The Serpent on the Crown (8 page)

It was an implicit promise that she wouldn’t go scooting back to Luxor. His father would be furious when he discovered she had finished his article, but insofar as Ramses was concerned, that was definitely the lesser of two evils.

We were not infrequently annoyed by uninvited visitors, most of them total strangers armed with letters of introduction from people we knew only slightly or did not know at all. Glancing from time to time out of the window of my little study, I saw several carriages and persons on donkey-back stop at the completed guardhouse. The structure lacked architectural merit, being only a square of mud brick pierced by a door and several windows with a roof of woven reeds. It was, in fact, as commodious as many of the village houses, and Fatima assured me Wasim was so pleased with his quarters he intended to sleep there. No one interrupted my work, so I assumed Fatima had decided they were intruders and had told Wasim to send them away. I was about to stop for tea when Fatima entered and informed me that two of our archaeological colleagues had dropped by.

“Ask them to stay for tea,” I instructed, rising and stretching stiffened limbs. “I will join them as soon as I have freshened up.”

“Yes, Sitt.” She handed me a small sheaf of calling cards. “These are the ones I told you were not at home.”

“Good heavens, so many?” I went quickly through them. None of the names was familiar—but one was that of a representative of a newspaper. “Confound the cursed woman,” I said. “I was right about her; it is publicity she is after. She must have told everyone in Luxor about the curse. It was wise of you, Fatima, to suggest we needed a guard.”

“Yes, Sitt.” I didn’t blame her for looking smug.

My guests were Mr. Barton, one of the Metropolitan Museum crew, and an acquaintance of his, whom he introduced as Heinrich Lidman. Barton always put me in mind of a good-natured scarecrow, with his long gangly limbs and shock of sandy hair. His companion was several inches shorter and somewhat stouter. He peered at me through steel-rimmed eyeglasses and at once burst into speech.

“Mrs. Emerson, I cannot tell you what an honor it is to meet you, of whom I have heard so much and with whose work I am of course well acquainted, particularly the excellent excavations conducted by you and your distinguished husband at el Amarna in the—”

“Shut up, Heinrich,” Barton said amiably. “You have to interrupt him once he starts talking, or he never stops,” he explained to me.

“It is my failing,” Lidman admitted sheepishly—and he did rather resemble a sheep, with his long nose and head of tight fair curls. “Excuse me, Mrs. Emerson, I was carried away by—”

“Do sit down, gentlemen,” I said, taking Mr. Barton at his word. “Emerson is away, but I expect Ramses and Nefret will join us shortly.”

In fact, it was after five and I was surprised at their tardiness. The dear little children were always on time for tea. When my son and daughter-in-law appeared they were alone, and looking a trifle harried.

“Where are the children?” I asked.

“Sent to bed early,” Ramses said shortly.

“They misbehaved?”

Ramses nodded. It was not an unusual occurrence, but this misdemeanor must have been serious, since being deprived of tea with the family was the worst punishment in our power. I did not pursue the subject, since we had guests.

Barton was greeted by Ramses and Nefret as the old friend he was. He introduced Mr. Lidman, who began spouting compliments.

“It is an honor, such an honor, Dr. Emerson.”

“I don’t use the title,” Ramses said. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lidman. Nice to see you, George.”

Fatima brought the tea tray. I dispensed the genial beverage and she offered a plate of cakes, the sight of which brought a greedy glitter to Mr. Lidman’s brown eyes.

“I thought for a few minutes you weren’t going to see me,” said Barton, laughing. “Wasim didn’t recognize me at first, kept waving that antique rifle at me. Never known you folks to set a guard before. What’s up? Don’t tell me those wild stories are true.”

Having learned caution from my encounters with the vultures of the press, I replied with another question. “What wild stories are you referring to, Mr. Barton, and from whom did you hear them?”

Eating and drinking kept Mr. Lidman silent while Barton explained that his workmen had been full of the tale that morning. It was as I feared; the news had spread all over Luxor, and our acquisition had been exaggerated to the point of absurdity: jewels, golden statues, vessels of precious metals—a veritable hoard, in fact. I decided it would be advisable to correct these misapprehensions, so I went and got the statuette and explained how it had come to us.

Barton gasped at the sight of it, and Mr. Lidman began babbling. “It is Akhenaton, no doubt of that, and it must have come from his tomb at Thebes, I have long believed that his funerary equipment, barring the sarcophagus, was brought here from Amarna after the city of the Aton was abandoned, and it must have been found by local tomb robbers who, as you know, have made more important discoveries than archaeologists; for example—”

“There are other possibilities,” I said. But this was one none of us had proposed, and I made the fatal mistake of asking a direct question. “Where could such a tomb be located?”

Mr. Lidman proceeded to tell us, talking faster and faster, with scarcely a pause to draw breath. Mr. Barton finally took pity on me, and himself, and uttered the magic words.

“Shut up, Heinrich.”

Ramses, who had been studying the visitor intently, said, “The West Valley is a possibility, I suppose; the tombs of Akhenaton’s father and one of his immediate successors are there, as you pointed out, Mr. Lidman. You seem very familiar with the Amarna period.”

“I worked at the site before the war.” For once, Mr. Lidman’s loquacity had deserted him. He looked sadly at his empty plate.

“With Borchardt?” Ramses asked.

“Yes. You would not know my name, of course. It has been some years since I published anything, and since the war I have been unable…” He looked up; something he saw in our faces encouraged him to go on. “To speak truth, I am looking for another position. I know the language, I have had experience in excavation under one of the best, I speak Arabic and am accustomed to dealing with native workmen…”

“Am I to understand that you are applying for a position with us?” I asked, taking pity on the poor man. I did feel sorry for him. The war had interrupted many promising careers, some of them ended forever.

“I will accept any position, however humble, if not with you, perhaps with Mr. Cyrus Vandergelt. I know the influence you have with him…”

His imploring eyes were fixed on Ramses, as if his decision were the only one that mattered. Just like a man, I thought.

My son had also been moved by the fellow’s obvious need. Like many who had risked their lives during the conflict, he bore no grudge against former enemies. They had all been victims of the arrogance and stupidity of their leaders.

“My father is the one who makes such decisions,” Ramses said. “I will speak to him about you when he returns.”

“Thank you. Thank you. I will be forever grateful.”

It had been an awkward interlude, and I was thankful when George Barton changed the subject. Holding up the statuette, he said, “If this was bought from a dealer, it could have originated anywhere in Egypt. Right, Mrs. Emerson?”

“Quite right,” I said. “The most logical way of tracing its origin is through the dealer from whom it was purchased. Mrs. Petherick claims she does not know his name, and I am inclined to believe her, since she is a silly woman and keeps rambling on about curses.”

Realizing I was beginning to sound like Mr. Lidman, I stopped myself and offered the gentlemen another cup of tea.

“Thank you, ma’am, but we must be getting back,” Barton said. “Sorry to have missed the Professor, but we’ll be seeing him soon, I hope.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Lidman said. “It will be an honor. I trust you have a safe hiding place for this remarkable object. Every thief in Luxor will be after it.”

“No one would dare rob the Father of Curses,” Barton said with a grin. “That’s one of Daoud’s sayings, and it’s right on the mark. Do let us know, ma’am, if the Professor plans to perform one of his notorious—er—famous exorcisms.”

A
fter our visitors had left, I asked Nefret what crime the children had been guilty of. “I presume it was Carla—as usual.”

“Carla was the instigator,” Nefret said with a sigh. “Honestly, Mother, I sometimes think that temper of hers will be the death of me. She tore up the drawing David John was making as a welcome-home present for Father. He’d been working on it for hours—beautiful little colored hieroglyphs and a picture of a cat.”

“Then why did you punish David John?”

“Because he punched her square in the face,” said Ramses. He had had time to calm down, and I thought I detected a tone of unwilling amusement. “Her nose started to bleed, and then David John burst into tears. It was quite noisy. Carla howled and David John hugged her and said he was sorry, and she said she was sorry, and they ended up smeared with tears and blood.”

“Good heavens,” I said weakly.

“It was just a nosebleed,” Nefret assured me. “But David John must learn that there is no excuse whatsoever for physical violence, and Carla must learn to leave other people’s property alone.”

“Quite right,” I said. “But they are only four.”

Ramses smiled affectionately. “Spoken like a true grandmother. We’ll make it up with them after dinner, Mother.”

Conversation during that meal returned to the subject of our new acquaintance. “Are you going to recommend him to your father?” I asked Ramses.

“I can think of no reason not to. I believe I recall hearing his name mentioned as a competent excavator. You keep saying we need more staff.”

“We do. The difficulty will be getting your father to admit it.”

After he and Nefret had said good night I worked on Emerson’s article for a time, but found myself yawning. His academic style is not electrifying (most academic style is not) and I had had a disturbed night. Finally I gave it up and sought my lonely couch.

I dreamed, not of Abdullah, but of Emerson. He was strolling through the narrow streets of the Khan el Khalili, dressed in Bedouin robes and holding aloft a golden statue. A rock whistled past his head. Emerson ducked and went on. A shot rang out. It missed him by a scant inch. Emerson went on. I called out to him, but my voice was no louder than a kitten’s mew. I
was
a kitten, scrambling at his heels, clawing at the skirts of his robe, in a vain attempt to attract his attention. A woman, scantily clad and veiled, slipped out of a doorway and threw her arms around him. Superbly oblivious, Emerson went on. The perfume shop just ahead of him collapsed with a crash, showering the street with broken glass bottles. I cried out…

And woke, perspiring and shaking. The sound had not been a dream. The echoes still reverberated.

I sprang from bed and rushed to the window that overlooked the veranda and the road. A cloud of dust, pale in the moonlight, rose above the ruins of the guardhouse.

I was not the only one to be awakened by the catastrophe. As I reached the front door, hastily fastening the sash of my dressing gown, I saw Ramses running toward me. He carried a torch—something I had not thought to do—and was trying to button his trousers—his only garment—one-handed. “Mother, are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. The guardhouse has collapsed. Hurry.”

Mud brick is not the most stable of building materials. Only one wall was standing. The rest of the structure was now a heap of rubble, strewn with the reeds that had formed the roof. And under it somewhere, I feared, was Wasim.

“God Almighty,” Ramses breathed. “Here, Mother, take the torch.”

He fell to his knees and began tossing bricks aside. I was about to go to his assistance when we were joined by other members of the household. They all pitched in with a will and before long they were rewarded by the sight of a groping hand. The rescuers cheered and had soon cleared the body of the unfortunate watchman. He was lying facedown. Nefret, who had been the last to join us, caught Ramses by the arm as he was about to turn the poor fellow over onto his back. “Don’t move him yet. Wasim, can you hear me?”

She ran expert hands over his limbs and body. “Is it you, Sitt Hakim?” said a muffled voice. “Am I dead?”

Obviously he wasn’t, but we had some difficulty convincing him. According to Nefret, he had got off easily, with only cuts and bruises. Nevertheless, we removed him carefully to a stretcher and she went with him to the clinic.

Not until that moment, when anxiety was relieved, did I have leisure to think the matter through. How could the building have collapsed? It had not been designed to last forever, but the men had had long experience, and they would not have taken a chance on shoddy construction. Looking about me, I saw that every servant in the house was there. And that meant…

“Ramses,” I said urgently. “Is anyone on guard?”

“Dammit,” said Ramses.

He moved too fast for me in my trailing garment. When I reached Emerson’s study, Ramses had found Emerson’s keys and was in the act of unlocking one of the desk drawers. With a long sigh of relief, he removed the painted box and lifted the lid.

“It’s safe,” I exclaimed. “A false alarm.”

“No. Someone has been here.” He indicated a set of dusty footprints that ran back and forth across the floor. They were those of bare feet.

“Not yours?” I asked.

“Those are mine.” He indicated a single line of prints, narrower and longer than the others.

We followed the intruder’s prints along the hall. They led into Emerson’s and my sleeping chamber.

“He came here first,” Ramses muttered. “He looked under the bed and in the drawers of the chest. One of them is still partly open. Unless you—”

“I am never so untidy. It was a quick and somewhat superficial search. He knew he couldn’t count on much time. Finding nothing here, he went to your father’s study.”

“He heard us coming and fled before he had a chance to search thoroughly,” Ramses finished. “Which means he didn’t know precisely where it was hidden. Let’s see which way he went.”