Amelia Peabody Omnibus 1-4 (89 page)

The inundation was receding, but sheets of water still lay on the fields. Following the dykes of the primitive irrigation system, we rode on until suddenly the green of the trees and young crops gave way to the barren soil of the desert, in a line so sharp it appeared to have been drawn by a celestial hand. Ahead lay the scene of our winter’s work.

Never will I forget the profound depression that seized me when I first beheld the site of Mazghunah. Beyond the low and barren hills bordering the cultivation, a vast expanse of rubble-strewn sand stretched westward as far as the eye could see. To the north, outlined bravely against the sky, were the two stone pyramids of Dahshoor, one regular in outline, the other marked by the curious change in the angle of the slope that has given it the name of the ‘Bent Pyramid.’ The contrast between these two magnificent monuments and the undulating sterility of our site was almost too painful to be endured. Emerson had halted; when I drew up beside him I saw that his eyes were fixed on the distant silhouettes and that a grimace of fury distorted his lips.

‘Monster,’ he growled. ‘Villain! I will have my revenge; the day of reckoning cannot be far off!’

‘Emerson,’ I said, putting my hand on his arm.

He turned to me with a smile of artificial sweetness.

‘Yes, my dear. A charming spot, is it not?’

‘Charming,’ I murmured.

‘I believe I will just ride north and say good morning to our neighbour,’ Emerson said casually. ‘If you, my dear Peabody, will set up camp – ’

‘Set up camp?’ I repeated. ‘Where? How? With what?’

To call the terrain in this part of Egypt desert is misleading, for it is not the sort of desert the reader may picture in his mind – vast sand dunes, rolling smoothly on to infinity without so much as a shrub or ridge of rock. This area was barren enough; but the ground was uneven, broken by pits and ridges and hollows, and every foot of the surface was strewn with debris – fragments of broken pottery, scraps of wood and other, less palatable evidences of occupation. My experienced eye at once identified it as a cemetery site. Beneath the rock surface lay hundreds of graves. All had been robbed in ancient times, for the scraps littering the ground were the remains of the goods buried with the dead – and the remains of the dead themselves.

Ramses got off his donkey. Squatting, he began sifting through the debris.

‘Here, Master Ramses, leave that nasty rubbish alone,’ John exclaimed.

Ramses held up an object that looked like a broken branch. ‘It is a femuw,’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘Excuse me, Mama – a femur, I meant to say.’

John let out a cry of disgust and tried to take the bone away from Ramses. I understood the emotion that had affected the child, and I said tolerantly, ‘Never mind, John. You cannot keep Ramses from digging here.’

‘That nasty rubbish is the object of our present quest,’ Emerson added. ‘Leave it, my son; you know the rule of excavation – never move anything until its location has been recorded.’

Ramses rose obediently. The warm breeze of the desert ruffled his hair. His eyes glowed with the fervour of a pilgrim who has finally reached the Holy City.

Having persuaded Ramses to abandon his bones for the nonce, we rode on towards the northwest. Near a ridge of rock we found our men, who had come down the day before to select a campsite. There were ten of them in all, including Abdullah – old friends and experienced excavators, who would supervise the unskilled labourers we expected to hire locally. I returned their enthusiastic salutations, noting as I did so that the camp consisted of a fire pit and two tents. Questioning elicited the bland response, ‘But, Sitt, there is no other place.’

On several of my expeditions I had set up housekeeping in an empty tomb. I recalled with particular pleasure the rockcut tombs of El Amarna; I always say, there is nothing more commodious or convenient than a tomb, particularly that of a well-to-do person. Obviously no such amenity was available here.

I climbed to the top of the ridge. As I scrambled among the stones I gave thanks for one blessing at least – that I was no longer encumbered by the voluminous skirts and tight corsets that had been de rigueur when I first took up the study of Egyptology. My present working costume had been developed and refined by myself, and was wholly satisfactory, aesthetically and practically. It consisted of a broad-brimmed man’s straw hat, a shirtwaist with long sleeves and a soft collar, and flowing Turkish trousers to the knee with stout boots and gaiters below the trousers. The uniform, if I may so designate it, was completed by an important accessory – a broad leather belt to which was attached a modification of the old-fashioned chatelaine. Instead of the scissors and keys housewives once attached to this device, my collection of useful tools included a hunting knife and a pistol, notepaper and pencil, matches and candles, a folding rule, a small flask of water, a pocket compass, and a sewing kit. Emerson claimed I jangled like a chained prisoner when I walked. He also objected to being jabbed in the ribs by knife, pistol, et cetera, when he embraced me. Yet I am certain the usefulness of each item will be readily apparent to the astute reader.

Abdullah followed me onto the hill. His face had the remote, meditative expression it wore when he was expecting a reprimand.

We were not far from the cultivation. A cluster of palms some half-mile distant betokened the presence of water, and among the palms I could see the low roofs of a village. Nearer at hand was the object I sought. I had caught a glimpse of it as we rode – the ruinous remains of a building of some sort. I pointed. ‘What is that, Abdullah?’

‘It is a building, Sitt,’ said Abdullah, in tones of amazement. One would suppose he had never noticed the place before.

‘Is it occupied, Abdullah?’

‘I do not think it is, Sitt.’

‘Who owns it, Abdullah?’

Abdullah replied with an ineffable Arabic shrug. As I prepared to descend the far side of the ridge, he said quickly, ‘That is not a good place, Sitt Hakim.’

‘It has walls and part of a roof,’ I replied. ‘That is good enough for me.’

‘But, Sitt – ’

‘Abdullah, you know how your Muslim reticence annoys me. Speak out. What is wrong with the place?’

‘It is filled with devils,’ said Abdullah.

‘I see. Well, don’t concern yourself about that. Emerson will cast the devils out.’

I hailed the others and directed them to follow me. The closer we approached, the more pleased I was with my discovery, and the more puzzled by it. It was not an ordinary house; the extent of the walls, some tumbled, some still intact, suggested a structure of considerable size and complexity. There were no signs of recent habitation. The barren waste stretched all around, with never a tree or blade of grass.

The building materials were an odd mixture. Some of the walls were of mud brick, some of stone. A few blocks were as large as packing cases. ‘Stolen from our pyramids,’ Emerson grumbled. He pushed through a gap in the nearest wall. I need not say I was close behind.

The area within had been a courtyard, with rooms on three sides and a stout wall on the fourth. The wall and the southern range of rooms had fallen into ruin, but the remaining sections had survived, though most gaped open to the sky. A few pillars supported a roofed walkway along one side.

Emerson snapped his fingers. ‘It was a monastery, Peabody. Those were the monks’ cells, and that ruin in the far corner must have been the church.’

‘How curious,’ I exclaimed.

‘Not at all. There are many such abandoned sanctuaries in Egypt. This country was the home of monasticism, after all, and religious communities existed as early as the second century
A.D.
The nearest village, Dronkeh, is a Coptic settlement.’

‘You never told me that, Emerson.’

‘You never asked me, Peabody.’

As we continued our tour of inspection I became conscious of a strange feeling of uneasiness. It was wholly unaccountable; the sun beamed down from a cloudless sky and, except for the occasional agitated rustle when we disturbed a lizard or scorpion from its peaceful nest, there was no sign of danger. Yet an air of brooding desolation lay over the place. Abdullah sensed it; he stayed close on Emerson’s heels and his eyes kept darting from side to side.

‘Why do you suppose it was abandoned?’ I asked.

Emerson stroked his chin. Even his iron nerves seemed affected by the atmosphere; his brow was slightly furrowed as he replied, ‘It may be that the water supply failed. This structure is old, Peabody – a thousand years, perhaps more. Long enough for the river to change its course, and for a deserted building to fall into ruin. Yet I think some of the destruction was deliberate. The church was solidly built, yet hardly one stone remains on another.’

‘There was fighting, I believe, between Muslims and Christians?’

‘Pagan and Christian, Muslim and Christian, Christian and Christian. It is curious how religion arouses the most ferocious violence of which mankind is capable. The Copts destroyed the heathen temples and persecuted the worshippers of the old gods; they also slaughtered co-religionists who disagreed over subtle differences of dogma. After the Muslim conquest, the Copts were treated leniently at first, but their own intolerance finally tried the patience of the conquerors and they endured the same persecution they had inflicted on others.’

‘Well, it does not matter. This will make an admirable expedition house. For once we will have enough storage space.’

‘There is no water.’

‘It can be carried from the village.’ I took my pencil and began making a list. ‘Repair the roof; mend the walls; insert new doors and window frames; sweep – ’

Abdullah coughed. ‘Cast out the afreets,’ he suggested.

‘Yes, to be sure.’ I made another note.

‘Afreets?’ Emerson repeated. ‘Peabody, what the devil – ’

I drew him aside and explained. ‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Well, I will perform any necessary rituals, but first perhaps we ought to go to the village and carry out the legal formalities.’

I was happy to acquiesce to this most sensible suggestion. ‘We should not have any difficulty obtaining a lease,’ I said, as we walked side by side. ‘Since the place has been so long abandoned, it cannot be of importance to the villagers.’

‘I only hope the local priest does not believe in demons,’ said Emerson. ‘I don’t mind putting on a show for Abdullah and the men, but one exorcism per day is my limit.’

As soon as we were seen the villagers came pouring out of their houses. The usual cries of ‘Baksheesh!’ were mingled with another adjuration –
‘Ana Christian, Oh Hawadji –
I am a Christian, noble sir!’

‘And therefore entitled to additional baksheesh,’ said Emerson, his lip curling. ‘Bah.’

Most of the houses were clustered around the well. The church, with its modest little dome, was not much larger than the house next to it. ‘The parsonage,’ said Emerson, indicating this residence. ‘And there, if I am not mistaken, is the parson.’

He stood in the doorway of his house – a tall, muscular man wearing the dark-blue turban that distinguishes Egyptian Christians. Once a prescribed article of dress for a despised minority, it is now worn as a matter of pride.

Instead of coming to greet us, the priest folded his arms and stood with head held high like a king waiting to receive petitioners. His figure was splendid. His face was all but invisible, adorned by the most remarkable assemblage of facial hair I had ever seen. It began at ear level, swept in an ebon wave across cheeks and upper lip, and flowed like a sable waterfall almost to his waist. His eyebrows were equally remarkable for their hirsute extravagance. They were the only feature that gave any indication of the owner’s emotions, and at the moment their configuration was not encouraging, for a scowl darkened the pastoral brow.

At the priest’s appearance most of the other villagers faded quietly away. Half a dozen men remained, loitering near the priest. They wore the same indigo turbans and the same suspicious scowls as their spiritual leader.

‘The deacons,’ said Emerson with a grin.

He then launched into a speech of greeting in his most impeccable Arabic. I added a few well-chosen words. A long silence ensued. Then the priest’s bearded lips parted and a voice growled a curt
‘Sabakhum bil-kheir
– good morning.’

In every Muslim household I had visited, the formal greeting was followed by an invitation to enter, for hospitality to strangers is enjoined by the Koran. We waited in vain for this courtesy from our co-religionist, if I may use that term loosely, and after an even longer silence the priest asked what we wanted.

This outraged Abdullah, who, though an admirable person in many ways, was not devoid of the Mussulman’s prejudice against his Christian fellow-countrymen. Ever since he entered the village he had looked as if he smelled something bad. Now he exclaimed, ‘Unclean eaters of swine’s flesh, how dare you treat a great lord in this way? Do you not know that this is Emerson, Father of Curses, and his chief wife, the learned and dangerous Lady Doctor? They honour your filthy village by entering it. Come away, Emerson; we do not need these low people to help with our work.’

One of the ‘deacons’ edged up to his leader and whispered in his ear. The priest’s turban bobbed in acknowledgment. ‘The Father of Curses,’ he repeated, and then, slowly and deliberately, ‘I know you. I know your name.’

A chill ran through my limbs. The phrase meant nothing to the priest, but all unknowingly he had repeated an ominous formula used by the priest-magicians of ancient Egypt. To know the name of a man or a god was to have power over him.

Abdullah found the comment offensive, though probably for other reasons. ‘Know his name? Who is there who does not know that great name? From the cataracts of the south to the swamps of the Delta – ’

‘Enough,’ Emerson said. His lips were twitching, but he kept a grave face, for laughter would have hurt Abdullah and offended the priest. ‘You know my name, Father? It is well. But I do not know yours.’

‘Father Girgis, priest of the church of Sitt Miriam in Dronkeh. Are you truly Emerson, the digger-up of dead man’s bones? You are not a man of God?’