The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (18 page)

On the Thursday we were in the midst of our preparations for departure — complicated these days by Sennia and the Great Cat of Re — when a messenger arrived. Jumana had left for Deir el Medina, Ramses was explaining to the cat that he would prefer it did not accompany him, I was dealing with the customary delaying tactics from Sennia, and Emerson was stamping up and down demanding that we hurry. He took the note from Fatima. “Well, what do you think of this?” he inquired. “Yusuf wants to see us.” “Us?” I echoed. “Who? Sennia, get your books together and go.” “You and me. He says it’s urgent. I wonder who wrote it for him?” Ramses finished his conversation with the cat and put it down. “A public letter writer, perhaps. Shall Nefret and I come?” Emerson stroked the cleft in his chin. “No, he said for us to come alone. Run along, we’ll join you shortly.” “Unless something interesting develops,” I amended. “Something about Jamil, perhaps,” Nefret said. “Do you suppose Yusuf knows where he’s been hiding?” “Let us hope so. It would be a relief to have that business over and done with. I ought to have made more of an effort to question Yusuf,” I admitted. “Don’t be unkind to the poor old fellow,” Nefret said. “He must have been suffering horribly, torn between his love for his son and his loyalty to you.” “It could be another trick,” said Ramses. “Remember your warning, Father, not to go after the boy alone, even if he is wearing —” “I won’t be alone,” Emerson said. “Your mother will be with me.” Ramses’s heavy dark eyebrows tilted. “Don’t forget your parasol, Mother.” “Certainly not. However, I expect Yusuf only wants sympathy and some medicine. It is the least I can do, and I ought to have done it before this.” I put together a little parcel for Yusuf, some of his favorite tobacco and a freshly baked assortment of Fatima’s honey cakes, of which he was fond. I also took my medical kit. The others had gone by the time I had collected everything I needed. Emerson and I were soon on our way; but as we turned the horses onto the path that led by the tombs on the lower part of the hill of Sheikh Abd el Gurneh, I saw something that made me bring my little mare to a rude halt. “Emerson! Look there!” Where she had come from I could not tell — one of the tombs, perhaps — but the outlines of that trim figure were unmistakable. Only a few women in Luxor wore boots and divided skirts and only one other woman wore a belt jangling with objects. Emerson, who had also stopped, let out an oath. “After her!” he exclaimed. “Not so fast, my dear. We must follow at a distance and ascertain where she is going — and why. She has been in the village; if Yusuf admitted his intention of turning Jamil in, she may be on her way to warn him.” “Damnation,” said Emerson. “How could she . . . Well, we will soon find out.” He had dismounted as he spoke. Hailing one of the villagers, he said, “Give me your galabeeyah.” “But, Father of Curses,” the fellow began. “Hand it over, I say.” Emerson dispensed baksheesh with so lavish a hand that he was instantly obeyed. The jingle of coins attracted several other men. One of them was willing to part with his outer garment too. (I had selected the shortest and cleanest of them.) Jumana was almost out of sight by then, trotting along with the agility I knew so well, but the delay had been necessary; she would have spotted us instantly if we had been in our usual clothing and on horseback. We got into our impromptu disguises, left the horses with one of the men, and hastened after the girl. “She’s heading back toward our house,” Emerson said, looking uneasy. “Perhaps we are wrong, Peabody. She may have been paying a duty call on her father.” “Don’t be such a sentimentalist, Emerson. She admitted she hadn’t spoken to him for months — and why would she not tell us of her intentions, if they were innocent? She has deliberately deceived me, the treacherous little creature.” The truth of this soon became apparent. Shoulders hunched and bent, as if to make herself less conspicuous, Jumana cut off onto a rough track that wound around houses and hills toward the western cliffs south of Deir el Bahri. Once or twice she glanced over her shoulder. She must have seen us, but evidently our clumsy disguises were good enough to deceive, for she went on without pausing, scrambling nimbly up the rising slope at the base of the cliffs. I could see the temple, below and to our right, as we climbed; the colonnades and tumbled stones shone in the morning light. Quickly as the girl moved, Emerson kept up without difficulty, his breathing even, his stride slower than his usual pace. Since my lower limbs were not much longer than Jumana’s, I had to trot. “Where the devil is she going?” I panted. “Curse the girl —” “Save your breath,” Emerson advised, offering me his hand. “By Gad, Peabody, you don’t suppose . . . That’s where she’s headed, though.” With the help of his strong arm I found the going easier, and was able to look about. I knew the place well. The previous year we had removed the golden statue of the god Amon-Re from its hidden shrine at the back of a shallow bay. Jamil was the original discoverer of that place. Could he have selected it as his hiding place? The shaft that led down to a small chamber cut out of the rock was only eight feet deep and it was unlikely that anyone would go there; the Gurnawis knew we had cleared the place of everything it contained. Jumana stopped, her back to us, in the mouth of the little bay. Her head turned from side to side. Emerson pulled me down behind a heap of detritus. We dared not risk going closer; we were only twenty feet from Jumana, and there was no one else in sight. She called out. “Jamil, are you there?” Her voice cracked with nervousness. I heard nothing. She called again, “I am coming.” “We’ve got him now,” Emerson whispered. “Let’s go.” When I got to my feet, Jumana was no longer in sight. Emerson ran toward the opening of the bay. I ran after him. The declivity was shallow and the morning sun shone directly into it. At its far end the shaft we had cleared gaped open, a black square against the rock. There was no sign of Jumana. “Where is she?” I demanded. “Never mind her. He can’t have got out, there wasn’t time.” Kneeling on the rubble-strewn ground, Emerson took out his torch and shone it down into the shaft. It was as empty as we had left it, and that in itself was confirmation of our theory. Sand and pebbles would have partially filled it unless someone had kept it clear. In the light of the torch I saw additional confirmation: a rough but sturdy wooden ladder. Before I could stop him, Emerson, disdaining the ladder, had lowered himself by his hands and dropped, landing with a thump of booted feet. Jamil must have heard that, even if he had not heard the sound of our approach. “Damnation, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “Wait for me!” He had already proceeded into the short passage that led to the chamber. The roof was low; he would have to bend over, which would put his head at a particularly convenient level — convenient for a blow, that is — when he emerged. I dropped my parasol into the shaft and descended the ladder. Snatching up the parasol, I proceeded quickly into the passageway. There was light at the end of it, but I could hear nothing, which did not lessen my anxiety; already Emerson might be unconscious and bleeding. I removed my little gun from my pocket. It was plucked from my hand the moment I reached the end of the passage. “I knew you’d be waving that damned pistol,” Emerson remarked, helping me to rise. “He’s not here, Peabody. He’s been here, though.” He shone his torch round the small chamber. A pile of rugs, forming a rough pallet, tins of food, jars of water, and . . . I lifted the saucer that covered one of them. Beer. He had made himself comfortable. “He has eluded us again,” I said angrily. “How could she have warned him?” “Obviously he was not in residence,” Emerson replied. “That’s all to the good, Peabody; if he wasn’t here he can’t have seen us. He will come back eventually — it’s a cozy little den, isn’t it? We’ll go for the others and stake the place out. Once I get my hands on that girl I will make certain she cannot warn him.” His large square teeth, bared in a snarl, shone white in the torchlight. “Let us go,” I said uneasily. “I am not at all comfortable here, Emerson.” “One of your famous premonitions?” He chuckled, but perhaps he had one, too, for he added, “I’ll go first.” He waited in the shaft while I crawled through the passage. The ladder was no longer there. Before I could stop him, Emerson reached up and gripped the rim of the shaft with both hands. The muscles on his bare forearms tightened as he prepared to pull himself up. “Watch out!” I shrieked, an instant too late. The heavy stick struck Emerson’s arm, causing him to loosen his grip and fall down. I had heard the bone crack. A trifle unnerved, I took out my pistol and fired twice. The bullets went ricocheting round the walls. The only response was a laugh. I had heard that laugh before, in the Gabbanat el-Qirud. “A waste of ammunition,” remarked Emerson, who was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, cradling his left arm with his right. His face shone with perspiration. “Don’t move your arm,” I ordered, fumbling with the implements hanging from my belt. “Confound it! From now on I will carry some bits of wood with me. Why did we clear the place so thoroughly? There is nothing to serve as a splint. I will go and —” “Don’t even think of it, Peabody. I might be able to lift you up with one arm, but as soon as your head is within range, he’ll strike. He’s got us in a pretty pickle, my dear.” “He cannot stay there all day,” I said, and ducked my head as a rain of small stones descended. “He appears to have another plan in mind,” Emerson said coolly. More rocks fell, including a fist-sized boulder. It landed on my head, which was quite painful, since I was not wearing my pith helmet. “We had better get back into the tunnel,” Emerson continued. I rigged up a rough sling with my shirt, fastening it in place with safety pins from my sewing kit. It was the best I could do in a hurry. If we stayed where we were, one of us would be brained by a boulder eventually. It took Jamil a little while to get his next load of rocks collected; we made it into the passage before another shower descended. “Well!” I said, drawing a deep breath. “Now we have time to think of a plan.” “Go right ahead,” said Emerson through tightly set lips. “At the moment my mind is a blank.” “And no wonder, my dear. I am sure you are in considerable pain. Have a little brandy.” “My discomfort is more mental than physical,” Emerson muttered, but he accepted the brandy and took a long swallow. “Peabody, this is ridiculous. We’ve been in uglier places before, with opponents far more dangerous than that miserable boy; and yet he’s managed to get us in an exceedingly tight spot. No one knows where we are . . . except Jumana. Have we been so mistaken in her character? I can’t believe she would connive in murder.” “No,” I said. “She wouldn’t.” The strained voice, the odd, bent walk . . . “That wasn’t Jumana, Emerson. It was Jamil.”

7

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

When the citizens of Deir el Medina abandoned their houses they took their most valued possessions with them — except for the most valuable of all, the goods devoutly deposited with the dead. Looking for tombs was a gamble, with approximately the same odds as any game of chance. The great majority of them were empty and vandalized, but every now and then a lucky winner would find a prize, with some of the grave goods still intact, and the grand prize, the unrobbed tomb of a king or king’s wife, was a will-o’-the-wisp that tantalized the imagination of every excavator, whether he admitted it or not. However slim the odds, the temptation to search for treasure was hard to resist, especially when the alternative was a clutter of unimpressive mud-brick walls, or the tedious tasks of measuring and recording. Jumana was supposed to be helping Bertie and Cyrus finish the surveying, but Ramses wasn’t surprised to see her halfway up the hillside, squatting, her head bent, her hands busy. He let out a shout that made Nefret jump and brought Jumana to her feet. She waved vigorously and started down. “She shouldn’t be doing that,” he said in exasperation. “Look at her, grinning and cavorting. She knows she is violating orders.” “Don’t be too hard on her,” Nefret said tolerantly. “Mother would be up there too. She’s found something.” She was holding a small stela. It was not an unusual discovery; a good many of them had been found by earlier excavators, in or near the chapels of the tombs. She offered it to Ramses, raising shining eyes to him. “You were told not to remove objects from their place,” Ramses said severely. The way she was looking at him made him nervous. “I tagged the place,” Jumana protested. “As you showed me. I made the measurements, I know exactly where it should go on the plan. There is no chapel there, Ramses, it must have fallen from its place and tumbled down the hillside. See — isn’t it pretty?” Mollified, and regretting his hard tone, he took the stone from her. The curved top and straight sides, the rows of hieroglyphs that praised the deities worshiped by the male and female figures, were of a standard type, but the deities were somewhat unusual — two plump cats, facing each other across an offering table. “I’ve seen other stelae from Deir el Medina that depict cats,” he said. “They were identified with several goddesses, including Amon’s wife Mut.” “Not with the Great Cat of Re?” Jumana asked. “Not these.” They were rather charming animals, fatter and less aloof than the usual lean Egyptian cat. He indicated the appropriate hieroglyphs. “ ‘Giving praise to the good and peaceful cat.’ Well, maybe they are at that. They aren’t named. But the Great Cat of Re wasn’t peaceful, was he.” “They’re delightful,” Nefret said, nodding at Jumana. She got no response; Jumana was watching Ramses, breathless and expectant, waiting for a word of praise from him. “They are,” he conceded. “Let’s take it to Bertie. Drawing it will be good practice for him.” “I would like to give it to the Little Bird,” Jumana said, as they walked toward the shelter. “Her cat is getting fat, like these, and we could tell her one of them was the Great Cat of Re.” “We will have to wait for the Antiquities Department to decide which pieces we may keep,” Ramses said. Feeling he had been a trifle harsh, he added, “It was kind of you to think of it, Jumana.” They greeted Bertie and handed over the stela, and Ramses said, “It’s rather a charming piece. Why don’t you try your hand at making a copy, Bertie? Unless you’re busy with something else.” “I will do it,” Jumana said. “I can —” “Yes, I know you can, but I need you elsewhere.”

Selim had set the men to work. He hailed Ramses, demanding his opinion of an unusual raised platform in the corner of the house they were excavating, and Ramses lost track of the time. It wasn’t until Cyrus joined them and suggested they stop for luncheon that Ramses realized how late it was. “Where’re your ma and pa?” Cyrus asked with a grin. “They haven’t come?” He knew they hadn’t; his father always made his presence known. “They went to see Yusuf; he sent a message asking for them. But they ought to be here by now.” Nefret’s expressive face reflected his own uneasiness. “Were we right after all — about Yusuf and Jamil? I really didn’t believe it, you know.” “Neither did I,” Ramses admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Where is your hat?” Nefret asked. “I don’t know. Never mind my damned hat. Confound it, they’ve no business wandering off without informing us. What are we going to do?” “Have lunch,” Nefret said practically. “And wait a little longer.” Cyrus demanded to know what was going on, and after they had set out the food, Ramses told all of them about the message. Cyrus was unconcerned. “They can take care of themselves.” Selim scowled. “If Yusuf knew, and did not tell me —” “That’s only a theory, Selim. We can’t be certain what Yusuf wanted. Maybe it was Mother’s notorious medical skills.” “He would be more likely to ask for hers than for mine,” Nefret admitted. “The older men and women don’t believe in my newfangled notions. But it shouldn’t have taken them this long, even if Yusuf asked Father to perform an exorcism.” By the time they had finished the meal Ramses had come to a decision. “We had better try to find them. Assume the worst, as Mother says, and act on it.” “Where are you going to look?” Cyrus asked. “You don’t know where they might be by now.” “Yusuf,” Ramses said shortly. “If he has any information, I’ll get it out of him.” Selim rose. “Daoud and I will come with you.” “Damn this foot!” Bertie burst out. “Look, it’s almost healed, I can keep up.” “Not this time.” Ramses’s hand rested briefly on the other man’s shoulder. “We don’t need additional manpower —” “No,” said Daoud, folding his massive arms. “No,” Ramses repeated, nodding in acknowledgment. “Cyrus, you had better stay here. Jumana, come with us.” She stared at him, her eyes wide and dark. “You think I know something I have not told you? It is not true!” “I haven’t accused you of anything,” Ramses said. “Do let’s go,” Nefret exclaimed. “Why are we wasting time talking?” They took the most direct route, past the temple and across the foothills, approaching the village from the south. Most of the inhabitants were enjoying their afternoon nap, but by the time they reached Yusuf’s house a few wakeful souls had spotted them and run on ahead, so Yusuf was expecting them. He was lying on the divan in the main room, covered with a blanket, though the day was warm. It was the first time Ramses had seen the old man since their arrival. The change in him was distressing. The once plump jowls hung down in loose folds, and his thin hands gripped the edge of the coverlet. He shrank back as they all crowded into the room. Ramses didn’t blame him; they made a threatening assemblage: he and Nefret, Daoud looming like a monolith, Selim’s face unyielding as walnut. Nefret let out a little sound of pity and surprise, pushed past the others, and bent over the old man. “Salaam aleikhum, Uncle Yusuf. I regret we did not come before. We did not know you were so ill.” Her low voice, sweet with sympathy, reproached the others and reassured Yusuf. “I am better, Nur Misur,” he croaked. Ramses gestured Selim to remain silent. He couldn’t bully a pathetic specimen like Yusuf. Anyhow, Nefret’s methods were more likely to win him over. He looked around for Jumana. She was behind Daoud, whose large form hid all of her but her little boots. “Was it the Sitt Hakim who made you better, Uncle Yusuf?” Nefret asked. “What did she give you?” “The Sitt Hakim? She has not been here. No one has been here.” Self-pity and resentment gave new life to his feeble voice. “None of you came to ask about me.” “We are sorry, Uncle,” Nefret said. “But the Sitt Hakim did come, this morning. You sent her a message asking her to come.” “I sent no message,” Yusuf said sullenly. “Why should I? You should have come without my asking.” Selim moved slightly, and again Ramses motioned him to be quiet. Yusuf’s resentment — justifiable resentment, Ramses had to admit — was genuine. There was no reason for him to lie, since he knew there were dozens of witnesses who would have seen the elder Emersons had they been there. From the doorway a harsh voice said, “He speaks the truth, Brother of Demons. The Sitt has not been here.” It was Yusuf’s eldest wife, her voice accusatory, her face crumpled into innumerable wrinkles by age and indignation. She shoved at Daoud. “Get out, Daoud, and take her with you, the shameless creature. Why have you all come, like accusers, to trouble a sick old man?” Daoud turned, in his ponderous fashion, and Jumana let out a little squeak. Her father’s eyes rested briefly on her and shifted away. “I’m sorry,” Ramses said. “We are looking for my father and mother, who may be in trouble. It is true that Yusuf sent no message — that they did not come here?” “It is true,” the old woman snapped. “Ask anyone.” “Shall we go now?” Daoud asked nervously. According to Selim, his giant uncle feared only two things: the displeasure of the Father of Curses, and an angry old woman. “We may as well,” Ramses said. Daoud was the first to go. Jumana followed, so closely she was treading on his heels. Ramses hesitated. He had meant to ask Yusuf about Jamil, but this disclosure had altered everything. His parents must have been intercepted or distracted before they reached Yusuf, lured away by a false message. There was no time to waste; the afternoon was passing. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll come back,” Nefret promised the old man. “As soon as I can.” Yusuf did not reply. His eyes were closed. The usual crowd had gathered outside. Selim, who had been talking with several of the men, turned to Ramses. “It is true, they did not come to this house. But Ahmed says Mahmud says his cousin Mohammed saw them this morning. They left their horses with him and gave him money.” “Which Mohammed?” Ramses demanded. “His house is at the bottom of the hill, near the tomb of Ramose.” “Oh, that Mohammed. All right, let’s find him.” They led the horses; the slope on this side was steep. Mohammed, who was stretched out in the shade peacefully sleeping, did not wake until Ramses shook him. “Ah,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “you have come for the horses. I took good care of them, you see.” They were in the courtyard of an ancient tomb, shaded and well supplied with water. Ramses handed over baksheesh. “Yes, you did. When did the Father of Curses and the Sitt Hakim leave the horses?” “Many hours ago.” Mohammed yawned. “They’d have come straight here,” Nefret interposed, knowing, as did Ramses, that Mohammed’s notions of time were vague. “Probably. It’s been at least six hours, then. Where did they go, Mohammed?” “That way.” A gesture indicated the direction — not up the hill, toward Yusuf’s house, but northward. “On foot?” “How could they ride when they left the horses with me?” Selim lost patience. “Don’t try to be clever, Mohammed, because you are not. Why did they leave the horses and go on foot? What did they say to each other?” “How should I know? They spoke in English, very fast.” Another gigantic yawn concluded the speech. A younger man, his beard just beginning to show, plucked at Selim’s sleeve. “My father only thinks of baksheesh and sleep, Selim, but I can tell you what happened. The Father of Curses took his galabeeyah, and the Sitt took mine. It was because they saw someone. She said ‘Look there,’ and he looked and swore and then they took our clothes and went hurrying away, behind the tombs and around the hill.” “Your clothes?” Nefret repeated. “Our galabeeyahs, my father’s and mine. The Father of Curses paid well; but when the Sitt Hakim has finished with mine, I would like to have it back. I have only —” “Did you see the person they were following?” Ramses interrupted. “Oh, yes.” The boy pointed. “It was she.” Jumana froze, her eyes focusing on the pointing finger. “He lies,” she gasped. “I do not lie. She wore the same clothing, boots and coat and a skirt, that blew out as she ran. Not trousers, as men wear. What other woman would wear such garments?” “Several of us,” Nefret said, catching hold of Jumana, who appeared ready to fly at her accuser. “We know it wasn’t you, Jumana, you couldn’t have got from here to Deir el Medina before we arrived.” Ramses rewarded the observant youth extravagantly and went after Selim, who was already running along the path the boy had indicated. It turned and rose, and there before them lay the length of the desert plain, covered with hillocks and hills, houses and villages and ruins — almost two miles long from Medinet Habu to the slopes of Drah abu’l Naga on the north. The sun was low over the western cliffs. “Wait,” Ramses called. Selim stopped, and the others came up to him. “What can we do?” the reis asked, for the hopelessness of pursuit was evident to him as well. “It was hours ago that they were here. Even if one saw them —” “He wouldn’t be here either,” Ramses cut in. “Or remember them. Father and his damned disguises!” “The Father of Curses,” said Daoud, his calm unshaken, “cannot be mistaken for any other man.” “That’s true,” Nefret agreed. “Not to mention Mother trotting along holding up the skirts of somebody else’s galabeeyah. Ramses — Selim — let’s just keep calm, shall we? We will spread the word, asking anyone who may have seen them to report to us; but that may take a while. Perhaps we can deduce where they might have gone.” She turned to Jumana. “You know whom they were following, don’t you?” The girl’s eyes fell. “Jamil?” “It couldn’t have been anyone else,” Nefret said. “He’s taller than you, but otherwise the resemblance between you is strong. Somehow he got hold of clothes like yours. He must have sent the message. I don’t believe your father knew anything about it.” If it was meant as consolation, Jumana remained indifferent. “Why?” she demanded. “Why would Jamil do this?” “Not to lead them to his tomb,” Ramses said. He was too worried now to be considerate of her feelings. “Face the facts, Jumana. He meant to do them harm — and he must have succeeded, God knows how, or they would have been back before this. Can you think of anything — anything at all — that might help us to find them?” “How could Jamil harm the Father of Curses?” She flinched back from Ramses and her eyes filled with tears. “No — wait — don’t be angry. I am trying to think, trying to help. And I think there are only a few things he could do. He is not very strong, Jamil, or very brave; the Father of Curses could break him in two with one hand, and the Sitt Hakim is as fierce as a man. He would lead them to some place where he can play a dangerous trick on them with no danger to himself.” The sun was sinking. It would be dark in a few hours. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Ramses said, trying to keep his voice level. “There are too many places like that. If he’s got in the habit of pushing people off cliffs, as Mother put it . . .” “Can you visualize Jamil pushing Father?” Nefret demanded. “He’d have to back off twenty feet and run at Father — and then have another go at Mother, who would be peppering him with bullets while he ran.” Jumana gave her a look of surprise and reproach, but Ramses knew his wife’s lighthearted comment was a valiant attempt to keep their spirits up and reassure them. It did help to relieve Ramses’s anxiety a bit; the scene she had described was so ludicrous it brought a halfhearted smile to his face. “You’re right, though, Jumana,” she went on. “He’d want some place away from people. Not toward the cultivation, but back that way, along the base of the cliffs. A place he could trick them into entering without exposing himself.” “But then,” said Daoud, “they would come out again. How could he prevent them? Unless . . .” Quick wits were not Daoud’s most notable characteristic, but every now and then he confounded them all by reaching a conclusion that had escaped everyone else. They waited for him to continue. “Unless it was a very narrow space,” Daoud went on, his brow wrinkling. “With no other way out. Then, when they tried to come out, crawling or bent over, he could prevent them — standing to one side with a long heavy stick. If he was quick and lucky, one blow might be enough.” The simple words had created a vivid and very ugly picture. “You’re talking about a tomb,” Ramses said slowly. “Or a cave. Surely they wouldn’t be stupid enough to enter an obvious trap — not both of them . . .” He caught Nefret’s eye and threw up his hands. “Hell and damnation! They would, wouldn’t they? Especially Mother. Daoud, you reason well, but there are hundreds of such places in the cliffs. We wouldn’t know where to start looking. I’m going back and talk to Yusuf. There’s an outside chance —” “Wait — wait!” Jumana was bouncing on her toes, her face flushed with excitement. “I have remembered something — something Jamil said when we first met at Luxor. He was talking about the tomb of the princesses and how he had been cheated, and then he talked very fast and very angrily, saying that he had discovered two rich treasures and had nothing to show because everyone had cheated him of what was rightfully his, and —” She paused to draw a long breath. Ramses was about to express his impatience with her dramatic, long-drawn-out narrative when Nefret said softly, “Let her tell it her way.” “I am trying to remember exactly what he said,” Jumana explained. She hadn’t missed Ramses’s signs of impatience either. “These are the words, the exact words. ‘They took it, the Inglizi, but I have taken it back; the dwelling place of a god is not too good for me, and they will never find me there, and someday . . . ’ It was then he threatened to kill you, Ramses, and I forgot what he said before because it made no sense and I was very worried and —” “Ah, yes.” Daoud nodded. So far as he was concerned, the matter was
settled. “The shrine of Amon-Re. I should have thought of it.” “The place certainly fits your specifications,” Ramses said. He was afraid to let his hopes rise. “I suppose it can’t do any harm to have a look.” “Shall we go back for the horses?” Nefret asked. “They went on foot,” Ramses said. “We may find some trace of them along the way.” They took the most direct path, straight toward the western cliffs, over rising rocky ground interrupted by occasional outcroppings. Remembering the shrine chamber they had cleared the previous year, Ramses had to admit it would make an ideal spot for an ambush, assuming Jamil could trick them into entering the place. It might not have been difficult. They had thought they were following Jumana, and if they had believed Jamil was inside the man-made cavern, Emerson would not have hesitated to go down after him. And his mother would have followed, of course — “to protect him!” If they had found the place empty they would have returned to the shaft, which was perpendicular and not very deep. If he was standing on the bottom, Emerson’s head would be less than two feet below the surface. The picture that formed in Ramses’s mind was even uglier than the first: a long, heavy club crashing down on his father’s bare head. Their precipitate pace aroused the curiosity of the people they encountered. Several of them followed along, in case something of interest might occur. Questions assailed them. “Had something happened? Where were they going?” Ramses didn’t answer; he wanted to swat at them, as he would have swatted flies. Receiving no replies, one of them suggested, “Are you looking for the Father of Curses, then? He was —” The word ended in a gurgle as Selim spun round and caught him by the throat. “You saw him? When? Why didn’t you say so?” Plucking at his fingers, the luckless man gasped, “You did not ask, Selim.” Selim loosened his grip and Ramses apologized in the usual way. Clutching a handful of coins and swelling with pride at being the center of attention, their informant explained that he had seen the Father of Curses and the Sitt Hakim early that morning, when he was on his way to work. They had been wearing Egyptian dress, but, the fellow added, the Father of Curses could not be mistaken for any other man. He had been tempted to follow, but he was late for his work and they were going too fast. Yes, that way, toward Deir el Bahri. He and several of the other men trailed along, speculating and discussing the matter. The sun was low and the shallow, well-remembered bay was deep in shadow. Ramses thought he saw a darker shadow, slim and supple as a snake, move rapidly along the broken ground to the south. He might have imagined it, and just then it was the least of his concerns. One look into the shaft told him they had come to the right place. It was four feet deep in rubble — not the drift of sand and random bits of rock that might have accumulated naturally, but new fill, broken stone. Not far from the opening lay a rough wooden ladder and a crumpled basket. “My God,” Nefret gasped. “He was filling in the shaft. They must be . . . Mother! Father, can you hear me?” The uneven surface of the fill moved, shifted, subsided. Using language he had never before employed in their presence, Selim fell flat on the ground, reached down and snatched a handful of chips. “They are under it! They are still alive, they are moving! Hurry — Daoud —” “Hold on,” Ramses said, ducking to avoid the chips Selim had flung frantically over his shoulder. “There’s the basket Jamil must have used. Leave it to Daoud.” “Yes,” said Daoud placidly. “There is no hurry. Look.” Another shift of the stone surface resulted in a further subsistence — no more than an inch, but now Ramses saw what Daoud’s calmer mind had grasped. Someone was digging the stone out from below, a little at a time. “They will be in the passage,” Daoud went on, climbing down into the shaft and taking the basket Selim handed him. “We will soon have them out.” There wasn’t anything they could do to help Daoud except empty the basket as soon as he handed it up. Ramses fought the urge to join him in the shaft, but only one person could work efficiently in the narrow space. It was not long, though it seemed an eternity to the anxious watchers, before a break in the solid wall of the shaft became visible — the squared-off lintel of the entrance to the side passage. It was filled to the top with broken stone. Ramses lost the last remnants of his calm. “Father!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Mother, for God’s sake —” Daoud stopped digging. In the silence Ramses heard sounds of activity behind that ominous blockage. An irregular gap, less than two inches deep, appeared, and an eerily distorted, very irritated voice was heard. “Ramses, is that you? I trust you did not allow him to escape. Is Daoud with you? He will have to empty the entire shaft, the cursed stones keep trickling down into the passage. Though ‘trickle’ is perhaps an inappropriate word.” After Ramses had drawn his first full breath in what felt like hours, he persuaded his garrulous mother to retreat farther down the passage. She continued to shout instructions and questions, and they shouted questions back at her — a fairly futile exercise, since Daoud had gone back to work with renewed energy and the crash and rattle of stone drowned out most of the words. Ramses shouted along with the rest of them. He had been utterly taken aback by the intensity of his relief when he heard his mother’s voice, and a distant bellow from Emerson. This wasn’t the first time they had been in trouble, not by a long shot, and he had always worried about them, but for some reason he had never fully realized how much he loved and needed them. The very qualities that sometimes irritated him were the qualities he would miss most: his mother’s infuriating self-confidence and awful aphorisms, his father’s belligerence and awful temper. After all the adventures they had survived with their usual aplomb, it would be horribly ironic if they met their final defeat (he couldn’t even think the other word) at the hands of the most contemptible opponent they had ever faced. I’m getting to be as superstitious as Mother, he thought. It hasn’t happened. It isn’t going to happen. His mother’s half-heard orders had provided enough information to save valuable time. Some of their followers ran off and came back with enough wood to make a litter as well as a splint for Emerson’s arm. The light of several torches brightened the increasing darkness and one overly enthusiastic helper got a basketful of rock square on the chin as he leaned over the shaft offering unnecessary advice. As soon as the space was clear enough, Ramses dropped down and crawled into the passage. It was half-filled with bits of stone, which sloped down toward the far end. His mother hadn’t sat waiting to be rescued; she had scooped the stuff out from below as Jamil dumped it in above. She hadn’t been able to keep up with him, but that was his mother for you — “every little bit helps,” she would have told herself, and, “Never give up hope.” Something caught in his throat. He hurried on toward the square opening at the far end, which glowed with faint light. He took in the scene in a single glance, by the light of the failing torch — the pile of rugs on which Emerson was lying, the jars, the stores of food — and his mother, sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, dredging peas out of a tin with her fingers. “Ah, there you are, my dear,” she said. “And Nefret too? How nice.” Her face was filthy, her hair gray with stone dust. Arms and shoulders were bare and as dirty as her face; the garment that more or less covered the upper part of her body had narrow ruffled straps, yards of lace, and several little pink bows. Ramses was unable to speak or move. Nefret had gone at once to Emerson and was examining his arm. She let out a choked laugh. “She’s used the ribs and shaft of the parasol for a splint!” “Once again proving, if proof were needed, the all-round usefulness of a good stout parasol,” said his mother. Peas went flying as Ramses snatched her up and hugged her.