The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [31]
I fully expected that after a few days Emerson would regret his decision and begin complaining about the slowness of our progress. However, he had arranged for a tug to accompany us. Romantic it was not, but the ugly little boat was preferable to the old custom of ordering the crewmen to the tow ropes whenever the wind failed – especially since Emerson had been in the habit of stripping to the waist and going out to ‘give the poor fellows a hand.’
He did not complain. He was fully absorbed in some mysterious research that occupied him all day and half the night. To my extreme annoyance he refused to discuss it with me, saying only, ‘It will be made clear at the proper time, Peabody. I want to get my arguments in order before I present them to you.’ And with that I had to be content.
When my duties permitted, I sat on the upper deck. There is not a great deal to see in the way of pyramids after one leaves the Cairo area, but as the banks glide slowly by and green fields are succeeded by picturesque cliffs, a mood of lazy contentment seizes the watcher. Nefret spent a good deal of her time there, reading and studying and, I felt certain, daydreaming about the subjects that occupy a girl of her age. I could only hope the hero of those daydreams was not the dastardly Sir Edward.
The stewards fought for the privilege of waiting upon her. She had won their hearts by treating them with the same smiling courtesy with which she behaved to everyone (except Ramses – he had fallen back into his old habits, which was only to be expected, and Nefret responded as was only to be expected of her). She had lived among dark-skinned people all her life. Some had been her inferiors in rank, some her superiors; some had been villains of the deepest dye, others the noblest of men. She knew what some people never learn: that each individual is to be judged on his own merits and that superficial physical characteristics have nothing to do with character.
Busy as I was, I did not neglect my Egyptological studies. I had become known for my little translations of Egyptian fairy tales and legends. I had a new one to work on this year, and I spent several hours each day in the saloon in Emerson’s company (though all I ever got from him in the way of conversation were the usual muttered expletives when he hit a snag).
Emboldened by my growing skill in translating the hieroglyphs, I had decided to try my hand at hieratic, the cursive script used on papyrus in place of the ornamental but cumbersome picture writing which was employed on monuments. The hieratic of the particular papyrus I had selected was particularly elegant, and fairly close in form to hieroglyphs, but I was brooding over a particular squiggle one afternoon three days after our departure, when Emerson threw down his pen, rose, and spoke.
‘How is it going, Peabody?’
‘Quite well,’ I said, casually sliding a sheet of paper over one of the books as Emerson came to me and looked over my shoulder.
‘Hieratic? How adventurous of you, my dear. I thought you always asked Walter to transliterate your documents into hieroglyphs.’
‘He was so preoccupied this year, I didn’t like to ask. It is excellent hieratic, as you see.’
‘As hieratic goes,’ said Emerson, whose interests incline towards excavation rather than linguistics. ‘What is the text?’
‘Apophis and Sekenenre. I intend to give it a new title, of course. “The Hippopotamus Pool.”’
Emerson did not reply, so I went on to explain. ‘You remember the historical context? The invading Hyksos had conquered most of Egypt, but the valiant princes of Thebes held out against them. Then to the ruler of Thebes, Sekenenre, came an insolent message from the heathen king, hundreds of miles to the north in Avaris: “The roaring of the hippopotami in your pools prevents me from sleeping! Hunt them and kill them, that I may rest.”’
‘A somewhat free rendering,’ said Emerson dryly. Before