The Ape Who Guards the Balance (52 page)

“No!” Forcing a smile, Ramses added, “Oh, yes, I could. God knows I’d like to. But it would be taking a chance. I might end up losing what I already have, and it’s too precious to risk—her trust, her companionship. You and she are my best friends, David. I want her love in addition to that, not instead of it.”

David nodded wisely. “You’re right, there’s no way of forcing it or even predicting it. It can come on like an avalanche. That day in the garden when Lia . . . But I told you about that, didn’t I?”

“Once or twice.” Ramses’s smile faded. Abruptly he said, “I’m going away.”

“What?”

“Not this instant or forever. But I have to be away from her for a while, David. It’s got out of control, and I can’t—I can’t deal with it.”

David’s dark eyes were warm with sympathy. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Berlin, Chicago, the Sudan—some oasis in the middle of the Sahara where I can study asceticism and scratch fleas and learn to control my feelings.”

David sat down on the chest. “Sometimes I think you control them too well.”

“Outwardly, perhaps. It’s what goes on inside that frightens me.”

“I understand.”

No, Ramses thought, you don’t. Not all of it. And I hope to God you never do.

:

I
was not keen on the idea of leaving the boys alone in Luxor, and even less willing to leave Nefret. Her argument—that they wouldn’t be so likely to get in trouble if she was there watching over them—did not at all convince me. She made quite a fuss, though, and when Katherine heard of it she proposed a solution that would solve at least one of the difficulties. Gossiping tongues would be restrained if Nefret stayed with her and Cyrus at the Castle.

“Are you prepared for what that entails, Mrs. Vandergelt?” Ramses inquired. “You will have to take Horus too. Nefret wouldn’t leave him with us even if we would have him.”

Katherine assured him she and Cyrus—and presumably Sekhmet—would be delighted to have Horus. Ramses shook his head.

So I agreed. The fact that Emerson and I would be alone in our ramblings did not affect my decision in the least. It was just as he said: we would have to trust the children sometime, why not now?

There was plenty of room for two on our dear dahabeeyah, even though Emerson soon filled the saloon with his notebooks and the bits and pieces he collected from various sites. Naturally he went about this in the most meticulous fashion, keeping detailed notes of their provenance. Perhaps the best part of the trip was the week we spent at Amarna. We tramped the plain from end to end and side to side, visiting all the nobles’ tombs and venturing one day into the remote wadi where the king’s deserted tomb was located. What fond memories that arduous but exhilarating stroll awakened! Amarna had been the scene of some of our most thrilling adventures. In the Royal Tomb Emerson’s arms had enclosed me for the first time. They enclosed me again as we stood that day in the shadowy entrance; his embrace was as strong and ardent as it had ever been, and when we began the return journey, the three-mile walk seemed long only because it delayed the expression of the emotions aroused in us both. We did not engage in the customary professional discussion that night.

However, at breakfast the following morning, Emerson shook his head regretfully when I suggested we return to Amarna the following season. “There is certainly a great deal to be done here, but the same is true of every other site in Egypt. I am thinking seriously of removing to the Cairo area. The ancient cemeteries stretch for miles, and most have been only cursorily excavated. Even at Giza and Sakkara there are large stretches unexplored and unassigned. We’ll have to give the matter more thought.” He filled his pipe and leaned back. “We might stop at Abydos on our way back to Thebes. Are you up to another week of strenuous exercise, Peabody?”

“I believe I have demonstrated my fitness, Emerson.”

“You certainly have, my dear. I cannot recall ever seeing you in finer condition.”

The tone of his voice and the sparkle in his handsome blue eyes gave the words a meaning that made me blush like a schoolgirl. “Now, Emerson,” I began—and then I remembered. The dear children were hundreds of miles away. Discretion was not necessary.

I will not record my reply, but it made Emerson laugh a good deal. He lifted me from my chair onto his knee, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a flutter of skirts as Mahmud beat a tactful retreat with the fresh coffee he had intended to deliver. At that moment I realized fully how necessary it is for a fond mother to accept the departure of her children from the nest. It would be a blow, but I thought I could bear up under it.

I was glad to see them, though, when we returned to Luxor several weeks later. They all commented on how fit and rested we looked. I returned the compliment, though privately I was not pleased with Ramses’s appearance. Physically he was much the same; it was a certain look in his eyes. I said nothing at the time, but the day before we were to leave Luxor, I took him aside.

“I have a final visit to make, Ramses. Will you come with me? Just you, I don’t want the others.”

He accompanied me, of course. I think he suspected where I meant to go.

The cemetery was deserted. It was a desolate place, with the wind blowing fine sand across the bare ground, and not a flower to be seen. I had not brought flowers. I had brought a small trowel.

I laid them one by one in the hole I dug—the little figures of Isis with the child Horus, and Anubis, who leads the dead to the Judgment, and Hathor and Ptah and the others. Last of all I unfastened the chain from round my neck and detached the figure of the baboon, the ape who watches over the scales of the Judgment. After I had placed it with the others I gave Ramses the trowel. He filled in the little hole and smoothed the sand over it. Neither of us had spoken. We did not speak now. In silence he helped me to my feet, and held my hand a little longer than was necessary before we turned away. I hoped this would help him. I had known he would understand.

There is no harm in protecting oneself from that which is not true; and who can say what eternal truths are preserved in the mysteries of the ancient faith?

“I am yesterday, today and tomorrow, for I am born again and again. I am he who comes forth as one who breaks through the door; and everlasting is the daylight which His will has created.”

T
hey attacked at dawn. I woke instantly at the sound of pounding hooves, for I knew what it meant. The Beduin were on the warpath!

“What is it you find so amusing, my dear?” I inquired.

Nefret looked up from her book. “I am sorry if I disturbed you, Aunt Amelia, but I couldn’t help laughing. Did you know that Beduins go on the warpath? Wearing feathered headdresses and waving tomahawks, no doubt!”

The library of our house in Kent is supposed to be my husband’s private sanctum, but it is such a pleasant room that all the members of the family tend to congregate there, especially in fine weather. Except for my son Ramses we were all there that lovely autumn morning; a cool breeze wafted through the wide windows that opened onto the rose garden.

Reclining comfortably upon the sofa, Nefret was dressed in a practical divided skirt and shirtwaist instead of a proper frock, and sunlight brightened her gold-red hair. She had become as dear as a daughter to us since we rescued her from the remote oasis in the Nubian desert where she had spent the first thirteen years of her life, but despite my best efforts I had been unable to eradicate all the peculiar notions she had acquired there. Emerson claims some of those peculiar notions have been acquired from me. I do not consider a dislike of corsets and a firm belief in the equality of the female sex peculiar, but I must admit that Nefret’s habit of sleeping with a long knife under her pillow might strike some as unusual. I could not complain of this, however, since our family does seem to have a habit of encountering dangerous individuals.

Hunched over his desk, Emerson let out a grunt, like a sleepy bear that has been prodded by a stick. My distinguished husband, the greatest Egyptologist of all time, rather resembled a bear at that moment; his broad shoulders were covered by a hideous ill-fitting coat of prickly brown tweed (puchased one day when I was not with him) and his abundant sable locks were wildly dishevelled. He was working on his report of our previous season’s excavations and was in a surly mood for, as usual, he had put the job off until the last possible moment and was behind schedule.

“Is that Percy’s cursed book you are reading?” he demanded. “I thought I threw the damned thing onto the fire.”

“You did.” Nefret gave him a cheeky smile. Emerson is known as the Father of Curses by his admiring Egyptian workmen; his fiery temper and herculean frame have made him feared throughout the length and breadth of Egypt. (Mostly the former, since as all educated persons know, Egypt is a very long narrow country.) However, none of those who know him well are at all intimidated by his growls, and Nefret had always been able to wind him round her slim fingers.

“I ordered another copy from London,” she said calmly. “Aren’t you at all curious about what he writes? He is your own nephew, after all.”

“He is not
my
nephew.” Emerson leaned back in his chair. “His father is your Aunt Amelia’s brother, not mine. James is a hypocritical, sanctimonious, mendacious moron and his son is even worse.”

Nefret chuckled. “What a string of epithets! I don’t see how Percy could be worse.”

“Ha!” said Emerson.

Emerson’s eyes are the brilliant blue of a sapphire, and they become even more brilliant when he is in a temper. Any mention of a member of my family generally does put him in a temper, but on this occasion I could tell he was not averse to being interrupted. He stroked his prominent chin, which is adorned with a particularly handsome dent or dimple, and looked at me.

Or, as a writer more given to cliches might say, our eyes locked. They often do, for my dear Emerson and I have shared one another’s thoughts ever since that halcyon day when we agreed to join hearts, hands and lives in the pursuit of Egyptology. I seemed to see myself reflected in those sapphirine orbs, not (thank Heaven) as I really appear, but as Emerson sees me: my coarse black hair and steely grey eyes and rather too rounded form transfigured by love into his ideal of female beauty. In addition to the affectionate admiration mirrored in his gaze, I saw as well a kind of appeal. He wanted me to be the one to sanction the interruption of his work.

I was not averse to being interrupted either. I had been busily scribbling for several hours, making lists of Things To Be Done and writing little messages to tradesmen. There were more things than usual to be done that particular year—not only the ordinary arrangements for our annual season of excavation in Egypt, but preparations for house-guests and for the forthcoming nuptials of two individuals near and dear to all of us. My fingers were cramped with writing, and if I must be entirely honest I will admit I had been somewhat annoyed with Emerson for burning Percy’s book before I could have a look at it.

The only other one of the family present was David. Strictly speaking he was not a member of the family, but he soon would be, for his marriage to my niece Lia would take place in a few weeks. That arrangement had caused quite a scandal when the announcement was first made. David was the grandson of our late, greatly lamented reis Abdullah, and a pure-bred Egyptian; Lia was the daughter of Emerson’s brother Walter, one of England’s finest Egyptological scholars, and my dear friend Evelyn, granddaughter of the Earl of Chalfont. The fact that David was a talented artist and a trained Egyptologist carried no weight with people who considered all members of the darker “races” inferior. Fortunately none of us gives a curse for the opinions of such people.

David was staring out the window, his long thick lashes veiling his eyes, his lips curved in a dreamy smile. He was a handsome young fellow, with finely cut features and a tall, sturdy frame, and in fact he was no darker in complexion than Ramses, whom he strongly (and coincidentally) resembled.

“Shall I read a bit aloud?” Nefret asked. “You have both been working so diligently a hearty laugh will be good for you, and David isn’t listening to a word I am saying. He is daydreaming about Lia.”

The mention of his name roused David from his romantic reverie. “I am listening,” he protested, blushing a little.

“Don’t tease him, Nefret,” I said, though I did not think he minded; they were as close as brother and sister, and she was Lia’s greatest friend. “Read a little, if you like. My fingers are somewhat cramped.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. Taking this for consent, which it was, Nefret cleared her throat and began.

“They attacked at dawn. I woke instantly at the sound of pounding hoofs, for I knew what it meant. The Beduin were on the warpath!

“I had been warned that the tribes were restless. My affectionate aunt and uncle, whom I had been assisting that winter with their archaeological excavations, had attempted to dissuade me from braving alone the perils of the desert but I was determined to seek a nobler, simpler life, far from the artificiality of civilization—”

“Good Gad,” I exclaimed. “He was of no assistance whatever, and we could hardly wait to be rid of him!”

“He spent most of his time in the civilized artificiality of the cafes and clubs of Cairo,” said Emerson. “And he was a bloody nuisance.”

“Don’t swear,” I said. Not that I supposed the admonition would have the least effect. I have been trying for years to stop Emerson from using bad language, and with equally poor success to prevent the children from imitating him.

“Do you want me to go on?” Nefret inquired.

“I beg your pardon, my dear. Indignation overcame me.”

“I’ll skip over a few paragraphs,” Nefret said. “He blathers on at some length about how he hated Cairo and yearned for the austere silences of the desert waste. Now back to the Beduin:

“Snatching up my pistol, which I kept ready by my cot, I ran out of the tent and fired pointblank at the dark shape rushing toward me. A piercing scream told me I had hit my target. I brought another down, but there were too many of them; sheer numbers overwhelmed me. Two men seized me and a third wrenched my pistol from my hand. In the strengthening light I saw the body of my faithful servant. The hilt of a great knife protruded from the torn, bloodstained breast of Ali’s robe; poor boy, he had died trying to defend me. The leader, a swarthy, black bearded villain, strode up to me.