The Golden One Page 23

  “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. Sh
e 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.”