He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [92]
She took his arm and smiled up at him.
I waited until they were out of earshot before I turned to my son.
“Are you all right?”
He started. “I beg your pardon?”
“Did you hurt yourself? You ought not have carried her.”
“I did not hurt myself.”
“Is your arm painful?”
“Yes. I expect it will be painful for a while. It is functional, however, and that is the main thing. He hasn’t turned up yet. Are you certain he is coming?”
I knew to whom Ramses referred. I said calmly, “I don’t see how he can fail to respond. I sent similar invitations to a good many other people, but he must know that I had a particular reason for asking him. It is early yet. He will come.”
I no longer wonder how the pyramids could have been built with the simplest of tools. The way the men went about raising our statue demonstrated the skill and strength their ancestors must have employed on similar projects. As they continued to deepen the shaft and the statue was gradually freed of the sand that had blanketed it all those years, the danger of its toppling over increased. If it had struck against the stone wall it might have been chipped or even broken. Emerson was determined that this should not happen. The top half of the statue was now tightly wrapped in rugs and canvas and any other fabric he had been able to find; ropes enclosed the bundle, and several of our strongest workers held other ropes that would, we hoped, prevent it from tipping over.
It was a fascinating process, but I knew I could not allow archaeological fever to distract me from other duties. By early afternoon the crowd of spectators had increased. Some of them had cameras, and they kept on trying to take photographs, despite the fact that—thanks to my efforts—they were too far distant to get anything except a group of Egyptian workmen. I had to bustle busily about, since none of our skilled men could be spared to assist me, and I began to feel like an unhappy teacher trying to control a group of very active, very naughty children. At last I resorted to a clever stratagem. Mounting a fallen block of stone, I gathered most of the tourists to me and delivered a little lecture, stressing the delicacy of the operation and promising them they would get an opportunity to take all the photographs they liked once the statue was out. Strictly speaking, it was not a lie, since I did not specify what they could photograph. I try to avoid falsehood unless it is absolutely necessary.
As I spoke—shouted, rather—I scanned the faces of the spectators. A number of the people I had invited had turned up, as well as a number of those I had not. I thought I caught a glimpse of Percy among the group of military persons who had come from the camp near Mena House, but I could not be certain; the individual in question was surrounded by tall Australians.
I was beginning to be a bit anxious about Russell when finally I beheld him. Like several of the tourists, he was on camelback, but his easy pose and expert handling of the beast did not at all resemble the ineffectual performance of the amateurs. I looked round for Ramses, and found him at my elbow.
“Father thought you might need some assistance in controlling the mob,” he explained.
“I certainly do,” I replied, taking a firmer grip on my parasol and glaring at a stout American person who was trying to edge past me. He retreated in some alarm before Russell’s camel. All camels have evil tempers, and the large stained teeth of this one were bared by curling lips. It knelt, grumbling, and Russell dismounted and removed his hat.
“Everyone in Cairo is talking of your discovery,” he said. “I could not resist having a look for myself.” He tossed Ramses the reins, as he would have done to a groom.
“Come and have a closer look.” I took his arm and led him toward the shaft.
“Not too close. I know the Professor’s temper.” He lowered his