The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [86]
“No, ma’am, that won’t be necessary,” Cyrus declared. “Emerson’s word is good enough for me.”
“The word of the Father of Curses,” Daoud said, “is stronger than another man’s oath.”
I believe I may be excused for feeling a trifle smug. Ramses was pleased and so was Cyrus; Nefret was happy because Ramses was happy; even Selim condescended to commend me. The only one who was not thoroughly delighted with the arrangement was Emerson, and I felt certain that his main objection was that I had thought of it first.
I will say for Emerson that he does not hold a grudge. Having agreed, he immediately began issuing orders.
“The first thing for you to do, Vandergelt,” he declared, “is to produce a proper survey of the slope and the location of the tombs, and see that it is published. Good Gad, if you only do that, you will have made a great contribution. Everybody from Wilkinson to Schiaparelli has found tombs—”
“The royal architect Kha,” Cyrus murmured longingly. “Much as I’d like a royal tomb, I’d settle for a find like that. Sealed up and undisturbed for over three thousand years, the wooden door still latched, jam-packed with furniture and linen and . . .”
“Pay attention,” Emerson said forcibly. “The survey is the first priority. Our cursed predecessors never published their notes, if they bothered to make any, so you will have to begin afresh. Some of the tombs are known and open, but not all, and a certain amount of clearance . . .”
Cyrus began to fidget, and I said, “Quite right, Emerson, we all understand.”
“And,” said Emerson, raising his voice, “you will have to shut down your dig at Medinet Habu. Anything that has been exposed will be at risk from weather and vandals. We will go round there later and see what needs to be done.”
Leaving Selim in charge, we set out for the temple after luncheon. It was a mild, mellow afternoon, with bright sunlight and a faint breeze stirring; one of Mr. Cook’s tours was making a late day of it, strolling about the temple precincts and taking photographs with their little cameras. Emerson glowered at the tourists. They did look a trifle ridiculous in their pristine pith helmets and veils, their faces crimson with sunburn. Some of them were all hung round with straps supporting field glasses, canteens, pocket compasses, and other accoutrements that probably made them feel very professional.
“Some of them have got acetylene or magnesium lamps,” Emerson grumbled. “Confound it, don’t they know they mustn’t use them?”
“Possibly not,” I replied.
“Then I will tell them. Come, let’s see if any of the louts have invaded our temple. Smoking up the wall surfaces, scratching their wretched names . . .”
Mumbling, he strode off toward a group that was staring up at the empty windows of the upper stories of the tower, and as I followed, hoping to avert a nasty scene, I heard the guide lecturing. “This tower, sirs and madams, was the harem of the great Ramses, where he enjoyed himself with his beautiful concubines. The floors have fallen, so you cannot go up to see the reliefs on the walls, but they show the king reclining on a soft couch while the concubines caress—”
“Wrong!” Emerson shouted. “Curse it, Nazir, you know better than that! Why are you telling these idiots such lies?”
The tourists let out little squeals of surprise; several of the ladies got behind their husbands. The sight of Emerson in a rage, advancing in great bounds, was enough to terrify the timid. Nazir, who was accustomed to him, only grinned and shook his head.
“It is what they want to hear, Father of Curses,” he said in Arabic.
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson. “Don’t let them use those damned magnesium torches, that’s all.”
He pushed through the crowd and headed straight for the Saite chapels, with the rest of us following close on his heels. I was distressed to observe that his fears had been justified. Several persons, coolly ignoring the ropes and No Trepass signs that enclosed the work area, were passing in and out of the chapel. There was a flash of light from the interior