Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [76]
“We will pass the word,” Selim promised. “And ask about strangers.”
So that was that. David and Evelyn had gone to the Castle, but Bertie was with us and so was Sennia. Letting her come was a reward and a distinction to which I felt she was entitled. Unfortunately, bringing Sennia along meant that we also had to bring Gargery and Horus. They were both frightful nuisances. Horus growled and snapped at everyone who came near Sennia, and Gargery refused to admit that he was no longer quick enough and strong enough to guard her from danger. Watching Sennia dash around the site with Gargery hobbling after her, cursing at Horus, who swore back at him, would have been amusing if it had not been so inconvenient. I hadn’t the heart to deny Gargery, though—or the courage to deny Horus.
Sennia’s self-appointed task was to collect inscribed ostraca for Ramses, so I persuaded her to help me sift the debris the men had removed from the house we were clearing. She had keen eyes and had been trained to recognize the cursive hieratic writing. The shards of broken pottery, some small, some quite large, sometimes had sketches instead of inscriptions. Fortunately I was able to snatch one particular scrap away before she got a good look at it. Later, I handed it to Ramses.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said. “Is this . . . Oh. Good Lord. Did Sennia see it?”
“No, I sent her off to help Emerson. You have been allowing her to fit broken pieces together, I believe; I hope and trust she has not come across others of this nature.”
“So do I,” Ramses muttered, holding the fragment by the edges. “I don’t think so, Mother. Knowing Sennia, she would have shown them to me and asked me to explain them. I will go over the others again before I let her work on them.”
“This is part of a larger piece. You see where this lower limb—”
“Yes,” Ramses said quickly. He was visibly embarrassed, not by the subject matter of the drawing itself but by my discussion of it. Young persons never quite accept the fact that their parents—particularly their mothers—are familiar with the mechanisms of the human body.
“It reminds me,” I went on, “of the drawings on that papyrus in the Turin Museum.”
“How the hell—” Ramses almost dropped the scrap. “I beg your pardon, Mother. How did you get a look at that papyrus? Women aren’t supposed to—”
“Have you ever known me to be deterred from my research by a foolish convention? It is quite possible that though its origins are unknown, that papyrus was found here at Deir el Medina, early in the last century. The villagers seem to have been a—er—merry lot.”
“Quite,” said Ramses, flushed and perspiring. “If you will excuse me, Mother—”
“Not just yet. I want to discuss another matter with you.”
Resignedly, Ramses subsided into a sitting position. I did not doubt he would find this subject even more embarrassing, but if it had not already occurred to him he was no son of mine. I plunged straight in medias res.
“The reappearance of Maryam casts a new light on the Affair of the Veiled Hathor and lends greater credence to one of our theories. She was not on my list—”
“List?” His jaw tightened and his black eyes narrowed to slits as comprehension was succeeded by outrage. “What list? Mother, you didn’t!”
“It was a legitimate, indeed, necessary, part of my criminal investigation.”
Ramses pushed his hat back and covered his flushed face with his hands. “I suppose you consulted Nefret,” he muttered between clenched fingers.
“My dearest boy, how could you suppose I would do such