Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [85]
“I wonder how accurate his story was,” said Ramses, acknowledging the plaudits of the crowd with a wave of his hand. “Hullo, Selim. Sorry to have interrupted.”
“It was time,” said Selim, frowning. “My respected uncle is a great liar, but . . . Is it true that the sinking of the boat was deliberate?”
Emerson had dismounted. Politely fending off two admirers—Daoud’s sons—who were trying to embrace him, he said, “It is true. Ramses, will you address the crowd, since Daoud has got them in the proper frame of mind?”
“Yes, sir,” Ramses said. He raised his hand for silence, and the faces turned expectantly toward him. “My friends! Daoud has told you what happened. It was no accident. We will replace the boat, but we must find out who was guilty of such an evil act. We ask for your help, knowing you will give it as you have always done.” He would have stopped there, but the sight of Daoud’s hopeful face made him add, “Though he was too modest to say so, Daoud is also a hero. Honor him for his courage.”
“Well done, my boy,” Nefret murmured.
She hadn’t called him that for a long time. He turned quickly to her, but she had already started to dismount. The rest of them followed suit and one of the men led the horses away, to the shelter his mother had rigged up with poles and pieces of canvas.
“Get the men started, Selim,” Emerson ordered.
“Not yet,” said Selim, looking severely at Emerson. “This is a bad business, Father of Curses. We must discuss our strategy.”
“I don’t have a strategy,” Emerson retorted. “What the devil, Selim—”
His wife poked him with her parasol. “Perhaps Selim has one, Emerson. You might at least pay him the courtesy of listening.”
Before Selim could reply, they were joined by Bertie Vandergelt. Ramses hadn’t seen him until then, but he had obviously been one of the audience, for his face bore a frown instead of its usual affable smile. Removing his pith helmet, in acknowledgment of the ladies, he exclaimed, “This is frightful, Professor. You might all have been killed! How can you dismiss the incident so casually?”
“If you or Selim has any practical advice, I would be pleased to hear it,” said Emerson, folding his arms and scowling.
They didn’t. Neither did Daoud, though he informed them that his son, the nominal captain of the sunken craft, had gone across to Luxor early that morning to see if the boat could be raised, and to question the other boatmen.
“We have done all we can for the present,” said Emerson firmly. “If anyone knows anything, Selim will hear of it. Now may I be allowed to carry on with my work? Bertie, I want a plan of the house we finished excavating yesterday. David, get the cameras. Walter, there are several graffiti on the facade to be copied.”
Selim dared to linger for a moment. “Is it true that Daoud can now swim? He was boasting that David had taught him.”
“He may need a few more lessons,” David said. His amused smile faded. “Perhaps he’d better have them. You too, Selim.”
“I do not think so,” said Selim, backing away. “I swim well enough. Now, Father of Curses, I will start the men who are working at the temple.”
Emerson was already striding away. “Ramses!” he shouted.
The ruins of the structures north of the Ptolemaic temple presented a few nice little problems in excavation. Not a wall had been left standing, and it wasn’t easy to determine precisely where the fallen blocks had fit in. Many were missing, carried off by later builders. Fellahin and archaeologists searching for artifacts had dug holes more or less at random, leaving piles of debris and further confusing the stratigraphy. Emerson let out a particularly ripe string of swear words when one of the men found a page from a German newspaper, dated January 4, 1843, two feet below the surface. They made good progress, though, and later that morning Emerson cheered up when they located a piece of column with the cartouche of Seti I. When they stopped for luncheon he surveyed the collection of objects that had been found with visible satisfaction. They