The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [202]
“What is it, Cyrus?” I cried, jumping to my feet.
“It’s for Bertie to make the announcement,” Cyrus replied. He was puffed with pride.
Bertie looked round the table. “Where’s Jumana? She should be here.”
“Oh my goodness,” I gasped. “You aren’t . . . you two aren’t engaged?”
Bertie’s boyish laugh rang out. “Better than that, Mrs. Emerson. We’ve found it, Jumana and I. Jamil’s tomb.”
Pandemonium ensued. Even Gargery, who had only the vaguest notion of what Bertie meant, clapped his hands and joined in the cries of excitement and congratulation. As the others gathered round Bertie, all talking at once, I slipped out of the room.
Jumana was sitting on her bed, her hands folded and her face smeared with dried tears. Now that I got a good look at her, I realized she was not dressed for a romantic rendezvous. Her shirt and trousers were torn and dusty, her boots were scuffed, and her hair straggled over her face.
“Bertie is here,” I said.
She jumped up. “Then it’s all right? He told you? I promised I would not, it was to be a surprise, his surprise. May I go now?” She let out a peal of laughter. “I am very hungry!”
Ah, the resilience of youth! From despair to delight in the twinkling of an eye! I could have let her go without further delay; I was tempted to do so, but justice compelled me to make what amends I could.
“First, I must apologize,” I said.
“Apologize? To me? Why?”
“For misjudging you. I was wrong, and you were right to keep your promise to Bertie. I deeply regret the injustice I did you and I hope you will forgive me.” I held out my hand. She would have fainted with sheer surprise if I had attempted to embrace her, and anyhow, she was very grubby.
“Forgive? You?” She stared wide-eyed at my offered hand.
“I did you an injustice,” I repeated. “Shake hands, if you will, and then go to the others.”
She did not shake my hand. She kissed it, fervently and damply, gave me a radiant smile, and ran out of the room.
I would not have blamed her for taking advantage of her role as heroine—misjudged, falsely accused heroine at that! Instead she insisted that all the credit belonged to Bertie. It was he and he alone who had deduced where the tomb must be.
“But where is it?” Emerson shouted, tugging at his hair. “Bertie won’t say. Jumana, where—”
“We want to show you,” Bertie explained. “You’ll never believe it otherwise.”
“They’re entitled,” Ramses said, smiling in sympathy. “Lead the way, Bertie.”
He led us to Deir el Medina.
Our men were there, waiting to begin the day’s work. Ramses called them to gather round, explaining that Bertie had an important announcement to make. The truth had begun to dawn on Emerson by then. “It can’t be,” he mumbled. “I don’t believe it. Damnation!”
“Father, if you please,” Ramses said. “Bertie, you have the floor.” He added, with a grin, “Make the most of it.”
“Oh, well,” Bertie said, blushing. “It was an accident, really, you know. I sat here for days with my foot up and nothing much to do but stare at the scenery. I got to know it pretty well. Look up there.”
He pointed.
Straight ahead, the walls of the temple occupied the opening of the little valley, with the fields and the river stretching out to the north and the cliffs rising up on either side. The ruined tombs of the workers were scattered along the western slope. Bertie’s extended arm indicated the highest point, to the left of the temple. We stared in silent bewilderment for a time. We were all looking for a sculpture—the figure of a god, weathered by time, shaped by the hand of man.
A divinity had shaped it—nature herself. As I have had occasion to mention, the rock formations of the western mountains assume bizarre forms. This might have been a giant fist, gripping the crest of the hill—four regular, rounded, parallel shapes, with a small spur of rock next to them like the end of