James Patterson - The Murder of King Tut

To supplement his modest living as a watercolorist, he also sold antiquities on the black market, thus sinking to the level of the men he’d once prosecuted for tomb robbery.

Carter dressed well enough, even though his clothes were worn, and still had a taste for fine food and expensive hotels, but he’d become dependent on wealthy patrons to make his way. Adding insult to injury, his most beloved patrons of all, Lord and Lady Amherst, had fallen on difficult times. They’d been forced to sell Didlington Hall in 1907, and Lord Amherst was in poor health. At the age of thirty-four, Howard Carter had become little more than a self-educated sycophant.

Enter, thanks to Maspero, the inimitable Lord Carnarvon.

George Edward Stanhope Molyneux Herbert, better known as the Fifth Earl of Carnarvon-or, more simply, His Lordship -was a pale, thin man with a hound’s face pitted by smallpox. He smoked incessantly, despite damaged lungs; raced cars; owned horses; and otherwise reveled in living the life of a wealthy, self-absorbed bon vivant. Even the 1901 car crash that had almost killed him didn’t stop Carnarvon from spending his money recklessly and living a life of entitled leisure that no one deserved-at least not in Carter’s opinion.

His Lordship had first come to Egypt in December 1905, thinking that the warm weather and dry air might help him recuperate. That visit and subsequent other “tours” whet his appetite for all things Egyptian.

In winter he maintained a luxurious and spacious suite at the Winter Palace Hotel. Little by little, Carnarvon was transformed from a man consumed by the here and now into a man consumed by the past- the ancient past.

Thebes

1908

NOW, LIKE MANY WEALTHY MEN who’d become smitten by Egypt and treasure hunting, Lord Carnarvon wanted to fund his own excavation.

The successes of Carnarvon and Theodore Davis were well known, and Carnarvon could easily see Davis ’s yacht Bedouin moored across the street from his hotel. British acquaintances Robert Mond and the Marquis of Northampton also had minor concessions, and Carnarvon began to believe he would enjoy digging up an important bit of history. He thought it should be great fun indeed.

Unfortunately, his first season’s results weren’t promising. Or much fun. Arthur Weigall-who now held Carter’s former job as chief inspector for Upper Egypt -had dismissed Carnarvon for the rank amateur that he was. He assigned Carnarvon to a rubbish heap known as Sheikh abd el-Qurna, with predictably dismal results.

The sole find during that first six-week season was a mummifiedcat contained inside a wooden cat coffin.

Carnarvon, while disappointed, actually treasured the discovery. It was his first, after all. Egyptology was now officially in his blood.

The only problem, it seemed, was Carnarvon. Rather than hire an experienced professional, he led the digs himself. Each day he would sit inside a screened box that kept away flies, and smoke cigarette after cigarette, as his men, and not a top-notch crew, worked in the heat and dust.

What Carnarvon needed-he was told repeatedly-was a seasoned professional to guide his digs.

And Howard Carter needed a wealthy patron with a concession to get him back in the game.

Between seasons, Carnarvon wrote Weigall from England, asking for “a learned man, as I have not time to learn up all the requisite data.”

The common thread in all of this was Maspero, who had arranged Carnarvon’s concession in the first place.

So it was that Carter was summoned to the Winter Palace to stand before Carnarvon and Maspero to discuss the possibility of once again leading a full-scale excavation. His clothes were nearing the point of no return, and his ever-present portfolio was tucked under his arm, as if he had been called to sketch the moment, which, he believed, was a depressing possibility.

Did Carter want back in the game? he was asked.

The disgraced Egyptologist, thrilled that fate was giving him a second chance, hastily answered yes.

He even managed to keep his famous arrogance and temper in check-for the first meeting anyway.

Amarna

1333 BC

“WHAT’S WRONG, MOTHER?” asked Tut.

The handsome little boy stood beside Nefertiti in a garden surrounded by fig trees and date palms and a rich green carpet of grass. His mother sat in the shade of a small palmetto. Her beautiful face was a tightly clenched mask. They both knew that she was unwell, and yet she pretended that nothing of the sort was true.

To be eight and faced with the prospect of losing his mother, so soon after losing his father, was something that no child could be prepared for.

But Tut was no ordinary child-he had royal blood-he was divine.

So he joined his mother on the small settee. He watched as she slowly leaned back and tried to relax, then flinched in pain as her skin came in contact with the hard chair.

“I’m dying, Tut, and I need to ask you to do something that you might think odd.”

“Don’t say that, Mother. You’re not dying.”

“I am. Either I am being poisoned-or there is a sickness inside my body that Aten does not wish to remove. I have ordered my servants to hasten their preparations of my burial chamber, because there may not be much time for me.”

Nefertiti closed her eyes as pain shot through her body. Tut placed his hand on top of hers, but did so gently, so as not to hurt her.

This small act of kindness and compassion made Nefertiti smile. “You will be a great pharaoh. I am sure of it.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

He paused, reluctant to say what was on his mind.

“What is it?” Nefertiti asked.

“Do you promise not to be angry?”

She let a moment pass as she weighed her answer. “I promise. Now ask your question. You must always speak your mind, Tut.”

“Did Aye do this to you? I see the way he looks at you. It’s hard to tell whether he loves you or hates you.”

“I think it’s a little of both. But no, I do not fear Aye-though you should. You are just a boy and need to be protected from powerful, unscrupulous men who might want to see you harmed.”

“Do you think he wants to be pharaoh?”

“Yes, Tut, I do. And he is not the only man with a dream of ruling Egypt.”

“But he is a commoner.”

“So are you, Tut. Remember, your natural mother was of common birth. You are only half royal. Your sister is the only child in this palace who is full-blooded royalty. This is why I have asked you to come see me.”

“What do you mean? What are you saying, Mother?”

“Ankhesenpaaten cannot reign as pharaoh because she is a woman. But for you to rule as pharaoh, and to produce an heir who ensures the succession of our royal blood, you must blend your blood with that of a woman who is fully royal. Do you understand?”

“But Ankhesenpaaten is the only such person.”

“That’s right, Tut.” Nefertiti flinched once again from the pain. “Ankhe is the only one.”

“So you’re saying that…”

His voice trailed off in confusion, so Nefertiti finished the sentence for him.

“You must marry your sister.”

Luxor

1909

HOWARD CARTER was once again in the world that he loved more than anything else. A little older perhaps, a few belt holes thinner, but he was definitely back in the game.

As the sun rose over the glorious Nile, he gazed out across a site at a small army of workers, just as he had so many times before. True, he was digging in what many called the “unfashionable district” of the Theban necropolis, where, at best, he could hope to find the tombs of nobles and wealthy businessmen instead of pharaohs. But after years of living hand to mouth, Carter didn’t mind at all.