The Amarnan Kings, Book 6: Scarab - Descendant

by Overton, Max

  "The reason I can be certain...or at least moderately certain...is that the body of Smenkhkare was found in KV55, fifty years ago. Like his immediate relatives, that king was laid to rest in the Valley of the Kings, so whoever lies in this tomb of yours, it is not King Smenkhkare."

  "I...I see. Then you have not opened the tomb you have found?"

  Maroun smiled. "There is no great hurry. If it is a tomb from that period, it has lain there for three thousand years or so. Another few months more won't make any difference. It is far better to move slowly and be certain of doing things properly."

  Bashir nodded and sat in silence for a minute. "You said three thousand years. Have you dated the tomb?"

  "Not exactly. As you may know, in the absence of a name associated with a tomb, we must rely on circumstantial evidence, such as seals or pottery styles."

  "You have found these things in the shaft?"

  "A broken seal and some pottery fragments."

  "And?"

  "See for yourself, Minister." Dr Maroun opened a drawer in his desk and took out a rough disc of baked clay. He laid it carefully on his blotter and passed a magnifying glass to his guest.

  Bashir looked and then shook his head. "There are fragments of two royal cartouches. I recognise that much but I cannot read hieroglyphs."

  "They say, '...Truth is Re' in one, and 'Amun is...' in the other, or '...maatre Amen...". Almost certainly, the king in those cartouches is Nebmaatre Amenhotep, Amenhotep III, the father of Akhenaten."

  Bashir stared at Maroun in surprise. "It is Amenhotep's tomb then?"

  "No, that is in the Valley of the Kings."

  "Then what...?"

  "Seals are used for a great many things. They might indeed be used for royal purposes, but they could also be used to denote the vintage of a particular jar of wine--'in the tenth year of Nebmaatre Amenhotep', for example. The seal would be discarded when the jar was opened and it, along with other rubbish, would be thrown out. Eventually, it might find its way into a vacant shaft."

  Maroun carefully transferred the seal back to the safe confines of his desk drawer. "It gives us an approximation of the time period...maybe. You see, the shaft could be older--but probably not too much older--and a fragment of pottery found its way in around the time of Amenhotep. If people still knew of the existence of this shaft a long time after it was dug, then whatever is at the end of it has long since been looted. The shaft has perhaps become just a rubbish dump. We'll know more on that as we excavate. Or it could be younger--but probably not much younger as those fragments would not be around to be used as filler."

  "Hmm, I'll take your word for it. You're convinced it has nothing to do with Smenkhkare then?"

  Maroun smiled again. "I didn't say that--only that it can't be his tomb."

  "So when do you plan to excavate it?"

  "In a month or two. There's no real hurry."

  "I would have thought the existence of a new tomb shaft would make you excited and eager to start digging."

  "It's a shaft sunk into the cliff face, filled with rubble. So far, there's no indication it is a tomb, let alone an occupied one. It could be an unfinished one, a mine entrance, or...or anything. The Museum staff is very busy and this shaft has a low priority."

  Bashir considered whether to ask the question that was now uppermost in his mind, or whether to keep his purpose hidden. In the end, he decided he had nothing to lose by asking.

  "Would you permit me to see the shaft?"

  "For what purpose?"

  "It's just possible that we can tell, from the positioning of the shaft, whether it is the tomb we seek."

  "And if it is? I cannot permit you to excavate it."

  "If it is, then I walk away--go back to Syria. I'll at least have proven that the inscription told a true story." Bashir shrugged in a manner he hoped was convincing. "It'd save me much fruitless searching."

  "Let me think on it."

  "Can I persuade you in any way?"

  Dr Maroun smiled knowingly. "Thank you for your intended generosity, Minister Bashir, but it is not necessary. I'm a simple man with simple needs and my salary is quite sufficient." He got to his feet and extended his hand. "Leave a contact number with my secretary and I'll call you tomorrow."

  Bashir fumed as he rode back to the Hotel of the Kings.

  Nazim was waiting. "Did you discover anything, Minister?"

  "They've discovered a possible tomb shaft that might be the one we seek. If it is, our efforts are for nothing. The Director, Dr Zewali was away in Cairo and I spoke with the Luxor Museum acting deputy, Dr Hosni Maroun...can you believe the son of a whore refused baksheesh? He will tell me tomorrow if we can visit the site; otherwise we have to wait months until they get around to digging it out. Or we can go on looking ourselves in case it is not the tomb, but that might just be a waste of time and money."

  Nazim pondered the conundrum. "Perhaps not all is lost, Minister. Director Zewali outranks this Dr Maroun and can countermand his decree. You must see him when he gets back."

  "That is a good thought, Nazim. Now I know why I keep you around. I will wait until I hear from Dr Maroun, and if he is uncooperative, I will contact Cairo and speak to Zewali or Director Nasrallah himself."

  * * *

  Dr Maroun phoned just before noon the next day. "I have decided to go and look at the site again, Minister Bashir. You may accompany me if you wish."

  "Thank you, doctor. When?"

  "In three days' time."

  Return to Contents

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nick Evans arrived in Cairo at about the same time as Bashir was arriving in Luxor. The indirect flight from London had been long and arduous, involving many seemingly unnecessary connections and long stops in airports scattered over Europe and the Middle East. His eyes were red-rimmed and his clothes were crumpled, and he knew he needed a bath and a shave. He exited the air-conditioned airport terminal and lurched into the torrid heat of a busy city night. Lugging his suitcase with him, he hailed a taxi and instructed the driver to take him to a certain moderately priced hotel a friend had recommended. The driver stared blankly at him and gabbled something. Nick repeated his instructions, slowly, carefully enunciating the name of the hotel. He was rewarded by a slow dawn of comprehension and another burst of incomprehensible monologue. The taxi moved off and Nick sat back with a sigh of exhausted relief, barely taking in vistas of crowded streets and a seething sea of humanity.

  The hotel was in a poorer part of the city away from the areas usually frequented by rich tourists and businessmen, but despite the shabby, faded exterior, the lobby promised an old-world gentility that suited Nick right down to the ground. A young man in a red uniform sporting gold braid and buttons showed him to his room and carried his bag, displaying apparently genuine pleasure when Nick handed him a shilling as gratuity. He closed the door behind the smiling porter and surveyed his room and the small attached bathroom with bleary eyes. It would do. Nick yawned abruptly and reeled with exhaustion. He staggered toward the bed, shrugging off his jacket and tie, letting them fall to the floor. His shoes followed as the bed creaked under his weight, and his head thumped against the pillow. Sleep overcame him before he could remember to switch off the light or draw the curtains.

  Nick awoke with the dawn and the muted roar of traffic seeping through his grimy windows. He staggered to the bathroom and relieved himself before pulling the curtains closed, switching off the light, and collapsing back into bed. Another two hours passed and he was hauled back to consciousness by a knock on the hotel room door. He rolled over and regarded the offending door, debating whether to tell the person to go away or just to ignore it. The decision was taken out of his hands. A key rattled in the lock and the door eased open, revealing an Egyptian maid in a starched uniform and with a bundle of towels in her arms.

  She smiled at him. "I change towel, yes?"

  Nick groaned. "You don't need to. I haven't used the bloody thing."r />
  "Please I change?"

  "Go away. Come back later."

  The maid shook her head and her smile was replaced by a worried expression. "I change now, yes?"

  Nick sighed and shut his eyes. "Go on then." He waved his hand vaguely toward the bathroom and the maid disappeared inside it.

  She emerged a few moments later with a frown on her face. "You no need towel. Not use."

  "I told you."

  "Please?"

  "Go away." Nick rolled over and ignored the maid, and a few moments later heard the door close softly. He tried to go back to sleep but it was no use--he was awake now. He lay there for a few minutes more, yawning and cursing, and then got up, stripping off his creased clothing and letting it fall to the floor.

  The shower gurgled and spat but quickly settled down to supplying a fierce blast of cold water. Nick stood it as long as he could, lathering soap over his body and through his hair, before rinsing off and stumbling out shivering to his luggage to find his razor. He eased a new blade into the holder and tightened the handle. Plenty of hot water and lather in the basin followed and the smooth strokes of the blade against his bristles soothed him, calming him down. Nick examined himself in the mirror, rubbing his jawline with satisfaction, and then took a light smear of Brylcreem and rubbed it into his sandy-coloured hair before brushing it into a neat quiff. He towelled off and dressed in clean clothes, by which time his stomach was rumbling and he felt a dire need of coffee.

  The hotel had no restaurant attached, but there were plenty of small coffeehouses and eateries within a hundred yards or so. He found a clean establishment and enjoyed a cup of coffee and devoured a sticky date and almond pastry. The caffeine and sugar revived him and he started to look forward to the day's activities. A notebook contained a list of his intentions, and he perused the points as he finished off his late breakfast.

  Dr Dani Hanser and/or friends--Marc Andrews, Daffyd Rhys-Williams

  Syrian Minister Ahmed Bashir

  Smenkhkare and/or Scarab

  Nick tapped his teeth with his pen and considered how best to investigate each one. Immigration records or airline arrivals for Dani Hanser, but how the hell do I get those? Bashir? Well, his arrival might be considered newsworthy. The old Egyptians? Cairo museum, I guess .

  He put his pen and notebook back into his jacket pocket and set off to find a friend of a friend, working for the Egyptian Gazette. The man, a grizzled older man in a sweat-stained suit that had once, in its newer days, been white, came down to the lobby in response to Nick's query. He extended his hand cautiously.

  "Mr Nicholas Evans, you said your name was--do I know you?"

  "Thank you for seeing me, Mr Simmons. We have a mutual friend, Tim Riley at the 'Mail'. He said to look you up."

  "It's been a while," Simmons said. "How is Tim? Still married to...what's her name? Jenny?"

  "Julia. Yes, and three nippers now."

  Simmons laughed. "That'll have put a crick in his love life."

  Nick nodded. "He said you might be able to help me."

  Simmons regarded Nick solemnly for a few moments, sizing the man up. "That depends."

  "Naturally. Can we discuss it over a cup of coffee?"

  "I'd invite you up to the newsroom but the brew they have up there would peel paint."

  "Then let me buy you a cup at a decent caf�, Mr Simmons."

  "The name's John. Lead on, MacDuff."

  They walked down the road to a little caf� that boasted a shaded garden out back, with tables arranged tastefully in the cool shade of citrus trees. A waiter brought a silver coffee service and poured two cups of strong black coffee, leaving them with sugar, a small jug of iced milk, and sweet cinnamon biscuits.

  John Simmons stirred in several spoons of sugar and stirred. He sipped and nodded appreciatively. "Good stuff. Now, what's this help you need?"

  Nick tapped a cinnamon biscuit on the plate, shaking loose a few crumbs, as he considered exactly what it was he wanted to ask. "I'm chasing down a story--a possible story--concerning three British scientists who may have discovered something of archaeological importance."

  "Really?" John's eyes narrowed. "What discovery?"

  "I'll get to that, but I really need to know if these Brits are in Egypt at all. It may just be an unsubstantiated rumour."

  "What are their names?"

  "Dr Danielle Hanser, Dr Marc Andrews, Dr Daffyd Rhys-Williams."

  "Never heard of them."

  "You're sure?" Nick couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  "There's a lot of people arriving in Egypt every day, most of them tourists and utterly un-newsworthy. I really have no idea whether they're here or not."

  "Any idea how I can find out?"

  John shrugged.

  Nick glumly dunked his biscuit in his coffee and sucked it. "I feared that might be the case. What about an Ahmed Bashir?"

  "Ah, now him I have heard of. He's some government chappie fresh in from Syria. On holiday, I believe. We have someone at the airport that lets us know when politicians or persons of entertainment interest arrive in the country. Is he connected to your three British doctors?"

  "Possibly. What can you tell me about him?"

  "Under-Minister of National History. Fairly low profile politician from Syria, free of scandal--or at least as far as I know."

  "Any idea where he is now?"

  John shook his head and nibbled on a cinnamon biscuit. "I've got a friend in the Department of the Interior. He might be able to find out where he is."

  "And the British scientists?"

  "I can ask. Now, you were about to tell me all about this discovery."

  Nick hesitated. "It's only a possibility, and I really need to ask Dr Hanser about it, but it seems there might be an undiscovered tomb in Egypt."

  "I thought they'd found them all. Whose is it?"

  "Might be two people, or one. Smenkhkare was a name I was given...and Scarab."

  "The dung beetle?"

  "I'm told it's a name or a title."

  "Bloody odd name for a person. Well, I haven't heard of anybody by that name. Or this Smenk chappie either. The best place to ask might be the Department of Antiquities at the museum."

  "Thanks, I'll try that. Do you have a contact there?"

  John thought for a moment. "Ask for Dr Shubak. As for the other names, I'll ask around and see if anyone's heard of them."

  "Thanks, John, I owe you one."

  The older man smiled and rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Yes, I rather think you do. You can buy me a gin later."

  Nick took a taxi to the Cairo Museum as soon as he left John Simmons at the entrance to the Gazette. He asked at the reception desk for Dr Shubak and within minutes found himself wandering slowly through the exhibit halls in the company of a portly older man.

  "Simmons eh? Can't say I know him well, but we've had a few dealings over the years. Look at that." Shubak pointed at a display case. "Magnificent workmanship, isn't it?"

  Nick looked at the carved alabaster jar in the display case. "Er, yes, it is."

  "Nineteenth Dynasty, reign of Merneptah, son of Ramses the Great." Shubak continued his slow amble and Nick hurried to catch up.

  "Dr Shubak, what do you know of a king called Smenkhkare?"

  Shubak stopped and turned to look at his visitor. "Smenkhkare, you say? Hmm, let me think...yes, Eighteenth Dynasty...one of the more insignificant kings. Never more than a footnote in history. His tomb is in the Valley of the Kings, I believe."

  "His tomb is known?"

  "Yes. Valley of the Kings...er, number fifty-five I seem to remember. Don't quote me on that, I could be wrong."

  "It was a recent discovery?"

  "Oh no, some fifty years ago."

  "And you're absolutely certain this tomb is that of Smenkhkare?"

  Dr Shubak stroked his neatly trimmed beard pensively. "Well, er, not absolutely certain, I have to admit, but highly likely. May I ask why the interest in such an e
r...ephemeral monarch?"

  "Following up a story, Dr Shubak, but it looks like my story has just evaporated. What about Scarab? Have you heard that name?"

  "Ah, now there I can help you," Shubak said. "Follow me."

  The rotund Egyptologist led Nick through the hall and into a smaller one where examples of jewellery and ornaments were displayed in glass topped cases, lit by discreet lamps.

  "There," he said, with evident pride, "We have one of the finest collections of scarabs anywhere in the world."

  Nick's hopes, which had lifted when Shubak said he could help, crashed back to the tiled floor. "Impressive," Nick murmured, "but the Scarab I'm interested in is a person."

  "A person, you say? Called Scarab? How unusual. I've never heard of that. Of course, a great many people had 'Khepri' or 'Kheper' as part of their name. Those are the names of the sacred dung beetle that rolled the ball of the sun across the heavens. A delightful story, I've always thought. But a person called just Khepri? I've never come across one."

  "Could such a person exist?"

  "Anything's possible, I suppose." Shubak gestured toward the other cases in the hall. "Perhaps I could show you some of the other treasures we possess..."

  "Is there anyone else in the museum who might know about a person called Scarab?"

  "I really think I have as great a knowledge of ancient Egypt as anyone..."

  "Who is the head of the museum?"

  "Director Nasrallah, but he is in a meeting today. Besides..."

  "Ask him if I can talk to him."

  "My dear Mr Evans, I cannot just break in on the Director. You will have to come back another day if you want to talk to him."

  "Phone him then. Just ask him if he knows about Scarab the person...please Dr Shubak. You're my last hope."

  Shubak visibly vacillated, and in the end nodded. "I'll ask, but I'm not going to push him on it. He's a very busy man."

  Nick walked back to Reception with Dr Shubak, and listened as the Egyptologist spoke to the director of the museum on the telephone.

  "Good morning, Director. Shubak here...yes, I'm sorry to interrupt but I have a journalist here...no, sir, I'm sorry, I wouldn't normally disturb...but he mentioned Smenkhkare and someone called Scarab and...yes, sir, I'll hold." Shubak frowned and covered the mouthpiece with one hand. "Curious. He's in a meeting but his tone changed when I told him the names." He listened to the Director's voice again. "Yes, sir, I'll bring him right up." He replaced the handset and stared at Nick. "He wants to see you--immediately."