I feel less like a discoverer and more like an invader into Tutankhamun’s very private past.
Speechless, overwhelmed, and awestruck, we pause while Egypt’s director of antiquities, Pierre Lacau, takes a turn through the burial chamber. For fifteen long minutes, he strings electric cables and lights, and we then summon the rest of the guests. One by one, they tread into this sacred space.
Papa, Howard, and I wait near the antechamber entrance to say farewell to the guests as they exit the tomb. Standing in this hot, dusty three-thousand-year-old room, I feel like I’m part of the world’s strangest receiving line. I keep my eyes on the Beauchamps, who I’d instructed to enter the tomb last so they could head directly to Castle Carter with Papa and me after we closed up the tomb. We’d planned a dinner party at Howard’s house for this evening. The months since discovering Tutankhamun have been exhilarating, but filled with pressure and turmoil, and everyone could use a night of mindless celebration without a journalist in sight.
As Brograve and I leave the stuffy darkness of the tomb behind andhead outside into the blinding sun, whispering excitedly about the treasures, I see that the reporters are ready to pounce. They’ve assembled into groups, and are inundating everyone exiting the tomb with a litany of inquiries. Two of the workmen are doing their best to defuse the situation, and I’m about to guide the Beauchamps, with Ahmed’s help, into a vehicle headed to Castle Carter, when I hear Papa and Howard yelling at each other.
Depositing the Beauchamps in the automobile and excusing myself, I head back into the tomb. There, Papa and Howard stand face-to-face, red-faced and screaming.
“This is not a goddamn play in the West End,” Howard shouts. “This is the biggest archaeological discovery of all time. If we continue to shut down our work to let your friends in for private tours, who knows what damage will occur to the artifacts? And we will be unlikely to finish cataloguing and storing the artifacts before the season is over. Not to mention we leave ourselves wide open for the tomb robbers.”
“Carter,” Papa yells back. He only ever uses Howard’s last name when he’s angry. “I’m not asking you to halt your progress indefinitely—just for a few weeks, for a few key people. I can hardly refuse a tour to the Queen of the Belgians or the dowager sultana!”
“That’s exactly the sort of thinking that has turned this excavation into a bloody circus!”
“Be careful what you say, Carter. You seem to be forgetting that I’m paying for this circus,” Papa seethes.
“With money you got from theTimesfor its damned exclusive coverage!” he parries. “How bloody stupid could you be? Cutting out the Egyptian press from the biggest story ever to come out of their own country? How could younotrealize that you’ve handed a match to the nationalists—maybe even to Zaghloul himself—to light the flame of their new government? A government that will want to keep Tutankhamun for itself!”
“How dare you—” Papa shoves Howard, who responds in kind. But we both know that Howard is right. The nationalists have seized upon Tutankhamun as a symbol of Egyptian prowess and independence.
I’ve had enough of this behavior.
Inserting myself between the two men, I place a hand each on Papa’s and Howard’s shoulders. Then I shout back. “Enough! What’s done is done. We have to find a way to manage this extraordinary situation, one we areluckyto find ourselves in. And given that you two seem unable to play together nicely at the moment, I am going to separate you for a bit until you cool down.”
Papa sputters, and Howard stares. I don’t think either one of them has ever seen me in the fullness of my personality. I drop the pleasing facade and take charge.
“Howard, you will announce a temporary closure of the tomb, to ensure its stability. Make up whatever excuse you need in order to do so. You can continue to work on it behind the scenes, however. I do know the time left in the season is short. But there will be no more tours for the time being. The Queen of the Belgians will have to wait.”
I turn to my father, who looks depleted and diminished, even ill, after all this strife. “Papa, you and I are going to take a break from Luxor for several days. No tomb, no Winter Palace, no interactions with the press, no tense meetings with the government. Howard will send you regular updates, but you will otherwise rest on board adahabiyaas we sail south to Aswan, which I will organize with the Winter Palace manager.”
I glare at each of them in turn. Neither man can meet my eyes, but they stare sheepishly at the ground. “When we come back together, we will have a firm plan—for the press, for the government, and for this tomb. The past deserves a respectful present.”
Chapter Sixty
FEBRUARY 17, 1923
LUXOR,EGYPT
Palm trees sway against the backdrop of the ocher hills of the Valley of the Kings at the Luxor station. Steam rises from the gleaming train heading to Cairo, as well-wishers say farewell to loved ones about to board. To an outside observer the scene might appear idyllic. Yet Brograve and I know it is anything but.
There had been no celebratory dinner at Castle Carter last night. There had been no celebration at all, in fact, never mind that we’d just revealed the biggest archaeological discovery of all time. Instead, I’d spent the evening at the Winter Palace, darting between Brograve and his flustered parents in the hotel dining room and the concierge desk makingdahabiyaarrangements for me and Papa, while he sulked in his suite. Nothing about Brograve’s visit or the unveiling of Tutankhamun’s inner sanctum has gone as planned. Now, with the situation in Luxor tense and unwelcoming, Brograve has been pressed into service escorting his parents to Cairo and the pyramids and then back home to England. His parents had received the experience for which they’d come, after all: the ability to boast to their friends in England that they’d been among the first to peer inside the ancient, now famous tomb of Tutankhamun. Upset at this turn of events, I feel as though I stand on shifting sand and can get no purchase.
“This is not the Egyptian trip you’d been promised,” I say, looking up at Brograve. Even though his face is in shadow—shielded from the relentless sun by the wide brim of his hat—his eyes shine and his smile is visible.
“No,” he replies, his tone as genial as always, “but that doesn’t matter. I got to see you in your element.”
“But this was meant to beyourchance to experience the world of archaeology. To get your hands dirty in the work of the past,” I add, sidestepping my real concern about our failed plans. That, without the experience of excavating Tutankhamun’s tomb alongside me and Howard, he might not want to make these digs part of our future. “I’m sorry it turned out the way it did. With Papa and Mr. Carter fighting and the excavation on temporary hold and Papa and I heading out of town, it’s been awful.”
“Eve, please don’t apologize. I don’t need to shovel a pharaoh’s sarcophagus out of an ancient chamber to know that I want to be at your side if that’s what you are doing,” he says, his smile unwavering. It’s as if he heard my unspoken worries. “If you want to spend the winters excavating in Egypt, then that’s where I will be. Shovel in hand, up to my elbows in dirt, and blissfully happy because I’ll be with you, discovering the world through your eyes.”
I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. The failure of Brograve’s trip to Luxor doesn’t matter. His unconditional support was never dependent on the outcome of one excavation. “Really?” I ask, incredulous at this display of unequivocal encouragement. I’ve never experienced its like before.
“Really,” he insists. He reaches for me, and just as he’s about to wrap me in his arms, he freezes. I follow his gaze, and I see Lord and Lady Beauchamp staring out of the train window at us.
