This exacting activity continued each of the four days it took to unpack the burial chamber. On the morning of the fifth day, the workmen finally removed the folding room screens of carved acacia wood that had stood along the back wall of the tomb-the wall of painted panels depicting various events in High Priest Anen’s life, all impressively rendered, vivid and lifelike.
“More lamps!” called Kit, and sent Khalid to invite Thomas and Khefri to come and see the masterpieces. “These are the paintings I was telling you about,” said Kit. The three stood together holding their lamps high to admire the exquisite rendering.
“I must bring an artist as soon as it can possibly be arranged,” Thomas said. “Though I doubt any mere copy could do justice to the original.” His expression, alive with pleasure in the glow of the lamp, was that of a boy at Christmas. “They are wonderful.”
“That one looks like my father,” observed Khefri quietly. He pointed to one of Anen’s priestly attendants. “And there-that is the very image of my cousin Hosni.”
“Over here, gentlemen,” said Kit, directing their attention to the panel where a shaven-headed priest stood next to a Caucasian man in a colourful striped robe, open at the chest to reveal a cluster of tiny blue symbols on his skin. “I give you the man himself.”
“Upon my word!” gasped Thomas. “Here he is.” He searched among the hieroglyphs beneath the painting, found the one he was looking for, and traced it lightly with a fingertip. “The Man Who Is Map.”
“Arthur Flinders-Petrie,” said Kit.
“He was here,” said Khefri. “High Priest Anen knew him.”
“Yes, he did.” Kit stepped to the last panel. “And now,” he said, with a gallery owner’s flair, “the piece de resistance.” He directed their attention to the figure of the shaven-headed priest, a little older and heavier, standing with what looked like a scrap of leather in his hand. “That,” declared Kit, “is the Skin Map as it once existed. And see, Anen is pointing with his other hand to that big star behind him. What is that?”
“Hmmm.” Thomas held his lamp closer. “It appears to be the constellation Canus Major. I take it to be Sirius-a star especially revered by the ancients, no doubt due to its prominence and seasonal qualities.”
“That is more or less what Cosimo and Sir Henry thought,” confirmed Kit. “And the object Anen is holding,” he continued, “that is the Flinders-Petrie map-you can tell from all the little blue symbols on it. And, based on Cosimo’s assessment, it appears to be all in one piece.”
“Extraordinary,” breathed Thomas. “It is very much as you described.” He turned a grinning face to Kit. “As it has not been discovered in any of the boxes or chests yet examined, it must be in one of the few left.”
Kit cast a glance around the room at the several dozen or so remaining containers. “We live in hope.”
The work resumed. Kit returned to removing and, with Thomas, opening the last boxes and chests, his hopes soaring and crashing with each one until Khalid appeared at the table beneath the canopy to say, “This is the last.” He placed a small black lacquered box on the table. Inlaid with ivory and lapis in a geometric design, it did seem the kind of box to hold a treasure.
“Open it,” instructed Thomas. With a trembling hand, Kit lifted the lid upon an elaborate beaded necklace of lapis, carnelian, and amber… a priceless object in anyone’s estimation. There were also a matching ring and brooch.
But no map.
“Well, that’s it,” muttered Kit. “All this for nothing.”
“Not for nothing!” tutted Thomas. “We have excavated a very important tomb and have made considerable archaeological finds. The hieroglyphics alone will prove invaluable to our understanding. This is a major discovery. It will advance the science of archaeology by leaps and bounds. You should be proud.”
“Sure,” allowed Kit, “but you know what I mean. We came here to find the map.” He gestured forlornly in the direction of the storage chamber cut in the sandstone of the wadi wall behind them. “We’ve got a whole truckload of treasures-everything except the one we came to get.”
“And yet,” suggested Thomas, his steel-rimmed glasses glinting in the sun, “there is one container we have not searched.”
“I looked in every blessed box and jar myself,” blurted Kit, disappointment making him raw. “It wasn’t there.”
“Oh, ye of little wit,” admonished the doctor. “Use that brain of yours, sir. Think!”
“I am thinking,” Kit muttered. “I am thinking we’ve been on a wild goose chase.”
“My impetuous friend,” chided Thomas, shaking his head, “we have not looked in the sarcophagus.”
“The sarcophagus…” Hope, instantly renewed, flared in Kit’s despairing soul. He started back to the tomb on the run. “All hands on deck! We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
“Khalid, bring the heavy-lifting equipment,” called the doctor. He paused and shouted towards the temple. “Khefri, fetch the cook and bring a team of mules-we may need them.”
Carved from a single block of red granite, the hulking mass of stone sat in the centre of the chamber, as yet untouched. Kit swept away the dust with a handful of rags to expose the smooth, stylised visage of a man, features impassive, staring with blank eyes into the darkness of eternity. Below the face, the rest of the stone lid was engraved with row upon row of hieroglyphs.
“This won’t be easy,” observed Kit. “The thing must weigh twenty tons. How are we going to lift it?”
“Give me a lever and a place to stand, and I shall move the earth!” Thomas told him. “Archimedes.” He squatted down beside the massive granite case and ran his fingers along the seam joining the lid to the bottom. “We will also use wedges and ropes.”
Setting the lamps in a perimeter around the great stone case, the labourers set to with levers and wooden wedges; working in tandem-two levers a few inches apart-they eased up an edge of the lid and held it while another workman hammered in a wedge. The process was repeated time and again all along the right-hand side of the huge stone top. When they finished, they started over again, raising the lid a little more and driving in the wedges that much farther.
After the third round of prying and hammering, they had succeeded in raising the weighty red granite a few inches. Ropes were passed around the centre of the lid and these sent up to be secured to the mule team. The levers were applied, nudging the carved top a little higher-enough to drive even larger wedges into the gap and tilt the lid to one side. Little by little the top rose and tilted until, with a low grinding sound like the rumble of distant thunder, it began to slide off. The ropes grew taut as the mules took the strain. Khalid dashed to the chamber doorway and called instructions for Khefri to relay to the mule drivers. Slowly, slowly, with a creaking complaint of ropes and wood, the massive stone lid tilted and slid. All at once, one of the ropes gave way. The stone slewed to one side, teetered, then crashed to the floor with a thud that shook the ground beneath their feet.
The dust was still rising in the air as Kit, Thomas, Khalid, and the nearest labourers rushed forward to catch the first glimpse of the interior of the sarcophagus. Any hope for jewelled treasure or golden ornaments was swiftly dashed. For inside was a second sarcophagus of limestone, richly painted to resemble the deceased high priest in his ceremonial robes. The lid of this second sarcophagus was lighter and was raised with little difficulty by the workmen to uncover a third coffin of wood, also painted.
The third lid was prised off in a moment to reveal the mummified body of Anen, tightly bound in linen bands to withstand the ravages of time. Over the chest had been placed-not jewelled ornaments or ceremonial trinkets, as in the case of others of high-born caste-but only a simple olive wood ankh, the ubiquitous cross with a loop, symbol for life. Nothing more.