Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [80]
“I’d leave that to David. Ramses lost the damn—” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jumana scribbling busily, and revised his comment. “He lost the battle, you know. All this is pure propaganda. Reminds one of the War Office, doesn’t it?”
“All war offices,” Nefret murmured. “Down through the centuries.”
The back part of the temple was in ruinous condition. Nudged by Nefret, Ramses delivered another lecture. “The chapels dedicated to the king and various gods were the most remote and sacred parts of the temple, where only priests could go. In the morning the attendants would open the doors of the shrines, anoint the statues and dress them in fresh robes, and make offerings.”
“They put clothes on the statues?” Jumana asked incredulously.
“Fine linen and royal linen, and ornaments of gold and precious stones. The offering vessels were also of the finest materials—or so we assume.” He added, “The actual food was eaten by the priests, after the god had finished with it.”
Jamil was leaning against a fallen pillar, arms folded and eyes half closed. His ostentatious boredom inspired Ramses to continue. “The most important shrines were at Karnak and Luxor Temples, but the gods, especially Amon-Re, were represented in various other temples. He traveled around quite a lot, too; his statue was carried from Karnak to Luxor every year, and he also visited his sanctuary at Deir el Bahri. It must have been quite a thing to see: the barges on which he was carried shining with gold, the crowds of devoted worshipers lining the route.”
Jamil covered his mouth with his hand, presumably to hide a yawn.
“Where shall we go tomorrow?” Jumana asked, as they retraced their steps.
She was taking it for granted that she would make one of the party. He hadn’t the heart to deny her, especially with Nefret watching him.
“The West Valley, I think.”
“Mr. Carter won’t like that,” Nefret said.
“I am not planning to steal his damned tomb, just see if there are any signs of recent activity.”
“Don’t swear,” Nefret said, in a fair imitation of his mother’s voice. She laughed, and added, “You sounded alarmingly like the Professor.”
“Good Lord, did I? Unlike Father, who would like nothing better than an excuse to interfere with someone else’s excavation, I meant precisely what I said. We’ll head out that way tomorrow.”
When they reached the Amelia they turned the horses over to Jamil, and Ramses said, “What about a change of scene and cuisine tonight? Maaman’s cooking is first-rate, but it’s becoming a bit repetitive. We could have dinner at the Winter Palace or the Luxor and perhaps buy a newspaper. We’ve been out of touch for weeks.”
“Not tonight. Do you mind? I’m a little tired and we really ought to write a few letters.”
From Letter Collection T
Dear Mother and Father,
I’m afraid we haven’t much to report thus far, except the most important thing—Tetisheri is safe! Not even a bat got past those iron doors, though some idiot tourist—the same one who left his odd little cryptogram all over Amarna—risked his neck climbing up—or down—into the cleft. It was an eerie experience, to stand in the dark, empty burial chamber and remember all the excitement of that wonderful season. There’s no place quite like Luxor, is there? We’ve spoken with M. Legrain and Mr. Lansing and a few others, but haven’t learned anything of interest. However, I have acquired a protégée. I never had one before! She is Yusuf’s daughter, a bright and beautiful little person who aspires to be an Egyptologist. Yusuf agreed to let her go with us when we visit the various sites. He thinks it’s only a temporary arrangement, and I see no reason to inform him of my intentions until I see how she works out; but prepare yourself for piteous complaints from Luxor if and when I remove her from under the paternal roof.
Her brother Jamil is our official escort. He’s beautiful too, but not at all bright, and as vain as a peacock. There’s no way of ridding ourselves of him without offending Yusuf, though. That’s about all the news, except that we are suffering from