Beneath the Sands of Egypt (3 page)

As we progressed, it became necessary to move a modern stone retaining wall to get at the top of what was now revealed to be a buried, steep, and crudely hewn staircase carved into the pit and leading down to a blocked door. Miscellaneous bits of ancient burial debris continued to turn up in our pit and from behind the wall. Could some of this stuff, including a resin-coated wood fragment bearing gold leaf, actually be fragments of ravaged burial equipment from the nearby anciently plundered royal tombs of Montuhirkhopeshef or possibly Thutmose IV? Or were they from Tomb 60 itself?

With excavating now well under way, we had to hire a small crew of workmen to assist in digging, moving stones, and hauling off the material. Our government-appointed antiquities inspector, Mohammed El-Bialy, recruited an assorted group of young men from the village of Qurna. Dressed in long gallabeyas and plastic slippers, they appeared strong, if not enthusiastic, and in the long run proved to be both, despite the hot Egyptian summer. The
reis,
or foreman, was a sturdy fellow named Nubie, a law student on a break from his studies.

As the work picked up, we realized we needed some sort of work space to store our tools and to study and catalog the artifacts that were beginning to accumulate. El-Bialy suggested a traditional solution utilized by generations of archaeologists working in these old cemeteries. We could use a nearby tomb as an office of sorts, providing that we exercised the utmost care. The closest tomb was KV 19, of course, with its large gated, locked entrance. It was a simple structure except for the paintings on its walls, which included scenes of Prince Montuhirkhopeshef presenting offerings to the gods, with accompanying hieroglyphic text. The tomb was at the time considered “off the beaten track” and not available for public viewing. We exercised our privilege seriously and took great pains to see that our presence in no way harmed the physical integrity of the tomb. We outfitted Tomb 19 with some chairs and a small desk, along with a worktable put together from a couple of sawhorses topped with a large sheet of plywood. It was a cozy, magnificent office, and our respect for the artisans of old increased daily as we gazed in wonder at our surroundings.

Small objects continued to appear from our excavation of the pit, and Papworth dutifully registered each in a notebook. With stairs leading downward, it was clear that in all likelihood we were excavating the long-lost KV 60. So our escapades with the broom seemed to be paying off. Another expedition had recently been working in the vicinity, experimenting with a variety of sophisticated remote-sensing devices to test their efficiency in locating lost or new tombs. Ground-penetrating radar, magnetometers, and electrical-resistivity methods all have proved somewhat effective at other archaeological sites, but none seemed ideal in the royal cemetery, due to the nature of the valley's bedrock and stony debris. An even earlier project, in the 1970s, tried using sound waves to test the possibility of locating unknown artificial voids in the bedrock
and similarly produced uneven results. Our simple broom, purchased for a couple of dollars in Luxor, accomplished what tens of thousands of dollars' worth of high-tech equipment struggled to do. Thus, one example in which simple tools proved superior to expensive and complex gadgetry. The broom, however, was not acting on its own. Since we'd done our homework in advance (reading the notes of our predecessors in the valley) and considered those notes in the context of the physical terrain before us, a whimsical experiment had provided wonderful results.

From the very first realization that we had found some sort of blocked doorway, I decided that I would not venture a peek to see what lay beyond it until everything was ready for a formal opening. It certainly would have been easy; it would have involved only removing a few small stones and shining a flashlight through the hole. But as we cleared the pit to reveal more and more of the boulder-blocked door, I took pains to ensure that all would remain a surprise until the proper moment. This sort of attitude may seem surprising, but think of a nicely wrapped gift. The size and shape of the box and the color of the wrapping paper all invite speculation and fuel a great sense of excitement in the anticipation. But once the box is opened and its contents are revealed, the surprise is over. The gift might be well appreciated for many years, but its initial sense of mystery has been lost. Such can be said, too, about the finding of a tomb or some similar discovery, but in the case of the archaeologist the end of the initial surprise means the beginning of a whole lot of work. Howard Carter worked nearly ten years before he was finished with his efforts in Tutankhamun's tomb, and its contents and findings still remain only partially published even today.

Over a week had passed since we'd located the pit. It was July 4, a mere coincidence to myself and Mark Papworth. There would be
no fireworks or family barbecues across the river in Luxor; opening a tomb at 10:00
A.M.
would have to suffice for us. It was already brutally hot in the late-morning sun, although the fleeting shade from the valley's walls above provided some minor relief. I arranged a small group of our workers on the tomb's steep and narrow steps, whose bright limestone surface now glared vibrantly in the sun. Hisham and our inspector, Mohammed El-Bialy, were there, of course, as were a couple of the benefactors of another project operating in the vicinity, and a few other folks who had wandered up to watch the unfolding events.

To brighten things up, on a nearby wall I hung the flag lent to me by the Explorers Club of New York. It was the very same flag that had flown from the mast of the famous
Kon-Tiki
raft in 1947, skippered by my boyhood hero, the Norwegian explorer and archaeologist Thor Heyerdahl. The irony of this totem barely fazed me; the flag that once traversed the rolling waves of the Pacific now celebrated the opening of a timelessly static tomb in a bone-dry desert. In an attempt to make the moment even more special, I felt that some quiet music might add to the occasion. Unfortunately, modern archaeologists from Egypt, America, Europe, and elsewhere are unable to reliably reconstruct the long-lost melodic funeral dirges that accompanied the rites of the pharaonic dead. This being the case, I chose to foster a somewhat calming and dignified atmosphere and selected to accompany our work three Beethoven sonatas softly broadcast from a portable tape player. The melodies of the
Moonlight
,
Pathetique
, and
Appassionata
sonatas served as a kind of tribute, although clearly European, to a tomb from a mostly extinct culture.

I descended the pit's crudely carved stairs and proceeded to dismantle the wall of stones, rock by rock, and passed them upward. As the stones from the top of the blocked entrance became larger
and heavier, the light began to reveal the beginning of the expected corridor beyond. A few boulders were rolled outward into the pit, and a gap large enough to stoop through was created. The sense of excitement was nearly overwhelming. I ditched my hat, and both El-Bialy and I made sure our flashlights were operational. In just a few minutes, we crouched to enter the tomb, stepping onto a short, downward-sloping pile of stone rubble. We lingered hunched down just inside the doorway for a few moments until our eyes could adjust from the blinding glare outside to the murky darkness beyond. Peering into the distance, we could begin to make out a square door at the end of the irregularly fashioned eight-meter-long corridor with its rubble-strewn floor.

The crudely carved steep steps leading down to the blocked entrance of KV 60.
PLU Valley of the Kings Project

Just inside the door on each side of the corridor was a roughly carved niche containing the shattered remains of wooden grave goods. The majority resembled broken-up sticks of fresh kindling. Most striking among this debris was a chunk of wood that even
in its ruinous state was readily identifiable as a face piece from a coffin. It had been badly smashed, its inlaid eyes torn out. A few flecks of gold still clung to the once-gilded wooden surface, which also bore telltale adze marks. We would later find specks of gold flakes in the dust nearby. It seems that ancient tomb plunderers may have done some of their damage close to the tomb's entrance, where there would be more light to allow them to accomplish their devious work. The gold could be scraped off gilded objects, collected, and then melted down, thus rendered anonymous and leaving future buyers clueless that their purchase was “recycled” from a royal cemetery.

Along the walls of each niche, we noticed some coarsely drawn graffiti featuring the protective “Udjat” eye of the god Horus, one looking into the tomb and one looking out. If such an eye
ever
had any power, it had long ago been lost and was pathetically ineffective. Outside, I could hear Mark Papworth calling in a comedic voice imitating Lord Carnarvon at the opening of Tut's tomb, “What do you see? What do you see?” “Broken things” would have been an appropriate answer, but I was too occupied and intrigued to reply.

Our tour of the tomb progressed down the corridor, and El-Bialy and I were careful to avoid stepping on the assorted bits and pieces of artifacts haphazardly strewn about on the floor. Halfway along the passage, we were greeted by a raised square aperture on the right wall, leading into a tiny room. Some small, stained, linen-wrapped mummy bundles lay scattered in the vicinity, including what looked like a section of desiccated beef ribs. These appeared to be food provisions left for the spiritual satisfaction of the deceased. Traces of mud plaster around the door of this little chamber indicated that it had once been sealed shut, and the mud bricks that once blocked the way had been trampled on the corridor floor. This curious chamber was an unexpected surprise. It had not been mentioned
in Howard Carter's notes. In its center lay a large pile of yellowed mummy wrappings with a few broken potsherds littered across the floor. Against one wall was a large mummified cow's leg, perhaps another food offering or the remnant of a known ancient funeral ritual during which such a leg was often presented to the human mummy.

A view down the corridor of KV 60 toward the square opening leading to the burial chamber.
PLU Valley of the Kings Project

Continuing our exploration of the tomb, we moved toward the square doorway that loomed at the end of the corridor. Beyond, no doubt, was the burial chamber we anticipated. We carefully stepped through the door and into a room about 5.5 by 6.5 meters (18 by 21 feet), whose odd, unsymmetrical shape provided further indication that this tomb had been hastily carved. Unlike the corridor behind, whose floor was sullied with smashed mud bricks and
rocky debris that had seeped in from the outside, the surface of this chamber was clean and bright except for random scatterings of tomb wreckage.

A view into the burial chamber from its entrance, featuring a pile of wrapped food provisions.
PLU Valley of the Kings Project

Directly across from the door was another collection of wrapped food provisions. They had been assembled on the floor in a peculiar little pile, causing me to wonder whether this had been the work of the earlier archaeologists. Such questions are relevant for the entire tomb. How much of what we were seeing was still in its ancient context, and how much had been shuffled around by more recent visitors? This matter of uncertainty continues to lurk in the back of my mind to this day. In one spot there were fragments of a smashed pot with the probable remains of its ancient contents adhering to
the floor in the form of a patch of a dark, rubbery, speckled substance. Near one wall stood a large, thick, curved piece of wood, which appeared to be the isolated head end of a coffin box. Perhaps the fragments of the face piece found near the entrance were associated components.