The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [69]
Cyrus let out an emphatic American ejaculation. “Gol-durn it! Sounds like Joe, all right.”
“I thought he was joking. He is such a jolly little man.”
“Jolly Joe.” Cyrus grinned, but he began tugging at his goatee—a sure sign of perturbation. “Don’t let that fool you, Amelia. He’s got a reputation for going straight for the jugular.”
“His wife appears quite devoted to him.”
“It is an odd marriage,” Cyrus admitted. “She’s from one of the best families in Boston and Joe is common as dirt. Nobody could figure out why she married him; but she’s living like a queen now—and the boy was raised like a prince.”
I had no particular interest in talking with any of the Albions, so I moved about from one group to another, paying particular attention to those who were strangers or seemed ill at ease. It was my duty, but I cannot say I enjoyed it; most of the gentlemen would talk of nothing but the war. Emerson had been correct; the Germans had announced they would begin unrestricted submarine warfare, on all vessels of Allied and neutral nations. This put the tourists present in a somewhat awkward position. One of them, a tall, distinguished American named Lubancic, took the matter philosophically.
“They can’t keep it up for long. This is going to get the American government riled up, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see us get into this business pretty soon. Anyhow,” he added with a smile, “Egypt’s not such a bad place to be stuck for the duration. There’s plenty to see and do, and prices are cheap, with the tourist trade down. Do you suppose there’s any chance of my doing a little digging, Mrs. Emerson? Plenty of local men for hire, I believe.”
It was a common enough question; few visitors understood the regulations that governed excavation and many of them naively believed that all they had to do was dig to find a rich tomb. I was sorry to disillusion Mr. Lubancic, for he seemed a very pleasant fellow, but I felt obliged to explain.
“One must have permission from the Department of Antiquities, and all excavations must be supervised by a trained archaeologist. At this particular time there aren’t many such persons available.”
“The Brits and French have got something else on their minds besides archaeology,” said another gentleman. “The war on this front seems to be going well, though. The Senussi are in retreat and the Turks have been driven out of the Sinai.”
“But the British advance has stalled outside Gaza,” Mr. Lubancic objected.
“It’s only a matter of time before we take Gaza,” said a military officer, stroking his large mustache. “Johnny Turk isn’t much of a threat.”
His insignia identified him as a member of the staff, and his portly frame and flushed face suggested that he had fought the war from behind a desk in Cairo. Another, younger, officer gave him a look of thinly veiled contempt. “Johnny Turk was a considerable threat at Rafah, and Gaza won’t be easy to take. The city is ringed round with trenches and they’ve got fortifications along the ridges all the way from Gaza to Beersheba.”
The conversation turned to a discussion of strategy and I excused myself. The remote city of Gaza held no interest for me.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Cyrus’s soiree was like all his other parties—elegant, genteel, and full of boring people. Ramses always found Cyrus congenial company when there were no strangers present; he couldn’t understand why a man would willingly endure, much less invite, such a motley mob. There was no one he wanted to talk to. His family had deserted him; his mother was chatting with Katherine, Nefret was “mingling,” and his father, whose social graces were the despair of his wife, had ignored everyone else and gone straight to Bertie. From his animated gestures and Bertie’s deferential pose, Ramses felt certain Emerson was telling him what they had done at Deir el Medina, and