The Golden One (18 page)

I thought it best to take his advice. Emerson had kept his temper remarkably well – though I was unable to say the same about his grammar – but he was bound to lose it if the Albions
went on in the same way. We went on, leaving three people gaping at us and six others concealing their grins behind rather dirty hands.

‘Very good, Emerson!’ I exclaimed. ‘You did not use bad language – and under considerable provocation, too.’

‘Don’t talk to me as if I were Sennia,’ Emerson grumbled. His well-shaped lips twitched, and after a moment he began to laugh. ‘One can’t become angry with people
like that. Introduce him to a few tomb robbers! I would be tempted to cultivate him for comic relief, if we didn’t already have enough of it in this family.’

‘The boy didn’t utter a word,’ I said.

Emerson was still in an amazingly good humour. ‘He isn’t a boy. He appears to be about the same age as Ramses. I suppose you find his reticence suspicious?’

He began to chuckle again, and I joined in; not for worlds would I have taken umbrage at his little joke. I did find the younger Mr Albion suspicious, however. Either he was completely cowed by
his father or he did not deign to express his own ideas, whatever they might be. And what had brought that oddly assorted trio to the difficult path? Where had they come from, and why? It was
possible, if nerve-racking, to ride a donkey up the steep path from the Valley of the Kings, but I would not have supposed that Mr Albion or his elegant wife would be up to it. The downward path
was even more hazardous on donkey-back, and so was the descent behind Deir el Bahri.

Our path was relatively level until we reached the hill overlooking the little valley of Deir el Medina. We paused there, not to rest, for it had been an easy stroll, but to get a
bird’s-eye view of the site.

The tombs of Deir el Medina had been known and looted for many years. They were relatively unpretentious, the shaft leading down to the burial chamber surmounted by small chapels crowned with
miniature brick pyramids. Many of the latter had crumbled and fallen and the remaining chapels were in very poor condition. However, the underground chambers were often beautifully decorated. They
were the tombs of the people who had lived in the village below. It was still largely unexcavated. Studying the rough, partially exposed walls, Emerson burst out, ‘Confound the lazy,
incompetent scoundrel! Only look what he has done to the place!’

He was referring to Mr Kuentz, our predecessor, who had been arrested (thanks to us) the previous year. ‘He hasn’t done much,’ I said, hoping to calm my grumbling spouse.
‘I expect he was too busy with his other activities – spying and tomb robbing. They do take time.’

‘He has put his damned rubbish dump smack in the middle of the site,’ Emerson exclaimed. ‘I will have to do it all over again.’

He always said that.

We scrambled down the hillside. Selim joined us, and Emerson began rapping out orders. The men scattered. Emerson stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. ‘Where is Ramses?’
he demanded.

‘They will be coming shortly, I am sure. If you want to start the surveying, I am perfectly capable – ’

‘Very good of you, Peabody, but I believe I will just wait for Ramses. Why don’t you arrange one of your – er – your little rest places?’

I had intended to do it anyhow. In my opinion, periods of rest and refreshment increase efficiency. Shade is hard to come by when the sun is directly overhead, and it was at that time of day we
– and the dear devoted horses – would need it most. I prefer tombs to all other forms of shelter, naturally, but there was not much left of the superstructures of the small tombs on the
hillside. I concluded that the temple at the far end of the village would serve me best.

A number of deities had shrines there, but the principal dedicatee was Hathor, one of the great goddesses of the Egyptians. Since these broad-minded ancients were not especially concerned with
consistency, Hathor played a number of different roles over the long centuries and was identified at various times with other goddesses, but her primary function was that of nurturer and protector,
of the living and the dead. The lover called upon her for help in winning his beloved; the barren woman prayed to her for a child. She was worshipped with music and dancing, and her epithets
included some of the loveliest phrases in the liturgy – Mistress of All That Exists, Lady of the Sycamore, Golden One.

I wandered about for a time, examining some of the reliefs. One of our fellow Egyptologists had partially restored the temple a few years earlier, and there was a nice little corner in the
vestibule which suited my purposes admirably. With the efficiency I had come to expect of him, Selim had brought all the equipment I would need, including a large piece of canvas. He was too busy
chasing after Emerson to assist me, so I got one of the other men to help me arrange rugs and campstools and tables, and make a temporary roof of the canvas next to the enclosure wall to provide
shade for the horses. I was just finishing this essential task when the others arrived. Emerson, whose eye is everywhere, immediately bellowed ‘Ramses!’ and after a nod at me, Ramses
trotted off.

I ended up, as I usually did, with the rubbish heap.

I do not mean to minimize the importance of this task, for it is the aim of a good excavator to find every scrap, however uninteresting it may appear to be. Our men were very well trained, but
when one is scooping up sand and rubble it is easy to overlook something. It was my task, therefore, to put the contents of the baskets brought me by the men through a sifter. It turned out to be a
more interesting task than was often the case, since the previous excavator had been careless. I found quite a few interesting ostraca, scraps of limestone all scribbled over with hieratic. I
puzzled over a few, while no one was looking, but could make out only a few signs. When we stopped for luncheon I handed them over to Ramses.

The ancient language was his specialty, as excavation was Emerson’s, and he reacted with as much enthusiasm as Emerson had done over his wretched huts. We got not a word out of him during
luncheon. Nefret had to keep jogging his elbow to remind him to eat.

‘What does it say?’ I asked.

‘Hmmm?’ was the only response.

Nefret brushed a lock of curling hair away from his forehead, and he gave her an abstracted smile before returning his attention to the scrap he held. I understood why she had been moved to that
tender gesture. Absorbed in a task that challenged and delighted him like no other, he looked as happy as a child over a new toy. This was what he was meant to do. This was what he ought to be
doing for the rest of his life, undisturbed by crime and war.

Knowing Ramses as I did, I realized there was not much chance of that, and I consoled myself with the thought that it was not my fault that he got in so much trouble – not entirely.
According to the latest psychological theories, he must enjoy a certain amount of danger, or he wouldn’t go out of his way to invite it. It made a change from hieratic, at any rate.

We put in a long hard day, removing Kuentz’s rubbish dump, and Emerson began the survey of the site. This was an onerous and time-consuming procedure, which some archaeologists neglected,
but which Emerson considered absolutely necessary. If Kuentz had done such a survey, he had left no record of it. (Emerson would have done it again anyhow.)

Jumana was back to her normal self, cheerful, interested, and willing, and even Ramses admitted she was of considerable help. All she had to do, really, was hold a stick level while the
measurements were made, but it was a rather tedious task and she followed orders meticulously.

Naturally I kept a close eye on her. There were two possible explanations for her recovered good spirits: either she was not as attached to her brother as I had believed, and had dismissed him
from her thoughts – or she was more devious than I had believed, and expected to hear from him again.

When we returned home I had several more nice ostraca for Ramses.

‘Hell and damnation,’ she began.

‘Sssh. It’s Jumana. She’s leading one of the horses.’

He started to climb out the window. ‘Put on some clothes,’ Nefret said, rising in her turn and fumbling in the dark for various discarded garments.

‘Well, then, damn it, find – I don’t care what – something. I can’t let her get too far ahead.’

He snatched the trousers from her hand and put them on, and then he was gone, over the sill and into the darkness. Nefret pulled a caftan over her head and found a pair of boots that turned out
to be hers. She would need them; her feet were not as hardened as his. She caught him up as he was leading Risha, unsaddled and unbridled, out of the stable.

‘Wait for me,’ she gasped.

‘No time.’ He vaulted onto Risha’s back, and in spite of her excitement and worry, the sheer beauty of the movement stopped her breath. She could do it sometimes, but never
like that, never in a single seemingly effortless flow of muscle and sinew. He turned Risha with a touch of his knee and the stallion responded instantly, breaking into a canter. They looked like
figures from the Parthenon frieze, the slender strength of the rider at one with his mount.

‘Damn,’ said Nefret under her breath. She’d lost an additional few seconds gaping after him like a lovestruck girl. It was his fault for being so bloody beautiful on
horseback.

And if she couldn’t catch him up she wouldn’t be there to help if, as seemed likely, Jumana was on her way to meet Jamil. What other reason could she have for stealing out at this
hour of the night?

Moonlight stretched an inquiring head over the door of her stall; she was accustomed to go where Risha went, and wondered what was happening at this strange hour. Nefret led her out of the
stall.

No acrobatics for her tonight, not in a long robe with nothing under it. She used the mounting block, grimacing as her bare thighs gripped Moonlight’s hide, and tucking part of the robe
under her.

Moonlight was too adult and well-behaved to prance with anticipation, but as soon as Nefret gave her the word she was off. Hands twisted in the mare’s mane, Nefret let her have her head,
knowing she would follow her sire.

The road was in fair enough condition the first part of the way, rising and falling and curving round the hills that rose out of the plain. She was nearing the edge of the cultivation, and the
ruined temples that fringed it, before she saw Risha. Ramses had dismounted and was waiting for her. He greeted her with a grin.

‘I hate to think what Mother would say about that ensemble, but I rather like the effect of the boots and the bare – ’

‘Where is Jumana?’

‘Gone ahead, on foot.’ He gestured, and she saw another horse, the mare that had been assigned to Jumana. ‘We’d better leave the horses here, too.’

‘Thank you for waiting for me.’

‘If I hadn’t, you’d have gone thundering by in hot pursuit,’ said her husband, lifting her off Moonlight and politely adjusting her skirts. ‘She doesn’t seem
to be aware that she is being followed, and I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Catch him and put an end to this nonsense once and for all so we can get on with our work. Let’s see if we can get close enough to overhear their conversation.’

The walls of the Ramesseum raised shadowy outlines ahead and to their right. The temple was half ruined, but it was in better condition than the tumbled piles of stone and mud brick stretching
off to the north – all that remained of the once-proud mortuary temples of other pharaohs. West of Ramses’s temple the ground was broken by extensive brickwork, probably the former
storage areas of the temple.

‘How are we going to find them in this maze?’ Nefret breathed, trying to step lightly.

‘Sssh.’ Ramses stopped and listened, his head raised. He must have heard something, for he took her arm and led her on, towards one of the piles of rubble. They had almost reached it
before Nefret heard the voices.

‘You’re late,’ Jumana whispered. ‘Are you well?’

‘Did you bring the money?’

‘All I could. It isn’t much.’

‘It is not enough. I need more. Get it from the Inglizi and bring it to me tomorrow night.’

‘Steal from them? No, I will not do that. Jamil, the Father of Curses has said he will help you. Go to him, tell him you – ’

‘What will the Father of Curses do for me – make me a basket carrier? Why are they at Deir el Medina?’

‘Excavating – what do you suppose? They trust me. They are teaching me what I want to know.’

‘But they were in the Cemetery of the Monkeys. I thought they meant to work there.’

‘You have been spying on them!’

‘Watching them,’ Jamil corrected. ‘What is wrong with that?’

‘Nothing . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Jamil, they found the body of Abdul Hassan in the tomb. Did you . . . It was not you who killed him, was it?’

‘It was an accident. He fell.’ Jumana’s gasp was loud enough to reach Nefret’s ears, and Jamil realized he had made a mistake. His voice became soft and caressing.
‘Jumana, I didn’t mean it when I threatened to kill the Brother of Demons. I was frightened and hungry and lonely. I mean no harm to anyone! Dear sister – I know where there is
another tomb. It is in the Gabbanat el-Qirud. Do you see how I trust you? All I need is enough money to keep me for a while, until I can sell some of the small objects from the tomb. There is no
crime in that. The tombs do not belong to the Inglizi, they belong to us.’