The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [54]
I knew that Emerson was also thinking of Abdullah as we stood looking out across the desert and the cultivation. The air was clear that morning; we could see the miniature shapes of the temples on the East Bank, with the eastern cliffs behind them. However, his only audible expression of emotion was a loud clearing of his throat.
Instead of turning south toward Deir el Medina, Emerson set off along the trail that led to the Valley. He had not gone far before he stopped with a grunt of satisfaction. I could not see what had occasioned the satisfaction; he was looking at what appeared to be a row of tumbled stones, half-buried in sand.
“Emerson, what are you doing?” I demanded, as he knelt and began scraping away sand. “Stop that at once. You aren’t even wearing gloves.”
Emerson rose, not because I had told him to, but because he had had second thoughts. “They will have to be properly excavated.”
“Those rocks? Why?”
“Good Gad, Peabody, what has become of your trained excavator’s eye? That’s a wall, or what is left of one, and there are others hereabouts. I noticed them some time ago, but saw no reason to investigate them.”
“I don’t see any reason to do it now.”
“Think about it. It’s quite a distance from the Valley to Deir el Medina. Wouldn’t it be logical for a gang of workmen to camp here, close to the job, part of the time? A few smallish huts, such as these appear to be, would not be difficult to construct.”
His eyes sparkled. Emerson is one of the few excavators in the business who derives as much pleasure from the humble minutiae of archaeology as from impressive temples and rich tombs. If he was correct, a small bit of the puzzle of the past would be filled in—and he usually was correct about such things.
“Well, my dear, that is very interesting,” I said. “But hadn’t we better be getting on? Nobody is going to bother your—er—huts.”
Emerson tore himself away. The path was well traveled; we met goats and a few Egyptians afoot or on donkey-back. Emerson greeted them by name (except for the goats) but did not stop, though it was clear to me that one or two of the men would have liked to have gossiped a bit. The news of what had happened the day before must be all over the West Bank by now. We had not gone far, however, before we came upon persons of quite a different sort. There were nine of them, six donkey drivers and three people in European dress, and when they hailed us it was impossible to push on past. I recognized the American party we had encountered on board ship and later in Cairo.
Mrs. Albion’s tall, spare frame was clad in garments that were, I supposed, the latest in American notions of sporting attire for ladies. Her linen coat had the fashionable military cut and her skirts were calf-length. Her head was so wrapped in veiling that her features were only a blur. She was sitting sideways on the donkey, her neat boots dangling. A true lady, of course, would rather fall off than ride astride. It probably required two drivers to keep her in the saddle, and the same was true of Mr. Albion, who rolled first from one side and then to the other, with his drivers shoving him back and forth. The process seemed to entertain him quite a lot; he was red-faced with heat and laughter when the little cavalcade halted. The younger man was red, too, but with sunburn, not amusement. He removed his hat and inspected me with cool curiosity.
Emerson, being Emerson, greeted the Egyptians first. “Salaam aleikhum, Ali, Mahmud, Hassan . . . Good morning, er—um—”
“Albion,” the gentleman in question supplied, while his son stared curiously at us. “We met on the boat.”
“No, we didn’t,” said Emerson.
Albion chortled. His face turned even redder. “Not for want of effort on my part.