Tutankhamun Uncovered (76 page)

He stood up and addressed all those gathered around him. “I want them all dead everyone remotely associated with this desecration. A massacre so large and so quick that those who observe it will know, not speculate, KNOW that there is a power out there that they do not, cannot, and will not understand until they themselves, those of them, that is, who retain some measure of goodness, touch Osiris.”

He glared at his group of loyal followers. Meneg gestured nervously that he wished to speak.

“Speak, Meneg. We wait upon your words. Address us all of us here.”

“Great Regent. Great Queen. Friends. What we have experienced over the past years what we are experiencing today none of these things can go unpunished. It is our solemn duty to wreak revenge amongst the perpetrators of these heinous crimes. But one thing is clear.” He paused.

“We need help.”

“And who or what do you suggest?” asked Ugele.

“Lord.” Meneg turned back to his king, “I have a suggestion the centurion; he who searches eternally for his life’s love; he who searches for Pharaoh Cleopatra.”

Egypt is an unusual place to the non-Egyptian, that is. The Egyptian himself has survived within this incredible environment all his life and sees nothing untoward, nothing out of place. There is no yardstick for comparison. Boundless barrenness hugely boundless, reaching as far as the eye can see nothing but desert sand and bare rocks, dry as a bone and hot as hell. Within it, running right through it, a solitary artery of sustaining water. Throughout its entire course, the Nile carves a corridor of abundance, greenness and thriving life. Like a benevolent knife it divides the country.

Alongside this fruitful fountain grew a civilisation, a great power, second to none but eventually, as all powers, second to one. Tutankhamun had watched from above as they had come in their multitudes powerful, ruthless armies; fearlessly disciplined; well supplied; sustained by well trained support; tactically experienced; war born; strategic in their warmongering; arrogant in their victories; bent upon broadening and enriching their empire with the wealth and culture of new frontiers. Yet, through practicality, they were merciful. They came fully prepared to dominate through integration and absorption a policy of limited but nevertheless generous acceptance and redistribution of wealth to those of the conquered who showed talent beneficial to the empire, and above all those who demonstrated loyalty and a clear ability and willingness to conform.

So it was that the boy king had laid his eyes on Antony, observed him through his tumultuous youth, his burgeoning career, his personal agony and the agony of his death. Like the king himself, his life had ended prematurely, but in Antony’s case by his own hand.

He had been mummified and entombed, in Egyptian fashion, in the Faiyum. His likeness had been painted on the head end of a single, wooden coffin. Unlike Pharaoh, these Romans were not gods. Their burials were poor by comparison, but appropriate to their position in the order of things. After all, following the passing of pharaonic culture, there were no gods, at least none the like of Pharaoh himself.

The king knew Antony for a goodly man and a talented tactician. In the centurion’s continuing search of the heavens, he had visited their plane on several occasions and come to know them equally well. He would be an appropriate addition to their subversive team.

“See that man there?” Tutankhamun pointed out Harry Burton. The photographer was steadying himself on the top of his ladder and preparing

to take a picture of the naked mummy’s legs.

Marc Antony nodded.

“I want him dead. And I want him dead before their day is out.”

Without a second thought Antony said, “With respect, no, my lord. Murder is a human sin and will not achieve your ends. If you wish to engender a realisation, at the very least a suspicion, of the power of the paranormal, you cannot use any method that could be attributed to human hand. They will seek and find a human solution, right or wrong believe me. What we must cause to come to pass are processes that are impossible to interpret within their natural law that is, events that are compellingly supernatural. That way we can conjure some mischief and plant the virus of anxiety amongst these mortals. Why not many viruses? Let them prosper and multiply. They will worry themselves to death!” Marc Antony smiled.

The king nodded in agreement. There was eminent sense in what the centurion said.

“However, my lord,” he continued. “We must be honest with ourselves in our appraisal of this situation. One thing we cannot influence is the strength of their individual capacity for rational thought. If, in the event, they choose to dismiss any evidence of the occult, there will be little we can do to redirect their attention. We will fail.”

Tutankhamun raised his right fist at the Roman. “There will be no failures. NO failures! You will see to it.”

“Well. What will be, my lord, will be. I can do this with the help of your Majesty’s occult powers. Bestow these upon me and I can do this.”

“You are thus enlightened, centurion. Fail me not.”

Antony shrugged his shoulders, mumbled something, and turned to leave.

Tutankhamun called after him.

“What was that? What did you say just then, Roman?”

“Nothing, my lord. Merely acknowledging your wishes. That is all. I will go about my business forthwith.”

“See that you do. Succeed and you will always find comfortable harbour here. We understand your odyssey and wish you success. But, should you not succeed, you may seek no welcome back here. No welcome.”

The king would never have spoken such words to Meneg or Ugele or any of the others in his court. Much as he had endeared himself to the royal couple and their entourage, the Roman was not one of them. He had his part to play, nothing more. The benefits of success would be his. The penalties of failure also would be his.

The centurion disappeared.

He had been feeling out of sorts for some time now. Having to travel on a steamer during a particularly stormy crossing of the Mediterranean only made him feel worse. With his wife as his travelling companion, he was at least well cared for and this additionally provided him with some feeling of security. Her support took his mind off what had been preoccupying him these last few weeks. By nature a hypochondriac, he had a profound fear that his heart was about to give out.

But today he had a more immediate concern. The seasickness made him feel absolutely dreadful and, as the boat smashed into another great wave and yawed alarmingly to starboard, he was once again compelled to empty what was already a very vacant stomach. The sweat ran freely from his scalp. His face glistened in the dim light of the cabin. Involuntarily straining to evacuate what was not there took every ounce of strength in his aching body.

His wife dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth. “Hold on, my darling, this won’t last forever. We will be in Alexandria by morning.” She turned the light down lower. “You try and get some sleep. I’m going up on deck for a breath of air.”

He rested back, appearing to relax a little, and closed his eyes. She pressed the flannel, warm from his own perspiration, into his hand, got up from the bed and left.

The howling wind was cool on her face, but she felt chilled by the sea spray that spattered her with every roll of the ship. She had to hold on to the guide rail tightly to ensure she did not lose her footing. The dark clouds rolled and the white, foaming wave tops pitched around her. For a moment she forgot her ailing husband and drew the fresh air deep into her lungs. Frightening as the storm’s fury appeared, it nevertheless invigorated her, and she rubbed her hands hard over her wet face, tasting the salt in the water.

A brilliant flash of light wiped out the view for a moment and a physically shaking clap of thunder immediately followed. She decided to return to the safety of her cabin. Temporarily blinded, she stumbled along the deck towards the stairs, guiding herself by the handrail. With partial vision, she made out the number on the cabin door, turned the brass knob and, as the ship rolled once again, stumbled in. The wind slammed the door shut behind her.

“Sorry, darling. Didn’t mean to wake you but I was frightened by the lightning and had to get back quickly. I am afraid. If anything the storm appears to be worsening. How do you feel?”

There was no answer.

“God, it’s good to see you again, Howard! Fair raises the spirits.” Arthur Mace was ecstatic at seeing his colleague back from the 1925/26 season. “You have seen much this season. I know it. You must tell me everything. Leave nothing out. Please sit.”

Carter was uplifted himself. Mace, his principal colleague after all this time and all this history, the man who had written most of his first volume on the discovery for him, had in many ways replaced the guardianship that Carter had felt with Carnarvon. He had missed the man enormously this past season.

“Arthur! If you only knew what this means to me. And what it has meant not to have you by my side. If you only knew.”

“Before we talk, a drink?”

“A drink.”

Mace did the honours.

Carter downed his in a mouthful.

“Another?”

“Please.”

The two men settled into an incongruous silence for well over a minute.

Mace, who had been reflecting on their past association and his present personal physical weakness, felt he had to say something. For some unidentifiable reason he felt apologetic. He had let his respected colleague down and must explain. However, what came out of his mouth was far from sincere.

“Howard. Seems like decades since we worked together. Decades. So much has happened, has changed, in the time that has passed. You know damn well, don’t you, that if it weren’t for this blasted sickness I’m perpetually cursed with, I’d be with you every season?”

Carter himself had been taking a moment to reflect, too. He had been thinking about how he could be helped with the second volume of his book and wondered how he would work around to the subject. He had not heard every word that Mace had spoken but, pulled from his introspective silence, he answered as best he could.

“Nonsense, Arthur, you always could see the funny side of things. I am likely to take everything very seriously and I need to hear your irreverent slant. It does me good. I wish to God you were with me now, though. Not to belittle the efforts of our current colleagues Burton and Lucas, so competent, dedicated but we need you, too. Not so many months ago we had the perfect team.”

“This is not helping me, Howard. I’d be a helluva lot happier if you stopped at the compliments, accepted my situation, and forgot your desires.”

Carter, elbows on his knees, contemplated the gin tumbler cradled in his hands. He looked up and stared directly into Mace’s eyes. “What ‘situation’, Arthur? What is this ‘situation’ you speak of? The truth now, please.”

Mace hadn’t wanted to deal with this. What difference did it make, anyway? He was too sick to return to Egypt, to travel anywhere outside Britain for that matter. Carter had been told this. Why didn’t he accept it? Did he believe there was some ulterior motive?

“Frankly, Howard, and truthfully, I am at a loss to understand this line of questioning. Believe me, I’d change places with you any day.” That was the truth. His fingers visibly tightened about his glass. “Believe me.”

Carter placed his glass to one side and regarded his friend more closely.

The man had lost weight since they had last met. That much was obvious. His complexion was sallow in comparison to the ruddy cheeks he had developed during his efforts in the desert. His chest noticeably heaved each time he got up from his seat to replenish their glasses. The man was run down, quite clearly but sick? Was he really sick?

Mace could read Carter’s expression. He drew a deep breath. “I had hoped to spare you this, my friend. So you want the truth?” He looked directly back into Carter’s eyes. “Started with pleurisy. You remember? Why I had to leave. Then trouble with the tummy. Can’t take food any more. No hankering for it. Gives me the bellyache. Now, to cap it all, the bloody heart’s on the blink. Doctors say I have months. If lucky, and with care, a couple of years.” He paused. “Egypt? No, old boy. Out of the question. Quite out of the question.”

There was little more to be said.

The compassionate side of Carter’s emotions rose to a height he had not previously experienced. Without giving it a second thought, he reached across to take Mace by the hands. He pressed them to his chest.

“I am sorry, Howard. I’m so sorry.”

“I am the one who’s sorry, old boy. Tell me how I might help.”

Mace smiled. “Don’t bloody make me feel guilty no more! That’s how you can help.”

“Don’t die on me, Mace. The list is growing alarmingly. I’ve already lost another of the team.”

“Who’s that?”

“Our radiographer. You never met him. He died on the bloody boat on his way down this last season. Wife found him dead in bed. Never known anyone to die of seasickness before. Poor bugger. And two of the Arabs who were present at the dissection they died the same year.”

“Blimey. I’d not heard about that. Heard about Gould, though.”

“Oh, yes, Gould! Now that was damn peculiar. Dropped dead the day after I showed him round the tomb. Can’t say I blame the papers for picking up on the story. Bloody tommyrot!”

Mace, regardless of how he felt in himself, and always one to reflect on the funny side of things, looked up at the ceiling and cleared his throat. “Heard the one about the surgeon, the radiographer, and the gynaecologist?”

It was now 1928, and Carter was glad to leave England. The year had started poorly. Arthur Mace’s death, this sad finality occurring in the spring, had removed yet another great piece of his life. The emptiness he felt could never be refilled. His two greatest allies were now buried in British soil with all those memories he could not remain in England another moment. He was back in Luxor by September.

It was difficult for Carter to comprehend that he had been working in this place, on this single, magnificent project, for close to six years, and still there were masses of material in the laboratory awaiting restoration and package for the journey to Cairo. The king once more lay at peace, reassembled within his outer coffin and sarcophagus, with a protective glass plate above. The tomb itself was otherwise pretty much cleared but for the shrine which, in pieces, still lay within the burial chamber.