Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [7]
“Somebody’s up there,” he said. “Near our tomb.”
Sunlight brightened the high ridge of stone that crowned the hill. Something was moving, but Ramses, whose keen eyesight was proverbial, was unable to make out details at that distance. “Probably one of the indefatigable robbers from Gurneh,” he suggested. “Hoping against hope that we overlooked something when we cleared the tomb.”
That had been the second major distraction—the cache of mummies and funerary equipment belonging to the late-period princesses and God’s Wives. Strictly speaking, it was not Emerson’s tomb, but Cyrus Vandergelt’s, for that season they had shared the site with their American colleague and old friend, keeping the village for themselves and allocating the tombs on the hillside to Cyrus. Not even Emerson begrudged him the discovery; Cyrus had excavated for years in Thebes without finding anything of importance, and a discovery like this one had fulfilled the dream of a lifetime. Since it was Cyrus’s stepson and assistant, Bertie, who had actually located the missing tomb, Cyrus had a double claim. Ramses had been present at a number of exciting discoveries—his father had an uncanny instinct for such things—but he would never forget his first sight of the hidden chamber in the cliff, packed from floor to ceiling with a dazzling collection of coffins, canopic jars, and chests filled with jewels and richly decorated garments. They had all pitched in to help Cyrus clear the tomb and remove the objects, some of which were in fragile condition. The job took precedence over all other projects, since the tomb robbers of Thebes were hovering like vultures, alert for a chance of making off with some of the valuables. It had taken months to record and remove everything, and the process of restoration was still underway.
“Send one of the men up there to run him off,” Emerson growled, eyes still fixed on the minute form.
Selim rolled his eyes and grinned, but left it to Ramses to make the obvious objection. “Why waste the effort?” he asked. “There’s nothing left. If the fellow is fool enough to risk his neck climbing down that cleft, let him.”
“It could be a damned tourist,” Emerson muttered.
Ramses wished his mother had come with them instead of lingering to discuss household matters with Fatima. She’d have put an end to the discussion with a few acerbic comments. “We can’t run tourists off unless they interfere with our work,” he pointed out patiently. “You did that while we were working in the tomb and dozens of them went haring off to Cairo to register complaints.”
“We’d never have finished the job if I hadn’t,” Emerson growled. The memory of those harried days still maddened him. “Morons turning up with letters of introduction from all and sundry demanding to be shown the tomb, trying to climb the scaffolding, perched on every available surface with their cameras clicking, offering bribes to Selim and Daoud. And the bloody journalists were even worse.”
During the clearance Emerson had managed to antagonize most of the people who didn’t already detest him. Some excavators enjoyed publicity and yielded to demands from prominent persons who wanted to enter the tomb. Emerson loathed publicity and he flatly refused to allow visitors, however many titles or academic degrees they might possess. He had almost caused an international incident when he ran the King of the Belgians and his entourage off. People didn’t realize how time-consuming such visits could be for a harassed excavator. Emerson was right,