Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [123]
It was, in Ramses’s opinion, a futile task. The little private shrines had not been constructed of stone but of mud brick, plastered and painted. By now the plaster had flaked off and disintegrated. They hadn’t found a flake larger than a thumbnail.
He took the liberty of pointing this out to his father. “A votive stela,” said Emerson dogmatically. “That’s all we need. Even an ostracon inscribed with a prayer. Something may yet turn up in the area we haven’t finished clearing. Anyhow, the plan isn’t complete. Where’s the back wall? Selim!”
Selim hadn’t been listening. His head thrown back, he was staring at the brightening blue of the sky with a bemused expression. Looking for another aeroplane, Ramses thought, with inner amusement. Emerson had to call him twice before he responded.
Emerson’s luck was proverbial. They found his votive stela, or part of it, dedicated by the workman Nakhtmin to the deified king Amenhotep I and his mother, Ahmose Nefertari. Emerson carried it off in triumph to the shelter while Selim’s crew went on clearing the sanctuary.
“Where the devil is your mother?” Emerson demanded, delicately brushing encrusted sand from the brief inscription. “The rubble is piling up!”
She arrived a little before midday, bringing the hamper of food Emerson had forgotten, and accompanied by Lia and Sethos. Emerson hurried to meet them.
“The rubble,” he began.
“Yes, Emerson, I know. You may as well stop for luncheon now. As you see, we have a guest.”
“Ha,” said Emerson, studying his brother’s elegant tailoring and spotless pith helmet. “He can help you with—”
“Not today,” said Sethos amiably. “I only came along to keep the ladies company and have a look round. There’s not much here to interest an enthusiast,” he added, with a disparaging survey of the monotonous grayish-brown foundations and scattering of stones.
“We have just found evidence that Amenhotep the First and his mother were worshiped here,” Emerson exclaimed. “A stela fragment.”
“How exciting,” Sethos drawled. “If it had been a statue—”
“You’d try to steal it,” said Emerson, glowering.
“Your finds are safe from me,” Sethos said, emphasizing the pronoun.
Emerson wisely decided not to pursue this. “Where is everybody?” he demanded.
His wife began unpacking the hamper. “Where I told you they would be, Emerson. Evelyn and Walter are settling in at the Castle, Nefret is tending to a patient, and the children are running wild as usual. I was under the impression that you meant to spend more time with them.”
The blow was expertly calculated. Emerson closed his mouth, rubbed his chin, and looked self-conscious. “Never mind, never mind.” He raised his voice to a shout that made everyone jump. “Selim! Rest period. A quarter of an hour.”
They were still eating when another rider approached. It was Cyrus Vandergelt, urging his reluctant mare to a trot and waving a large envelope. He dismounted with more haste than grace and ran toward them.
“Just got this from Lacau,” he panted. “It has to be a list of the objects he wants. Look at the thickness of the envelope! I came here for moral support, didn’t have the nerve to open it.”
“Get a grip on yourself, man,” said Emerson, taking the envelope from him and ripping it open.
The sheaf of papers inside was indeed depressingly thick. Emerson scanned the pages. “He wants the coffins and the mummies. Well, we expected that. The robe Martinelli restored, the storage chests with the rest of the clothing, the canopic jars—”
“All of them?” Cyrus cried in anguish.
“Hmph,” said Emerson in acknowledgment. Concluding that it would take less time to read out the objects Lacau did not want, he proceeded to do so. “Half the ushebtis—his choice, naturally—three small uninscribed cosmetic jars, an ivory headrest . . .”
Everyone waited with bated breath until he finished, “Two beaded bracelets and two rings.”
Cyrus groaned and dropped onto a stone column base.
“Rotten luck, Cyrus,” Ramses said sympathetically, while his