Tutankhamun Uncovered (13 page)

The sun had now dropped below the cliff line. Vernet strained his eyes. Stretching before him was a dead straight avenue the like of those bordered by two precisely parallel lines of evenly spaced mature beech trees running to the great front doors of so many English stately homes. Sand covered plinths they could have been tree stumps lined the track with geometric precision and extended onward to the threshold of the first ramp.

“What are those, Howard?”

“What’s left of a processional avenue of sphinxes, Vernet, reaching all the way to the foot of her temple. Sadly, but for the pedestals on which they stood, mostly gone now. The Frogs nicked ’em.”

Vernet looked towards the top of the first ramp. This upper step appeared to break up into a partially rubble filled colonnade of stone pillars supporting a wide, flat roof. The building clearly had been assembled on a platform levelled out after extensive excavation of the scree apron that at one time had cloaked the lower reaches of the cliffs. Backing the structure where it joined the cliff face, itself chiselled away in part to more suitably accommodate the architecture, vertical clefts gave the appearance of folds in a colossal grey curtain. Vernet could make out two such platforms, one above the other, each disappearing in its lower reaches into aprons of talus that over the centuries had fallen from above and in more recent times had been added to by the spoils of the haphazard burrowings of the treasure seeker. The colonnade that supported the upper platform was also filled with rock debris, almost to the roof line.

“Behind those piles of rubble, inside there,” said Howard pointing, “are painted reliefs so beautiful in their simplicity and so vibrant in their preserved colour you will wonder which to choose to paint first. Now, unfortunately, it is too dark to go in. We shall return tomorrow to give you a tour of the interior. Then we can begin our work in earnest.

“The anticipation... Gives you butterflies, does it not?”

Although in a comfortable hotel bed, Vernet did not sleep well that night; less because of the sense of expectation and excitement, more on account of the discomforts that awaited him in the Naville camp on the opposite side of the river and of the heat he would have to endure.

The following morning his late night fears were purged by the beauty of the sunrise. The early light was in stark contrast to the crisp silhouettes and shadows of the previous evening. Once above the horizon, the sun shone directly into the cliffs across the river and the cliffs blazed back. Hardly a shadow was to be seen and the walls of the escarpment melded into a monochromatic yellow. The only exception was that rust coloured mud brick tower standing totally out of character with the desolate symmetry surrounding it.

When the brothers reached the excavation field camp the Navilles were already in place. Vernet deposited his things beside the folding bed that would become his sanctuary for the next few months.

Madame Naville caught sight of the new arrival. “Monsieur Carter is it not? The brother of Howard? Why, I am most pleased to meet you.” She extended her hand, palm down.

Vernet didn’t hesitate. He took the limp fingers gently in his cupped hand and, bowing slightly, raised madame’s hand to his lips.

“Most gallant. A true gentleman. Just like your brother.”

Before she could ask his name, Howard, realising that in his haste to ready materials for the day’s work he had neglected the formalities, shouted from the storage tent, “My big brother, Vernet, madame!” He threw the tent flap aside and emerged. “He is a most talented artist. Along with our father he helped teach me many artistic techniques.”

Madame Naville smiled approvingly at Vernet. He smiled back. He felt her hand attempt to pull away from his and loosened his grip immediately. He hadn’t been aware he had been holding on to her for so long. He felt embarrassed, but her smile put him at ease and he grinned back sheepishly.

‘Butter wouldn’t melt’, thought Howard.

“We must be off to work, madame, before the professor realises we have not yet left camp. Please excuse us.”

In the morning sunlight the form of the temple was much clearer to Vernet. As the two walked up the slight incline of desert at the foot of the rock-strewn apron that fronted the site, the desolation transformed to sheer spectacle. For the time being at least, he had forgotten his anxiety.

They moved ahead up the ramp and onto the middle platform. Naville came into view, standing on a great pile of rubble looking down at his fellahs who were dashing all about in a flurry of work below him. The mêlée virtually boiled within a tumbling pall of dust. A continuous stream of filthy bodies emerged from it carrying baskets full of rocks, which they dumped into a waiting Decauville railway truck. Then they turned and disappeared again into the dust cloud.

Standing erect with one foot forward, somewhat reminiscent of a Napoleonic pose, Naville waved his stick and clicked his fingers at his men. A fellah immediately scampered towards him carrying a canvas chair and umbrella. The Egyptologist eased himself into the seat, adjusted the umbrella for shade, and continued his direction.

The brothers rode up.

“Bonjour, Howard. Votre frère?”

“Oui, Monsieur. Mon frère.”

“Je m’appelle Vernet, monsieur,” Vernet announced himself.

“Mon plasir.” That was the end of the pleasantries. “You know where to go. Take your brother and begin as I had previously instructed. I will remain outside today to ensure the fellahs clear this place in reasonable time. There are but five seasons left on our permit, as you know. Vitement, s’il vous plait.”

They walked on.

“Vernet. Before we go up there,” Howard gestured towards the upper platform, “I want to give you a flavour of what you will later get to down here once ‘Monsieur le Docteur’ has completed his clearance... First, however, something for mother...”

Howard had his six shilling ‘Brownie’ box camera with him. He had become an accomplished photographer of late and was trying his best to keep a visual record of the excavation’s progress.

“Give me some scale to this picture. Sit on top of that pile of debris.”

Vernet scrambled up the rubble slope and sat uncomfortably upon a rock pile between the tops of two columns in the colonnade. His panama provided some relief from the already hot sun. He crossed his legs, forced a smile, and wished his brother to be quick. The sooner he was out of the sun and within the coolness of the building, the better.

“That’s it. Just a minute now... Good.”

Howard wound the film on and climbed up after him. He placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder and announced with a note of ceremony, “Let us go in.”

Crouching to avoid the stone lintel, they scrambled into the darkness and slid down the rubble face until they felt the solid stone floor beneath their feet. They remained in a sitting position for a moment, allowing their eyes to become accustomed to the poor light. The tall corridor of the colonnade fell away from them into the gloom, but the walls nearest to the rubble filled entrance had sufficient natural light on them to make out the artwork clearly. Howard tugged at Vernet’s sleeve and pulled him over to a frieze of hieroglyphs and figures. The expanse was an ordered sequence of verticals and horizontals, texts and pictures. It extended into the darkness, seemingly never-ending.

“Vernet. Observe the fundamental laws of Egyptian art; how it eliminates the nonessential. Copy that art accurately and intelligently, with honest work, a free hand, a good pencil and suitable paper the Carter creed!” He grinned and patted his brother encouragingly on the shoulder.

They climbed back out of the colonnade and made their way up the second ramp to the upper platform. Howard had been hard at work here for some weeks prior to Vernet’s arrival. He guided his brother through the maze of doorways and rooms that led to the Chapel of Tuthmosis I, the father of Hatshepsut. The brilliantly painted arched end wall, though much damaged, was a picture of perfect symmetry. Its beauty was overwhelming.

“We start here.”

Vernet applied himself well, but at the end of each work period he absolutely dreaded emerging into the sunlight. Fatigued at the end of a hard day, all he was looking for were immediate rest and comfort. But the amphitheatre of vertical rock that held the temple close focused the sun’s rays and baked the desert rocks so that, once outside, radiant heat hit the body from above, from the sides and from beneath. It truly was like walking into a giant oven.

He would lie awake in his bed with a glass of Scotch long into the night. He would drink himself to sleep. Over and over in his mind he would relive the experiences of the previous day. He enjoyed the artwork. His product, though more laboured and less timely in its execution, was clearly the equal of his brother’s. But the place, the environment, the interminable heat it was all too much for him. It did not take long for Vernet to realise that he would not be able to stomach another season. How would he tell Howard he was not up to staying the course? Such thoughts became the stuff of his dreams.

A few weeks later Vernet left his brother to work alone in the small, complexly decorated chapel. The decision to move was not of his own making. The simple fact was that Howard had had enough of his brother’s company for long periods and at close quarters, that is. Vernet liked to chat as he worked. Active conversation kept his mind off his discomforts. Howard found this all too distracting and in the confined space the noise was intolerable to him. He sent Vernet down to the middle platform, which by now had been cleared sufficiently to gain access to the hypostyle hall and the Shrine of Anubis.

“It is a great opportunity, Vernet,” comforted his brother obsequiously. “You will be the first to attempt to copy the illustrations on the opposing flanks of the doorway that leads to the shrine.”

Despite his imposed solitude and the prospect of now being at the mercy of his own thoughts, Vernet was pleased to be granted this singular responsibility. Under a blue ceiling studded with yellow stars, the door to the shrine was framed on each side by a vibrantly painted base relief. The scenes were complex but exactingly proportioned, that on the left perfectly complementing, but not repeating, the one on the right. On the left side of the doorway, in the top left corner, was the ‘vulture of the south’. She overlooked the somewhat larger than life-size engravings of Hatshepsut, in antiquity almost completely excised, and of Amun. They both held the Was sceptre. Engraved between them was a large, neatly stacked pile of sumptuous offerings. On the opposite side of the door similarly opposing but somewhat different figures were carved the ‘hawk of the north’ in the top right corner and, in the centre, the female Pharaoh, again frantically grubbed out by the chisels of her successor; facing her the god Anubis, also brandishing the Was sceptre; and, once again, neatly serried ranks of offerings placed in stacks between the figures.

The short commute to and from work each day was pure torture for Vernet and, as time wore on, it became barely worth the pleasure of reproducing the art. Carter and Naville, apparently insensitive to the heat, would exacerbate his discomfort by insisting that the party dismount and leave their mules before they entered the avenue of sphinxes. From there, Vernet would have to walk the length of the sandy avenue, ascend the ramp to the lower platform, walk up the second ramp to the middle platform, and walk all the way across the middle platform to its northern corner. All this under the unyielding sun before he reached the shaded sanctuary of the covered hall where he could begin his work. And it was worse going home in the evening.

On this particular night, however, he lay back in his bed with a smile on his face. He was truly pleased with himself. The art he had accomplished that day had been most satisfying. The subjects themselves had helped, of course, but it had been the gratuitous praise of his brother that had been most pleasing. And, to top it all, Naville had instructed him to make a colour copy of the vulture and of the hawk in opposing corners. He would recommend to the Exploration Fund that it make use of this pair of colour reproductions in a forthcoming memoir. Naville acknowledged the contributions of the brothers in the preface to volume one of his report. Vernet’s colour plate of the vulture was published in volume two, documenting the second season’s

work at which he was not present. In the event, his brother was responsible for completing the second colour plate of the hawk. It is not possible to detect any difference in style between these faithful freehand copies. The sixth and final volume of Naville’s epic Deir el Bahri report was finally published in 1908. Much of this monograph had been the product of Howard Carter’s work. In Egyptological circles it is acknowledged to hold some of the finest examples of reproduced ancient Egyptian art on record; see Naville, 1894 1908.)

The red mud brick tower that Vernet had noticed at the start of their first day’s work, although built in antiquity, post-dated the Pharaohs by hundreds of years. When the brothers emerged from the temple at the end of their fifth day of copying they found it had disappeared. Naville, aspiring to uniformity in the architecture of the buildings he was restoring, had had his men dismantle it. He justified his actions by pointing out that some of the stone incorporated in the brickwork had come from the temple complex itself and therefore was required to assist in its restoration. The original mud bricks were not wasted either. Naville reused them in the construction of a house for the excavation party close to the bottom of the first ramp.

As the season progressed, Naville continued his clearance of the rubble that choked the length of the middle platform colonnade. Howard was not happy with the manner in which he did this, but, without risking total alienation from the more experienced archaeologist, not to mention the possible loss of an assignment that he relished and a note of recognition in the annual publications of the excavations, protocol would not permit him the temerity of any suggestion to take a more careful and systematic approach. In this he failed his mentor, William Flinders Petrie, totally. As he matured, however, consideration of ‘protocol’ in the face of practicality would fast become a lesser virtue.