He Shall Thunder in the Sky (25 page)

     “Goodness gracious,” I said. “I would have thought you two had got over that childish habit of bickering. Give me the copy, Nefret, and I will check it myself, while you get on with the photography.”

     Daoud, who had been standing by with one of the mirrors we used to light the interior, moved into position. Directed by his skilled hands, the patch of reflected sunlight centered and steadied on a section of the wall. The elaborately carved and painted shape was that of a door, through which the soul of the deceased could emerge to partake of offerings. The lintels and architrave bore the prince’s name and titles, and a cylindrical shape over the false opening represented a rolled matting, which in a real door would have been lowered and raised as required. Archaeological fever momentarily overcame my other concerns; I sucked in my breath appreciatively.

     “It is one of the finest false doors I have ever seen, and there is a surprising amount of paint remaining. A pity we cannot preserve it.”

     “What about the new preservative you’ve been working on?” Nefret inquired of her brother. “If its effectiveness is in proportion to its pervasive smell, it should work well. Every time I passed your door I held my breath.”

     Ramses’s rigid features relaxed into a more affable expression. “Sorry about that. I have high hopes for the formula, but I don’t want to try it out on something as fine as this. The real test is how it holds up over time, without darkening or destroying the paint.”

     She smiled back at him, her face softening. Pleased that I had brought about a temporary truce, I said briskly, “Back to work, eh?” and took the copy of the offering scene to the wall.

     I had not been at it long, however, before I heard a shout from Emerson, who had not, after all, left the excavation of the shaft to Selim. The words were undistinguishable, but the tone was peremptory. Torn between fear — that the shaft had collapsed onto Emerson — and hope — that some object of interest had turned up — I ran out of the tomb.

     Fear predominated when I failed to make out the impressive form of my husband among the men who clustered round the opening.

     “What has happened?” I panted. “Where is Emerson?”

     As I might have expected, he was in the shaft, which had now been emptied to a depth of almost six feet. The men made way for me, and Daoud took hold of my arm to steady me as I peered down into the opening.

     “What are you doing down there, Emerson?” I demanded.

     Emerson looked up. “Kindly refrain from kicking sand into my eyes, Peabody. You had better come and see for yourself. Lower her down, Daoud.”

     Daoud took me firmly but respectfully by the waist and lowered me into the strong hands that were raised to receive me.

     Emerson set me on my feet but continued to hold me close to him, remarking, “Don’t move, just look. There.”

     I had not seen it from above, for it was not much different in color from the pale sand. “Good Gad!” I cried. “It is a sculptured head — the head of a king! Is the rest of it there?”

     “The shoulders, at least.” Emerson frowned. “As for the body, we will have to wait and see. It will take a while to get the sand out from around it and a support under it. All right, Peabody, up you go.”

     Daoud pulled me back to the surface. Ramses and Nefret were there; I told them of the discovery as Selim joined Emerson in the shaft. I knew my husband would trust no one else with the delicate work of extracting the statue. It had to be handled carefully for fear of breakage. Even stone — and this was limestone, a relatively soft material — might have cracked under the pressure of impacted sand.

     Nefret was dancing with excitement, so I persuaded her to move back a few feet. “Which king is it?” she asked. “Could you tell?”

     “Hardly, my dear. If there is an inscription naming the monarch it will be on the back or the base. From the style and the workmanship it appears to be Old Kingdom.”

     “You are certain it is a royal statue?” Ramses asked.

     “Of that, yes, I am certain. It wears the Nemes Crown and there is a uraeus on the brow.”

     “Hummm,” said my son.

     “I hate it when you make enigmatic noises,” Nefret exclaimed. “What is that supposed to mean?”

     Ramses raised his eyebrows at her — an equally enigmatic and exasperating sort of commentary. Before she could respond, Emerson’s head appeared. “Ramses!” he shouted.

     “Sir?” Ramses hastened to him and gave him a hand up.

     I could tell by Emerson’s flushed face and glittering eyes that he had momentarily forgotten everything except the discovery. He began barking out orders and the men flew off in all directions.

     When we stopped for luncheon we knew the find was even more remarkable than we had hoped. It was a seated statue, almost life-sized and in superb condition.

     “It’s Khafre,” said Nefret, who had insisted on being lowered to have a look for herself.

     “What makes you think so?” I inquired.

     “It looks like Ramses.”

     Rendered temporarily speechless by a mouthful of bread and cheese, her brother rolled his eyes in a silent but eloquent display of derision.

     “There is a certain resemblance to the diorite statue of Khafre discovered by Mariette,” I admitted. “Emerson, sit down and stop fidgeting! Have another cucumber sandwich.”

     Avoiding my attempt to catch hold of him, Emerson bounced up and directed a hail of invective at a group of people who had approached the shaft. There were four of them, fitted out in tourist style with blue goggles and green parasols; the men wore solar topees and the women quantities of veiling, and all of them were trying to get past Selim and Daoud, who stood guard.

     Emerson’s apoplectic countenance and carefully enunciated remarks sent them into rapid retreat.

     “The curse of the working archaeologist,” said my husband, resuming his seat. “I wonder how many other idiots will try to get a look.”

     “The news of such discoveries spreads quickly,” I said, selecting another sandwich. “And everyone wants to be the first to see them. It is a basic trait of human nature, my dear. Have another cucumber —”

     “You’ve eaten them all,” said Emerson, inspecting the interiors of the remaining sandwiches.

My surmise had been correct; the news of our discovery did spread, and we were forced to station several of the men a little distance off to warn visitors away. By late afternoon even Emerson was forced to admit we could not get the statue out that day. The light was failing and it would have been foolish to go on.

     Again Selim offered to stand guard. This time Emerson did not demur. “You and Daoud and six or seven others,” he ordered.

     “Is that enough, do you think?” I asked.

     “With the addition of myself, it will be more than enough.”

     “Yes, yes,” said Daoud, nodding vigorously. “No robber would dare rob the Father of Curses.”

     “Or Daoud, famous for his strength and justly feared by malefactors,” said Ramses in his most flowery Arabic. “Nevertheless, I will join you tonight if you will permit me.”

     “And me,” Nefret said eagerly.

     “Certainly not,” said Emerson, jarred out of his archaeological preoccupation by this offer.

     “Professor, darling,” Nefret began, raising cornflower-blue eyes to his.

     “No, I said! I want those plates developed tonight. You can help her, Peabody, and bring our excavation diary up-to-date.”

     “Very well,” I said.

     “It is absolutely imperative that we —” Emerson broke off. “What did you say?”

     “I said, very well. Now come along to the house and get your camping gear together. Selim, I will send food for you and the others back with the Professor and Ramses.”

     We had left the horses at Mena House, where there was proper stabling for them. As we walked along the road toward the hotel, I took Emerson’s arm and let the children draw ahead.

     “I know this is an exciting discovery, my dear, but pray do not allow it to blind you to other urgent matters.”

     “Exciting,” Emerson repeated. “Hmmm, yes. What do you mean?”

     “Emerson, for pity’s sake! Have you forgotten that Ramses means to go tonight to meet that gang of murderers? I want you to keep him with you.”

     “I had not forgotten.” Emerson put his hand over mine, where it rested on his sleeve. “And there is not a damned thing I can do to prevent him from going. David will be waiting for him, and David is at risk too. Matters have gone too far for either of them to withdraw from this business. I will dismiss him from guard duty later. Selim and the others will believe he has gone home.”

From Manuscript H

     His father’s help made it much easier for him to absent himself without arousing suspicion. He had expected an argument with his mother, whose recent attack of protectiveness had surprised him as much as it secretly pleased him; however, she gave in after making a number of preposterous suggestions, which his father firmly vetoed. Not until later did it occur to Ramses that she hadn’t been serious when she proposed those outrageous disguises. Surely not even his mother believed she could walk the streets of Cairo at that hour in burko and black robe, or prowl the alleys in a fez and a hastily hemmed galabeeyah!

     The original meeting had been set for the previous night, at the same café where they had met the Turk. Obedient little rabbits that they were, they would almost certainly turn up again the following night. He went in through the back entrance this time, and would have had his throat slit by Farouk if he hadn’t anticipated some such possibility. Looking down at the boy, who was sprawled on the floor rubbing his shin, he said pleasantly, “I take it you were not expecting me?”

     The only one of the others who had moved was Asad. He was under the table. A chorus of sighs and murmured thanks to Allah broke out, and Asad got sheepishly to his feet.

     “We didn’t know what to think! Where have you been? Farouk said you had been shot, and we were afraid —”

     “Farouk was right.”

     Shock replaced the relief on their faces. Ramses had been joking when he expressed his intention of displaying his injuries, but he was suddenly overcome by one of those melodramatic impulses that seemed to run in his family. Slowly, taking his time, he slipped his arm out of the sleeve of his robe, untied the cord at the neck of his shirt, and pulled it off his shoulder. Fatima’s green ointment added a colorful note to the bruised flesh and unhealed gashes. Asad covered his mouth with his hand and looked sick.

     “Which one of you fired the shot?” Ramses asked.

     Farouk had started to get up. He sat down with a thud and held up his hands. “Why do you look at me? It was not I! I shot at the man who tried to kill you! He was hiding. He had a rifle. He . . .”

     “Calm yourself,” Ramses said irritably. He laced up his shirt and slid his arm back into his robe. “A fine revolutionary you make! If you tried to creep up on a sentry he’d hear you ten yards off, and then you’d probably kill the wrong man. The rest of you keep quiet. Did any of you see who the purported assassin was?”

     “No.” Asad twisted his thin, ink-stained hands. “We thought — the Turk? Don’t be angry. We searched for him, and for you. And we brought the guns back. They are —”

     “I know. Have you heard anything about the next delivery?”

     “Yes.” Asad nodded vigorously. “Farouk has been at Aslimi’s shop —”

     “I know. Whose brilliant idea was that?”

     Asad looked guilty, but then he always did. The nom de guerre he had chosen meant “lion.” It couldn’t have been more inappropriate.

     “Someone had to!” he quavered. “Aslimi has taken to his bed. It is his stomach. He has —”

     “Pains after he eats,” Ramses interrupted. “I know that too. Someone had to take his place, I grant you that. Why Farouk?”

     “Why not?” Farouk demanded. “I know the business, the —”

     “Be quiet. When is the delivery?”

     “It is for a week from tomorrow — the same time — the ruined mosque south of the cemetery where Burckhardt’s tomb is.”

     “I’ll be there. And, Farouk —”

     “Yes, sir?”

     “Initiative is an admirable quality, but don’t carry it too far.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “I think you know what I mean. Don’t be tempted to make your own arrangements with our temporary allies. They are using us for their own purpose, and that purpose is not ours. Do you suppose the Ottoman Empire would tolerate an independent Egypt?”

     “But they promised,” Bashir began.

     “They lied,” Ramses said curtly. “They always lie. If the Turks win, we will only exchange one set of rulers for another. If the British win, they will suppress a revolt without mercy, and most of us will die. Our best and only hope of achieving our goal is to use one side against the other. I know how to play that game. You don’t. Have I made myself clear?”

     Nods and murmurs of agreement indicated that he had convinced them. Not even Farouk had the courage to ask him to elaborate. Ramses decided he had better go before someone did ask; he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

     “You are leaving us?” Farouk scrambled to his feet. “Let us go with you, to make sure you are safe. You are our leader, we must protect you.”

     “From whom?” He smiled at the beautiful face that was gazing soulfully at him. The dark-fringed eyes fell, and Ramses said gently, “Do not follow me, Farouk. You aren’t very good at that either.”

     He was in no mood for gymnastics that night, so he hoped the unsubtle hint would have the desired effect. The others would be suspicious of Farouk now — and serve him right, the little swine — but he made certain there was no one on his trail before he approached the tram station. Trains were infrequent at this hour, but he wasn’t in the mood for a ten-mile hike either. Squatting on a hard bench in the odorous confines of a third-class carriage, he again considered alternate methods of transportation and again dismissed them. The motorbicycles made too much noise, and Risha was too conspicuous.