The Golden One (21 page)

The position was one of high honour, the occupant surrounded by luxury and prestige; but I had often wondered about the women themselves. Doomed to lifelong celibacy, forbidden the joys of
motherhood, they had not even the pleasures of power to compensate, for it is more than likely – men being what they are – that the ladies were mere figureheads, controlled by the king
and the powerful nobles of Thebes.

However, I would be the last to deny that celibacy has its advantages, when the alternative is a state marriage to a man unloving and unloved. As for the joys of motherhood . . . I glanced at
Ramses, who was wandering about reading the inscriptions. We were using torches, since the inner chamber was enclosed and unlighted. Shadows outlined his well-cut features and the little half smile
that betokened his total absorption. Yes, it had been worth it, though there had been times when I had serious doubts. However, not all children turned out as well as he had done.

We inspected the other chapels, which were not so well preserved. In the floor of one an irregular hole gaped, where the stone flooring blocks had been taken up.

‘Not a durned thing down there,’ Cyrus complained.

Emerson glared at him. ‘Curse it, Vandergelt, I told you the burial chambers were empty. You had better replace the flooring before some damned fool tourist falls in.’

‘I thought maybe there might be another burial,’ Cyrus said defensively. ‘There are four chapels and five God’s Wives.’

‘More than five,’ Ramses said. He proceeded to reel off the names. They had an exotic, almost poetic cadence. ‘Karomama, Tashakheper, Shepenwepet, Amenirdis, Nitocris,
Ankhnesneferibre.’

‘So where are the rest of ’em?’ Cyrus demanded. ‘And the coffins and mummies of the ones who were buried here?’

‘Jumana asked me that once,’ Ramses said. ‘She had a romantic notion that they might have been hidden away to protect them from tomb robbers.’

‘Nonsense,’ grunted Emerson.

‘We know where two of the sarcophagi are, or were,’ I explained. ‘At Deir el Medina, in tomb shafts high on the hillside. They were dragged there by individuals who meant to
usurp them for their own burials. One had actually been reinscribed with the name and titles of – er – ’

‘Pamontu,’ Ramses said. ‘A priest of the Ptolemaic or early Roman period, approximately five hundred years after the last God’s Wife died and was buried.’

‘Just what I was about to say, Ramses.’

‘I beg your pardon, Mother.’

‘It seems likely, therefore,’ I continued, acknowledging his apology with a nod, ‘that by the first century
A.D.
the original burial chambers here at
Medinet Habu were empty except for the sarcophagi. They were too heavy and of no value to ordinary – ’

‘Yes, yes, Peabody,’ said Emerson. ‘Vandergelt, you’re as bad as Jumana. There is some excuse for her, but you ought to know better. The brickwork west of here may be the
remains of a fifth chapel.’

‘Abu and Bertie are working there now,’ Cyrus said, with a vague gesture towards the west. ‘So far, no luck. I’m getting tired of this, Emerson.’

‘Of what, the Saite chapels? I hope you aren’t thinking of shifting to another area. You haven’t the manpower to tackle the larger temples.’

‘Well, I know that!’ He glanced at Ramses, who was talking to Nefret, and lowered his voice. ‘The truth is, Emerson, none of us has got the skill for this job. Oh, sure, we can
clean the place up and make proper plans, but what’s needed here is somebody to record the inscriptions and reliefs.’

‘You can’t have Ramses,’ said Emerson.

‘Emerson,’ I murmured.

‘Well, he can’t! I know, I said the boy could do anything he liked and work for anyone he chooses, but – er – confound it, Vandergelt, stealing another man’s staff
away is one of the lowest, most contemptible – ’

‘Gol-durn it, Emerson, I wouldn’t do a thing like that!’

Their raised voices had caught Ramses’s attention. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ he asked.

‘No trouble,’ Cyrus declared. ‘Um – see here, Emerson, I just got to thinking . . . How about if we trade places? You take Medinet Habu and I’ll take Deir el
Medina.’

Emerson opened his mouth, preparatory to delivering a cry of protest. Then his scowl smoothed out. He stroked his chin. ‘Hmmm,’ he said.

‘Cyrus, that is an outrageous suggestion,’ I exclaimed. ‘You can’t go trading archaeological sites as if they were kitchen utensils!’

‘I don’t see who’s gonna stop us,’ Cyrus said stubbornly. ‘The Service des Antiquités has got too much on its plate to bother with two respectable excavators
like us. What do you say, Emerson, old pal?’

Emerson’s face widened in a grin. ‘You want to get at those tombs at Deir el Medina.’

‘Any tomb’s better than none,’ Cyrus retorted. ‘There’s none here. What I’d really like to do is mount an expedition to the Cemetery of the Monkeys, but
– ’

‘You’d break your neck climbing round those wadis,’ Emerson declared forcibly. ‘And waste your time. The most practical method of locating tombs in that area is to follow
the Gurnawis – or go out after a heavy rainstorm, as they do.’

‘Well, it doesn’t look like rain. Come on, Emerson, this job is right up Ramses’s alley. Look at him.’

He did appear to be enjoying himself. He and Nefret were absorbed with the reliefs – and each other. They were holding hands and talking in low voices as they moved slowly along the wall.
With my customary rapidity of thought, I considered the pros and cons of Cyrus’s suggestion. There were a good many things in its favour. The reliefs needed to be recorded before time and
vandals destroyed them. This was a perfect place for the photographic technique of copying Ramses had developed, and Nefret would work at his side – close by him, in a nice, safe, enclosed
area. And while they were doing that, Emerson could root around the ruins to his heart’s content. However . . .

‘Are we agreed?’ Cyrus asked hopefully.

‘Agreed on what?’ Nefret asked, turning.

‘Come and have some tea with Bertie and me, and we’ll tell you all about it,’ Cyrus said.

As we left the chapel I lingered, looking up at the carved lintel. ‘An offering which the King gives, a thousand of bread and beer and every good thing . . .’

‘Did you say something, Mother?’ Ramses inquired.

‘Just – er – humming a little tune, Ramses.’

‘What is Father up to now?’

‘I will leave it to him to tell you, my dear.’

And tell us he did, without asking anyone else’s opinion or voicing a single reservation. Having had time to reconsider the matter, I had thought of several. M. Lacau, who had replaced
Maspero as head of the Antiquities Department, might not find out about our violation of the rules for some time; he had returned to France for war work, leaving his second-in-command, Georges
Daressy, to carry on. Daressy was a genial soul, whom we had known for years, but even he might be offended by our proceeding without his permission.

Considerations of this sort did not enter Emerson’s mind. He had always done precisely as he liked, and had taken the consequences (though not without a great deal of grumbling). Realizing
that Ramses had fixed me with a pointed stare, brows tilted, I was reminded of certain of those consequences, such as the time we had been barred forever from the Valley of the Kings after Emerson
had insulted M. Maspero and everybody else in the vicinity.

I cleared my throat. ‘Perhaps we ought to give the matter a little more thought before we decide, Emerson.’

‘Why?’ Emerson demanded. ‘It is an excellent idea. Ramses will enjoy copying the inscriptions – ’

‘I would prefer to go on at Deir el Medina, Father,’ Ramses said, politely but firmly. Emerson looked at him in surprise, and I gave Ramses an encouraging nod. It had taken him a
long time to get courage enough to disagree with his father. ‘The site is unique,’ Ramses went on. ‘Do you realize what we might learn from it? We’ve already come across a
cache of papyri and a number of inscribed ostraca; they confirm my belief that the people who lived in the village were craftsmen and artists who worked on the royal tombs in the Valley of the
Kings.’

‘They were servants in the Place of Truth,’ Emerson interrupted. ‘Some scholars believe they were priests.’

‘Their additional titles indicate otherwise. Draftsman, architect, foreman – ’

‘Well, well, most interesting,’ said Emerson, who had lost interest almost at once. ‘Your opinion is of course important to me, my boy. We will discuss it later, eh?’

He was set on his plan and had no intention of reconsidering it. When Cyrus reminded him that we had agreed to attend one of his popular soirees that evening, he did not even swear.

I turned to Bertie, who appeared to be in a pensive mood, for he had not spoken after his initial greeting.

‘What do you think, Bertie?’

His brown hair had become sun-bleached and his face was tanned, so that he was a pale shade of brown all over. One could not call him handsome, but his pleasant, guileless smile was very
attractive. ‘Whatever you decide is fine with me, Mrs Emerson. I’m just a hired hand, as Cyrus would say.’

‘You appear to be in a pensive mood,’ I persisted. ‘You are feeling well?’

‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Thank you.’

‘You took up archaeology to please Cyrus,’ I said, and patted his hand. ‘It was kind of you, Bertie, but he wouldn’t want you to go on with it if you find it
distasteful.’

‘I’d do more than that for him.’ Bertie blushed slightly, as Englishmen tend to do when they give vent to their emotions. ‘He’s been jolly good to me, you know. I
only wish . . .’

‘What, Bertie?’

‘Oh – that I could find something really first-rate for Cyrus. Not that I’m likely to,’ he added diffidently. ‘I really am keen, Mrs Emerson, but I’ll never
be as good as Ramses. Or you, ma’am.’

‘One never knows,’ I said. ‘Many great discoveries are serendipitous. There is no reason why you should not succeed as well as another.’

After finishing our tea we returned to Deir el Medina to consult Selim and Daoud. Daoud had no opinion on the subject; anything Emerson chose to do was acceptable to him. Selim folded his arms
and looked severely at Emerson.

‘We have made a good beginning here, Emerson.’

‘Cyrus and Bertie can carry on,’ Emerson replied blithely. ‘The boy is turning into a pretty fair excavator.’

Selim glanced at Jumana, who was helping Ramses collect the ostraca that had been found that morning. ‘Will you leave her here with Vandergelt Effendi?’

Emerson grinned. ‘Does she annoy you?’

‘She talks very loudly all the time. And I do not trust her.’

‘You are becoming as cynical as your father,’ I said. ‘I feel certain Jumana will tell us if Jamil attempts to reach her. Your inquiries in Gurneh have not produced any new
information, have they?’

‘No,’ Selim admitted.

‘Then if you have no further objections, Selim, we will proceed with our plan,’ Emerson said. ‘You and Daoud with us at Medinet Habu, of course, and Jumana as well.’

‘Vandergelt Effendi will want to look for tombs here,’ Selim said dourly.

‘No doubt.’ Emerson chuckled. ‘What’s the harm in that?’

Cyrus’s soiree was like all his parties – elegant and genteel. Since he was the most hospitable of men, he always invited everyone he could get hold of, so the
company was mixed: friends who lived year-round in Luxor, tourists, a few professional associates – too few, alas, in these terrible times – and members of the military. I had got to
the point where the very sight of a uniform depressed me, and I prayed that the day would soon come when the men who wore them could take them off and go back to their normal lives.

Those that survived.

I took a sip of the champagne Cyrus handed me and told myself to cheer up! No cloud shadowed Cyrus’s lined countenance, and indeed he was one of the most fortunate of men. Wealthy and
respected, happily married, absorbed in work he loved, he had required only one thing to fill his cup, and Bertie had given him that – the devoted affection of a son, and a companion in his
work.

‘What’s on your mind, Amelia?’ Cyrus asked. ‘You look kinda gloomy. Has that young villain Jamil turned up again?’

‘No, we have heard nothing of him. I am sorry if I gave the impression I am not thoroughly enjoying myself, and I am ready to do my duty in entertaining your guests. Is there anyone you
would like to be soothed, amused, or stirred up?’

Cyrus chuckled. ‘Especially the last. Anything you like, Amelia; but if you want to pick on someone, have a go at Joe Albion. He was a business rival of mine some years back, and
he’s got one of the best private collections of antiquities in the world. I wouldn’t like to guess how he acquired some of them.’

‘I didn’t know he was an acquaintance of yours,’ I said, recognizing the rotund shape and round red face of Mr Albion. ‘He and his family were on the boat coming over,
and we ran into them the other day near Deir el Bahri. What an odd family they are, to be sure. Mr Albion asked us to introduce him to some tomb robbers.’

Cyrus let out an emphatic American ejaculation. ‘Gol-durn it! Sounds like Joe, all right.’

‘I thought he was joking. He is such a jolly little man.’

‘Jolly Joe.’ Cyrus grinned, but he began tugging at his goatee – a sure sign of perturbation. ‘Don’t let that fool you, Amelia. He’s got a reputation for
going straight for the jugular.’

‘His wife appears quite devoted to him.’

‘It is an odd marriage,’ Cyrus admitted. ‘She’s from one of the best families in Boston and Joe is common as dirt. Nobody could figure out why she married him; but
she’s living like a queen now – and the boy was raised like a prince.’

I had no particular interest in talking with any of the Albions, so I moved about from one group to another, paying particular attention to those who were strangers or seemed ill at ease. It was
my duty, but I cannot say I enjoyed it; most of the gentlemen would talk of nothing but the war. Emerson had been correct; the Germans had announced they would begin unrestricted submarine warfare,
on all vessels of Allied and neutral nations. This put the tourists present in a somewhat awkward position. One of them, a tall, distinguished American named Lubancic, took the matter
philosophically.