The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (11 page)

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

The windows of their bedroom faced the stables, but that building was some distance away and they would not have heard the soft noises if they had not been awake. They had been late getting to bed, since Ramses had to be pried away from his “nice ostraca.” Once Nefret had got his attention she had no difficulty holding it, but it was he who heard the sounds, not she. Responding to the slow movements of his lips and hands, she was jarred out of her state of drowsy pleasure when he suddenly jumped up and went to the window. “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 Rameseum 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, toward 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.” Ramses put his mouth to Nefret’s ear. “I’m going round the back. I doubt he’s armed, but if he is, don’t get in his way.” He squeezed her shoulder and slid away. A jackal howled in the hills, and the village dogs answered it. Cautiously Nefret shifted one foot and then the other. She could see them now, dark shapes near one of the standing sections of wall. Jamil skulked in the shadow; he was wearing a robe of some muted color, dark blue or brown, but his headcloth showed palely against the mud brick. Jumana’s small form was faintly lit by starlight. She was still arguing with him, trying to convince him to turn himself in, but she was wavering. Jamil no longer made demands, he pleaded and wheedled. He put his arm round her, and she embraced him. The ground was a bewildering jumble of stone and masonry, of shadow and pallid light, but Nefret could see a path of sorts, winding its narrow and tortuous way from the opening where she stood toward the wall. It was the quickest and easiest way out of the area, but surely not the only one. “Come again tomorrow night,” Jamil begged. “Even if you cannot bring the money, just so I can see you again. I have missed you.” “I’ll try,” Jumana whispered. “I have missed you, too, and worried about you. Jamil, please, won’t you —” “We will talk about it tomorrow.” He freed himself from her clinging arms and moved away, along the path Nefret had seen, toward her. “Jamil!” Ramses had waited until Jamil was some distance away from his sister. Now he rose into view from behind one of the fallen sections of wall. Even though Nefret had known he was somewhere about, his sudden appearance and clear hail startled her into an involuntary cry. Jamil stopped as if he had been struck, spun round, and let out a much louder cry when he saw Ramses poised atop the rubble, looking — Nefret could not help thinking — like one of the more attractive djinn. “Don’t move,” Ramses ordered. “We only want to talk to you.” The boy’s paralysis lasted no more than a second or two. He bolted, with Ramses after him; but he had a clear run, and Ramses had to scramble over the debris that separated him from the path. Nefret stepped out into the open. “Jamil, stop!” she called. “We won’t hurt you.” He was ten feet away, close enough for her to see the scarf he had drawn over the lower part of his face. He dropped down, as if he were kneeling, and she thought exultantly, we’ve got him now. She had no warning. Jamil straightened, and the missile came hurtling toward her. There was only time enough to turn, her arms clasped protectively around her body, so that the stone struck her shoulder instead of her breast. She fell sideways, her other shoulder and hip smashing against the hard unevenness of the ground. The fall knocked the breath out of her and she curled herself up like a hedgehog as Jamil ran past. Ramses must have been hot on his heels; a moment later she felt a touch she could never have mistaken for that of anyone else. She rolled over, into the curve of his arm. “Go after him,” she panted. “The hell with him. Lie still. Where does it hurt?” “Everywhere.” She managed a smile. “It’s all right, darling, nothing is broken.” His answering smile was forced. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” “Not about a broken leg.” She let out a yelp of pain as his hand explored her arms and shoulders. “Ow! I’ll have some spectacular bruises, but that’s all.” She realized then that his were not the only hands she felt. Kneeling, her eyes like dark holes in the small oval of her face, Jumana was straightening her skirt, smoothing it carefully over her calves. It was a useless gesture, but the girl seemed to be in a state of shock. Not so shocked she couldn’t speak, though. “It was my fault. You might have been struck in the face. He didn’t care if you were hurt. I will go back to my father’s house.” “No, you won’t.” Ramses lifted Nefret and stood up. “You will follow us, leading Moonlight. You” — he looked down at his wife — “are coming with me, on Risha.” “All right,” Nefret said meekly. His heavy black brows drew together. “You arehurt!” “Mostly in places I wouldn’t care to mention.” She raised one hand to his cheek. “Riding astride, sans trousers, is something I won’t try again for a while.”

5

Emerson and I and Sennia were halfway through breakfast when the children made their appearance, followed by the kitten. I observed immediately that Nefret was walking without her usual grace — not limping, but trying not to. Sennia bounced up out of her chair and ran to them; before she could give Nefret one of her fierce hugs, Ramses snatched her up and swung her round and round until she squealed with pleasure. “Has something happened?” I asked. Nefret subsided, very carefully, into the chair Emerson held for her, and gave me a warning look. “Just a fall. Good morning, Little Bird. You had better hurry and finish breakfast, or you will be late for your lessons.” “I think I will not go to them today,” Sennia announced. “I think I will stay and take care of Aunt Nefret.” She sat down on the floor and began stroking the kitten. “I think you will not,” I said. “Don’t dawdle. You must not keep Mrs. Vandergelt waiting.” We got Sennia off after the usual argument; it was not so much the lessons, which she had proclaimed “only somewhat boring,” as her desire to be with us. Emerson caved in, as she had known he would, and promised she could come with us to Deir el Medina next day. “We must go,” he declared. “Where is Jumana? Good Gad, the girl is always late.” “I told her not to join us until after Sennia had left,” Ramses said. “That must be she now.” When she crept in I understood why Ramses had not wanted Sennia to see her. The girl had no self-control; every emotion she felt showed on her face and in her movements. Just now she looked like a little old woman, her head bowed and her movements slow. “Did she suffer a fall too?” I inquired. “No!” Jumana raised her head. Her brown eyes were pools of tragedy. “I have done wrong. Very wrong. I wanted to run away, but I did not, because I knew I should be punished. Do to me whatever you —” “Stop carrying on and sit down,” I said impatiently. “Something to do with Jamil, I suppose. No, Jumana, I do not want any more theatrics. Emerson, be quiet. Ramses?” He gave us a bare outline of what had transpired; and the sympathy for Jumana that had softened Emerson’s keen blue eyes turned to wrath. “Good God,” he shouted. “He might have killed you! Nefret — Ramses — why didn’t you wake me?” “There wasn’t time, Father,” Ramses said. He was certainly correct about that; it takes Emerson at least ten minutes to get his wits together when he has been suddenly aroused. Ramses went on in the same quiet voice, “I miscalculated. I ought to have sent Nefret round to flush him out instead of leaving her there alone.” “Let us not have any further beating of breasts,” I said, for I knew his tendency to blame himself for anything that went wrong, whether it was his fault or not. To be sure, it often was his fault, but in this case anyone might have done the same. Emerson had gone to stand by Nefret. He put out his hand, and then drew it back. “The stone struck your shoulder?” “Yes.” She turned her head to look up at him and winced even as she smiled. “I have a few bruises, but that’s all the damage.” I cleared my throat. “Your medical expertise is far beyond mine, of course, but if you would like me —” “Thank you, Mother, but there is no need. It’s all right. Everything is all right,” she added softly. “Ah,” I said. “Good. Well. What are we going to do about Jamil?” That produced another outburst from Jumana, in the course of which she swore she would never trust Jamil again, and proposed that we beat her and lock her up on bread and water, or marry her off to disgusting old Nuri Said, who had often asked her father for her. She deserved nothing better. She deserved any fate we might decree, and would accept it. I was tempted to shake her, but forbore, deciding I might as well allow her the privilege of self-expression. When she finally broke off for want of breath, her eyes were swimming with tears. I did not doubt she was utterly sincere, nor did I doubt that at the same time she was enjoying herself immensely. “Now, now,” said Emerson feebly, “it’s all right. Curse it, don’t cry.” “How can you forgive me?” she demanded in tragic accents. “We offered Jamil a second chance. Can we do less for you, who are guilty of nothing except misplaced love and loyalty?” “Quite right,” I said, before the melodrama could continue. “What is wanted now, Jumana, is for you to behave like — well, like Nefret and me. Tears and self-reproach are tricks some females employ in order to evade responsibility. I do not permit them here. You are — potentially — the equal of any man, and you must —” “Peabody,” Emerson said. His accents were severe, but there was a twinkle in his handsome blue eyes. “Yes, quite. I believe I have made my point, Jumana. You did a foolish thing, and I trust you have learned a valuable lesson. The question I asked has not been answered. Have you another appointment with Jamil?” Ramses answered for her. “I doubt he will keep it now. It was for tonight. The same place, Jumana?” “Yes. We played in the ruins there, when we were children. But Ramses is right; he will not come now, he will believe I betrayed him. He has found another tomb. It is in the Cemetery of the Monkeys. But —” She was watching Nefret. “But you know. You were listening!” Her voice held a note of accusation. Ramses, who in my opinion suffers from an overly sensitive conscience, was not moved on this occasion to apologize. “You should be glad we did,” he said. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Jumana. You told him you would not steal for him, and you tried to persuade him to give himself up, and now you have confessed, of your own accord.” “So long as you have confessed all,” I added, for Jumana had responded to his praise with a complacent smile. The young are resilient, and a good thing, too, for brooding over past mistakes is a waste of time; but it wouldn’t do to let the girl off too lightly. “We are willing to give you a second chance, Jumana, but if I learn that you have held something back —” “No. No, I swear!” “So he’s found another tomb, has he?” Emerson mused. “Talented young rascal.” I frowned at Emerson, who is too easily distracted by archaeological speculation, and continued my questioning of the girl. “How did he communicate with you before?” “I was given a message — just a scrap of paper, with a few words scribbled on it — yesterday, when we were at Gurneh. By Mohammed Hammad.”