The Serpent on the Crown (17 page)

“So pleased,” Lidman said, bowing at everyone in turn. “An honor. I only hope I can be of—”

“Quite, quite,” said Emerson. “Let’s go.”

Lidman fell modestly to the rear, beside Jumana. He rode well for a fat man, and his normal loquacity seemed to have deserted him. Or maybe he just couldn’t get a word in once Jumana started talking.

Cyrus edged the mare close to Ramses.

“Funny thing happened last night,” he whispered. “Fellow paid me a call. Fellow name of Montague. But it wasn’t…er…”

“Sethos? No. It was the real article.”

“That’s what I figured. Better warn him, then.”

“He knows. What did Montague want?”

“Bet you can guess. How is…er…he gonna get out of this one?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ramses said wryly. “He’s changed his appearance, but I suspect there will be a few awkward incidents to explain.”

They left the horses in the donkey park and passed the barrier into the Valley itself.

“I told Abu I’d be hiring tomorrow,” Cyrus said. “It was too late to get a full crew together today. I haven’t even had a chance to read up on what’s been done there.”

“There’s not much to read,” Emerson replied. “The curse of our profession is the failure to publish. You may as well assume you’re starting from scratch. That is what I intend to do. Ah—there’s Selim.” He raised a hand in greeting.

“Where are the rest of your fellows?” Cyrus asked.

“Don’t need them today. I’m going to have a look round, make sure there’s been no illegal digging. I promised Carter, you see.”

“Sure, I see,” Cyrus said with a knowing grin. “Mind if we tag along?”

They made their way to the far end of the Valley and into the side wadi where the tomb of Thutmose III lay high in the cliff. “I thought those bas——the Simsahs would be back,” said Emerson, inspecting the pile of rubble. It looked pretty much the same to Ramses, but his father’s eye was infallible. “They didn’t find anything, though.”

“Is there anything to find?” Cyrus asked hopefully.

“Who knows?” Emerson rubbed his chin and looked pensive. “One would have to clear the area down to bedrock, and there’s the devil of a lot of rubble.”

The day passed as they tramped along. The sun beat down; there was no shade, and the heat, trapped between narrow stony walls, climbed rapidly. Emerson kept Nefret and Selim busy with the cameras. Cyrus suggested they return to the Castle for tea. Emerson promptly vetoed the idea and was about to lead the way into another side wadi when a familiar voice hailed them.

“It’s Mother.” Ramses nudged his preoccupied father. “And Nasir, with a tea basket. Good. I’m parched.”

“You should have said so, my boy,” Emerson exclaimed.

“Who’s that with Mrs. Emerson?” Bertie asked, squinting in the sunlight.

“A friend,” Ramses said, wishing he could remember Sethos’s latest alias.

Cyrus stared and began to cough violently.

They joined the others, in the entrance to a “nice” empty tomb, where his mother introduced “Anthony Bissinghurst.”

Jumana studied “Bissinghurst” with a puzzled frown. “Have we met, sir? Your face is familiar.”

Sethos smiled. “I would certainly remember having met you, Miss Jumana. I have heard a great many complimentary things about you.”

Ramses eyed his uncle with professional interest. He’d learned a lot from Sethos, but he doubted he would ever match his abilities. The physical alterations—the suspiciously black hair and mustache, the tinted glasses that darkened his eyes—were the least of it. Speech patterns, posture, the frequent smiles and expansive gestures were perfectly in character with an Anthony Bissinghurst. Whoever he might be. He hoped that this time Sethos had had the sense to invent an identity instead of assuming one.

“Only an amateur,” Sethos explained modestly, in response to a question from Cyrus. “No formal training, you see. But keen, very keen.”

They ended the day in front of Tomb 55. It was on the main path, near two royal tombs popular with visitors, most of whom had returned to their hotels by that time. Emerson stopped and looked over the low wall the Davis expedition had built in 1907. The entrance was almost six feet below this surface, and it was partially blocked by piles of fallen stones and modern rubbish ranging from rotting food to dead animals, and worse. Tourists and guards had obviously used the handy pit as a trash receptacle.

“Let’s just have a quick look,” said Emerson.

“Not I,” said his wife decidedly.

Emerson looked pointedly at his brother. Sethos pressed one hand to his chest and coughed loudly. After a look at the mess, Cyrus shook his head. The others were game, though Ramses had a feeling that Lidman would have declined had he been given a choice. One by one they climbed down into the pit. Bertie lowered Jumana into Emerson’s raised hands and then followed her.

Emerson was the first to peer over the fallen rubble in the doorway. “Did anybody bring a torch?” he inquired.

Nobody had. At Emerson’s request, his wife produced a candle and matches from her handy pockets and handed them down. In its dim light they saw what they had expected to see: a flight of stone steps, littered with fallen stones. As Ramses knew, there were twenty steps, ending in a sloping corridor that led to the burial chamber, but the candlelight reached only as far as the middle of the stairs.

The stench of decaying organic material was overpowering. Lidman pressed a handkerchief to his face and made choking noises.

“You’ll have to learn not to be so squeamish if you want to work with us,” Emerson said genially. “Give me a hand, Ramses. I think I can squeeze through.”

“No, sir,” Ramses said firmly. “The fill is too unstable, and you don’t know what’s down there. Snakes, for example.”

“Quite right,” his mother called. “That goes for you too, Ramses. Emerson, do not attempt to persuade him. It is against all your principles of excavation to go blundering in where proper excavators fear—”

“Curse it,” Emerson said loudly. But the reminder succeeded where appeals to common sense failed. Grudgingly he turned away from the enticing opening.

It took two of them to hoist Lidman up to the rim of the pit, with Bertie hauling from above. The German collapsed onto the ground, but he summoned a game smile. “Out of condition,” he wheezed.

“Soon get you back in shape,” said Emerson, who had required no one’s assistance. Ramses wondered whether he would be in the same physical condition when he was his father’s age. Probably not. Emerson was unique.

“We start tomorrow morning at six,” Emerson went on, cleaning his hands by wiping them on his trousers. “You too, Vandergelt. Er—that is, I presume that is your intention?”

The belated courtesy was the result of a sharp jab in the ribs from his wife. Cyrus, who was well accustomed to Emerson’s manners, or lack thereof, grinned and nodded. “Soon as I can get my crew together. What’s your hurry?”

“I am always in a hurry,” said Emerson.

It was true, but Ramses suspected his father had an even stronger motive for pushing ahead. Howard Carter was due in a few weeks. What Emerson meant to do before that was anybody’s guess, but Ramses wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that it would constitute a violation of the Carnarvon-Carter concession.

They were at the tomb next morning shortly after 6
A
.
M
. No one had spoken to Ramses about getting on with his translations. He’d have come anyhow. He was as curious as the rest of them about what was inside Tomb 55.

At that hour the Valley was “uncontaminated by bloody tourists,” to quote Emerson. They had brought a wooden ladder, which made access to the entrance easier. Clearing away the modern trash was a dirty job. After watching for a while, Emerson said, “This is going to take some time. I’ll leave it to you, Hassan. Ramses, shall we ride over to the West Valley and see if Cyrus requires assistance?”

Hassan, a fastidious man, pursed his lips and rolled his eyes but said nothing. Nefret said, “I’ll come along too, if you don’t mind.”

It took almost half an hour, on horseback, to reach the West Valley. Cut off from the main valley by towering cliffs, it was a natural amphitheater of austere beauty, “uncontaminated by bloody tourists.” There were good reasons why it was ignored by visitors and largely unexplored by Egyptologists. Compared with the plethora of royal tombs in the East Valley, this was barren ground in archaeological terms, and difficult of access. There were no cleared roads, and the closest of the tombs, that of Amenhotep III, Akhenaton’s father, was some distance from the entrance to the gorge. Only one other decorated royal tomb had been found, attributed to one of Akhenaton’s successors, the Father of the God Ay. It was even more isolated, at the far end of the valley. As they came nearer they saw the cloud of dust that indicated activity, and heard the sounds of voices. Emerson nodded approval.

“He took my advice, I see.”

Advice
was hardly the word; he had all but ordered Cyrus. Risha stepped daintily around a boulder in the middle of the track, and Ramses said, “So he did. Why the tomb of Ay, Father? There’s room in those cliffs for Lord knows how many other tombs, and nobody’s ever done a complete survey.”

“Process of elimination, my boy. Ay was a high official under Akhenaton before he took the throne for himself, and although he returned to the old religion, he may have had enough affection for his king to retain a memento of him.”

“So that’s it. You’re still fixed on finding the original location of the statue.”

“When I set my mind on something I don’t give it up,” retorted Emerson—an understatement if ever there was one. “Ay’s successor, Harmhab, was the first to begin the damnatio memoriae of Akhenaton, and the Ramesside rulers were equally hostile to him. They’d have melted the statuette down.”

“Mother will be glad to hear you don’t mean to investigate that huge tomb of Harmhab.”

Emerson smiled and then scowled. “I like to stir her up now and then. D’you know she finished that article of mine?”

“Did she really?”

“It was overdue,” Nefret said sweetly. “Wasn’t it?”

“Hmph,” said Emerson.

A hail from one of the workmen announced their arrival, and Cyrus came to meet them. “Checking up on me, are you?” he asked.

“Not at all, not at all.” Emerson dismounted. “Just dropped by to see if there is anything we can do.”

“Nothing to do, nothing to see. We’ve just begun. How about you?”

“The same,” said Emerson. He ran a critical eye over the scene. Jumana waved and Emerson waved back. “Where’s that fellow Lidman?”

“Resting,” Cyrus said.

“What? It’s not even midday.”

“He said he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Bah,” said Emerson.

“Not everyone has your stamina, Father,” Nefret said. “I’d better have a look at him.”

She headed toward the spot where a lonely figure sat hunched under a sunshade. Ramses followed, leaving his father and Cyrus arguing about foundation deposits.

Lidman certainly looked sickly. He raised a face slick with sweat, round and pale as a winter moon, and started to stand. Nefret put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get up. Cyrus says you aren’t well. What seems to be the trouble?”

“You are a physician?” Lidman asked. “So at least I have heard. It is nothing, Frau Doktor Emerson, it will soon pass. The usual trouble…” He hesitated, and then put his hand on his conspicuous stomach.

“A common affliction,” Nefret said, with a reassuring smile. She felt his forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever, though it’s hard to tell, the sun is so hot.”

“I am very warm,” Lidman said, drooping. “And my heart is pounding.”

He extended a limp wrist. Emerson came charging up while she was taking Lidman’s pulse. “Nothing wrong with him, is there?” he demanded.

“His pulse is a little fast, but not dangerously so. Just to be on the safe side, I think I had better take him to the house and examine him.”

“The Castle’s closer,” Cyrus said.

“I can do a more complete examination at the clinic,” Nefret said, in her physician’s firm voice. “Are you able to ride, Mr. Lidman?”

“Yes, oh, yes. It is most kind. I am so sorry, Mr. Vandergelt, to fail you on the very first day, when I had hoped to please you with my—”

“Nothing wrong with his vocal cords, I see,” Emerson remarked.

“Not your fault, Lidman,” Cyrus assured the man. “You’ll be fit again in a day or two. Just take it easy and do what the lady says. She’s a first-rate doctor.”

“I’ll go with them,” Ramses said.

“What?” Emerson scowled, and then nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose you had better. In case he falls off the confounded horse. Hurry back.”

Ramses tactfully refrained from replying. If the afflicted German’s condition was serious, Nefret might need his help.

Lidman kept up well at first, chattering with forced cheerfulness about the life and times of Akhenaton. Hoping to distract him from his discomfort, Ramses kept up the conversation (when he could get a word in); but the hot sun and the rough terrain eventually took their toll, and by the time they reached the house Lidman was bent almost double over the horse’s neck. He slid awkwardly off into Ramses’s grasp and had to be helped into the clinic.

“Do you want me to stay?” Ramses asked.

He had addressed his wife, but it was Lidman who replied. Flat on his back, clutching modestly at the neck of his shirt, he gasped, “Please. If it is not too much trouble.”

“You needn’t be embarrassed,” Nefret said, from the sink where she was washing her hands. “I just want to listen to your heart and take your temperature. And I’ve seen a lot of men with their shirts off. Ramses, would you help him?”

The flabby white torso bared by the removal of Lidman’s shirt was not an attractive sight, but he submitted without visible embarrassment to Nefret’s quick examination.

“No fever,” she announced, shaking down the thermometer. “And there’s nothing wrong with your heart.”

Lidman groaned and pressed his hands to his belly. “You can give me medicine? Then I will return to my duties.”

“Not today,” Nefret said. “I can give you something that will settle your stomach, but I want to be certain it is working properly and that there are no adverse side effects. You had better spend the night. We’ll see how you feel in the morning.”