The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [56]
Our path was relatively level until we reached the hill overlooking the little valley of Deir el Medina. We paused there, not to rest, for it had been an easy stroll, but to get a bird’s-eye view of the site.
The tombs of Deir el Medina had been known and looted for many years. They were relatively unpretentious, the shaft leading down to the burial chamber surmounted by small chapels crowned with miniature brick pyramids. Many of the latter had crumbled and fallen and the remaining chapels were in very poor condition. However, the underground chambers were often beautifully decorated. They were the tombs of the people who had lived in the village below. It was still largely unexcavated. Studying the rough, partially exposed walls, Emerson burst out, “Confound the lazy, incompetent scoundrel! Only look what he has done to the place!”
He was referring to Mr. Kuentz, our predecessor, who had been arrested (thanks to us) the previous year. “He hasn’t done much,” I said, hoping to calm my grumbling spouse. “I expect he was too busy with his other activities—spying and tomb robbing. They do take time.”
“He has put his damned rubbish dump smack in the middle of the site,” Emerson exclaimed. “I will have to do it all over again.”
He always said that.
We scrambled down the hillside. Selim joined us, and Emerson began rapping out orders. The men scattered. Emerson stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Where is Ramses?” he demanded.
“They will be coming shortly, I am sure. If you want to start the surveying, I am perfectly capable—”
“Very good of you, Peabody, but I believe I will just wait for Ramses. Why don’t you arrange one of your—er—your little rest places?”
I had intended to do it anyhow. In my opinion, periods of rest and refreshment increase efficiency. Shade is hard to come by when the sun is directly overhead, and it was at that time of day we—and the dear devoted horses—would need it most. I prefer tombs to all other forms of shelter, naturally, but there was not much left of the superstructures of the small tombs on the hillside. I concluded that the temple at the far end of the village would serve me best.
A number of deities had shrines there, but the principal dedicatee was Hathor, one of the great goddesses of the Egyptians. Since these broad-minded ancients were not especially concerned with consistency, Hathor played a number of different roles over the long centuries and was identified at various times with other goddesses, but her primary function was that of nurturer and protector, of the living and the dead. The lover called upon her for help in winning his beloved; the barren woman prayed to her for a child. She was worshiped with music and dancing, and her epithets included some of the loveliest phrases in the liturgy—Mistress of All That Exists, Lady of the Sycamore, Golden One.
I wandered about for a time, examining some of the reliefs. One of our fellow Egyptologists had partially restored the temple a few years earlier, and there was a nice little corner in the vestibule which suited my purposes admirably. With the efficiency I had come to expect of him, Selim had brought all the equipment I would need, including a large piece of canvas. He was too busy chasing after Emerson to assist me, so I got one of the other men to help me arrange rugs and campstools and tables, and make a temporary roof of the canvas next to the enclosure wall to provide shade for the horses. I was just finishing this essential task when the others arrived. Emerson, whose eye is everywhere, immediately bellowed “Ramses!” and after a nod at me, Ramses trotted off.
I ended up, as I usually did, with the rubbish heap.
I do not mean to minimize the importance of this task, for it is the aim of a good excavator to find every scrap, however uninteresting it may appear to be. Our men were very well trained, but when one is scooping up sand and rubble it is easy to overlook something. It was my task, therefore, to put the contents