The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [121]
At which point Ahmed returns, begging my forgiveness for having hired such untrustworthy dogs and also sons of dogs, hoping in the name of Allah and my own God that they did no serious harm to my great work, and did I discover any treasure in my further progress? I decline to respond and withhold my forgiveness. Does His Lordship hold out hope for the remainder of the tomb? Was it, in His Lordship’s opinion, common for the old kings to put all their gold in the last room and leave the tomb empty in the front? Should loyal Ahmed bring many, many more men, who will work for nearly nothing, he has cousins eager to participate, men who love the English?
I confess to a moment’s hesitation. For nonscientists, the tomb to date probably lacks a surface glare that would help them see the success still wafting, no question, from behind Door D, and Ahmed’s enthusiasm (though its source is obvious) is not discouraging: he too suspects there is something grand lurking still. I merely nod at him, encourage his patience and faith in my knowledge. “We will all be justly rewarded, as your Koran promises,” I tell him. “You are sure?” he asks. “I am sure, Ahmed.” And I am.
He helps me onto the donkey he has brought, and I order him to hire a carpenter to build a gate to cover the tomb entrance, buy a padlock for said gate, hire two of his most trusted cousins, and meet back here with gate, carpenter, and men (all by the discreet route) in three days’ time. I need the interlude to give CCF a chance to return my expedition to full power.
Ferry back across Nile. Bank. Post: urgently cable CCF: SIX ROOMS, MAJESTIC FIND. WHERE IS MY SUPPORT FROM YOU? THINK ABOUT YOUR COLLECTION. Return slowly and painfully to Villa Trilipush. Rebandage foot.
But there is still loyalty in this world. Maggie and the Rameses await me. They take pleasure in their dinner, but more in my company.
Sunday, 26 November, 1922
Ahmed wakes me. “Is it Tuesday already?” I ask, groggy. “No,” he says. “What day is it?” He says, “Be quiet. You have found nothing, yes?” “Not at all, on Tuesday we will return to install the gate you’ll arrange and begin work on the next door.” “No,” says Ahmed. “No?” “No.” He says that all of his cousins have gone to work for Carter, who is now hiring as many men as he can find, and paying well. Ahmed, too, is going to work for Carter, and has come today only to collect the money he and his cousins are owed. “I do not understand. Carter has found nothing, returned to Cairo,” I say. Ahmed corrects me as the cats flee (smarter than I, sensing danger before me): Carter has only been waiting for the arrival of Carnarvon from England before proceeding with his find. Carnarvon has arrived now, and they have reopened the staircase. They have found a door with Tut-ankh-Amen’s seals. They found boxes and pots, and baksheesh is plentiful. It is in all the newspapers. They are paying well. They will find riches. There is no shortage of money. And now Ahmed demands to be paid by me at once. “You are a bounder and a thief,” I tell him, but still lying down, practically nude, my bad foot up on pillows, my position is poor.
“I am a thief? I dig in the ground to steal the gold of buried ancients and do not inform the authorities? I hide in the desert like a criminal?”
“I am not going to enlighten you in your childish misconceptions, Ahmed. You are dismissed. Leave my sight.”
Ahmed empties my wallet, counts out my money but says he is owed still more. “I will come tomorrow for my money. And you will repay me and my cousins. And I will expect a payment as well to prevent me from informing the Inspectors that you dig without permission.”
“You are an unspeakable swine,” I tell him, refusing to explain the errors upon which he has