The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [33]
Though we had never visited the tomb which was the object of our present quest, I have no doubt that Emerson could have drawn an accurate map of its precise location. I know I could have. Our eyes were drawn to it as if by a magnet.
It lay below, on the opposite side of the Valley from where we stood. The steep, almost vertical configuration of the cliffs framed it like a theatrical backdrop. At the foot of the cliff was a long slope of rock and gravel, broken by heaps of rubble from earlier excavations, and by a few modern huts and storage buildings. A triangular cut into the gravel framed the doorway of the tomb of Ramses VI. Below this, and to the left, I saw the stout iron gate to which Karl had referred. Two dusty bundles—the alert guards Grebaut had appointed to guard the tomb—lay near the gate.
Emerson’s hand tightened on mine. “Only think,” he said softly, “what wonders that bare rock still hides! The tombs of Thutmose the Great, of Amenhotep the Second and Queen Hatasu…. Even another cache of royal mummies like the one found in 1881. Which of them awaits our labor?”
I shared his sentiments, but his fingers were crushing my hand. I pointed this out. With a deep sigh Emerson returned to practicality. Together we scrambled down the path to the floor of the Valley.
The sleeping guards did not stir even when we stood over them. Emerson prodded one bundle with his toe. It quivered; a malevolent black eye appeared among the rags, and from a concealed mouth a spate of vulgar Arabic curses assailed us. Emerson replied in kind. The bundle sprang to its feet and the rags parted to reveal one of the evilest faces I have ever beheld, seamed by lines and scars. One eye was a milky white, sightless blank. The other eye glared widely at Emerson.
“Ah,” said my husband, in Arabic, “it is thou, Habib. I thought the police had locked thee up forever. What madman gave to thee a task proper to an honest man?”
They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul. In this case Habib’s one serviceable orb displayed, for a moment, the intensity of his real feelings. Only for a moment; then he groveled in a deep obeisance, mumbling greetings, apologies, explanations—and assurances that he had given over his evil ways and merited the trust of the Antiquities Department.
“Humph,” said Emerson, unimpressed. “Allah knows thy true heart, Habib; I have not his all-seeing eye, but I have my doubts. I am going into the tomb. Get out of the way.”
The other guard had roused himself by this time and was also bowing and babbling. His countenance was not quite as villainous as Habib’s, probably because he was somewhat younger.
“Alas, great lord, I have no key,” said Habib.
“But I have,” said Emerson, producing it.
The gate had been cemented into place across the doorway. The bars were stout, the padlock massive; yet I knew they would prove no lasting impediment to men who have been known to tunnel through solid rock in order to rob the dead. When the grille swung open we were confronted with the sealed doorway that had frustrated Lord Baskerville on the last day of his life. Nothing had been touched since that hour. The small hole opened by Armadale still gaped, the only break in the wall of stones.
Lighting a candle, Emerson held it to the opening and we both looked in, bumping heads in our eagerness. I had known what to expect, and yet it was dampening to the spirits to behold a heap of rocky rubble that completely concealed whatever lay beyond.
“So far, so good,” Emerson remarked. “No one has attempted to enter since Baskerville’s death. Frankly, I expected that our friends from Gurneh would have tried to break in long before this.”
“The fact that