The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [59]
He swept the thick waving locks from his brow, baring the ugly wound. The red glow of the fire illumined his stalwart frame. The bloodstains on his shirt looked black. He stood unmoving, his brown hand raised to his brow, his countenance as proudly calm as that of a sculptured pharaoh. Shadows deepened the cleft in his chin and framed his firm lips in dark outline.
After he had given them time to look their fill, he lowered his hand, allowing his black locks to fall back in place.
“The spirits of the dead do not throw stones,” he said. “What man of Gurneh hates me enough to wish me dead?”
At that the men nodded and exchanged meaningful glances. It was Abdullah who replied, a humorous gleam warming his austere bearded face.
“Emerson, there are many men in Gurneh and elsewhere who hate you so much. The guilty man hates the judge, and the chidden child resents a stern father.”
“You are not guilty men, or children,” Emerson replied. “You are my friends. I came at once to you, to tell you what happened. Allah yimmessikum bilkheir.”
II
Of course if I had really felt Emerson should stay in bed I would have seen that he stayed there, by one means or another. It was apparent, however, that he was in the rudest possible health; he bounded out of bed next morning with all the panache of d’Artagnan preparing to storm La Rochelle. Disdaining my offer of assistance, he affixed a huge square of sticking plaster to his forehead, as if scorning to conceal his injury.
I was out of temper with him. The primeval drama of the confrontation with our men had aroused correspondingly primeval emotions in me; but when I expressed them to Emerson he replied that he had a headache. This was certainly a reasonable excuse, but I could not help being vexed.
Naturally I concealed my feelings with my customary dignity, and as we set out for the Valley my spirits rose. It was a typically glorious Upper Egyptian morning. The rising orb of the sun lifted majestically over the eastern mountains, and its golden rays seemed to caress us with loving arms, as the arms of the god Aten embraced the divine king who was his son.
Yet the day, which began so auspiciously, turned out to be replete with disasters. No sooner had we arrived at the tomb than we came face to face with the imam. Brandishing a long staff, he burst into an impassioned harangue, threatening us with death and damnation and pointing dramatically to Emerson’s bandaged brow as evidence of the latest demonstration of the pharaoh’s curse.
Emerson may deny it, but I am convinced he enjoys these encounters. His arms folded, he listened with an air of courteous boredom. Once he even yawned. Instead of interrupting, he let the man go on and on and on; and eventually the inevitable happened. The listeners also showed signs of boredom as the imam started to repeat himself, and the hoped-for battle of words degenerated into a monologue. Eventually the imam ran out of imprecations, as even the most fanatical man must. When he had stopped ranting, Emerson waited a little longer, his head tilted at an expectant angle. Then he said politely, “Is that all? Thank you, Holy One, for your interest,” and, circling respectfully around the infuriated religious person, he descended into the tomb.
Scarcely an hour later there was another disturbance. Hearing angry voices from the tomb, I went to see what was the matter and found Karl and Mr. Milverton facing one another in combative attitudes. Milverton stood with his feet apart and his fists raised; Karl, restrained by Emerson, was struggling and demanding to be let loose so he could administer some unspecified punishment. A rising lump on Karl’s jaw showed that the struggle had gone beyond words.
“He insulted Miss Mary,” Milverton cried, without abandoning his pugilistic stance.
Karl burst into impassioned German. He had not insulted the lady; Milverton had. When he had objected, Milverton had struck him.
Milverton’s normally pale countenance turned red, and the fight would have broken out again if Emerson