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“What are you doing?” Rodrigo, wearing a black suit, a blue French dress shirt, and red tie, strolled in and plopped down in my guest chair.
I swallowed the bite of grilled chicken salad that I’d been chewing. “Eating lunch and shopping for sundresses. There’s a green flowered print I’m eyeing. What do you think?” I turned my laptop around for him to see.
Rodrigo nodded. “Very nice. It’ll look fab on you. Is that for your trip to Mexico?”
“Yes.” I swung the laptop back. “It’s got two-day shipping, so I should get it by Friday—just in time to take it with me. When I dressed this morning, I thumbed through my closet, and realized all my outfits are too” —I scrunched my nose— “work-ish. Nothing shouted beachy resort. So I’m also putting a peach flowered sundress, a swimsuit with matching sarong, and two frilly tops that will go with my white shorts into my cart.”
“Great. It sounds like you’re finally getting into the swing of things.”
I smiled. “I am. You were right—everyone was right, I need this trip. You know, get some time to relax. I’ve even scheduled a massage the day I arrive.”
“So you don’t mind going alone anymore?” Rodrigo asked.
“Well, it’s not my first choice, but I’m not giving it up. I’ve stocked my tablet full of books, and after work I plan to swing by the store to get sunscreen and a new pair of sunglasses. I’m actually looking forward to it now.” I clicked the mouse, adding the green sundress to my cart. “What about you? Starting to look forward to your trip to the big Expo?”
“Actually . . .” Rodrigo dragged out the word, and I glanced up from the computer. “I’ve had a change of plans.”
“Really?” I put my chin in my hand. “Do tell.”
He closed my office door with a flick of his wrist and replied nonchalantly, “Well . . . a friend of mine is going through a hard time right now, and I told Alfonse that I needed to provide support to my friend, instead of going to Chicago with him.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? Is it someone I know?”
He leaned forward with excitement on his face. “It’s you!”
I took a few beats. “I don’t get it. You told Alfonse you needed to stay here in D.C. to be with me? Are you telling me I’m your cover story to get out of the Chicago trip?”
“It’s not a cover story, and I’m not staying here.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Rodrigo—”
“I’m going to Cancun with you!” He let out a whoop and pumped his fist.
“Wait. What?”
“I changed my plane ticket and got a room at your hotel. I figured, what’s the next best thing to going with your best girlfriend?”
I put my palms up in confusion.
“Going with your best gay friend! I found a great last-minute deal at your resort and booked it!”
“Let me get this straight, you’re ditching your significant other to go with me?” I pointed to my chest. “To Cancun?”
“Well, I wouldn’t put it that way. I’m going to provide moral support, and help you get around. You’ve not been yourself lately, and I’m worried about you. Secondly, your Spanish is pathetic.” He shook his head in despair.
“My Spanish is just fine. Donde está la biblioteca?” I said with a flourish.
“Oh, that’s wonderful.” He gave a condescending clap. “I’m sure identifying the location of the library will be one of the first items to tick off on your vacation ‘To Do List.’”
“I know more than that,” I replied defensively.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Cerveza, piña colada, mojito, vino, and the most important one, el baño,” I indicated with my fingers.
“Well, at least you’re able to ask for directions to the bathroom after drinking your cervezas and mojitos. But will you be able to understand the directions when they are given in Spanish?”
“I’m going to rely upon the universal directional language of finger pointing.”
Rodrigo frowned. “I don’t know, there are all sorts of nefarious characters prowling these beach resorts that could take advantage of a single, young thing like you.”
I raised a brow. “Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”
His face fell. “What? Don’t you want me to come?”
I sat back, pinching my lower lip in thought. Having Rodrigo with me would have its advantages. His fluent Spanish would definitely come in handy. Additionally, Rodrigo’s personality usually ran on the upbeat scale; he was fun to hang out with, and I could use some of his enthusiasm. The separate rooms would also give us space when we needed it, so his presence wouldn’t be smothering. The only issue that caused hesitation was the fact that he was a coworker.
I closed the laptop and leaned over it. “Okay, you can come. But” —I held up a finger, causing Rodrigo to halt mid-cheer— “there are conditions. First, what happens in Cancun, stays in Cancun. If one of us gets blitzed and makes an ass of his- or herself, we don’t speak of it outside of Cancun.”
His head bounced in agreement as I listed the rules.
“Second, if one of us needs time alone, the other will understand, and not feel hurt. Third, no speedos.”
He frowned in disgust. “Good gawd.”
“Finally, we do not leave each other stranded at a bar to go off with another guy.”
“I am in a committed relationship. I would never . . . !”
“That’s fine. It’s kind of a girl code that we don’t leave each other behind, especially when there is drinking going on. I don’t mean to be offensive, but I’ve known a guy to walk away from his crew if he thinks he’s—you know—getting some. I don’t know what the . . . uh . . . gay code is. . . .”
“Well, I know my code is to leave with the person you arrived with. No matter what. You can count on that.”
“Great! Then you’re welcome to join me in Cancun. When do you arrive?” I steepled my fingers.
“I couldn’t get a flight out until Sunday afternoon. I land sometime after seven, and I check out on Friday morning.”
“Okay then. Welcome to Rodrigo and Karina’s Cancun adventure.” We fist-bumped. I placed my order, then we discussed some of Rodrigo’s wardrobe plans until my lunch hour came to an end.
****
THEY SAY YOU LEARN something new every day, and that evening, I learned Mrs. Thundermuffin’s first name was Mildred. When I went to check the mail, the package she’d been expecting had arrived. It hadn’t weathered the shipping very well. The box was approximately twenty inches square and about ten inches thick. One end was mashed, and a corner torn. Some of the shredded paper packing material stuck out through the hole, and there was a rattling sound when I picked it up. The front displayed no return address, and the smeared postage identifier didn’t reveal its initial shipping location, but the word, FRÁGIL was stamped across the front and back in red. I didn’t have to know Spanish to realize the word meant fragile. I wasn’t sure which postal carrier damaged the box, but I hoped whatever was inside had been insured, because I was fairly certain the fragile item was now a broken one.
Poor Mrs. Thundermuffin. I hated when the postal carriers trashed my stuff. I left the box on my front hall table and thought no more about it.
Thursday, work at the office was uneventful, except for Rodrigo, who texted every fifteen minutes to ask my opinion on everything from wardrobe choices, to activities we should do while in Cancun, to my personal alcoholic beverage choices. He was more excited about this trip than a four-year-old on Christmas morning. Luckily, Hasina, our boss, left for vacation on Wednesday, and things were kind of slow around the office. So I didn’t begrudge Rodrigo’s enthusiasm.
After work, Mike and I had dinner at his place. We ate at the coffee table while the news played in the background. I told him about my embarrassing meltdown at Silverthorne. “Rick invited me to attend the group meetings that his guys hold twice month. It’s on Tuesday nights. What do you think?” I rounded out the story and waited, unsure of his reaction.
He turned off the TV and asked in a completely neutral tone, “Do you think it would help?” Concern tightened around his eyes.
I’d waffled on that question myself, and I didn’t want to start a fight with Mike tonight, so I shrugged and delivered nonchalantly, “It might. I don’t think it could hurt.”
He released a breath and his shoulders relaxed. “Then you should absolutely go.”
“Seriously? You don’t mind?”
He reached across and pulled me to his chest. “Anything that can help you, I’m all for it. You haven’t been in a great place for a while. If this will help . . .”
“I thought, since it was Silverthorne . . .”
“No, I don’t mind.” He stroked my hair and pulled me tighter.
Mike had a crack-o-morning flight the next day, and I left around nine. The ringing of my home phone greeted me as I walked through my front door. I didn’t recognize the phone number. It looked like an international number, and I figured it was just another scammer, so I let it go to voice mail. A moment later, my cell phone rang, displaying the same number.
“Hmm, that’s strange.” I dumped my computer bag and purse on the couch, then pressed the answer button. “Hello?”
“Karina, is that you?”
The connection was scratchy, but I thought I recognized the voice. “Mrs. Thundermuffin?”
“Yes, dearie, it’s me. I’m so glad I caught you.”
“Where are you?”
“In Mexico. Didn’t—” Her voice faded out.
“What? I can’t hear you.” I checked to make sure the volume on my phone was up all the way. “Hello?”
“I said . . . Mexico.”
“What?”
The connection cleared as she spoke again. “I’m in Mexico. Didn’t I tell you that’s where I’d be?”
“Yes, you did. I’m surprised you’re calling. Is something the matter?”
“I’m not sure. Did you get that package yet?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it came in yesterday.” I winced. “Only, I hate to tell you, I’m afraid it’s been damaged.”
“What? Did you say the item was damaged?”
“Well, I’m not sure about what’s inside, but the outer box was partially crushed, and there is a tear. Also, when I picked it up, there was a rattling sound.”
“Oh, boy.” She seemed to turn away from the phone to speak to someone else. Faintly, I heard, “She says the package is damaged. I don’t know, I’ll ask.” Her voice came back on the line at full strength. “Karina, would you do me a favor and check it out for me?”
“You want me to open the box?”
“Yes, and tell me what the contents look like.”
“Okay.” I retrieved the box from the front hall and brought it to the kitchen. “Let me put you on speaker.” Placing the phone on the counter, I sliced into the end that was not crushed.
“Okay, there’s a good bit of packing material.” I pulled out a bunch of the brown shredded paper. “We have a manila envelope, about four-by-eight, and scrawled across the center—'To Aunt Milly for your stamp collection.’ I didn’t know you were a stamp collector.” I put the unsealed envelope aside.
“I collect all sorts of things.”
Half a dozen loose coins fell out, clanking their way across the counter. “And there are some coins in here. Maybe that’s what was making the noise. They say centavos on one side, and the other—oh, I see, they’re from Brazil.” Someone spoke in a foreign language in the background, really more like bellowed in short, demanding sentences. I couldn’t catch what he was saying, but the tone didn’t sound nice. “Are you okay, Mrs. Thundermuffin?”
“Just fine, dear. My grandnephew sends me coins from the places he’s visited. Now about the case inside the box, has it been damaged?”
I gave the box a shake, and a hard, black plastic case, about twelve-by-ten inches, slid into my hand. “The case looks undamaged, and it feels fairly sturdy. Should I open it?”
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. As long as the case is undamaged, I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Okay. Then it’ll be here when you get back.” I laid it down.
“Actually, dear, I was hoping you could do me the favor of bringing it with you when you come to Mexico.”
“Um, I suppose I can do that. But I’m headed to Cancun, I don’t think that’s very close to Mexico City at all.”
“I’m no longer in Mexico City. I’m on my way to Mérida. It’s on the Yucatan Peninsula, not far from Cancun. I can arrange to get it after you arrive,” she explained.
“Well, I suppose that would work.” Someone shouted in the background and the line went dead. “Mrs. Thundermuffin? Hello?”
I hung up and waited for a few minutes to see if she would call back. When she didn’t, I dialed the number on my caller ID. It went straight to voice mail. Or at least I assume it was voice mail; there wasn’t any message, simply a long beep. “Mrs. Thundermuffin, it’s Karina. I think we got cut off. I’m a little concerned about you. Can you please call or text or private message me through Instagram to let me know you’re all right?” I hung up and studied the black box on my counter.
You know when you’re at an airport and the overhead announcements come on telling you to keep track of your stuff and warning you not to carry items that aren’t yours? Well, Mrs. Thundermuffin just asked me to carry an item that wasn’t mine, and I had no idea what was inside. Of course, my overactive imagination jumped to drugs. While I didn’t believe Mrs. T. would ask me to bring something illegal into a foreign country, I knew nothing about this illusive grandnephew of hers. I couldn’t even imagine what Mike would say about this new development. Nothing good, I’m sure.
You are an idiot if you bring this into a foreign country with no knowledge of what is inside.
That nasty little voice continued to bang around in my head while I went about my business and tried to ignore the package.
At quarter past eleven, I opened the case.
Inside was a mask, packed securely in molded foam. The face was painted a bronzy golden color. It had large black eyes with shadowing details reminiscent of Egypt during Cleopatra’s time. Beautiful turquoise detailing with stripes of blue, red, and cream on the headpiece rose above the brows. Tilting the box up, I could see a scarab design decorating the top of the crown. Cracks and breaks riddled the mask, and I dared not touch the piece with my bare hands. It looked old. Like ancient Egyptian old. I didn’t even want to breathe around it.
A sick knot began to tighten in my stomach. Gently, I closed the box. I’d dealt with a stolen painting in my past and wondered if I’d stumbled across something similar. And what, if anything, did Mrs. Thundermuffin have to do with it?
I had one person in my past who might be able to tell me more about the golden mask. I just didn’t know if I had the guts to pay him a visit.
In the morning, I found a text from Mrs. T.
Karina, I am fine. Please bring the box. It’s of great importance. Don’t fail me.
Her text did nothing to ease that little voice in my head.
At lunch later that day, I stood outside a downtown D.C. office building and began to question my sanity. I pivoted and turned away, only to pivot back again and stall ten feet from the front door. While the debate raged in my head, the decision was taken out of my hands.
“Karina, is that you?” asked Martin Dunne, the father of a man to whom I was once engaged. He wore a perfectly tailored, storm gray business suit, with a white shirt and yellow tie. He had a few more wrinkles, but overall, he hadn’t changed since I’d seen him last year. I’d forgotten how much he and his son resembled each other. Martin’s dark hair was almost fully gray, and he may have been slightly taller than Patrick’s six feet, but the jaw and brow lines were similar, and the tentative smile mirrored his son’s. I no longer held strong emotions for Patrick, but it didn’t lessen the uncanny feelings I experienced standing in front of his father.
I realized Martin was waiting for me to stop staring and answer him. “Hello, Martin. How have you been?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Fine. Fine.” I chewed my lip, trying to decide what to say.
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, there is. Could we go up to your office?”
His face remained placid and kind. “Of course.”
Martin escorted me through the building lobby and onto the elevator. Lucky for me, two more people boarded after us, so I felt no need to make small talk on our way up. Once we got into his luxurious office at Dunne and Jenkins Building and Real Estate, I took a seat on the uber-modern black leather couch, slid the oversized green tote off my shoulder, and placed it at my feet.
“Can I offer you something to drink?” Martin asked.
“No, thank you.”
He folded himself into the club chair across from me and waited expectantly.
“How are things at the FBI?” I asked.
His face shuttered, and his mouth turned down. Immediately, I regretted my words. After the painting incident, Martin’s lawyer negotiated a deal with the FBI’s Art Crimes division, which basically made him a confidential informant on black market items that came to his attention. I needed his help. Putting his back up was not a great way to start the conversation. “That was tactless of me.”
His expression didn’t change. “Did you come to speak to me about FBI business?” he asked in a chilly voice.
Embarrassed, I glanced away. “No, I didn’t. I apologize. I don’t know why I opened with that.” I fidgeted with my necklace. “Small talk seems to be eluding me at the moment.”
He softened. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here today?”
“Right then, down to the brass tacks.” I pulled the black case out of the bag and placed it on the glass coffee table between us. “I’m hoping you can tell me something about this piece.”
Martin leaned forward, flicked open the clasps, and lifted the lid. Drawing in a breath, he frowned and pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his coat pocket to scrutinize the beautiful golden mask.
“I’m guessing it’s Egyptian,” I said.
“You would be correct.”
“It reminded me of Cleopatra’s time.”
“Very good. It’s definitely late period, Hellenistic or Ptolemaic Dynasty.” He shifted the box left and right. “The face is more rounded. I see Macedonian and Greek influence. It doesn’t have the long facial features of earlier Egyptian Pharaohs like Akhenaten or Tut. But I’m not sure it’s from Cleopatra’s time, maybe two or three-hundred B.C., I would guess.”
“But what is it? Some sort of Egyptian decoration?”
He shook his head. “It’s a funerary mask. Placed over the face upon burial. You’ve probably seen pictures of the famous golden one found in Tut’s tomb. It lives in the Egyptian Museum of Cairo.”
Good lord, of course I have! Who hasn’t? “I have,” I replied calmly. “You’re saying this a Pharaoh’s death mask?”
He tilted his head and his brows drew together in thought. “Not a pharaoh. Not intricate enough. There is quite a bit of gold leaf. I would say, more likely a nobleman’s mask.”
He stood and carried the box over to his desk. I followed him. From the top middle drawer, he withdrew a pair of white cotton gloves and donned them. Then he swung the arm of an elbow lamp directly above the mask and flicked on the bright LED light. He leaned down and sniffed it, then spent many minutes in silence examining the paint work, before he picked it up with his gloved hands. Inwardly, I cringed because the mask looked so old and fragile. However, well aware of his affinity for art and antiquities, I trusted him not to damage it.
He turned the piece over and held it inches from his eyeballs as he examined the backside. “Ah, I see.” I waited for him to clarify that comment. Finally, he said, “It’s a beautiful reproduction. How the artist was able to capture the detailing in the gold leaf and aging technique is intriguing.”
I opened and closed my mouth twice before I was able to speak, “You’re sure it’s a replica?”
“Undoubtedly,” he said with assurance.
“How? Is there something in the workmanship that stands out? Gives it away? I mean, it looks like an Ancient Egyptian artifact to me.”
“A number of things give it away. First, funerary masks were created from a variety of different mediums—gold or silver, like Tutankhamen’s mask; plaster; and this technique of gilded cartonnage. It’s a technique similar to papier mâché, using papyrus and resin. This artist also used papyrus, however, he used new papyrus that he aged with modern day techniques.”
“Okay, I’ll bite, how did he age the papyrus?”
“Here, smell.” He held the mask out for me.
I took a whiff. “It smells . . . earthy.” Shrugging, I said, “Wouldn’t you expect that smell from something that was buried for a long time?”
“Desert sand smells different from soil. But it’s not that. Take another whiff. Smell anything else?”
This time I sucked in a deep breath and smelled another aroma near and dear to my heart. “Uh, this sounds weird, but . . . I think I smell . . . coffee?”
He nodded. “Very good. Aging techniques include staining with coffee or tea.”
“Okay, but why does it smell like dirt?”
“He probably buried it in the garden for a month or two to continue the aging process. He also didn’t use resin to shape and adhere the papyrus. Resin has a distinct piney scent, like balsam. Think fresh Christmas tree.”
“Okay.”
“Add a hint of mustiness to that scent, and you’ve got the smell of ninety percent of ancient Egyptian artifacts that used resin or rested inside a sarcophagus. It’s quite distinctive.”
“Huh. I’ve seen a number of Egyptian pieces, but they are always behind museum glass. I never thought about how it smelled. I would have thought it smelled rotten. So, if the artist didn’t use resin, what did he use?”
“My guess—Elmer’s glue.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re joking.”
He shook his head. “It’s an excellent adherent for the medium and it’s water solvent.”
Sobering, I asked, “Okay, what else gave it away? When you turned it over—there was an . . . ‘aha’ moment.”
“I suspect the artist created the piece to sit on a shelf and never be observed from the back. There is no finishing work on the backside. No cartouche, which, for a nobleman’s mask, I would expect. Additionally, the aging process wasn’t as detailed, and right here, you see that?”
“Yes, it’s a blop of something.”
“That little blop is the glue I mentioned. He didn’t finish dissolving it, here and here. As I said, the artwork is beautifully done. However, there is one other reason I know it’s a reproduction.” He placed the mask back in its mold, took off the gloves, and moved to his computer keyboard. After quickly typing something, he pivoted the monitor to face me. “Read this.”
Across the top, the article read, “Fire Devastates Brazil’s National Museum in Rio.” The photo below the headline showed a stately white palace with every window ablaze and flames shooting through the roof into the sky. I scrolled down, scanning the article. The fire destroyed the museum and twenty million artifacts on the night of September 2, 2018. “This is terrible, but what does it have to do with the mask?”
Martin swiveled the monitor back and typed some more. “It took me a while to realize where I’d seen it before. But then it suddenly came to me in a flash of insight.”
The monitor flipped back around for my perusal. He’d gone to the destroyed museum’s website and brought up a page of Egyptian artifacts. Dead center, at the top, was the golden Egyptian funerary mask.
I blew out a breath. “So it burned in the fire?”
“Yes. Scientists, students, and staff members combed through the rubble for months in an effort to recover what they could. Millionaires have pledged monies for rebuilding. Before you ask, there is no way the mask would have survived such a devastating fire. As a matter of fact, the entire Egyptian collection was destroyed. A tragedy, considering it was the largest collection in South America.”
I chewed my lip, wondering why Mrs. Thundermuffin so desperately needed the mask. Did she know it was fake? “Do you think a buyer would notice the things you mentioned?”
“If he was worth his salt, a savvy buyer would.”
I continued scrutinizing the golden mask, wondering. Wondering. Wondering. Too many thoughts whirled around in there to solidify into a solid notion.
“Is it for sale?” Martin’s quiet question pierced my contemplation.
“No, it’s not.”
He took my sharp reply in stride. “Can I ask how you came by it?”
Finally, I transferred my gaze to his. “I’m holding on to it for a friend.”
His eyes widened with understanding. “Ah, let me guess, you couldn’t resist opening it, and once you got a gander, you thought you’d run across another stolen masterpiece.”
My face blazed at his accurate assessment.
“You may rest easy, Karina, you’re not wrapped up in another art heist. Any art collector would have the piece analyzed or have the skills to do it himself. This reproduction isn’t going to get past someone who knows what they are doing.”
“I see. Thank you, Martin. You’ve relieved my mind.”
He scrutinized me. “You look like it gave you a sleepless night.”
Clearing my throat, I replied, “It did.”
“I wonder if I know this friend of yours.”
“Petite.” I held my hand up to my chest. “Retiree, with a flair for fashion and multi-colored hair.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
I drew in a relieved breath. “Tell me, Martin, if it were for sale, what would you pay for this?”
He rubbed his chin in thought. “Hmm, like I said, there are noticeable flaws in the replication, but they don’t detract from the artistry and beauty of the piece. Maybe three thousand before the fire. Since the original is gone, it might increase the price.”
“How much?”
He shrugged. “To a private buyer, maybe five to ten grand.”
“Ten grand?!”
“Some of that depends upon the artist’s reputation in the field. Maybe more, if it got some press and excitement surrounding its connection to the original that burned. The Brazilian National Museum might be interested in getting its hands on a replica like this to replace the one destroyed. Right now, I don’t see it being sold for much more than a few thousand.” Martin closed the box and pushed it toward me.
Curiosity had me asking, “Let’s say the real funerary mask wasn’t destroyed and was up for sale. What would it bring?”
“Hmm, let me look on some of the auction sites and see what I can find.” He spent a few minutes surfing the internet. “Looking at Christie auctions over the past few years, prices of Egyptian funerary masks range from three to upward of eighty-five thousand. But this one, I would guess, might go for something in the twenty to twenty-five thousand range. Its age and medium aren’t as desirable as some of the older dynasties.”
I retrieved the case and replaced it in my tote. “Thank you, Martin. I appreciate your help.”
“Anytime.” He led me over to the door. Placing his hand on the knob, he paused before opening it for me. “Karina?”
“Yes?”
“I never properly apologized for putting you in danger or thanked you for what you did for me.” His voice softened so low I could barely hear it. “I know you could have handled things very differently, and had you done so, we’d be talking through a set of bars.”
Eyeing him, I replied, “Or six feet under.”
He visibly swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, perhaps “no problem,” or “it’s okay.” I couldn’t. It’s not that I was still angry, but Martin’s monkey business couldn’t be easily forgiven. Instead, I replied, “Give my best to your wife, Molly.”
****
MY CURIOSITY, HAVING been piqued by Martin’s information, led me down an internet rabbit hole on ancient Egyptian artifacts, Dynasties, and belief systems. Thankful again for the slow week with my boss out of the office, I spent the afternoon deep in research. I found that the Egyptians were obsessed with death. Upon reaching adulthood, an Egyptian spent the rest of his life planning for death—at least the kings and noblemen did. Perhaps the common man didn’t have quite as much time on his hands to spend planning for the afterlife, but some thought was definitely put into it. Not only did one have to build a tomb, but also plan for body preservation through mummification, and arrangements for family members afterward.
The funerary mask was an important part of this plan. Ancient Egyptians believed that a person had two spirits or souls that continued to live on once the physical body was mummified. The Ba spirit would remain near the family to watch over them. The Ka spirit flew off to the Land of Two Fields, ancient Egypt’s idea of heaven. However, at night, both the Ka and Ba would return to the dead person’s tomb to rest until the next day. It was this reason that Egyptians spent years of their life building for their death. Death masks, in particular, were not meant to be seen publicly, and the purpose of the mask was to give the dead a face in his afterlife. Funerary masks would also help the Ba and Ka return to the proper tomb. If something happened to the preserved body, or your name was stricken from the walls of your burial tomb, then the Ba and Ka would not be able to find their home, and your spirit would be lost forever. This is why cartouches would be carved into a coffin, and why Pharaohs would have their names carved or painted into their tombs and every building erected during their reign. In this manner, your name would also live on in the history books.
Some Pharaohs who took the throne by force, or despised their predecessors, would remove all traces of the former ruler in order to banish him or her. It is believed that Horemheb so despised his predecessor, Ay, that he destroyed Ay’s tomb, smashing the sarcophagus and chiseling his name from the walls. Furthermore, the reign of Akhenaten—the ‘Heretic King’—caused strife and unrest in Egypt. Akhenaten sought to change the religious landscape during his time in power, forcing the people to believe in a single deity, Aten, rather than their previous polytheistic beliefs. Horemheb, in an effort to calm the unrest that had arisen from Akhenaten’s rule and reinforce the old ways, set out to destroy Akhenaten’s city of Armana and did his best to wipe out all mention of the heretic Pharaoh and his beautiful queen, Nefertiti.
Another effort to erase a Pharaoh’s name from the history books came from Thutmose III, stepson to Hatshepsut, the chief wife of Thutmose II. Thutmose III was an infant when his father died, and Hatshepsut took on the role as regent. However, as Thutmose III grew up, Hatshepsut became one of the most powerful queens to rule Egypt, and before his age of maturity, she had herself declared Pharaoh in order to maintain her power. Officially, the two ruled as co-regents, but texts indicated that Hatshepsut clearly overshadowed her stepson in both power and popularity among the people, and during her rule, Egypt enjoyed peace and prosperity. When she passed and Thutmose III finally rose to become the sole regent, he had her temples defaced and her name stripped from the list of kings. It wasn’t until 1903, when archeologists found her tomb and deciphered hieroglyphics from Deir el Bahri, that her legacy was restored.
Unfortunately, for as long as there were Pharaohs building tombs, there were grave robbers who came along behind to steal the expensive goods buried with them. Noble men, queens, and Pharaohs were buried with the items they lived with, including precious amulets, golden coffins, and jewelry of gold and silver. Over five thousand objects alone were buried with Tutankhamun. Since grave robbing was so prevalent in ancient Egypt, it is considered a miracle that Howard Carter found Tutankhamun’s tomb still intact.
Just before the end of the day, Rodrigo swaggered into my office, startling me out of a daydream where I was a trusted advisor on Cleopatra’s court, and asked, “Have you packed yet?”
“No, I’ve been procrastinating. I’ll get it done tonight,” I answered him, making myself busy with removing the junk mail in my spam account.
“Are you checking a bag?”
“Probably. I’m a terrible packer. I always overpack and only wear half the stuff I bring. I’ll never be able to get everything into one small enough to carry onboard. What about you?” I glanced at his skinny black jeans, wine-red button-down, and royal blue vest. “I can’t imagine you’ll be able to get all your accoutrements into a carry-on.”
“I am an excellent packer.” He surveyed his nails. “Why don’t I pick up Chinese and come over tonight to help you pack? I bet I can get your pretty new clothes into one suitcase that will fit in the overhead compartment.”
“Fifty bucks says you can’t!” I threw down.
“You’re on!” he exclaimed, and we shook on it.