Robin Cook - Sphinx

Putting her drink down on the table, Erica explained to Aida the curious discrepancy between Carnarvon’s letter to Sir Wallis Budge and the fact that Carter’s notes listed no papyrus. She was not from the government, she added reassuringly. Her interest was purely academic.

“No,” said Aida after an uncomfortable pause. “There was no papyrus. My husband would never take a papyrus from the tomb.”

“Aida,” said Erica softly, “I never said your husband took a papyrus.”

“You did. You said my husband-”

“No. I just asked if he ever said anything about a papyrus. I’m not accusing him.”

“My husband was a good man. He had a good name.”

“Indeed. Carter was a demanding individual. Your husband had to be the best. No one is challenging your husband’s good name.”

There was another long pause. Finally Aida turned back to Erica. “My husband has been dead for over twenty years. He told me never to mention the papyrus. And I haven’t, even after he died. But no one has mentioned it to me either. That’s why it shocked me so much when you said it. In a way, it’s a relief to tell someone. You won’t tell the authorities?”

“No, I won’t,” said Erica. “It is up to you. So there was a papyrus and your husband took it from the tomb?”

“Yes,” said Aida. “Many years ago.”

Erica now had an idea what had happened. Raman had gotten the papyrus and sold it. It was going to be hard to trace. “How did your husband get the papyrus out of the tomb?”

“He told me he picked it up that first day when he saw it in the tomb. Everyone was so excited about the treasures. He thought it was some kind of curse, and he was afraid that they would stop the project if anyone knew. Lord Carnarvon was very interested in the occult.”

Erica tried to imagine the events of that hectic day. Carter must have initially missed seeing the papyrus in his haste to check the integrity of the wall into the burial chamber, and the others had been dazzled by the splendor of the artifacts.

“Was the papyrus a curse?” asked Erica.

“No. My husband said it wasn’t. He never showed it to any of the Egyptologists. Instead he copied small sections and asked the experts to translate them. Finally he put it all together. But he said it wasn’t a curse.”

“Did he say what it was?” asked Erica.

“No. He just said it was written in the days of the pharaohs by a clever man who wanted to record that Tutankhamen had helped Seti I.”

Erica’s heart leaped. The papyrus associated Tutankhamen with Seti I, as had the inscription on the statue.

“Do you have any idea what happened to the papyrus? Did your husband sell it?”

“No. He didn’t sell it,” said Aida. “I have it.”

The blood drained from Erica’s face. While she sat immobilized, Aida shuffled over to the shovel mounted on the wall.

“Howard Carter presented this shovel to my husband,” said Aida. She pulled the wooden shaft from the engraved metal blade. There was a hollow in the end of the handle. “This papyrus has not been touched for fifty years,” continued Aida as she struggled to extract the crumbling document. She unrolled it on the table, using the two pieces of the shovel as paperweights.

Slowly rising to her feet, Erica let her eyes feast on the hieroglyphic text. It was an official document with seals of state. Immediately Erica could pick out the cartouches of Seti I and Tutankhamen.

“May I photograph it?” asked Erica, almost afraid to breathe.

“As long as my husband’s name is not blackened,” said Aida.

“I can promise you that,” said Erica, fumbling with her Polaroid. “I won’t do anything without your permission.” She took several photos and made sure they were good enough to work from. “Thank you,” she said when she was finished. “Now, let’s put the papyrus back, but please be careful. This might be very valuable, and it could make the Raman name famous.”

“I’m more concerned about my husband’s reputation,” said Aida. “Besides, the family name dies with me. We had two sons, but both were killed in the wars.”

“Did your husband have anything else from Tutankhamen’s tomb?” asked Erica.

“Oh, no!” said Aida.

“Okay,” said Erica, “I will translate the papyrus and tell you what it says so you can decide what you want to do with it. I won’t say anything to the authorities. That will be up to you. But for now, don’t show it to anyone else.” Erica was already jealous of her discovery.

Emerging from Aida Raman’s house, she debated on how best to return to the hotel. The thought of walking five miles to the ferry landing oppressed her, and she decided to risk the trail behind Aida Raman’s house and walk to the Valley of the Kings. There she could surely get a taxi.

Although it was a hot and tiring climb to the ridge, the view was spectacular. The village of Qurna was directly below her. Just beyond the village was the stately ruin of Queen Hatshepsut’s temple, nestled against the mountains. Erica continued to the crest and looked down. The entire green valley was spread out in front of her, with the Nile snaking its way through the center. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Erica turned to the west. Directly ahead was the Valley of the Kings. From her vantage point Erica could look beyond the valley at the endless rust-red peaks of the Theban mountains as they merged with the mighty Sahara. She had a feeling of overwhelming loneliness.

Descending into the valley was comparatively easy, though Erica had to be careful about the loose ground on the steeper parts of the trail. The route merged with another path coming from the ruined Village of Truth, where Erica knew the ancient necropolis workers had lived. By the time she reached the floor of the valley, she was very warm and tremendously thirsty. Despite her wish to return to the hotel and get to work translating the papyrus, she walked toward the crowded concession stand for a drink. Climbing the steps of the building, she couldn’t help but think of Sarwat Raman.

It was an amazing story indeed. The Arab had stolen a papyrus because he was afraid it would spell out an ancient curse. He had been worried that such a curse would stop the excavation!

Erica purchased a Pepsi-Cola and found an empty chair on the veranda. She glanced around the structure of the rest house. It was made of local stone. Erica marveled that Raman had built it. She wished she could have met the man. There was one question in particular she would have liked to ask. Why hadn’t Raman found some way to return the papyrus after he learned it did not represent a curse? Obviously he did not want to sell it. The only explanation Erica could think of was that he had been afraid of the consequences. She took a large swallow of the Pepsi and pulled out one of the precious photos of the papyrus. The directives suggested it was to be read in the usual fashion, from lower right upward. She stumbled over a proper name at the beginning, almost not believing her eyes. Slowly she pronounced it to herself: “Nenephta… My God!”

Noticing a group of tourists boarding a bus, Erica thought that perhaps she could get a ride to the ferry landing with them. She put the photos back into her tote bag and quickly looked for the ladies’ room. A waiter told her the rest rooms were under the concession stand, but after finding the entrance, she was discouraged by the acrid smell of urine. She decided she could wait until she got back to the hotel. She ran down to the bus as the last passengers were getting on.

Standing at the edge of her balcony, Erica stretched her arms over her head and sighed with relief. She had finished translating the papyrus. It had not been difficult, although she was not sure she understood the meaning.