Tutankhamun Uncovered (40 page)

Carter helped paddle one of the boats to the other side of the river. They disembarked, dragged the dinghies up on the sand and set off across the fields towards the Ramesseum. Carter led the way.

In another twenty minutes or so they were at the threshold of the temple. The soldiers moved between the columns, darting from the cover of one to the other as if they were stealing up on some dangerous quarry. Carter, totally unaware of his colleagues’ cautionary tactics, walked straight through the centre. Reaching the rear of the Ramesseum, they looked out into the darkness to try to pick out the shape of their target.

They had no trouble seeing it. There was a small log fire burning just outside the entrance, and right beside it two Arab guards asleep on blankets.

“Damn!” hissed the major.

“Looks like we’re in for a bit of ‘sensitive immobilisation’, eh, major?” whispered Carter, unable to resist the opportunity to add some flavour to their adventure.

“Horsell!” the major hissed.

“Sir!”

The ‘creature from beyond’ scurried over to the major’s side. Dorking started at the sight of the masked lieutenant.

“God, you look ugly, Horsell! Now. Pay attention. Take Adamson and nobble those two fellahs. Make sure neither of you is recognised. Bind and gag ’em, then drag ’em away somewhere where they’ll be safe from the blast. Ensure they’re left somewhere where they’ll be easily spotted when daylight breaks. Don’t want ’em frying before they get found. Not good for local relations.” Dorking needn’t have worried.

Both crouching low as they moved across the rocks and sand, Horsell led the sergeant around in a wide arc so that they came on the men from the side and, so far as was possible, out of the light thrown by the fire. With all the stealth they had been taught during training, the two reached the corner of the building and eased themselves along the wall towards the sleeping, unarmed custodians. Close by now, Horsell positioned himself to leap on one of the Arabs. He rose up before the unsuspecting unfortunate with his arms held high and prepared to jump.

The two guards opened their eyes almost simultaneously. The flickering light of the fire blazed from the orbs of glass in Horsell’s gas mask. What a sight they must have beheld. The devil himself, his eyes afire, had come to claim them! Together the two let out a terrible, primeval scream and took off into the darkness at a speed that would have challenged any sprinter. Adamson attempted to fall on one of them as they ran past, but he was slow to react. He missed the man completely, fell to the ground and hit his head on a rock, knocking himself senseless.

“Fine mess,” was all the major could think to say as he watched the charade. “Fine, bloody mess.”

“Not that bad, sir,” reassured Carter. “Looks like you achieved your objective guards gone, effectively immobilised, unharmed, their attackers unrecognised for what they were, at least and the house now safely secured to us. Not at all bad.”

“Don’t like to say it, Carter, but more by luck than judgement, I’m afraid. More by luck than judgement.”

He turned to Watson. “Well, don’t just stand there, boy, get over there and do what you’re trained to do.”

He turned to the remainder of the attack force. “You help him. You others keep a lookout.”

As Horsell tried to bring Adamson around, Watson went into the building and began to lay out his charges. He knew he had to lay the gun cotton at the base of load bearing pillars, but he hadn’t a clue what size of charge would be sufficient to bring the place down. That it would have to be less per charge than that which he would use for the steel members of a bridge he was certain, but how much less? After all their trouble he couldn’t afford to have the mission fail in its objective. He decided to err on the safe side and place a little more than he judged might be necessary.

His charges laid and primed, he drew the cables out through the front door and walked backwards to the Ramesseum, laying the wires out before him.

“All set and ready, sir.”

“Good man,” said the major. “Everyone back behind me!” he shouted.

“Horsell! If you can’t wake him up, carry him, dammit!”

The lieutenant by this time had finally managed to slap some life back into the dazed sergeant and was able to help him back onto his feet and guide him slowly back to cover.

Once safely within the temple walls, they all crouched down and waited for the order. This would be Carter’s moment of triumph. A real poke in the eye for the Hun one particular Hun to be exact Doktor Ludwig Borchardt.

Watson charged up the firing box and poised himself above it with his hands on the firing stick. The major looked about one more time and then dropped his hand. With all his weight Watson fell on the firing stick.

There was a tremendous flash and one almighty crack, lengthened by a split second as the several charges ignited in rapid succession. Each of the conspirers felt the draught of the shock wave. Heavy objects rushed through the air about them. In the stony confinement of the pillared hall of the Ramesseum the amplification was almost unbearably loud. Worse still, as the noise died and the perpetrators took their hands from their ears, echoes reflected from the walls of the cliffs about them almost as loud and from multiple directions, as if they were being bombarded themselves.

For a moment or two the troops stared from one to the other in startled amazement, not yet daring to look at the results of their work. Falling about them, the dust of many thousands of disintegrated mud bricks settled on their shoulders. The echoes finally trailed away into the darkness of night and peace returned.

The pillars of the Ramesseum reflected a glow from the fires which now quietly crackled on the remains of fallen wooden lintels.

Dorking switched on his torch and shone it into Carter’s face. He winced. The major laughed. “You’re all bloody red, Carter! What a sight! Hey, men, look. He’s all bloody red!”

The light from the torch reflected off the pillars about them. Horsell looked around quickly and, pulling off his mask, announced, “Evwyone’s wed, sir. The whole bloody lot of us!” And he began to laugh.

A moment later pretty much everybody in the group was laughing. The bright, white ellipse of face left by Horsell’s mask shone like a ghost in the dim light thrown by Dorking’s torch.

“They’re all laughing at you, Horsell. You’re the only white man in the ‘twoop’!”

An embarrassed Horsell quickly replaced his gas mask and Carter turned to look towards the villa. The dust was finally settling. At the positions where Watson had laid the charges, glowing embers flashed and sputtered momentarily. For all that anyone could see in the faint light, there was literally nothing left. Even the sand on the bedrock had been blown away. All that remained was a polished rocky outcrop with broad scorch marks in eight places.

The major was the first to speak. “Back to bridges for you, Watson. You nearly killed us all, boy.”

“I... I told you I had never been trained on buildings, sir. I just guessed.”

Carter leant over and patted Watson on the shoulder. “You did well, boy. We got rid of it. Wiped it. Completely. Nothing remains. As if it had never existed. And no one the worse for wear... apart from ‘Sarn’t Adamson’, that is, who only has himself to blame.”

The major grunted. “Let’s get out of here. Gather up the stuff. Follow me.”

That night the devil had made an awful appearance, wrought his wicked work and left. Two frightened fellahs with an horrific tale to tell would never be the same again. Howard Carter would sleep soundly.

Chapter Thirteen

Tutankhamun was not dead not to Ankhesenamun, not to Ay, not to the people, not to any who believed.

To Horemheb, however, the thought of meeting in the afterlife he whom he had murdered was unthinkable. Who knows what manner of retribution his spirit could fashion? It would have plenty of time to prepare. However long it might take, one way or another the general would have to see to it that the king’s body never completed its journey.

Ankhesenamun was equally resolute. She would rejoin her husband in the everlasting. She would assure him a peaceful and safe journey. They would live, once and for all, in eternal harmony. It would be Horemheb who would not survive the afterlife.

What Horemheb had not bargained for was the depth and complexity of the queen’s creative subterfuge. It would not occur to him that she might attempt to pre-empt his plan. Interfere perhaps, but it was beyond comprehension that she could reason against him, let alone ultimately defeat him.

It had seemed to Dashir over these last three months that the queen had gone over her plans in explicit detail more than one hundred times. But, on the night he was to do the deed, the queen once more had summoned him to her chambers.

He entered, flanked by two palace guards, and prostrated himself before her.

“Leave us!”

The guards dutifully departed and reassumed their positions outside the doors to her rooms.

“Dashir, rise. Welcome. Tonight we shall taste victory over evil. Tonight you will bring me the soul of my husband. Tonight you will be rewarded beyond your greatest expectations.”

Dashir raised his eyes. There was a puzzled expression on his face. He had not thought of payment. He had just hoped to complete the job and get away with his life. That would be gift enough. If she wished to give him something besides, so be it, but he would have to be alive to receive it.

She continued. “Dashir. You will cross the Nile tonight alone.”

He couldn’t believe it. She was going to go through the whole thing again. There was so much to do before dawn. She was wasting valuable time. He forgot himself for a moment and interrupted, “My... my lady... permit me, please... to speak.”

She was taken aback by his forwardness, but her regard for this servant was so great that she did not take offence at it.

“You are free to speak.”

Dashir paused. His fear returned.

“Well then... If you have something to say, speak your mind.”

“My lady,” he nervously began again, “we have been over this plan many, many times these past weeks. I know it like the skills in my hands. I can do this thing. But I do need time. Please let me go now so that I may have the fullness of the night.”

She understood. “Very well then. Be gone. I will not expect you until tomorrow’s sun falls into the Royal Necropolis. Be off with you!”

Much relieved, he smiled and at once departed.

Dashir met his son on the other side of the river. Together they walked as quickly as they could to The Valley and the site of the entrance to the tomb. As the queen had indicated, there were no guards. The gravel covering the stairway looked exactly like the rest of the debris in this part of The Valley invisible to all but those who remembered precisely where it had been.

“We start to dig here,” he ordered his son. “You will dig the tunnel. I will remove the debris. It will be easy. It is still soft. Start here. In this way you will excavate to the top of the first door. The roof of the tomb will protect you. Mind you make a hole big enough for me to crawl through!”

His son smiled. “Yes, father.” And he began scraping at the area his father had pointed out to him.

It seemed to take forever. The boy eventually reached the first door and began chiselling away at the bricks, dragging them out one by one. As soon as he’d cleared a space large enough for each of them to pass through he began shovelling at the fill in the corridor, pushing the debris behind him with his hands and feet. Dashir gathered it up in a basket and dragged it outside.

Every time he emerged at the surface, Dashir would stand motionless for a moment, listening for any sign of movement within The Valley. There was nothing, thankfully, but for the intermittent whirring of a cricket or two.

He pulled himself back down the narrow tunnel until he reached the pile of rubble at his son’s feet. He called ahead to him.

“Are you at the second door yet?”

“Yes, father,” answered the panting boy. “I’m pulling out the bricks now.”

“Clear a space for me and then come out.”

Dashir filled his basket with the remaining debris and backed out of the tunnel. The boy emerged a few moments later dragging the remaining bricks with him.

“This is it!” pronounced Dashir. “Light me that oil lamp.”

Taking the lamp, he wriggled his way along the tunnel. The bed of the cavity was uneven and occasionally he scraped his back on the roof of the corridor but he didn’t let the pain distract him. He pushed the lamp ahead until he reached the door to the antechamber. Gripping the edges of the hole in the doorway he pulled his head through. Flashes of reflected gold were suddenly all about him and in the flickering lamplight, amidst the aura of golden reflections, weird shadows danced randomly on the walls like so many cavorting lucifers.

He took a moment to gather himself and then rested the lamp on the gravel filling of the corridor next to his right shoulder. With some effort he managed to pull himself into the room head first. Because of the gloom it seemed a long drop but he forced his heels against the roof of the corridor to slow his fall and by the time he felt himself losing his grip his fingers had touched the floor of the chamber. He slid down the inner wall of the door and picked himself up. He recovered his lamp from the entrance to the tunnel and placed it on the floor.

Once again he paused a while to take in the flickering glitter that surrounded him, but only for a moment. There was no time to indulge in the extravagance of it all. He turned to the golden shrine standing between the feet of the two great gilded statues. Sinking to his knees before the doors of the shrine, he quickly crushed the dried mud seal in his hands and untied the rope securing the bolt. He pulled the bolt clear and opened the doors. The light from his lamp shone on the feet of the diminutive gold effigy standing inside. The remainder of the figure was obscured by the roll of papyrus that had been pushed in beside it.

He was deeply troubled at being within the tomb. The sight of the statue added to his anxiety. It was, after all, the representation of the king’s spirit in the afterlife. The very life force of the king himself may already lie within it.