by Mike Ashley
They called my husband The Great Belzoni, and that name described him well. Six foot six and possessing the strength of ten men, Giovanni Belzoni was my world and we held to each other in poverty and riches . . . although for most of our marriage it was the former. When Giovanni Belzoni died the brilliance went from my life and left me with only debts and memories.
I look back now on our years together – on the time Giovanni performed as a strong man in a travelling circus, all the time longing for his hydraulic inventions to come to the notice of some rich patron, then on the years of searing heat and sand that we spent in Egypt – and they seem almost like a play, full of light and colour but seen from the distant darkness.
Giovanni was always careful to record the contents of the tombs he uncovered in Egypt. But one tomb went unmentioned in his writings because of what happened there in December of 1817; events which fill me with horror and sadness whenever I think upon them. The Valley of the Kings is a place of death, and thus it proved those 11 long years ago.
As I think back, I recall again the suffocating air and the fine dust of those forgotten tombs that we entered in dim candlelight. I can smell again the dry stench of mummified bodies which filled our nostrils and in my mind’s eye I see the Arab diggers, caked in dust like living mummies, passing baskets of debris from one to the other as they cleared out the underground chambers. Once Giovanni entered a tomb and mistakenly sat down to rest on a pile of rags and bones which he found, to his horror, to be broken mummies. I accompanied him on all his expeditions and became accustomed to such sights. But in the tomb of Hetsut I encountered death in another form.
We were working in the Valley of the Kings, shortly after Giovanni’s great discovery of the tomb of Seti I, a monument of such rich decoration that it was rumoured falsely at the time that a great treasure had been found within, when we came upon a small buried tomb which was the last resting place not of a pharaoh or great queen, but of some minor official or courtier. There were many such tombs in the Valley of the Kings but the discovery of each one caused my husband great excitement.
In our party were a dozen or so Arab diggers. But the one I remember best was Ahmut who turned up unexpectedly to help us. We had first met Ahmut in Cairo when Giovanni had demonstrated one of his wonderful hydraulic machines to the Pasha (there was no limit to my late husband’s genius). Unfortunately the machine went out of control when Ahmut shouted to his fellows to jump from a great wheel which, relieved of its load, flew back and injured two of our men who became entangled in its workings. Giovanni scolded Ahmut for his carelessness but I suspected at the time that he may have been bribed by my husband’s enemies to sabotage the demonstration. However I had no proof of this.
But it seemed that Ahmut now wished to make amends for his actions and Giovanni welcomed his help for he was a strong man and a good worker. But I was still wary of Ahmut and I thought at the time that my Giovanni was far too trusting of others.
Our servant James Curtain also accompanied us, as did Paolo Capeli, a distant cousin of Giovanni’s from Padua who had developed a fascination with Egypt’s past and seized every opportunity to join us on our explorations of that magical country. Neither James nor Paolo feared hard work and discomfort, although the accident with the Pasha’s hydraulic machine had left James scarred and Paolo with a crippled leg and a disfigured face. Both young men were willing workers and I enjoyed their company.
But there was another member of our party who contrived to make himself unpleasant and obstructive. This man was George Pargeter and he was one of the British Consul General’s staff – although one can only suppose that Mr Salt, the Consul General, was pleased to be rid of him.
George Pargeter held himself in high esteem, which is more than anybody else did. He lorded it over the diggers, speaking to all the Arabs with disdain, although he habitually dressed in Arab clothing, saying it was more comfortable in the unbearable heat. And it wasn’t only the Arabs who resented his arrogant ways: he ordered our servant James about with equal rudeness, although he treated Paolo with some respect as he was Giovanni’s kinsman.
My husband, too, disliked Pargeter and I heard him threaten to kill the man on more than one occasion, although I knew Giovanni well enough to be certain that such threats were idle and not to be taken seriously. Or I thought I did. For murder creates such suspicion and fear, even between loved ones, that nobody is sure of the truth until the guilt of the murderer is proved beyond doubt.
As I cast my thoughts back to the day when Hetsut’s tomb was discovered, I recall the sights and sounds as I waited to enter the tomb to help Giovanni record its contents. I was in the habit of sketching any paintings that decorated the tombs and copying carefully the strange writing known as hieroglyphics which at that time we could not comprehend.
While I sat in the shade of a rock, I was aware of a voice, braying and self-opinionated. I recognized it as George Pargeter’s and I sat still and listened, hoping he wouldn’t discover my presence.
“Of course Belzoni has the treasure hidden somewhere,” he said loudly. “I don’t believe he could have entered a tomb like Seti’s and found only painted walls. Not that I blame him for telling everyone he found nothing: I’d probably have done the same in his shoes. But it’s rather hard on your men. You’d think he’d have let you have your share of the spoils.”
I didn’t hear the reply. I was seething with anger. How could this braying jackass of a man cast doubts upon my dear husband’s honesty? I knew that Giovanni had found nothing in Seti’s tomb; no doubt it had been stripped by robbers some time in antiquity. But rumours and talk are like the floods of the Nile, they spread everywhere and are impossible to stop.
From his words I guessed that Pargeter’s companion was one of our Arab diggers. But I knew of only one that spoke good English. I flattened myself against the rock as I saw Ahmut hurrying past towards the entrance of the freshly excavated tomb. I had suspected that it was Ahmut who had received the dubious benefits of George Pargeter’s wisdom, although I knew the man had no love for Pargeter. In fact he had seemed to avoid him, as though there was bad blood between them.
I hoped that Ahmut hadn’t believed the poison Pargeter had been spouting and that he wouldn’t spread dissent amongst the diggers and cause them to demand their fair share of the non existent treasure of Seti I.
Ahmut discarded the distinctive red headgear he habitually wore and folded his outer garments neatly, placing them on a rock before entering the tomb. The dusty interior was no place for heavy desert robes.
When he had disappeared into the tomb I stepped out from the shadow of the rock, adjusting my hat so that my eyes were shielded from the strength of the sun. Then a voice behind me made me jump.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Belzoni – or may I call you Sarah?”
George Pargeter was standing there in his Arab robes, his head bare and the sun beating down on his sparse greasy curls. He was smiling ingratiatingly and I had to resist the temptation to slap his face.
“Mrs Belzoni would be more correct, sir,” I said coldly. I hesitated, but then I decided on the brutal and direct approach, for I doubted if such a man as Pargeter would respond to subtlety. “I should be grateful, sir, if you would refrain from spreading untruths about my husband. He found no treasure in the tomb of Seti and I fear that you may cause resentment and dissent amongst our Arab diggers if you suggest that he has cheated them in any way. Do I make myself clear?” I looked the man boldly in the eye and he had the temerity to smirk.
“Quite clear, dear lady.” He turned to go, fanning himself with his hand against the relentless heat. When he had walked a few yards he spotted Ahmut’s clothes lying on a rock. With a bold gesture he picked up Ahmut’s red headdress and placed it on his own head to keep the sun off his thinning pate. I watched and said nothing: when Ahmut discovered the theft he could deal with it himself.
As Pargeter hurried off towards the tents, I heard a sound behind me. I turned and saw James Curtain
, our servant, staring at Pargeter’s disappearing back.
“You startled me, James.”
The young man looked at me, serious. “I overheard what he said, Ma’am. If he keeps spreading those lies about what we found in Seti’s tomb, there’ll be unrest. I know you did your best to stop him but I’ve met his kind before. He likes to make trouble.”
“I only hope that Ahmut has the sense not to believe him.”
He frowned at the mention of Ahmut: since the incident with the Pasha’s machine, James had avoided the man’s company. I think that he blamed the accident on Ahmut’s recklessness, and not without just cause for I was there on that day and I witnessed all.
“Someone ought to do something about Pargeter,” said James suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t answer my question but excused himself on the grounds that he had to enter the tomb to help my husband. I turned away as he discarded his shirt, unmoved by his nakedness for no man was a match for my Giovanni. But I had noted the livid scars across his back that had been caused when he had become entangled in the machinery of my husband’s great invention.
James disappeared into the tomb’s small dark entrance. Giovanni and Paolo were already inside and I thought how hard Paolo worked in spite of his lameness which didn’t appear to have affected his speed or his strength. I pictured them inside the hot, airless chamber, inhaling the dust of centuries and I was glad that I would not be called upon to enter the place until it was cleared and aired. I had no fear of tombs or the spirits of the dead Egyptians, but I detested dust.
And yet perhaps I should have been more fearful of this particular tomb.
It was two days before the passageway was cleared of the sand and dust that choked it. The Arabs worked from dawn to dusk and my husband too, aided by James and Paolo, dug and toiled until at last they reached the tomb’s outer chamber.
I had not seen George Pargeter since I had scolded him for spreading false tales about my husband and I was told that he had gone off to Luxor on some unspecified business. He was not missed. The Arab diggers seemed happier in his absence as he had a habit of standing watching them work, hands on hips, like some great pharaoh overseeing his slaves. No man likes to be treated thus and the Arabs were proud people. Ahmut, I suspected, seemed especially to dislike him but I didn’t know why.
So when Pargeter turned up at the tomb near the end of the working day, I was disappointed to see him: I had hoped his absence would be longer. While the men were working in the outer chamber I waited in the shade of the tomb’s entrance passage. Suddenly the bright sunlight streaming into the narrow corridor was blocked out by a black shape surrounded by a halo of light. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw it was a large robed figure which I took to be one of the Arab helpers, for all men look the same in those long robes when that light is dim. I uttered a clear greeting in the Arab tongue but the figure spoke back in English.
“Mrs Belzoni. Wherever your husband is, you are never far away.”
My heart began to beat fast because George Pargeter made my flesh crawl. There was something in his voice, a veiled threat perhaps, that I did not like.
“My husband is inside the tomb. They have reached the outer chamber.”
“But what of the inner chamber? If there are treasures to be found, that’s where they will be.”
“My husband is no treasure hunter,” I said angrily.
He made no reply but entered the passage and the closeness of his body as he edged past me confirmed that he was no true gentleman.
I followed him to the outer chamber of the tomb which was now being cleared and swept. I could see marvellous paintings on the walls that came alive in the flickering torchlight.
“Well, well,” Pargeter began, causing the workers to look up.
I saw Paolo give the man a nod of greeting, for he was always a good-natured young man who bore his afflictions bravely. James Curtain scowled at the newcomer and returned to his task of sweeping the debris of years from the sandy floor.
My husband addressed the newcomer, doing his best to conceal his dislike. “Come in, Mr Pargeter, and see how well we progress.”
“What have you found?” Pargeter spoke greedily, more interested in wealth than antiquities.
My husband shrugged his great shoulders, shoulders that had supported ten men in his days as a strongman. “Many things, Mr Pargeter.” He pointed to Paolo who was carefully packing a statue of a crocodile-headed god into a wooden crate. “I fear this chamber has been robbed of many treasures but the thieves have left us with a few artefacts that will gladden hearts at the British Museum.”
“And what of the inner chamber?”
“It is late,” my husband replied. “We will enter it tomorrow.”
“Where is the entrance?”
My husband pointed to the great slab of plaster that sealed the adjoining chamber. I saw that James Curtain was watching nervously. The Arabs watched also, regarding Pargeter with something between suspicion and hatred. He was not a popular man. Only Paolo continued his work as though he had no wish to be involved in quarrels and unpleasantness. My husband’s strong face was a neutral mask. He would avoid trouble if he could.
“Where is Ahmut?” Pargeter asked suddenly.
This was something I could answer for I kept an eye on the Arab diggers and it was I who paid them for the work they had done. “He was here this morning but he hasn’t returned this afternoon,” I said, wondering why Pargeter was so interested.
“No matter,” the man said lightly. He turned to my husband. “Come on, Belzoni, smash that entrance down. I’m sure we’re all agog with curiosity to see what lies within.”
My husband raised himself to his full height and gazed down on Pargeter’s head. “As I have said, Mr Pargeter, the hour is late. The men have worked hard and wish to finish for the day.” He looked at me and spoke. “Sarah, my love, please show Mr Pargeter out,” he said as though we were in a London drawing room rather than the tomb of an ancient Egyptian.
Pargeter had no option. As I followed him from the tomb I noticed that he looked back longingly at the door to the inner chamber as though he would have smashed it open there and then were it not for the presence of so many people to restrain him.
As he returned to his tent which was pitched some way from the tomb, I watched him and I thought how like an Arab he looked in his robes; it was only the sickly pallor of his skin that betrayed him as an Englishman. And as I watched I found myself wondering where Ahmut had got to and why Pargeter had been so keen to learn his whereabouts.
But I was not to know that next time I saw George Pargeter he would be dead.
I know now that the owner of the tomb was called Hetsut. And I know her story, thanks to Monsieur Champollion who in 1822, after long examination of the strange granite stone found at Rosetta, gave us the key to the mysterious writing we call hieroglyphics.
If I had been able to decipher the symbols on Hetsut’s tomb back in 1817, perhaps I should have guessed the identity of the murderer sooner but as it was, I had only the pictures painted on the wall as a clue to Hetsut’s fate. Since then I have learned, by careful translation of the hieroglyphics I copied painstakingly as we explored the tomb, that she was a favoured dancer in the court of Seti I. And I know now how and why she met her terrible death.
But on the night two of our Arab diggers came to our tent saying they had heard noises coming from Hetsut’s tomb, we knew nothing of its occupant. The paintings on the walls of the outer chamber had shown a woman apparently dancing before a pharaoh but there were no other clues. My husband’s main concern was whether or not we would find the inner chamber disturbed by the robbers who had stripped so many of the tombs we had explored.
Giovanni went out of the tent with the Arabs to look inside the tomb by torchlight and he found that the entrance to the inner chamber had been smashed, leaving a hole large enough for a man to enter. Assuming that robbers were about, he posted gua
rds there for the rest of the night. But all was quiet: whoever had entered the tomb had hopefully left empty-handed.
So it was that we assembled at the tomb the next morning. My husband entered the outer chamber first, towering over the Arab diggers.
“Somebody broke into the inner chamber last night,” he announced.
There was a murmuring and Giovanni stood, looking from one face to another for signs of guilt. Even James and Paolo were not spared his fierce gaze but I had my own suspicions. I was certain that George Pargeter had returned the night before to break into the tomb chamber and I feared that he would have taken away any portable treasure he found within. I cursed Pargeter as I thought of his greed and arrogance.
My husband asked James and Paolo to help him enlarge the entrance. Then he called for a torch which he thrust into the dark chamber and I rushed to his side, eager to see the interior.
I could smell the stale air and I could just make out that the walls of the chamber were richly painted with figures that glowed and danced in the flickering light. Women with eyes as wide and mysterious as a cat’s watched from the walls as Giovanni stepped carefully inside.
As the light from his blazing torch flooded the chamber, I noted the absence of footprints on the thick dust of the floor: George Pargeter had moved the door aside but had not entered: perhaps he had lost his nerve. A dark Egyptian tomb would be a fearful place for one alone at night.
And yet it looked as though the tomb had been entered at some time in its history. Statues of animal-headed gods stood around but some lay smashed on the ground and the lid of the painted wooden sarcophagus was pushed aside as if the mummy it contained had risen back to life and left its resting place. I watched from the doorway as Giovanni approached the sarcophagus with a blazing torch held high above his head. I saw him bend over the painted chest and when he smiled I guessed that the mummy was still there in its appointed place.