Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [29]
By evening the place was fit for human habitation. A quick visit to the village market had procured the screens for the roof and a few other necessities. As the day wore on, we had a constant stream of visitors offering “presents” of food—eggs, milk, bread, chickens—for which we were, of course, expected to pay. At dusk I ordered the stout wooden gates closed. Naturally we were objects of curiosity to the village people, but we could not have them wandering in and out, especially if we were fortunate enough to discover valuable antiquities.
Thanks to our location on the west of the village, we had a splendid view of the pyramids from our doorstep, and when we settled down to our evening meal, we saw them silhouetted against one of the glorious sunsets for which the region is famous. We dined out-of-doors; though the smell of donkey was somewhat pervasive, it was preferable to the even more pervasive odor of Keating’s powder that clung to the interior of the house.
Nemo had accepted my invitation to dine with us, not so much because he enjoyed our company as because the men had indicated they did not enjoy his. He refused a chair; squatting on the ground with his dirty robes wadded under him, he ate with his fingers and then wiped the grease off on his skirts. I felt sure he did it to annoy me, so I said nothing.
Conversation lagged at first. Emerson was preoccupied with the next day’s work, Nemo was determined not to be affable, and even I was a trifle weary. But Ramses was never too tired to talk, and the monologue was his favorite form of discourse. First he brought us up to date on the activities of the men. We heard all about Selim’s wedding and Abdul’s divorce and Yusuf’s twins and the three-headed goat that had been born in a neighboring village. (Such wonders are always to be found in a neighboring village, and are known only through reliable reports from people whom no one happens to know personally.)
Moving from the specific to the general, Ramses went on to summarize Abdullah’s report on the summer at Dahshoor. Though I do not as a rule encourage Ramses to talk, I did not interrupt him on this occasion, since the exigencies of domesticity had prevented me from hearing this news firsthand. We had expected there might be trouble at the site of the excavations. During the previous season a gang of professional thieves, under the direction of that desperate and enigmatic person I have mentioned, had attempted to loot the tombs around the pyramids. We had foiled their dastardly deed, but I feared they might be tempted to try again during our absence, and there were the village amateurs to contend with—if any tomb robber in Egypt can be said to be an amateur. The fellahin have been at it for generations, clear back to the time of the pharaohs, and many of them are more skilled at finding hidden tombs than are professional archaeologists. Wretchedly poor, and lacking any national pride after centuries of Turkish rule, they see no reason why they should not profit from the riches of their ancestors.
However, according to Abdullah, there had been no sign of illicit digging. He and his sons had taken it in turn to guard the site, traveling back and forth from their village south of Cairo.
As Ramses meandered endlessly on, I noticed that Nemo was listening with an interest the personal lives of the men had failed to inspire. I broke into Ramses’ discourse.
“You appear intrigued, Mr. Nemo. You are not familiar with the prevalence of tomb robbing in Egypt?”
“One can hardly remain ignorant of the practice if one lives for any time in Cairo,” was the bland reply. “Every antiquities dealer in the city sells such merchandise.”
“Have you never been tempted to join in the trade?”
Nemo smiled insolently. “Digging requires effort, Mrs. Emerson. I am opposed to physical