The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [38]
The death of Sethos had not freed us from peril. On the contrary, it had multiplied the number of our enemies. Emerson’s (and my) unending war against the illegal antiquities trade had focused on us the enmity of the dealers in that trade, and if the tomb for which we searched was indeed unknown and unlooted, every thief in Egypt would try, by any means possible, to get to it before we did.
Naturally I had no intention of discussing this interesting development with Emerson. He had certainly arrived at the same conclusion; but, being Emerson, he had chosen to ignore the dangers and would continue to do so until someone dropped a rock on him. As usual it was up to me to take the precautions Emerson refused to take – to guard him and the children, to be constantly on the alert for peril, to suspect everyone. No matter. I was up to the job. I rested my head against the shoulder of my oblivious husband and succumbed to sweet, dreamless slumber.
On the afternoon of the tenth day the boat rounded the curve in the river and we saw spread out before us the great panorama of Thebes. On the East Bank the columns and pylons of the temples of Luxor and Karnak glowed in the rays of the setting sun. On the west a rampart of cliffs enclosed the bright green fields and the desert that bordered them.
The West Bank was our destination, and as the dahabeeyah maneuvered in towards the shore, we were all at the rail. Miss Marmaduke had been unable to fit into my trousers, though I had offered a pair. (She was a good deal larger in that region than she had appeared.) Complying – as she explained at unnecessary length – with my wishes, she wore a walking skirt short enough to display neatly booted feet, and a shirtwaist and pith helmet. A wide leather belt defined her waist. She looked quite presentable, but no masculine eye would linger on her when Nefret was present. I had caused to be made for the girl costumes similar to my own: trousers and matching coats of flannelette or serge covered all over with useful pockets. Stout little boots, a shirt and neatly knotted tie, and the usual pith helmet completed the ensemble. Her hair was clubbed at the nape of her neck, but she did not look at all like a pretty boy.
The first person we saw was Abdullah. He and his crew had come down by train the previous week, and I did not doubt he had set men to watch for us so that he could be on hand when we docked. He and the others were staying in Gurneh. Abdullah had innumerable friends and relations in the village, and it was conveniently close to the area in which we would be working.
After he and his entourage had come on board we went to the saloon for conversation and refreshments – whiskey and soda for us, gossip for the others, since the laws of Ramadan were still in effect. Abdullah, stately as a biblical patriarch, seated himself in a carved armchair. The others – Daoud, Abdullah’s nephew, his sons Ali and Hassan and Selim – settled down comfortably on the floor, and Ramses settled down next to Selim, who had been his close companion (i.e., partner in crime) one memorable season. Though only a few years older than Ramses, Selim was now a married man and the father of a growing family. He had kept his boyish joie de vivre, however, and he and Ramses were soon deep in conversation.
‘All is well, Emerson,’ said Abdullah. ‘We have procured the supplies you requested and have made it known that you will be hiring workers. Shall I tell them to come tomorrow?’
‘I think not,’ Emerson replied. He took out his pipe. By the time he had finished fussing with the cursed thing and got it lit, Abdullah, who knew Emerson well, was watching him intently. Such deliberation on the part of a man who was notorious for his impatience presaged an important announcement.
‘We are all friends here,’ Emerson