The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [51]
“If there was nothing left, what were you doing all that time?” Nefret asked, handing Ramses a dampened handkerchief.
“Taking measurements and notes.” He wiped his mouth before he went on. “Father managed to salvage a few odds and ends.”
Still squatting, Emerson studied the motley objects he had collected. They included a rim fragment from a stone vessel, scraps of gold foil, and a number of jewelry elements, beads and inlays and spacers. Rapt in contemplation of these uninspiring artifacts, he did not so much as twitch when I uncorked my bottle of alcohol and trickled the liquid down his scraped back. I honestly believe I could amputate one of Emerson’s limbs without his taking notice if he had found something of archaeological interest.
“We had some trouble getting into the descending passage,” Ramses explained. “It had been blocked with stones, and the thieves removed only enough for them to wriggle through. It was rather a tight squeeze for Father.”
“And you,” said Nefret. “At least you had sense enough to wear your coat.”
“I had writing materials and a torch in my pockets,” Ramses said. He fished a wad of crumpled paper from inside his coat.
“You can work up your notes into a detailed plan tonight,” said Emerson, without looking up. “Curse it, Peabody, what are you doing?”
“You have scratches all over your chest too,” I said. “Lean back.”
“Not a scrap of organic material survived,” Emerson grumbled. “Wood, mummy wrappings, bones— Ouch.”
“I doubt that even we could have preserved the coffins or the mummies,” Ramses said.
“We could have tried,” Emerson muttered. “Damn the bastards! Who knows how much historical data was lost through their carelessness?”
“The damage is done, and regret is the most futile of all emotions,” I said.
“No, it damned well is not,” Emerson snarled. “Don’t quote aphorisms at me.”
“What, in your opinion—”
“Mother,” said Nefret, gently but firmly, “you and Father can argue about aphorisms all the way home if you like. I think we should start back.”
“A very sensible suggestion, my dear,” I replied. I could see she was itching to get Ramses home so she could clean him up and disinfect the abrasions that marked his hands and face. “Emerson, give me my pistol back.”
“Not on your life, Peabody. If any shooting is required, I will do it.”
None was required, though we kept a sharp lookout along the way. As the sun sank lower, the shadows lengthened, affording some relief from the heat but, as I was uneasily aware, offering greater possibilities of concealment for a following foe. We reached the place where the horses were waiting without incident, however, and started on the homeward path. Daoud walked beside Jumana, talking nonstop in an effort to cheer her up. Like the rest of us, Selim was not so charitably inclined toward the girl.
“She knows where he is,” he muttered. “She must be made to tell us.”
“Give her a little time,” Emerson said.
Selim’s eyes were as hard as obsidian. “Jamil has disgraced the family. It is a matter of honor.”
Oh dear, oh dear, I thought—more trouble! Men have very odd definitions of honor, and even odder notions of what to do about it. To all intents and purposes Selim was the head of the family, as his father had been. Yusuf was too old and vacillating to play the role that was nominally his. If Selim spoke for the family and they were of the same mind . . . They would be, of course. The men, at any rate.
“Selim, we don’t know that that was Jamil,” I said. “In fact, we don’t know that he has committed any criminal act except rob a few tombs. I doubt any court would bother prosecuting him for that. Everybody in Gurneh does it.”
“Not our family,” said Selim, displaying his teeth. “My father—”
“I know what Abdullah would have done,” Emerson broke in. “I promise you, family honor will be satisfied. If Jamil has a scrap of sense he will come to me and I will give him a chance to redeem himself. The Father of Curses does not break his word!