The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [66]
However, I would be the last to deny that celibacy has its advantages, when the alternative is a state marriage to a man unloving and unloved. As for the joys of motherhood . . . I glanced at Ramses, who was wandering about reading the inscriptions. We were using torches, since the inner chamber was enclosed and unlighted. Shadows outlined his well-cut features and the little half smile that betokened his total absorption. Yes, it had been worth it, though there had been times when I had serious doubts. However, not all children turned out as well as he had done.
We inspected the other chapels, which were not so well preserved. In the floor of one an irregular hole gaped, where the stone flooring blocks had been taken up.
“Not a durned thing down there,” Cyrus complained.
Emerson glared at him. “Curse it, Vandergelt, I told you the burial chambers were empty. You had better replace the flooring before some damned fool tourist falls in.”
“I thought maybe there might be another burial,” Cyrus said defensively. “There are four chapels and five God’s Wives.”
“More than five,” Ramses said. He proceeded to reel off the names. They had an exotic, almost poetic cadence. “Karomama, Tashakheper, Shepenwepet, Amenirdis, Nitocris, Ankhnesneferibre.”
“So where are the rest of ’em?” Cyrus demanded. “And the coffins and mummies of the ones who were buried here?”
“Jumana asked me that once,” Ramses said. “She had a romantic notion that they might have been hidden away to protect them from tomb robbers.”
“Nonsense,” grunted Emerson.
“We know where two of the sarcophagi are, or were,” I explained. “At Deir el Medina, in tomb shafts high on the hillside. They were dragged there by individuals who meant to usurp them for their own burials. One had actually been reinscribed with the name and titles of—er—”
“Pamontu,” Ramses said. “A priest of the Ptolemaic or early Roman period, approximately five hundred years after the last God’s Wife died and was buried.”
“Just what I was about to say, Ramses.”
“I beg your pardon, Mother.”
“It seems likely, therefore,” I continued, acknowledging his apology with a nod, “that by the first century a.d. the original burial chambers here at Medinet Habu were empty except for the sarcophagi. They were too heavy and of no value to ordinary—”
“Yes, yes, Peabody,” said Emerson. “Vandergelt, you’re as bad as Jumana. There is some excuse for her, but you ought to know better. The brickwork west of here may be the remains of a fifth chapel.”
“Abu and Bertie are working there now,” Cyrus said, with a vague gesture toward the west. “So far, no luck. I’m getting tired of this, Emerson.”
“Of what, the Saite chapels? I hope you aren’t thinking of shifting to another area. You haven’t the manpower to tackle the larger temples.”
“Well, I know that!” He glanced at Ramses, who was talking to Nefret, and lowered his voice. “The truth is, Emerson, none of us has got the skill for this job. Oh, sure, we can clean the place up and make proper plans, but what’s needed here is somebody to record the inscriptions and reliefs.”
“You can’t have Ramses,” said Emerson.
“Emerson,” I murmured.
“Well, he can’t! I know, I said the boy could do anything he liked and work for anyone he chooses, but—er—confound it, Vandergelt, stealing another man’s staff away is one of the lowest, most contemptible—”
“Gol-durn it, Emerson, I wouldn’t do a thing like that!”
Their raised voices had caught Ramses’s attention. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked.
“No trouble,” Cyrus declared. “Um—see here, Emerson, I just got to thinking . . . How about if we trade places? You take Medinet Habu and I’ll take Deir el Medina.”
Emerson opened his mouth, preparatory to delivering a cry of protest. Then his scowl smoothed out. He stroked his chin. “Hmmm,” he said.
“Cyrus, that is an outrageous suggestion,” I exclaimed. “You can’t go trading archaeological sites as if they were kitchen utensils!”
“I don’t see who’s gonna stop us,” Cyrus said stubbornly. “The Service des Antiquités has got too much on its plate