The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [41]
‘Yes, yes,’ Emerson interrupted. ‘Essalâmu ’aleikum, and so forth, Abd el Hamed. Will you invite us in?’
‘You honour my house,’ said Abd el Hamed morosely.
Turning, he transferred his entire weight to the bony brown shoulder of his attendant. The boy stiffened and bit his lip; Hamed’s fingers were like claws, and he had dug his nails hard into the boy’s flesh. Not that there was much of it. I could have counted his ribs, since he wore only a pair of ragged knee-length drawers. He appeared to be a year or two younger than Ramses, though with such unfortunates, undernourished and mistreated, it was difficult to estimate. Bruises stained his bare shins and the big toe on his right foot was a festering sore.
Emerson had seen too. With a ripe Arabic swearword he pushed the boy aside, tucked the old man under his arm, and proceeded into the house.
The room was like the others I had seen in such houses – the floor of beaten earth, the walls of mud-brick, the windows high and narrow. Aside from the divan running along one wall, the only article of furniture was a low table. Emerson deposited the old man on the divan, removed the chickens that had been roosting there, and invited me to sit down.
‘Yes, rest yourself, honoured Sitt,’ said Hamed. ‘I will call my women to prepare –’
‘No need to disturb them,’ Emerson said genially. ‘I am in the market for antiquities, Hamed; let us just see what you have, eh?’ In one long stride he reached the curtained doorway at the back and passed through into the next room.
Squeals of surprise and alarm greeted him, and Hamed, miraculously recovered from his infirmity, leaped up and scuttled after Emerson. I followed, with Ramses and Nefret hot on my heels.
The room was a workshop, and the cries had been uttered by a child whom Emerson was holding by the collar of his filthy galabeeyah. Shelves around the room held a collection of ushebtis, scarabs and other small antiquities. The simple tools of the trade lay scattered about – a small furnace for melting the glassy faience, moulds of various kinds, chisels and gravers and files.
Emerson released the child, who fled through another door. Selecting an object from the shelf, he held it out to me. ‘Not so bad, eh, Peabody? Hamed’s workshop turns out the best fakes in Luxor. Not that these are his best; they are saved for serious collectors like Wallis Budge.’
Ramses had picked up a large scarab fashioned of green faience. ‘This is really quite good, Father. However, the hieroglyphs are faulty. He has copied a text of Amenhotep III, but the owl sign –’
Surprisingly, it was the boy, not Hamed, who interrupted him. Snatching the scarab from Ramses he confronted him, eyes blazing. ‘It is right, son of a blind camel! I know the signs!’
Emerson had not appeared to be watching Hamed, but his booted foot intercepted the stick before it could strike the boy’s shin. ‘So you made this, my son? What is your name?’
The lad turned. Anger had given his thin face animation; he would have been a nice-looking boy if his features had not been distorted by dirt, bruises and a fierce scowl.
‘What is your name?’ Emerson repeated inflexibly.
‘David.’ The reply came from Abdullah, who was standing in the doorway. ‘His name is David Todros. He is my grandson.’
IV
Candour Is Not a Conspicuous Characteristic of Criminals
WHAT is a grandson of yours doing in a place like this, Abdullah?’ I demanded.
Abdullah’s eyes fell before my indignant gaze. ‘It is not my doing, Sitt Hakim. I would have taken him into my house. He would not come. He would rather be starved and beaten by this criminal than –’
‘Be a servant to the Inglîzi,’ the boy interrupted.