The Golden One (19 page)

Ramses put his mouth to Nefret’s ear. ‘I’m going round the back. I doubt he’s armed, but if he is, don’t get in his way.’

He squeezed her shoulder and slid away. A jackal howled in the hills, and the village dogs answered it. Cautiously Nefret shifted one foot and then the other. She could see them now, dark shapes
near one of the standing sections of wall. Jamil skulked in the shadow; he was wearing a robe of some muted colour, dark blue or brown, but his headcloth showed palely against the mud brick.
Jumana’s small form was faintly lit by starlight. She was still arguing with him, trying to convince him to turn himself in, but she was wavering. Jamil no longer made demands, he pleaded and
wheedled. He put his arm round her, and she embraced him.

The ground was a bewildering jumble of stone and masonry, of shadow and pallid light, but Nefret could see a path of sorts, winding its narrow and tortuous way from the opening where she stood
towards the wall. It was the quickest and easiest way out of the area, but surely not the only one.

‘Come again tomorrow night,’ Jamil begged. ‘Even if you cannot bring the money, just so I can see you again. I have missed you.’

‘I’ll try,’ Jumana whispered. ‘I have missed you, too, and worried about you. Jamil, please, won’t you – ’

‘We will talk about it tomorrow.’ He freed himself from her clinging arms and moved away, along the path Nefret had seen, towards her.

‘Jamil!’ Ramses had waited until Jamil was some distance away from his sister. Now he rose into view from behind one of the fallen sections of wall. Even though Nefret had known he
was somewhere about, his sudden appearance and clear hail startled her into an involuntary cry. Jamil stopped as if he had been struck, spun round, and let out a much louder cry when he saw Ramses
poised atop the rubble, looking – Nefret could not help thinking – like one of the more attractive djinn.

‘Don’t move,’ Ramses ordered. ‘We only want to talk to you.’

The boy’s paralysis lasted no more than a second or two. He bolted, with Ramses after him; but he had a clear run, and Ramses had to scramble over the debris that separated him from the
path. Nefret stepped out into the open.

‘Jamil, stop!’ she called. ‘We won’t hurt you.’

He was ten feet away, close enough for her to see the scarf he had drawn over the lower part of his face. He dropped down, as if he were kneeling, and she thought exultantly, we’ve got him
now.

She had no warning. Jamil straightened, and the missile came hurtling towards her. There was only time enough to turn, her arms clasped protectively around her body, so that the stone struck her
shoulder instead of her breast. She fell sideways, her other shoulder and hip smashing against the hard unevenness of the ground. The fall knocked the breath out of her and she curled herself up
like a hedgehog as Jamil ran past. Ramses must have been hot on his heels; a moment later she felt a touch she could never have mistaken for that of anyone else. She rolled over, into the curve of
his arm.

‘Go after him,’ she panted.

‘The hell with him. Lie still. Where does it hurt?’

‘Everywhere.’ She managed a smile. ‘It’s all right, darling, nothing is broken.’

His answering smile was forced. ‘You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?’

‘Not about a broken leg.’ She let out a yelp of pain as his hand explored her arms and shoulders. ‘Ow! I’ll have some spectacular bruises, but that’s
all.’

She realized then that his were not the only hands she felt. Kneeling, her eyes like dark holes in the small oval of her face, Jumana was straightening her skirt, smoothing it carefully over her
calves. It was a useless gesture, but the girl seemed to be in a state of shock.

Not so shocked she couldn’t speak, though. ‘It was my fault. You might have been struck in the face. He didn’t care if you were hurt. I will go back to my father’s
house.’

‘No, you won’t.’ Ramses lifted Nefret and stood up. ‘You will follow us, leading Moonlight. You’ – he looked down at his wife – ‘are coming with
me, on Risha.’

‘All right,’ Nefret said meekly.

His heavy black brows drew together. ‘You
are
hurt!’

‘Mostly in places I wouldn’t care to mention.’ She raised one hand to his cheek. ‘Riding astride, sans trousers, is something I won’t try again for a
while.’

Chapter Five

Emerson and I and Sennia were halfway through breakfast when the children made their appearance, followed by the kitten. I observed immediately that Nefret was walking without
her usual grace – not limping, but trying not to. Sennia bounced up out of her chair and ran to them; before she could give Nefret one of her fierce hugs, Ramses snatched her up and swung her
round and round until she squealed with pleasure.

‘Has something happened?’ I asked.

Nefret subsided, very carefully, into the chair Emerson held for her, and gave me a warning look. ‘Just a fall. Good morning, Little Bird. You had better hurry and finish breakfast, or you
will be late for your lessons.’

‘I think I will not go to them today,’ Sennia announced. ‘I think I will stay and take care of Aunt Nefret.’ She sat down on the floor and began stroking the kitten.

‘I think you will not,’ I said. ‘Don’t dawdle. You must not keep Mrs Vandergelt waiting.’

We got Sennia off after the usual argument; it was not so much the lessons, which she had proclaimed ‘only somewhat boring,’ as her desire to be with us. Emerson caved in, as she had
known he would, and promised she could come with us to Deir el Medina next day.

‘We must go,’ he declared. ‘Where is Jumana? Good Gad, the girl is always late.’

‘I told her not to join us until after Sennia had left,’ Ramses said. ‘That must be she now.’

When she crept in I understood why Ramses had not wanted Sennia to see her. The girl had no self-control; every emotion she felt showed on her face and in her movements. Just now she looked like
a little old woman, her head bowed and her movements slow.

‘Did she suffer a fall too?’ I inquired.

‘No!’ Jumana raised her head. Her brown eyes were pools of tragedy. ‘I have done wrong. Very wrong. I wanted to run away, but I did not, because I knew I should be punished. Do
to me whatever you – ’

‘Stop carrying on and sit down,’ I said impatiently. ‘Something to do with Jamil, I suppose. No, Jumana, I do not want any more theatrics. Emerson, be quiet. Ramses?’

He gave us a bare outline of what had transpired; and the sympathy for Jumana that had softened Emerson’s keen blue eyes turned to wrath.

‘Good God,’ he shouted. ‘He might have killed you! Nefret – Ramses – why didn’t you wake me?’

‘There wasn’t time, Father,’ Ramses said. He was certainly correct about that; it takes Emerson at least ten minutes to get his wits together when he has been suddenly aroused.
Ramses went on in the same quiet voice, ‘I miscalculated. I ought to have sent Nefret round to flush him out instead of leaving her there alone.’

‘Let us not have any further beating of breasts,’ I said, for I knew his tendency to blame himself for anything that went wrong, whether it was his fault or not. To be sure, it often
was his fault, but in this case anyone might have done the same.

Emerson had gone to stand by Nefret. He put out his hand, and then drew it back. ‘The stone struck your shoulder?’

‘Yes.’ She turned her head to look up at him and winced even as she smiled. ‘I have a few bruises, but that’s all the damage.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Your medical expertise is far beyond mine, of course, but if you would like me – ’

‘Thank you, Mother, but there is no need. It’s all right. Everything is all right,’ she added softly.

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Good. Well. What are we going to do about Jamil?’

That produced another outburst from Jumana, in the course of which she swore she would never trust Jamil again, and proposed that we beat her and lock her up on bread and water, or marry her off
to disgusting old Nuri Said, who had often asked her father for her. She deserved nothing better. She deserved any fate we might decree, and would accept it.

I was tempted to shake her, but forbore, deciding I might as well allow her the privilege of self-expression. When she finally broke off for want of breath, her eyes were swimming with tears. I
did not doubt she was utterly sincere, nor did I doubt that at the same time she was enjoying herself immensely.

‘Now, now,’ said Emerson feebly, ‘it’s all right. Curse it, don’t cry.’

‘How can you forgive me?’ she demanded in tragic accents.

‘We offered Jamil a second chance. Can we do less for you, who are guilty of nothing except misplaced love and loyalty?’

‘Quite right,’ I said, before the melodrama could continue. ‘What is wanted now, Jumana, is for you to behave like – well, like Nefret and me. Tears and self-reproach are
tricks some females employ in order to evade responsibility. I do not permit them here. You are – potentially – the equal of any man, and you must – ’

‘Peabody,’ Emerson said. His accents were severe, but there was a twinkle in his handsome blue eyes.

‘Yes, quite. I believe I have made my point, Jumana. You did a foolish thing, and I trust you have learned a valuable lesson. The question I asked has not been answered. Have you another
appointment with Jamil?’

Ramses answered for her. ‘I doubt he will keep it now. It was for tonight. The same place, Jumana?’

‘Yes. We played in the ruins there, when we were children. But Ramses is right; he will not come now, he will believe I betrayed him. He has found another tomb. It is in the Cemetery of
the Monkeys. But – ’ She was watching Nefret. ‘But you know. You were listening!’

Her voice held a note of accusation. Ramses, who in my opinion suffers from an overly sensitive conscience, was not moved on this occasion to apologize.

‘You should be glad we did,’ he said. ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of, Jumana. You told him you would not steal for him, and you tried to persuade him to give himself up,
and now you have confessed, of your own accord.’

‘So long as you have confessed all,’ I added, for Jumana had responded to his praise with a complacent smile. The young are resilient, and a good thing, too, for brooding over past
mistakes is a waste of time; but it wouldn’t do to let the girl off too lightly. ‘We are willing to give you a second chance, Jumana, but if I learn that you have held something back
– ’

‘No. No, I swear!’

‘So he’s found another tomb, has he?’ Emerson mused. ‘Talented young rascal.’

I frowned at Emerson, who is too easily distracted by archaeological speculation, and continued my questioning of the girl.

‘How did he communicate with you before?’

‘I was given a message – just a scrap of paper, with a few words scribbled on it – yesterday, when we were at Gurneh. By Mohammed Hammad.’

Swearing inventively, Emerson agreed we must stop at Gurneh on our way to the site and question Mohammed Hammad. The village was up and about its daily business and we were
greeted politely. However, when we called on Mohammed Hammad, we discovered that the bird had flown. His wife – his elderly wife – said he had business in Coptos. His son said he had
gone to Cairo. One of his acquaintances was more forthcoming. ‘He ran away, Father of Curses, when he found out about the death of Abdul Hassan. I would have done the same.’ He added
with a certain air of regret, ‘I was not one of those who robbed the tomb.’

‘You should thank Allah for that,’ Emerson said. ‘And pay more heed to his laws. You see how he punishes evildoers.’

‘There is nothing in the Koran about robbing tombs, Father of Curses.’

Emerson’s forbidding frown was replaced by a look of interest. He does so enjoy arguing theology. Before he could get off onto this sidetrack, I intervened. ‘Did Mohammed say who it
was he feared?’ I inquired.

The fellow hesitated, his eyes on Emerson’s hand, which had gone into his pocket. He knew he would get more baksheesh if he came up with a name; he also knew that if he was caught in a
lie, he would arouse the wrath of the Father of Curses.

‘He did not have to say. One death may be an accident, but two is a warning. Jamil had threatened them. They laughed.’ He shrugged, spreading his hands wide. ‘They are not
laughing now.’

‘Ah,’ said Emerson. ‘There would be a reward for the man who told us where the boy is hiding.’

‘A large reward?’ The fellow thought it over and shrugged again. ‘Money is of no use to a dead man, Father of Curses.’

‘Quite a philosopher, isn’t he?’ Emerson remarked in English. He dropped a few more coins into the leathery brown palm and turned away.

The interview had taken place on the street, if it could be called that; in contrast to the ancient workmen’s village, with its gridlike plan, the houses of Sheikh el Gurneh had been
fitted into whatever space was available – along the slopes of the hill, around the tombs of the nobles of the Empire. Some of the less important, uninscribed tombs were occupied; the
forecourt, where offerings had been made to the honoured dead, now served the ignominious role of stables for the beasts of the tomb dwellers. In front of many of these tomb-caves stood cylindrical
mud-brick structures like giant mushrooms with their edges turned up. They served the double purpose of granaries and sleeping quarters. The hollow on top is safe from scorpions, and there are even
egg-cup-shaped projections along the rim to hold water jars – an interesting and unusual adaptation to local conditions, which I mention for the edification of the Reader.