The Golden One Read online

  And I just might have a look round for more of the private tombs. Some of them were beautifully decorated, and two had contained their original grave goods – not as rich as those of the princesses, but full of interest.

  Emerson concluded his speech by remarking, “I trust, Vandergelt, that you will concentrate on Medinet Habu. You cannot expect the Department of Antiquities to think well of you if you keep wandering off on fanciful quests.”

  When we took our departure, we were loaded down. There was room for Jumana on the seat with Ramses and Nefret, but her boxes and bundles took up quite a lot of space. Upon our arrival I showed the girl her room. I had the distinct impression that she was not impressed by its amenities. They were certainly inferior to the ones she had enjoyed as Cyrus’s guest.

  However, she expressed her appreciation very prettily. I then informed her that Emerson wanted a word with her.

  “What about?” she asked.

  “I think you know what about, Jumana. For goodness’ sake, child, you look like a cornered rabbit. You aren’t afraid of him, surely.”

  “Not of him,” Jumana murmured. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of, Sitt Hakim.”

  “I didn’t say you had. Come along.”

  We had agreed in advance that Emerson and I would have a private chat with Jumana, so I was somewhat surprised to find the children with him in the sitting room.

  “We only waited to say good night,” Nefret said, coming to give me a kiss.

  “I hope the house is satisfactory,” I said, addressing Ramses, who had not yet given me his opinion. “And that you have everything you need for tonight.”

  “So long as there is a bed,” said my son, and broke off with a grunt as Nefret elbowed him in the ribs.

  “I want to leave at daybreak,” Emerson said self-consciously.

  “Yes, sir,” said Ramses.

  “Breakfast here at six,” I said.

  “Yes, Mother,” said Nefret.

  Jumana’s wide eyes followed them as they went off, arm in arm, their heads close together. Or was it Ramses she watched with such wistful attention? She was of an age where girls fancy themselves in love with unsuitable persons, and Ramses had every quality she could want in a prospective husband (aside from the inconvenient fact that he was already married). If Jamil knew or suspected her attachment it would explain why he had selected Ramses as the object of his ire.

  “By the by,” said I to Emerson, “you didn’t tell Cyrus about the artifacts I bought in Cairo. I had expected you would want to show them off.”

  “Quite the contrary,” said Emerson to me. “He’d go haring off to Cairo looking for more of the cursed things. He should be thinking of his excavations.”

  He fell silent, concentrating on his pipe. Now that the moment had come, he was regretting having offered to question Jumana; he was afraid she would cry. Emerson is a hopeless coward with women.

  He did not know this one. Before either of us could speak, Jumana sat up straight and raised her chin defiantly. “I was very silly,” she declared. “Jamil can’t do anything… can he?”

  “No,” said Emerson. “Except, perhaps, to you.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  I was pleased to see she had recovered her nerve – timid women are a confounded nuisance – but her confidence was somewhat alarming.

  “He won’t get the chance,” I said. “Listen to me, Jumana. You were right to warn Ramses about Jamil, but you are wrong if you believe he is harmless. I want your word that you will go nowhere alone and that if Jamil attempts to communicate with you, you will inform us immediately.”

  “What will you do to him if you find him?”

  For once, Emerson was too quick for me. “Lock him up. You must see that we cannot allow him to hang about threatening people and… Why are you glaring at me, Peabody?”

  “I am not glaring, Emerson,” I said, forcing my features into a smile. “It is just that I believe I can explain our intentions more accurately than you. Jumana, if Jamil would come to us and express repentance, we will do all we can to help him.”

  “You would?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly. She still loved the wretched boy and probably believed she could redeem him. This is a common delusion of women.

  After all, I had not been specific. In my opinion the best way to help Jamil would be to put him in a cell – a nice, clean, comfortable cell, naturally – and let him consider the advantages of an honest life.

  I had expected Emerson would want to go straight to the site next morning. I had no objection to his doing so; there was a great deal to do round the house, and Emerson was more of a hindrance than a help, always grumbling and complaining. However, when we sat down to breakfast I saw that he and Ramses were dressed for rough terrain, in old tweeds and stout boots. It did not require much thought to deduce where they meant to go. I ought to have known! My hypocritical husband’s lecture to Cyrus had been meant to deter the latter from doing precisely what Emerson intended to do that day. The southwest wadis are remote and difficult of access.

  I attempted to catch Emerson’s eyes but failed; he was looking at the sugar bowl, the coffeepot, the salt cellar – anything but me. “Emerson,” I said loudly, “I trust you had the courtesy to inform Fatima last night that we would want a packed luncheon?”

  “Luncheon? We?” Emerson’s heavy black brows drew together. “See here, Peabody -”

  “I will tell her now,” I said with a sigh. “Fortunately she always has a full larder. Are we taking Selim and Daoud with us?”

  “Yes. No. Oh, curse it,” said Emerson.

  “What about Jumana?” I persisted.

  “No,” said Emerson firmly.

  “I don’t believe we ought to leave her alone.”

  “She won’t be alone. There are a dozen people… Damnation. You don’t think she would creep out to meet that young swine? She gave me her word -”

  “No, she did not. I don’t trust her out of my sight. She’s been climbing over those hills since she was a child, she can keep up as well as the rest of us.”

  “If you are going to make a full-scale expedition of this -”

  “You would have gone off without so much as a water bottle,” I retorted. “I will change my boots and get my parasol, and have a few words with Fatima.”

  Emerson made one last, and as he ought to have known, futile attempt to head me off. “But, Peabody, I thought you meant to spend the day here. There is a great deal to do, unpacking and -”

  “Yes, my dear, there is. Obviously it will have to wait. I won’t be long.”

  I had my few words with Fatima and sent one of the maids to tell Jumana she was wanted in the sitting room. It took me a while to find my boots, which were buried under a heap of Emerson’s clothes. The most important part of my costume was ready at hand. Though my working attire of trousers and tweed coat is well equipped with pockets, I have never abandoned my invaluable belt of tools. Over the years I had refined and added to these accoutrements: a pistol and knife, a coil of rope, a small flask of brandy, candles and matches in a waterproof box, and other useful items. On an expedition such as this, one could not take too many precautions. I hung a small first-aid kit and a brush from two of the empty hooks, and returned to the breakfast room, where I found that Jumana had joined the others.

  Emerson, who objects to my being hung all round with sharp-edged or blunt objects, gave me a sour look but refrained from comment. I turned to Nefret.

  “Are you coming, my dear, or would you prefer to stay here and get your new quarters in order? I purchased goods for draperies – a very pretty blue, shot with silver – but I haven’t done anything about servants, since I assumed you would wish to select them yourself. One of Yusuf’s brother’s cousins has already come round asking -”

  “Yes, Mother, you mentioned that. I am coming, of course. Do you suppose I would allow my poor helpless husband to go off without me to protect him?”

  Jumana gave her a
startled look, and Ramses’s lips parted in a grin. He must have told Nefret of the plan the night before. She certainly had him well in hand – better than I had Emerson!

  Fatima bustled in with two heavily laden baskets, and we went to the stable, where we found Daoud chatting with the stableman and Selim chatting with the horses. He was a fine rider, and he had been in charge of the splendid Arabians while we were away. Risha and Asfur had been gifts to Ramses and David from a Bedouin friend. Their progeny, which included Nefret’s mare Moonlight, had increased over the years.

  “Are we taking the horses?” I inquired. I knew the answer even before Emerson shook his head. He had told Selim and Daoud to meet him in the stable so I wouldn’t see them! Neither appeared surprised to see me, however. Selim greeted me with a knowing smile. He and Daoud both carried coils of rope. I had a feeling we would need ropes before the day was over, if the paths Emerson meant to take were too rough for the horses.

  I have clambered over the Theban mountains many a time, by day and by night. The exercise is delightful during the time of full moon, when the rugged surface is a symphony of silver and shadow. The first part of the trek was familiar to me, and not difficult – up the slope behind Deir el Bahri to the top of the plateau and the path that led from the workmen’s village to the Valley of the Kings. How often had I stood there gazing out upon the panorama of temples and villages, desert and sown, with the waters of the Nile sparkling in the sunlight! It was a hallowed spot; for as our dear departed reis Abdullah grew older, I would often pretend fatigue after the climb so that he could stop and catch his breath. I dreamed of him from time to time, and it was always in this setting that I saw him.

  Difficult as it is to believe of such a barren, rocky region, the wadis of the Western Desert were cut by water pouring down the cliffs of the high plateau to the plain below. I believe I can best make the Reader come to an understanding of this particular terrain, which is nothing at all like the sand deserts of the Sahara, by comparing the plateau to a plum cake which has been set down on a flattish platter (the Nile Valley). Imagine that some monstrous being has thrust taloned claws into the soft top and sides of this confection and withdrawn them, leaving ragged fissures and tumbled lumps.

  (When Emerson happened to read this particular section of my narrative, he remarked that in his opinion no rational person could make such an absurd comparison. In my opinion, it is a valid figure of speech, and very descriptive.)

  Paths wind to and fro across the slopes and over the gebel; some are fairly easy, others are more suitable for goats. These latter were the ones we followed, for whenever there was a choice between an easier, roundabout route, or a steeper, direct path, Emerson chose the second. I had to trust to his leadership, since I had never come this way, but various landmarks gave me a general sense of where we were. Above rose the great pyramid-shaped peak known as the Qurn; beyond, below, and behind it were ravines of all sizes, including the great Valleys of the Kings and the Queens. As we went on, scrambling up stony slopes and over projecting ridges, the scenery became wilder and more spectacular, but even in that remote region there were signs of the presence of man, both ancient and modern: a scrap of newspaper that might have wrapped someone’s lunch, the tumbled stones of crude huts, scraps of broken pottery and animal bones.

  After an hour of strenuous walking I persuaded Emerson to stop for a brief rest and a sip of water. The view was breathtaking but monotonous – tumbled stone and bare ground, with the blue of the sky above the only color.

  “Emerson, are you sure you know where you are going?” I inquired, mopping my perspiring face.

  “Certainly,” said Emerson, looking surprised. He pointed. “We are only eight thousand feet from Medinet Habu. Cheer up, Peabody, we’ll be going down from here; there is a perfectly good path to the next wadi and from there it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump to the Cemetery of the Monkeys.”

  By the time we reached the end of his “perfectly good path,” which was nothing of the sort, the sun was high overhead. A long, relatively low ridge of rock separated the first wadi from the second, though I certainly would not have described its traverse as a hop, skip, and a jump. A scramble, a slip, and a stretch would be more like it. Once over the ridge we saw a narrow, irregular canyon, stretching out to the north. The ground was extremely uneven, littered with fallen rock and archaeological debris – fragments of red pottery, flints, and so on.

  Hot, out of breath, and faced with this unpromising view, I allowed myself to speak candidly. “That, I take it, is the wadi where the princesses’ tomb is located. Would you now care to explain what the devil we are doing here? You told Cyrus he would be wasting his time looking for tombs here.”

  “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Modesty forbids me to mention that I am perhaps a trifle more qualified than Vandergelt. However, that is not my primary aim. I just – er – want to have a look at the princesses’ tomb. The bastards can’t have made a complete clearance.”

  “Oh, yes, they could have. I tell you, Emerson, you won’t find anything of interest – and how are we to locate the exact spot? The tomb was well hidden, and there are dozens of clefts and rifts in those walls.”

  “There may be signs,” Emerson insisted. “Watermarks, fresh stone chips, possibly even scraps of the burial equipment. Do you see anything, Ramses?”

  “No, sir.” Ramses bent and picked up a piece of worked stone, covered with a thick patina. He tossed it away. “Paleolithic.”

  We made our way slowly along the uneven floor of the wadi, scanning the rocky walls on either side. There was a good deal more debris, in the form of pottery shards and scraps of stone. I came to a halt next to a gaping hole and let out a cry of excitement. “Emerson! A pit tomb, is it not? And here -” I reached for an object half hidden in dusty chips – something that was surely metallic, for a glint of sunlight had shone off it. “Here is – oh.”

  It was a crumpled cigarette tin.

  “Carter,” said Emerson, making the name sound like an expletive.

  “How do you know?”

  “None of the local men can afford European cigarettes,” Emerson said. “It’s the brand he smokes, isn’t it?”

  As we went on, the ground underfoot became even more uneven; it appeared as if someone had conducted a random but extensive excavation. Emerson growled. “Either Carter has lost all remnants of archaeological conscience, or the locals have been digging, looking for tombs.”

  “The latter, surely,” said Ramses. “Carter had every right to be here, Father; he has done nothing wrong.”

  “Hmph,” said Emerson, who could not deny this, but who, in his heart of hearts, regarded the entire country of Egypt as his personal property, archaeologically speaking.

  We had almost reached the end of the canyon when I became aware of a faint, unpleasant smell. I looked up, expecting to see floating overhead the winged predators that feed on carrion; but the sky was empty of all but light.

  Jumana was the first to see the signs for which we had been searching. She ran on ahead, quick and sure-footed over the uneven ground, and came to a stop. “See!”

  The object she held up was a small gold bead.

  “Ha,” said Emerson. “Well done, Jumana. Yes, just as I expected. The tomb must have been partially filled with rock fallen from the walls and ceiling. The villains were careful not to remove any more of it than they had to, but they were bound to lose a few items. By Gad, that looks like a bone.”

  It fell to pieces in a shower of dust when he picked it up. “Water-rotted,” Emerson muttered, and began rooting around in the debris.

  “The tomb must be up there,” Ramses said, shading his eyes with his hand. “Directly above, in that rift.”

  Emerson got to his feet. Only then did something odd seem to strike him. He threw his shoulders back, raised his head, and sniffed. “Have the local lads been up to their old tricks – throwing the carcass of a dead animal into the shaft to deter other explorers? You remember the Abd er R
assuls, and the Royal Cache.”

  “Why would they bother to do that, if there is nothing left in the tomb?” I asked. I pinched my nose with my fingers.

  “Precisely,” said Emerson, looking pleased. “I will just have a look.”

  We were at the far end of the valley, facing a steep cliff that I judged to be over a hundred feet high. Some thirty feet above us I made out a cleft running deep into the rock.

  “Emerson,” I said, choosing my words with care, “it is a sheer drop from the cleft down to the base of the cliff. If you are bent on breaking your arm or your leg or your neck or all three, find a place closer to home so we won’t have to carry you such a distance.”

  Emerson grinned at me. “You do enjoy your little touches of sarcasm, Peabody. I can make it.”

  “No, sir, I don’t believe you can,” Ramses said, quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t care to try it either. I’ll go round and up, with the rope, and lower myself from the top as the thieves did.”

  I let out a sigh of relief. Ramses seldom contradicted his father, but when he did, Emerson heeded his advice – a compliment he paid few people, including me.

  “Oh,” he said, stroking his chin. “Hmph. Very well, my boy. Be careful.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will go too,” Daoud volunteered. “To hold the rope.”

  He slung a coil of rope over his shoulder and the two of them set out toward the mouth of the wadi, where the enclosing cliffs were lower and easier to climb. They would have quite a scramble to get to the top, but I was not concerned about them; Ramses was the best rock climber in the family and Daoud had been up and down cliffs like these since childhood. He would make certain Ramses took sensible precautions.