The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [100]
Sir Edward had borrowed one of Cyrus’s mounts. It and the other horses were waiting when we emerged from the house. I watched Ramses out of the corner of my eye, wondering how he would manage; he had of course lost the argument and his right arm was enveloped in what appeared to be a bedsheet, for Nefret did nothing by halves. Risha snuffled inquiringly at the fabric, and, with an uncanny appearance of understanding the difficulty, adjusted his hindquarters in the position required for the spectacular flying mount Ramses used when he wanted to show off. Success depended in part on the strength and length of the rider’s lower limbs, and Ramses accomplished it without visible effort.
We left the horses at the donkey park in charge of one of the attendants. The men, headed by Abdullah, were already at work. A cloud of pale dust surrounded the entrance of number Five, from which one of our brave fellows emerged carrying a basket of broken rock. The sound of pickaxes could be heard from within. Cursing, Emerson stripped off his coat and threw it on the ground. “Late!” he cried, in poignant, generalized accusation, and without further ado plunged into the dark opening. Ramses promptly followed.
“Doesn’t the Professor trust Abdullah to direct operations?” Sir Edward asked.
“As much as he trusts anyone. He believes he should be the one to make the decisions and take the risks.”
“Risks?” Sir Edward glanced betrayingly at Nefret, who was helping David with the cameras.
“There are always risks entering a new tomb,” I replied, dusting off Emerson’s coat and putting it over my arm. “And this one is quite nasty—filled to the ceiling with broken rock and debris.”
“Why bother with it, then?”
Emerson reappeared in time to hear the question. His black hair looked as if it had been powdered. “Why bother?” he repeated. “That, sir, is a stupid question from someone who claims to have an interest in Egyptology. However—” He turned and shouted, “Ramses! Come out of there!”
When Ramses had done so, Emerson said, “I am about to explain the interesting features of this tomb to Sir Edward. You and David have not been with us, so you may as well listen too.”
Ramses opened his mouth, caught his father’s eye, closed his mouth, and nodded.
“Ahem,” said Emerson, removing a sheet of paper from his notebook. “This tomb is described by Baedeker and other sources as a short corridor tomb without inscriptions. This is not correct. Burton actually entered the place in 1830. His plan shows an arrangement quite unlike any other sepulchre in the Valley: a great sixteen-pillared hall, with smaller rooms on all four sides, and an extension of unknown length beyond. Burton couldn’t get any farther. However, in two places he found traces of the prenomen of Ramses II. Wilkinson—”
“Emerson,” I said, anticipating the interruption I could see hovering on the lips of my son, “you needn’t go into such detail. You are boring Sir Edward.”
“Not at all,” said that gentleman with a winning smile. “The Professor is playing a little game with me, I think, or perhaps testing me. This cannot be the tomb of Ramses II, for his lies just across the way. Number Seven, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Emerson. “As I was saying before my wife interrupted me, the unusual plan and certain other evidence suggest this was a multiple burial. We have begun the clearance of the first chamber. It is slow going, since the cursed place is packed hard with rubble. I won’t be needing you for a while, Ramses; you might—er—just go along and say hello to Ayrton. He missed you the other day. And,” he added emphatically, “we missed him this morning because of being so confounded late.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ramses.
He and David, who of course accompanied him, were gone quite some time. We were about to stop for our mid-morning tea when they turned