The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [45]
“Not today,” I said firmly. “No, Emerson, I mean it. We must go on at once if we are to be back in time to meet Nefret and Ramses.”
“Ach, ja, entschuldigen Sie, ich habe to ask forgotten. Sind sie gesund, das schöne Mädchen und der kleine Ramses?”
“He is not so kleine now,” I said, laughing. “Thank you for asking, Karl, they are quite well. We will make arrangements to meet soon again. Come, Emerson. At once, Emerson!”
The pyramids are visible for miles around, and as we rode southward my wistful gaze followed them until Emerson, who was well aware of my sentiments, bade me rather sharply to stop looking over my shoulder and pay attention to where I was going.
“We are almost there,” he cried, pointing.
I wondered what the devil he was pointing at.
At that time Zawaiet el ’Aryan was one of the most obscure archaeological sites in Egypt. For obscure, read “boring.” The two words are often synonymous in this context, since interesting sites are the ones visited by tourists. No tourists ever came to Zawaiet el ’Aryan.
I could not help but suspect this was one of the reasons why Emerson favored the site. My esteemed spouse is admirably indiscriminate in his antipathies, but, with the possible exception of certain of his fellow archaeologists, there is no group he despises more than tourists. It was fruitless to point out, as I often had, that many of them were moved by a genuine if uninformed interest in the antiquities, and that ignorance should be pitied, not condemned. Emerson’s reply was simple and to the point. “They get in my way, curse them.”
They would certainly not be in his way at Zawaiet el ’Aryan.
“There it is,” he announced in sonorous tones. “The Layer Pyramid.”
I believe I may say without fear of contradiction that no woman alive has a greater attachment to her husband than I to mine. Personally and professionally, Emerson is supreme. Just then, as my eyes fell upon the shapeless pile of rubble ahead, I had to bite my lip to keep from shouting at him. In some places a few layers of dressed stone were visible. The rest of the cursed thing was only a low rounded hill, about forty feet at its highest point.
“Is there a substructure?” I inquired hopefully.
“Hmmm? Oh, yes. A shaft, several passages, a presumed burial chamber. Empty. Hmmm. I wonder …”
The last word floated back to me. Emerson was riding away.
“Where are you going?” I shouted.
“I want to have a look at the other pyramid. It’s off to the northwest.”
I am by nature an optimistic individual; I look on the bright side and hope for the best and find a silver lining in the darkest cloud. For some reason my rational good spirits failed me that day, and my mood passed from bitterness to extreme aggravation when I saw what Emerson was pleased to call “the other pyramid.” Not even a pile of rubble marked its location. There had never been a superstructure of any kind, only a huge trench leading far down into bedrock. Drifting sand had almost filled it.
Emerson dismounted. Accompanied by Selim, he began prowling round the elongated hollow that marked the trench, and I heard him remark, “We’ll want fifty men and the same number of basket carriers at the start. As soon as the survey is finished … Peabody! Don’t you want to have a look?”
He hastened to me and pulled me from the saddle with such impetuous enthusiasm that my foot caught in the stirrup and I toppled into his arms. “A little stiff, this first day out?” he asked.
Pressed against his broad chest, enclosed in his strong arms, I looked up at him and felt my wrath evaporate like raindrops in the sunlight of his smile, the warmth of his blue eyes. He was so happy with his wretched ruins of pyramids, so unquenchably (if inappropriately) romantic!
“Trim but nicely rounded,” he murmured, embracing the region in question