The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (55 page)

When we set out that morning for Zawaiet the weather was perfect; dawn spread across the eastern sky like a blush on a maiden's cheek. A soft breeze ruffled Lia's hair. We were all present—except Nefret, of course—and half a dozen of our most trusted men were waiting when we arrived. Nothing remained to testify to the tragedy that had occurred; even the bloodstains had been covered by blowing sand.

When Selim advanced to meet us, the look of suppressed excitement on the young man's ingenuous countenance told me that he had news for us.

"Well?" my spouse inquired.

"All is prepared, O Father of Curses. We have removed the rubble from the corridor and brought brooms."

"Emerson!" I exclaimed indignantly. "How could you?"

"Now, Peabody," Emerson began.

The others began talking very quickly. I was delighted to see that even Ramses had perked up a bit. He said, "What was it you saw, Father?" Lia said, "Brooms? Why brooms?" and David exclaimed, "I thought the passage was completely blocked."

Emerson glanced self-consciously at me. "It was all Selim's doing, really. He discovered that by shoving some of the fallen stones down into the lower part of the shaft he could crawl over them into the continuation of the entrance passage. I asked him to have a closer look at a section of the corridor outside the burial chamber. I had just—er—happened to notice the floor there was uneven. The surface was dusty and littered, and it was too dark to see clearly, and I—er—hmph."

"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded indignantly.

"Because you would have gone haring down to see for yourself," Emerson snapped. "And been mashed by falling stones, or buried alive. I wanted the shaft empty before we continued, and then—well, you know what happened. I still don't know for certain that we've found the right place."

"Then let us ascertain whether it is so," I cried, starting for the stairs.

Emerson insisted on preceding me, of course. Selim had done a good deal more than move a few stones; the way was clear, and we proceeded without mishap into the corridor that ended in the soi-disant burial chamber. As soon as we reached the spot I saw what had caught Emerson's trained eye. It was more obvious now that the litter of millennia had been partially removed—a section of the floor that was slightly sunken and partially defined by patterns of suspiciously regular cracks.

"Give me a broom!" I cried, snatching it from Selim.

My first enthusiastic assault on the surface raised such a cloud of dust that the others retreated and I burst into a paroxysm of sneezing. Following my husband's profane advice, I moderated my efforts; and before long the truth of Emerson's assumption was confirmed. A section of the stone had been cut out and replaced by cunningly mortared blocks. Originally it would have been indistinguishable from the living stone itself, but the passage of time had crumbled the mortar in some sections.

"That's the one he had up," Ramses said, indicating one of the blocks. "He didn't bother replacing the mortar. Father, shall I... ?"

"Watch your fingers," Emerson grunted, handing him a small chisel.

At this demonstration of paternal affection tears came to my eyes—or perhaps I should say additional tears, since the irritation of the dusty air had caused all of us to weep like mourners at a funeral.

Ramses soon had the stone up. Emerson's superb—I might even say godlike—forbearance continued. Under ordinary circumstances he would have removed bodily anyone, myself included, to get the first look at such a discovery. On this occasion he handed Ramses the torch and stood back.

Lying flat, Ramses pointed the torch down.

"Well?" I cried.

Ramses looked up at me. Dust and perspiration had formed a sticky mask over his features. It cracked a little around his mouth. "See for yourself, Mother. There is just enough room for you next to me."

He held the torch steady as I stretched out prostrate upon the floor and peered into the cavity. At first I saw only a chaotic tumble of shapes, angular and rounded, rough and smooth. Then my astonished eyes and mind sorted them out. There were vessels of alabaster and granite inside a strange framework of crumbling wood and matting—a bed or couch, upside down and tilted to one side. Under it was another wooden surface—a coffin, I thought, though I could not be sure. All around were other scattered objects.

In silence, overwhelmed by what I had beheld, I let my noble spouse haul me to my feet and take my place. Everyone had a turn, including Selim; and then Emerson spoke. He was hoarse with emotion, or possibly with dust, but he spoke in the measured tones of a lecturer.

"You observed there are no small portable objects within arm's reach. Time was short and he did not dare remove more than one stone. He took as much as he could get his hands on, including the legs of the funerary couch, meaning to finish the job this season."

He avoided using Geoffrey's name. We had all got into that habit.

"He just grabbed and snatched, didn't he?" Lia said. "What a mess he's made of it."

"It wasn't particularly tidy anyhow," Ramses said. "It is obviously a reburial, and a hasty one. The thieves who attacked the original burial must have been caught before they finished their ghoulish task and the pious successor of King Khaba, if that was his name, decided to conceal what was left of the funerary equipment more securely. Er—do you agree, Father?"

"Quite, my boy, quite. And secure it remained, for over four thousand years, except for the natural processes of decay. They used cedar beams to roof the chamber and support the blocking stones, but the wood of the couch and coffin wasn't as tough. They and any other wooden objects that may be down there will crumble at a touch."

Lia began to cough, and David put his arm around her. "We are going out, Professor, if that is all right with you."

"We are all going," said Emerson. "Come along, Peabody."

When we emerged into the daylight I felt as if I had traversed not only several hundred meters of space but forty-five centuries of time. The find was unique; no other royal burial of that remote period had been found. This one, though unquestionably incomplete, would solve the question of the pyramid's owner, shed new light on the artistic and social attitudes of the time—and additional luster on the name of the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other era.

We tidied ourselves up a bit, for Selim, always efficient, had brought jars of water. Emerson gathered our men round. Even before he made his announcement I knew what he would say.

"I am leaving it to you, Selim, to replace the stone and conceal it. I know I can trust you to do the job as well as your father would have done, and that I can depend on all of you to say nothing of what we found today."

Selim's countenance betrayed the pride he felt at having such confidence reposed in him, but he said only, "Yes, Father of Curses. Your wish is our command. But it will be hard to wait."

"Hard for all of us," said Ramses, glancing at his father, who was chewing fiercely on the stem of his pipe. He spoke Arabic, as Emerson had done. "There is at least one season's work there, Selim, if it is carried out as the Father of Curses demands. We have less than a week."

"I understand. We will guard the secret and the burial will be here, safe and undisturbed, when you return."

    So that was settled. I knew I could leave the closing of the house and the storage of our goods to Selim and Fatima. I did not suppose we would ever return to the villa. It held too many unhappy memories.

The question of what to do with Sennia had not occupied my mind for long. She would have to go with us, not only because I was too much of a coward to face the explosion that would ensue should I attempt to remove Ramses from her, but because Ramses had some notion she would not be entirely safe in Egypt, even in the devoted care of Daoud and Kadija. I doubted Kalaan would dare try to harm her—he was still in hiding, and he would not have risked the wrath of Emerson—but I did not try to dissuade Ramses. She was the only person who could make him laugh.

A few days before we were to leave for Port Said we gathered for the last time in the courtyard with Cyrus and Katherine, who had come to say good-bye. Emerson and David were smoking their pipes. Ramses sat on the rim of the fountain, looking down at the water.

"You sure you don't want me to have a crack at the pyramid?" Cyrus asked, without much hope.

"Bah," said Emerson amiably.

"I didn't suppose so. Oh, well, looks as if Maspero may give me part of Abusir next year, so if you folks are going to be at Zawaiet, we'll be neighbors again."

"We will drink to that," I proclaimed, and Emerson passed round the whiskey.

Why Ramses should have delayed his announcement until that particular evening I did not know. It could hardly have been delayed much longer.

"I won't be going back with you."

"What did you say?" I demanded, observing that Emerson was staring fixedly at a potted plant. The news was obviously not news to him.

"I am going to work with Mr. Reisner for another month or so," Ramses said. "He has been left shorthanded by the loss of two of his staff members."

"Nonsense," I exclaimed. "We owe him nothing. I strictly forbid—"

"It will be excellent experience," said Emerson, giving me a meaningful look.

We talked about it later when we were alone, and I was forced to agree that I could not change Ramses's mind. I never had been able to. Sennia would remain with him on the
Amelia,
attended, I did not doubt, by all the women in the family, and return with him and Basima in early April. By then . . . Who knew what might have happened by then? For once not even I had the answer.

Ramses had not told David of his decision either. He had expected an argument, but he had not expected to lose it.

"There is no way you can prevent me from staying," David pointed out with infuriating calmness and even more infuriating accuracy. "What a pity you aren't the original Ramses the Great; you could have me bound in chains and carried on board ship by your royal guards."

They had retired to Ramses's room after dinner, supposedly to pack; clothes were strewn all over the place, and both of them were sitting on the floor glaring at one another.

"Marriage hasn't improved your manners," Ramses said rudely. "Or your sense of humor. What will Lia have to say about this?"

"She is staying too, of course. She agrees you should not be left alone."

"Oh, for God's sake! I am quite capable . . ." David's quizzical, affectionate, amused look made him break off with a halfhearted laugh. "I'm not, am I? You needn't remind me of how many times you've pulled me out of a sticky situation. But there's nobody trying to murder me just now, David."

"Are you sure?"

After a brief, breathless pause, Ramses said, "How much do you know? And how do you know?"

"About your cousin? It doesn't require great intelligence to deduce it was he who produced Sennia and her mother at a particularly strategic moment. He was trying to humiliate and hurt you, and he succeeded, didn't he?"

"Beyond his wildest dreams."

"You may as well tell me the rest of it. You have no idea," David added, "how much I enjoy saying that instead of hearing Aunt Amelia say it to me."

"If you saw it too, then it's not just my imagination. I began to wonder if I was going crazy. David, you cannot know how much I... I don't have to say it, do I?"

"No. You are too English," David said, smiling.

Ramses was silent for a time, trying to get his thoughts in order. There was a certain irony in the fact that his conclusions were based almost entirely on what his mother would have called intuition. In this case it was knowledge of a man's character, the way his mind worked. It left a track through the world. In Percy's case the track was like that of a snail, slimy and sticky.

"I don't know how Percy found out about Sennia, but he'd have gone back to the brothels as soon as he returned to Cairo. They are his natural habitat. The sight of her probably amused him a great deal—a little image of Mother, growing up in the slums of Cairo and destined for the same life as Rashida—"

An inarticulate murmur of revulsion from David interrupted him. His lips twisted. "He hates Mother almost as much as he does me. It was she who saw through his childish schemes all those years ago, and told him precisely what she thought of him. Percy arranged that meeting in the suk, I've no doubt of it. What happened after that was my own fault. I should have gone straight to Mother and Father. But I thought it would be better—"

"I would have done the same."

"No, you wouldn't. You aren't as stubborn and accustomed to going your own way. As it happened, I played straight into Percy's hands. At that time, of course, I hadn't the faintest inkling that he knew about Sennia, or any reason to anticipate what he would do with that knowledge. It was only hindsight that enabled me to put the pieces together. No one else knows, David; even Mother doesn't suspect, and I see no reason to tell her. There's no danger of his taking her in again, she despises him enough as it is."

David nodded gravely. "How did Kalaan come into it?"

"He owns those girls as a herder owns his cattle. If Rashida didn't tell him, one of the others did—about the Inglizi who had been coming round rather more often than usual. Kalaan would assume there was profit to be made from that; but if he tried to blackmail Percy he was sadly disappointed. They were brothers under the skin, the Cairo procurer and the fine English gentleman, and they struck up an alliance. Rashida would never have had the courage to approach Mother and Father on her own; Percy needed Kalaan for that, and Kalaan, of course, assumed he could get money from us."