He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [55]
“You may as well,” said Emerson casually. “Selim can help Nefret with the photography. Er—try not to let anyone shoot at you or abduct you by force, Peabody.”
“My dear, what a tease you are,” I said, laughing merrily.
As I rode along the well-known southward path over the plateau, I was filled with relief and with admiration for Emerson’s cleverness. The excuse was valid, the explanation sufficient. A good number of people, including our own men, had seen “Ramses” astride Risha, looking his normal self; he could spend most of the day away without arousing suspicion, and when he returned . . . Perhaps Emerson had already worked that out with David. If he had not, I had a few ideas of my own.
Since I was in no hurry I let the horse set its own pace. It was still early, the air cool and fresh. The sun had lifted over the Mokattam Hills and sparkled on the river, which lay below the desert plateau on my left. The fertile land bordering the water was green with new crops. From my vantage point above the cultivation I could see traffic passing along the road below—fellahin going to work in their fields and shops, and tourists on their way to Sakkara and the other sites south of Giza. Part of me yearned to descend and follow that road back to the house, but I dared not risk it; I could not get to Ramses without being seen by Fatima or one of the others.
Zawaiet is only a short distance from Giza; it was not long before I saw the tumbled mound that had once been a pyramid (though not a very good one.) David had been looking out for me. He came hurrying to meet me, and I slowed my steed to a walk so that we could exchange a few words without being overheard by the small group of Egyptians waiting near the pyramid. They must be local villagers, hoping for employment.
As David approached I wondered how two men could look so much alike as he and Ramses, and yet look so different! He was wearing Ramses’s clothes, and his pith helmet shadowed his face, and their outlines were almost identical—long legs and narrow waists and broad shoulders—but I could have told one from the other just by the way they moved.
“A few of the local lads turned up,” David explained.
“I suppose one ought to have expected that. They are always anxious for work, and extremely curious.”
“It’s all to the good, really. More unobservant and uncritical witnesses.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
David grinned. “Start them clearing away sand. There’s plenty of it. Perhaps you’d care to interrogate them about the illicit digging while I stalk about scribbling notes and looking enigmatic.”
“Was there illicit digging?”
“There always is.”
There always was. Under my expert questioning, one of the villagers broke down and admitted he and a few friends had found and cleared a small mastaba over the past summer. I demanded he show me the place and made a great fuss about it, though if he had not lied to me (which was entirely possible), the tomb was not likely to have contained anything of value, being one of the smaller and poorer variety. We had found very little ourselves, even in the larger tombs.
I was forced to wait until midday, when the men went off to eat and rest, before I could have a private conversation with David. There was no shelter, not even a patch of shade, so I put up my useful parasol and we made ourselves as comfortable as we could with our backs up against the pyramid, and got out the sandwiches and tea David had brought with him.
“Now,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
“That’s rather a tall order, Aunt Amelia.”
“Take all the time you like.”
“How much has Ramses told you?”
“Nothing. He was too ill. Now, see here, David, I fully intend to get it out of you, and if Ramses does not like it, that is too damned—er—too bad.”
He choked on the tea he was drinking. I patted him on the back. “I am glad to see you, even under these circumstances,” I said affectionately. “I presume Ramses has kept you informed about our loved ones back in England. Lia is doing splendidly.”
“No, she’s