Children of the Storm (3 page)

A number of distractions had delayed or interrupted their work. In the late summer of 1917, when it became apparent to Ramses’s eagle-eyed mother that Nefret’s long-desired pregnancy might have unanticipated complications, she had taken her daughter-in-law off to Cairo and installed them both at Shepheard’s, under the close supervision of the two female physicians in charge of the hospital for women Nefret had founded. Despite almost daily bulletins of reassurance, it had proved impossible for Ramses to give his full attention to the job. His father was no more able to concentrate than he, and his temper became so explosive that even their assistant foreman, Daoud, whose placidity very little could disturb, went into hiding. After a week of futile activity Emerson had taken the unprecedented step of shutting down the dig. They had both headed for Cairo, where Emerson proceeded to “carry on like a maniac,” to quote his exasperated wife. He spent half his time at the hospital inspecting the facilities and harassing the doctors and the other half staring in alarm at Nefret’s increasing bulk.

Only the knowledge that expressing his worry would increase Nefret’s kept Ramses from behaving even more erratically. For once his mother’s know-it-all manner was a comfort; he felt as helpless as a child who keeps demanding, “Will it be all right?”

“Nefret is a physician, after all,” his mother reminded him.

“But she’s never had a baby before.” He couldn’t stop himself. “Will it be all right?”

His mother gave him a tolerant smile. “Of course.”

Not until after it was over did it dawn on him that perhaps she had been putting up a brave front too.

When the moment arrived—at night, as his mother had predicted—Nefret didn’t give him time to lose his head. He wasn’t asleep; he hadn’t slept for several nights—and when he felt her stiffen and heard her gasp he shot out of bed and lit the lamp. She looked up at him, her hands spread across the mountainous mound of her stomach.

“Where’s your watch?” she asked calmly. “We need to time the contractions.”

“I’ll go for Mother.”

“Not yet. There is such a thing as false labor.”

Ramses said something, he couldn’t remember what, and bolted out of the room. When he came back after arousing his parents, she was calmly if clumsily getting dressed.

They got to the hospital in good time. Emerson had himself under control, though he had neglected to button his shirt and Ramses couldn’t remember ever seeing him so pale. He kept patting Nefret’s hand.

“Soon over now,” he said.

Nefret, doubled up with another contraction, said distinctly, “Bah.”

Everything was in readiness, since his mother had rung ahead. Dr. Sophia took Nefret away and they went to the courtyard. She did not allow smoking in her office and Emerson declared himself incapable of surviving the ordeal without tobacco. He was on his second pipe when the other surgeon, Dr. Ferguson, appeared.

“She wants you,” she said to Ramses, adding with her customary bluntness, “God knows why.”

He soon found out why.

A remark from his father brought him back from the indelible memory of the most wonderful and terrifying day of his life.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You were miles away,” said Emerson curiously. “Where?”

“Months, rather. The night the twins were born.”

Emerson shuddered. “I never want to go through anything like that again.”

“You didn’t go through it,” Ramses said. “She did. And she made damned sure I saw and heard everything.”

“Did she really swear at you?”

“At your most eloquent you’ve never surpassed it.” He added, with an involuntary shudder, “I’ve never seen anything so appalling. How women go through that, and then go back and do it again . . .”

“They wouldn’t let me be with your mother. I’d rather have been, you know, even if she had called me every name in the book. She would have, too,” Emerson said pensively.

“I know.” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder. Emerson, who had been brought up in the Victorian tradition that frowned on demonstrations of affection between men, acknowledged the gesture with an awkward nod and promptly changed the subject.

Their work crew had assembled. All were skilled men who had been with them for years, members of the family of their former reis, Abdullah, who proudly carried on the tradition he had begun. The first to greet them was Selim, who had replaced his father as foreman after the latter’s tragic death. Though he was the youngest of Abdullah’s sons, no one questioned his right to the post; he had the same air of authority and, thanks to the training he had received from his father and Emerson, even greater competence. Right behind him was his cousin Daoud. Instead of replying to Selim Emerson, hands on hips and head thrown back, stared up at the hill on the east of the village.

“Somebody’s up there,” he said. “Near our tomb.”

Sunlight brightened the high ridge of stone that crowned the hill. Something was moving, but Ramses, whose keen eyesight was proverbial, was unable to make out details at that distance. “Probably one of the indefatigable robbers from Gurneh,” he suggested. “Hoping against hope that we overlooked something when we cleared the tomb.”

That had been the second major distraction—the cache of mummies and funerary equipment belonging to the late-period princesses and God’s Wives. Strictly speaking, it was not Emerson’s tomb, but Cyrus Vandergelt’s, for that season they had shared the site with their American colleague and old friend, keeping the village for themselves and allocating the tombs on the hillside to Cyrus. Not even Emerson begrudged him the discovery; Cyrus had excavated for years in Thebes without finding anything of importance, and a discovery like this one had fulfilled the dream of a lifetime. Since it was Cyrus’s stepson and assistant, Bertie, who had actually located the missing tomb, Cyrus had a double claim. Ramses had been present at a number of exciting discoveries—his father had an uncanny instinct for such things—but he would never forget his first sight of the hidden chamber in the cliff, packed from floor to ceiling with a dazzling collection of coffins, canopic jars, and chests filled with jewels and richly decorated garments. They had all pitched in to help Cyrus clear the tomb and remove the objects, some of which were in fragile condition. The job took precedence over all other projects, since the tomb robbers of Thebes were hovering like vultures, alert for a chance of making off with some of the valuables. It had taken months to record and remove everything, and the process of restoration was still underway.

“Send one of the men up there to run him off,” Emerson growled, eyes still fixed on the minute form.

Selim rolled his eyes and grinned, but left it to Ramses to make the obvious objection. “Why waste the effort?” he asked. “There’s nothing left. If the fellow is fool enough to risk his neck climbing down that cleft, let him.”

“It could be a damned tourist,” Emerson muttered.

Ramses wished his mother had come with them instead of lingering to discuss household matters with Fatima. She’d have put an end to the discussion with a few acerbic comments. “We can’t run tourists off unless they interfere with our work,” he pointed out patiently. “You did that while we were working in the tomb and dozens of them went haring off to Cairo to register complaints.”

“We’d never have finished the job if I hadn’t,” Emerson growled. The memory of those harried days still maddened him. “Morons turning up with letters of introduction from all and sundry demanding to be shown the tomb, trying to climb the scaffolding, perched on every available surface with their cameras clicking, offering bribes to Selim and Daoud. And the bloody journalists were even worse.”

During the clearance Emerson had managed to antagonize most of the people who didn’t already detest him. Some excavators enjoyed publicity and yielded to demands from prominent persons who wanted to enter the tomb. Emerson loathed publicity and he flatly refused to allow visitors, however many titles or academic degrees they might possess. He had almost caused an international incident when he ran the King of the Belgians and his entourage off. People didn’t realize how time-consuming such visits could be for a harassed excavator. Emerson was right, a flat-out interdict was easier to enforce than dealing with the requests case by case—even if it had caused extremely strained relations with the Department of Antiquities.

“It’s all over and done with,” Ramses said, as Emerson shook his fist at the figure atop the cliff. “If that is a tourist, he’s a damned energetic specimen.”

“The devil with him,” Emerson said. “Why are we wasting time over a fool tourist?”

Scanning the assembled workmen with his all-seeing eye, he demanded of Selim, “Where is Hassan? Has he been taken ill?”

Not until then did Ramses remember the “rather odd thing” he had meant to mention to Nefret. There was no reason why it should have preyed on his mind; it was not worrisome, only . . . rather odd. Selim looked blank, and Ramses said, “I meant to tell you yesterday, Father. Hassan has tendered his resignation.”

“Resignation? Quit the job, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What the devil for?”

“I’m not sure,” Ramses admitted. “He spoke of making his peace with Allah and devoting his life to the service of a holy man.”

Selim let out an exclamation of surprise. “What holy man?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Well, I will,” Emerson declared. “Good Gad, what is the fellow thinking of? He’s one of my most experienced men. I will just have a talk with him and order him—”

“Father, you can’t do that,” Ramses protested. “It’s his right and his decision.”

“But Hassan, of all people,” Emerson exclaimed, rubbing his chin. “The jolliest, most cheerful old reprobate in the family!”

“He has been acting strangely,” Selim said slowly. “Since his wife died, he has kept to himself.”

“That accounts for his state of mind then,” Ramses said.

Emerson curled his lip in an expression of profound cynicism. “Don’t be such a romantic, my boy. Well, well, he must do as he likes. Your mother would accuse me of breaking some damned commandment or other if I attempted to make him see reason.”

WE WERE TO DINE WITH THE Vandergelts that evening. Emerson always complained about going out to dinner. It was just his way of making a fuss, since he thoroughly enjoyed the Vandergelts and would have been sadly disappointed if I had declined the invitation. He fussed louder than usual on that occasion, since I had insisted he assume evening dress, which he hates. I was ready long before he, of course, so I sat glancing through a magazine and listening to the altercation in the next room, where Gargery was assisting Emerson with his toilette. Since Emerson never employs a valet, Gargery had somewhat officiously assumed that role as well.

“Stop complaining and hurry, Emerson,” I called.

“I do not see why the devil I must . . . curse it, Gargery!” said Emerson.

We had been over this several times, but Emerson always pretends not to hear things he does not want to hear, so I said it again. “M. Lacau has come all the way from Cairo to inspect the objects from the princesses’ tomb. Cyrus is counting on us to put him in a good mood so he will be generous in his division and leave a share to Cyrus. By all reports he is much stricter than dear Maspero, so—”

“You repeat yourself, Peabody,” Emerson growled.

He appeared in the doorway.

“You look very handsome,” I said. “Thank you, Gargery.”

“Thank you, madam,” said Gargery, looking as pleased as if I had complimented him on his looks. I could not honestly have done so, since he was losing his hair and his waistline. Even in his now distant youth he could not have been called handsome. But handsome is as handsome does, as the saying has it, and Gargery’s loyalty and his willingness to use a cudgel when the occasion demanded more than compensated for his looks.

I bade him an affectionate good night. Emerson inserted his forefinger under his collar and gave Gargery a hateful look.

Our little party assembled in the drawing room, where I inspected each person carefully. Emerson might and did sneer, but looks are important and I knew that though the proper French director of the Service des Antiquités might not notice our efforts, he would certainly take note of their absence. I could not in any way fault Nefret’s sea-blue satin frock and ornaments of Persian turquoise; she had excellent taste and a great deal of money—and the additional advantages of youth and beauty. Ramses hated evening dress almost as much as did his father, but it became him well; despite his efforts to flatten it, his hair was already springing back into the waves and curls he so disliked. As for myself, I believe I may say I looked respectable. I have little interest in my personal appearance, and no excuse for vanity. I had just touched up my hair a little and selected a frock of Emerson’s favorite crimson.

Cyrus was known for the elegance of his entertainments. That night the Castle, his large and handsome residence near the entrance to the Valley of the Kings, blazed with light. Cyrus met us at the door, as was his hospitable habit, showered us with compliments, and escorted us into the drawing room, where his wife and stepson were waiting.

To see Katherine as she was now, the very picture of a happy wife and mother and well-bred English lady, one would never have suspected that she had such a turbulent history—a miserable first marriage and a successful career as a fraudulent spiritualist medium. Bertie, her son by that marriage, was now Cyrus’s right-hand man and devoted assistant. British by birth, as was his mother, he had served his country faithfully during the Great War until severe injuries released him from duty. It was while he was recuperating at the hospitable Luxor home of his stepfather that he had become interested in Egyptology. His discovery of the princesses’ tomb ensured him a permanent place in the annals of the profession, but it had not changed his modest, unassuming character. I had become very fond of the lad, and I was sorry to see that he had taken to wearing loose scarves about his neck and letting his hair grow over his collar. Such fashions did not suit his plain but amiable and quintessentially English features, but I knew what had prompted them. Bertie was a lover, and the object of his affections was not with us that season. He had taken a fancy to Jumana, the daughter of Abdullah’s brother Yusuf. She was an admirable young woman, fiercely ambitious and intelligent, and we were all supporting her in her hope of becoming the first qualified Egyptian female to practice archaeology. Things had changed since our early days in Egypt; the self-taught excavator was becoming a thing of the past, and with the handicaps of her sex and nationality, Jumana needed the best formal training available. She was studying at University College in London this year, under the wing of Emerson’s nephew Willy and his wife.