The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [67]
Emerson’s face widened in a grin. “You want to get at those tombs at Deir el Medina.”
“Any tomb’s better than none,” Cyrus retorted. “There’s none here. What I’d really like to do is mount an expedition to the Cemetery of the Monkeys, but—”
“You’d break your neck climbing round those wadis,” Emerson declared forcibly. “And waste your time. The most practical method of locating tombs in that area is to follow the Gurnawis—or go out after a heavy rainstorm, as they do.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like rain. Come on, Emerson, this job is right up Ramses’s alley. Look at him.”
He did appear to be enjoying himself. He and Nefret were absorbed with the reliefs—and each other. They were holding hands and talking in low voices as they moved slowly along the wall. With my customary rapidity of thought, I considered the pros and cons of Cyrus’s suggestion. There were a good many things in its favor. The reliefs needed to be recorded before time and vandals destroyed them. This was a perfect place for the photographic technique of copying Ramses had developed, and Nefret would work at his side—close by him, in a nice, safe, enclosed area. And while they were doing that, Emerson could root around the ruins to his heart’s content. However . . .
“Are we agreed?” Cyrus asked hopefully.
“Agreed on what?” Nefret asked, turning.
“Come and have some tea with Bertie and me, and we’ll tell you all about it,” Cyrus said.
As we left the chapel I lingered, looking up at the carved lintel. “An offering which the King gives, a thousand of bread and beer and every good thing . . .”
“Did you say something, Mother?” Ramses inquired.
“Just—er—humming a little tune, Ramses.”
“What is Father up to now?”
“I will leave it to him to tell you, my dear.”
And tell us he did, without asking anyone else’s opinion or voicing a single reservation. Having had time to reconsider the matter, I had thought of several. M. Lacau, who had replaced Maspero as head of the Antiquities Department, might not find out about our violation of the rules for some time; he had returned to France for war work, leaving his second-in-command, Georges Daressy, to carry on. Daressy was a genial soul, whom we had known for years, but even he might be offended by our proceeding without his permission.
Considerations of this sort did not enter Emerson’s mind. He had always done precisely as he liked, and had taken the consequences (though not without a great deal of grumbling). Realizing that Ramses had fixed me with a pointed stare, brows tilted, I was reminded of certain of those consequences, such as the time we had been barred forever from the Valley of the Kings after Emerson had insulted M. Maspero and everybody else in the vicinity.
I cleared my throat. “Perhaps we ought to give the matter a little more thought before we decide, Emerson.”
“Why?” Emerson demanded. “It is an excellent idea. Ramses will enjoy copying the inscriptions—”
“I would prefer to go on at Deir el Medina, Father,” Ramses said, politely but firmly. Emerson looked at him in surprise, and I gave Ramses an encouraging nod. It had taken him a long time to get courage enough to disagree with his father. “The site is unique,” Ramses went on. “Do you realize what we might learn from it? We’ve already come across a cache of papyri and a number of inscribed ostraca; they confirm my belief that the people who lived in the village were craftsmen and artists who worked on the royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings.”
“They were servants in the Place of Truth,” Emerson interrupted. “Some scholars believe they were priests.”
“Their additional titles indicate otherwise. Draftsman, architect, foreman—”
“Well, well, most interesting,” said Emerson, who had lost interest almost at once. “Your opinion is of course important to me, my boy. We will discuss it later, eh?”
He was set on his plan and had no intention of reconsidering it. When Cyrus reminded him that we had agreed to attend one of his popular soirees that evening, he