The Serpent on the Crown (6 page)

“That’s true,” Emerson said. “But you haven’t a prayer of getting permission to work in their area, Cyrus.”

“No, but there’s lots of other places that have possibilities.”

“Possibilities of new tombs, you mean,” Emerson said. “Is that all you can think of, Vandergelt? Our excavations at Deir el Medina have contributed—”

“Yeah, sure. Be honest, Emerson, you’re losing interest too. You’re as set on temples as I am on tombs.”

“Well, well. As a favor to you, I will discuss the matter with Lacau. Good-bye. Peabody, my dear, I will see you in a few days.”

My husband’s machinations were clear to me now. Emerson had had no intention of giving up Deir el Medina until a more glittering prize glimmered like a mirage on the horizon. He had his eye on the Valley of the Kings. In my opinion his chances were slim; Lord Carnarvon had held the concession for years, and so far as I knew he had no intention of giving it up.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Emerson deigned to have a few words with Ramses before he left for Luxor. He had refused his son’s offer to accompany him, which roused what Ramses’s mother would have called dire forebodings.

“You mustn’t give up your Friday visit with Selim and his family,” Emerson said. “The dear children enjoy them so much.”

“What am I supposed to tell Selim?” Ramses demanded. “He will expect to start work tomorrow.”

“That you will work, of course. But not at the site,” he added. “Get him and Daoud here and start going over last year’s notes and plans. I want to see a detailed summary of what we accomplished and what remains to be done.”

“But, sir—”

“My boy.” Emerson put his hand on Ramses’s shoulder. It was an unusual gesture, for him; equally unusual was the diffidence in his voice. “I know I am being arbitrary and dictatorial. It is not because I lack confidence in you. It is because I lack confidence in myself.”

“You, sir?”

“Well, no.” Emerson grinned with all his old assurance. “However, I am wrong now and then. I have an idea so vague and preposterous that I would be embarrassed to mention it. I may be on the wrong track, and I would rather not discuss my theory until after I have pursued several lines of inquiry. I will return on Sunday or Monday, and then we will reassess the situation. Just do me one favor: Try to keep your mother away from the Pethericks until I get back.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That is all any man can do. Especially with your mother. Run along now, the children will be waiting.”

“Aren’t you going to say good-bye to them?”

“Er—hmmm—no,” mumbled Emerson. “Only be gone for two days.”

The truth was, he dreaded Carla’s reaction. She enjoyed drama and carried on like a juvenile Niobe when any of them went away. Her parents and grandmother had learned to ignore these demonstrations, but Emerson took them very much to heart, despite the fact that he had been assured the storm soon blew over. Was that why he was leaving several hours before the train departed? More likely he had business in Luxor he didn’t care to discuss with his son.

The twins always looked forward to their Friday visits with Selim and his children, who were their favorite playmates. Another attraction was that they were allowed to ride with their parents. Thus far their equestrian activities had been limited to little donkeys, but both of them admired the beautiful Arabians that were the pride of the Emerson stables. After considering the relative sizes of himself and his father’s stallion, Risha, David John had announced he would wait a year or two before attempting to mount the animal. Carla, whose temperament was more adventurous, had sneaked into Risha’s stall one day and had managed to climb the side of the enclosure far enough to launch herself onto the astonished stallion’s back. Risha let out one piercing whinny and then stood like a stone, ignoring the small hands that pulled at his mane and the small heels kicking his sides, until Ramses came running to see what had aroused the placid horse. It was one of the few times Ramses had ever spanked his daughter—not only, as he was careful to explain, because she had disobeyed his orders, but because she had hurt a gentle animal that was too well bred to defend himself.

That reproach had more effect than the spanking. Carla had been apologizing to Risha ever since, bringing him carrots and sugar lumps. Risha, who had probably found the whole performance fairly amusing, had been gracious enough to accept her effusive apologies, and when Ramses took Carla up with him on the stallion, Risha greeted her with a friendly nudge.

Anticipating their visit, several other members of the family had dropped in, including their assistant reis Daoud and his wife, Khadija. Ramses noted with a slight pang that there was more gray in Daoud’s beard than there had been the year before, but the big man’s hearty embrace could still make your ribs creak. Khadija inspected them with anxious eyes, looking for any sign of illness or injury. She let out a cluck of disapproval.

“Your hands, Ramses. What have you been doing?”

“Digging,” Ramses admitted. “Please, Khadija, not the green ointment! There are only a few scratches.”

She had already vanished inside the house.

“Digging where?” Selim asked. He at least hadn’t changed. Straight and trim, dressed in his best woolen robe to do them honor, he watched with a grin as Khadija smeared the famous ointment on Ramses’s hands. It was a traditional recipe in her Nubian family and it had amazingly therapeutic powers, but it left long-lasting stains on skin and clothing.

“The Valley of the Kings,” Ramses answered Selim’s question. “Near the tomb of Siptah.”

Selim’s fine dark eyes widened. “Why there?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell it, then,” said Daoud. “Tell about the golden statues and the man with the gun.”

Damnation, Ramses thought. He ought to have known that Fatima would spread the tale. After all, no one had sworn her to secrecy, and her new “footman,” Kareem, was a notorious gossip. He decided it would be better to set the record straight before Daoud, the family’s self-appointed chronicler, could embellish it any further. He had intended to discuss the business with Selim anyhow. Selim knew everyone in Luxor, including tomb robbers and dealers. The children were playing some game that involved intermittent screaming and a lot of rushing around, so he suggested to Daoud and Selim that they go for a walk.

There was no chance for a quiet conversation in the village; the narrow twisting paths led past open courtyards where the women were grinding grain and the men working at various chores or just sitting around smoking water pipes and drinking coffee. Everyone had a greeting or an embrace for Ramses, and questions showered them: “When would the Sitt Hakim visit? How were the little ones, God’s blessing be on them?”

After leaving the village they turned by unspoken consent toward the village cemetery, and Ramses began his narrative.

“Only one statue?” Daoud asked, visibly cast down. “I thought there were many, and rich jewelry.”

“Kareem is a great liar,” Selim declared.

“It isn’t so much what Kareem said as how others embellish the basic story,” Ramses said. “Do some of the Gurnawis believe we found the statue during our excavations?”

“It is not true?” Daoud asked.

Selim gave him an exasperated look. “You know it is not, Daoud, you heard of the lady giving it to Emerson, and of the son who came to take it back.”

“Ah, yes.” Daoud stroked his beard. “I had forgotten. But some of the Gurnawis do not believe that story.”

“We ran into two of them this morning,” Ramses said. “Deib and Aguil. There was a third man, who got away after firing a pistol in our direction.”

“He dared to shoot at the Father of Curses?” Daoud rumbled. “Who was it?”

“Deib said he was a howadji. Someone he’d never seen before and couldn’t describe.”

“Deib is a greater liar than Kareem,” Selim said through tight lips. “It must have been the third brother, Farhat. He is a bad egg, Ramses, who has been in trouble with the police. Though how he dared…”

“I will see to him,” said Daoud.

Selim was almost certainly right, Ramses realized. Only the more gullible of the locals would have believed the statuette had been found in the Valley. Emerson must have known that too and suspected the brothers were lying about the identity of the third man. Yet he hadn’t pressed them. Why?

He was still pondering this when Selim said, “Yes, we will see to him. One golden statue is wonder enough. It is genuine? Of what period?”

“Amarna. Yes, it’s genuine. We don’t know how long ago it was found, or whose hands it passed through before Petherick bought it. You would know, wouldn’t you, if such a thing had turned up in Luxor?”

Selim stroked his neatly trimmed beard. “There are always rumors of rich finds. Most are lies. If this happened a long time ago, I might not know. Are you sure the statue came from Thebes?”

Ramses shook his head. “It’s only one possibility.”

Their steps had led them to the beautiful little tomb David had designed for his grandfather Abdullah. It was the most prominent monument in the cemetery, and the most frequently visited, for Abdullah was now regarded as a saint. Cords strung across the opening supported an unseemly but touching collection of offerings: cheap beads, kerchiefs, crude amulets. The current “servant of the sheikh,” the custodian of the tomb, was seated on the floor, his head bent, presumably in prayer or meditation. Rather than disturbing him, they stopped a little distance away and stood in respectful silence.

Ramses thought of the first time he had come to Abdullah’s grave, with his mother, before the tomb had been constructed. He had helped her bury a collection of small amulets, images of the ancient gods, over the grave. She had never explained why, and he had never asked; but it seemed to comfort her, and she had needed comfort badly. Over the years the conservative old Egyptian and the Englishwoman whose background and beliefs were so utterly different from his own had developed a close relationship, inexplicable in rational terms. But then, Ramses thought, love wasn’t rational, was it?

“Now tell about the man with the gun and his sister,” Daoud demanded, hoping for drama after the disappointment of the treasure.

He was disappointed in that too. Ramses made light of the business, as it deserved.

“Wallahi,” Selim exclaimed. “What a strange family! Will they trouble you again? Is it because of them you are going to build a wall?”

“Not a wall, only a sort of guard post, to keep out uninvited visitors,” Ramses said, thinking he must have a word with the inventive Kareem.

“And what of the curse?” Daoud asked hopefully. “Will the Father of Curses cast the demon out?”

Emerson’s exorcisms were extremely popular. Ramses couldn’t deny the possibility; for all he knew, his father might have something of the sort in mind. There was definitely a streak of theatricalism in the family, a fondness for disguises and playacting. He was in no position to criticize his father. Like his unregenerate uncle, he had been known for his skill in disguise, and now that that sort of thing was behind him he could admit he had quite enjoyed it.

“The lady invented the curse, Daoud,” he said.

Daoud’s face fell. “No curse? No threat? Then why are you building the barricade?”

Selim laughed. “I know what my honored father Abdullah would have said. ‘There is no harm in protecting yourself from that which does not exist.’”

When Fatima set her mind on something, she went at it with all her energy. She had put a gang to work making bricks for the guardhouse, as she called it; until the structure could be built she had assigned Wasim to sit by the road under a temporary shelter. He was one of the older men, who had gone blind in one eye, and he obviously relished his new assignment. When I went, later that afternoon, to see if there was anything he needed, his beard split in a wide grin, showing the brown broken teeth of his generation.

“No, Sitt, I have everything I want,” he said, indicating a water jar, a narghile, and the rug on which he squatted. “You may depend on me. I will not allow any thief to pass.”

Lying beside him on the rug was a rifle. I asked, “Who gave you permission to have that gun?”

“What is a guard without a weapon?” Seeing my expression, he added quickly, “It is not loaded, Sitt, it is only for show. Fatima said I should bring it.”

“Oh, very well. You understand, Wasim, that you are not to threaten people, only stop them and ask their business. If it is a friend of ours, let him pass. If it is a stranger, ask his name and come and tell me or Fatima.”

“Oh, yes, Sitt, I understand. No thief will pass me.”

I was halfway back to the house before the import of that word “thief” struck me. He had used it twice. I ought to have known our people would gossip about the “treasure.” Nor were they the only ones. To whom had Mrs. Petherick told her preposterous story? How far had the news spread?

When the children and their parents returned from Selim’s, the former were in their usual state of grubbiness, overindulgence, and crankiness. Their nursery maid, Elia, was accustomed to dealing with this; she hustled them off to baths and bed. It was a rare pleasure to settle down with only my son and daughter. Compared with my husband and grandchildren, they are restful company. Twilight deepened; the stars began to shine over Luxor; and Ramses served the whiskey.

“Who gave Wasim permission to have that weapon?” Ramses asked somewhat critically. “He’ll shoot someone; his eyesight is so bad.”

“The gun isn’t loaded.”

“Is that what he told you?” Ramses took a refreshing sip of whiskey. An afternoon with his children often left him somewhat on edge. “Oh, well, we can only hope for the best. Maybe he’ll shoot a journalist.”

“How do you know the press has been informed of our so-called treasure trove?”

“If they don’t know about it they must be deaf, dumb, and blind. Mrs. Petherick has done her best to spread the word. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she gave interviews to the newspapers before she left England. All the local people have heard of our acquisition and have exaggerated its value as they are inclined to do. Daoud and Selim knew all about it, and about our encounter with the Pethericks.”