Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [154]
“It falls into the category of what might be called Letters to the Dead,” he explained. “This appears to be written by a widower to his deceased wife. ‘To the excellent equipped spirit Baketamon: What have I done to you that you have caused evil to come to me? I took you as wife, I did not put you away, I brought many good things to you, and when you sickened I caused the chief physician to come to you; I wrapped you in fine linen and gave you a good burial, and since that time I have not known another woman, though it is right that a man like myself should do so. Yet you torment me and bring evil upon me!’ “
“Does he say what sort of evil?” Nefret inquired, her arms clasped round her raised knees.
“No. Presumably he had a streak of bad luck.”
“And blamed it on her,” Lia said with a little laugh. “Don’t say it, Aunt Amelia.”
“ ‘Just like a man,’ you mean? Persons of both genders and all cultures fall into that error,” I admitted generously. “It is comforting to ascribe misfortune to demonic influence, since one may hope to avert it by magical means instead of being forced to accept it as inevitable.”
“Or as one’s own fault,” Lia said. “It does seem to me that he wouldn’t have picked on her—poor dead woman—unless he knew he had done something to deserve her anger. Not that he would admit it.”
“He couldn’t,” Ramses said, placing the fragment carefully in a padded tray. “He says he’s going to file a complaint against her in the Tribunal of the Gods. This is a formal appeal—a legal document, in a sense.”
“Like taking the Fifth Amendment in American law,” Bertie said with a grin. “One wouldn’t expect him to testify against himself.”
Emerson, who had listened with only half an ear, ordered everyone back to work.
Sifting rubbish does not require one’s full attention if one is as experienced as I. The Reader will no doubt anticipate the tenor of my wandering thoughts. Less perceptive individuals might have been reassured by the relative peace of those days, without a single incident that could be viewed as hostile. To me, it was highly suspicious—the calm before the storm, the lull before the battle. Something was brewing, I felt it in my very bones. But though I had gone over and over the facts we knew, the pattern yet eluded me.
Having been left one evening with no one to talk to, I went to my own little study. The weary workers had dispersed, Walter and Evelyn to the Castle and the others to their rooms, and Emerson to his own office. My desk was piled high with work in progress, including my own excavation notes, but I was diverted by three sheets of paper covered with Ramses’s emphatic scrawl. It was the translation of part of Walter’s horoscope papyrus he had promised me; I hadn’t had a chance to look at it before.
It began with that memorable entry concerning “the children of the storm.” Memorable and seemingly significant, but as I glanced through the remainder of the pages I found nothing of interest. “It is the day of Horus fighting with Set” was followed by “It is the day of peace between Horus and Set.” Not surprisingly, the first was designated as “very unfavorable,” and the second as “very favorable.” Neither could reasonably be said to have any bearing on our situation.
After all, what had I expected? Deciphering Ramses’s handwriting always gave me a headache. I put the pages aside. Under them was one of my lists—the names of the women with whom Ramses had been involved. Guiltily, I wondered if he had seen it. He had. At the bottom of the page was another entry in that same emphatic scrawl. “Shame on you, Mother.”
I began idly sketching on a blank sheet of paper. I do not draw well, but I had learned the rudiments, as all archaeologists must, and I had found this mechanical operation to be conducive to thought. When the hands are busy the mind is free to wander at will. Never before had I been at such a loss to find