The Egyptologist - Arthur Phillips [98]
Friday, 3 November, 1922
Journal: Extend the men’s wall searches nearly half a mile into the desert. Clear another four clefts, the most promising of which shows some evidence of human contact, but nothing definitive. Twice the men find something in the wall face worth my hurried descent from the path above, but both times it is a false alarm. I must soon face the possibility that ground will have to be cleared, earth moved. If all of the clefts prove valueless, and the cliff face reveals nothing, then we are left with the inescapable conclusion that Atum-hadu’s tomb is in the flat valley basin, which will mean trenching operations, similar to Carter’s antworks on the other side of the cliff wall. Efficiency will demand several score men if not more. An impossibility without a complete and unequivocal concession from the Antiquities Service.
Saturday, 4 November, 1922
Journal: Clear five more clefts, and have the men begin physically scraping the cliff face to a height of seven feet, 250 yards in either direction from the Fragment C site. It is a necessary next step, and I hope it will reward us, but I fear that the vast, flat desert floor now seems a more likely hiding place for Atum-hadu. This possibility stretches out our likely time commitment significantly. Will the Partnership’s nerve hold for another year if necessary? Perhaps I should introduce myself to Professor Winlock, discuss with him man-to-man a partition of the Metropolitan Museum’s land. He has no interest or expertise in Atum-hadu, and can cover only so much land in a season, even with his museum’s obscene resources. And he may welcome some complimentary shares in Hand-of-Atum, Ltd., considering his ltd. success in recent months.
Late afternoon: I descend to find I am missing Ahmed and one of the men. They return an hour later with this tale: while I was above, one of my workmen’s cousins came to visit him at our site and bore interesting news (gossip-bearing cousins being this country’s chief industry): Carter had found something, and my men’s afternoon absence (much salaaming and “thousand pardons, Lord Trilipush”) was due to their infiltration of Carter’s site, where it appears that Carter had found . . . a stair. Good Lord, a cause for jubilation to the poor old-timer, I am quite sure. Six years later and a stair! Ah well, he deserved to find something, and the Earl of Carnarvon can now feel his money was not entirely wasted.
Home to relax with the cats, some music.
The Nordquists stop for a cheering visit and we share supper. I recount my days, and they detail their touristic adventures. Their kind questions and interest in my every word warm me, a welcome surprise and marvellous tonic for my confidence.
Sunday, 5 November, 1922
Journal: Visit bazaar, dressed in native garb (it wins me better prices). Buy a few souvenirs—scarabs done by an excellent forger, aged brilliantly. The merchant gamely claims they are authentic Thothmes III. Nonsense, but it should amuse Carter, a congratulatory token from a sand-spitting brother.
Venture on donkey out to the Valley to see Carter’s stair. I feel queer, hot and cold in turns. How wonderful for him if he has made a find, of course.
His encampment is a ludicrously large presence squatting practically on top of Rameses VI. Finding Carter himself was rather tricky, as he moves in the centre of a crowd of workmen. Only calling his name loudly caught his attention. He emerged from his throng to greet me, dusting off his hands and usual frosty manner, an easy affectation to maintain with Carnarvon’s cash and a supporting cast of hundreds. He should try surviving on charm alone.
“Yes, Trilipush,” he says, pocketing my proffered gift of one of the