The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [43]
“Congratulations, my dear,” I replied.
“Get the rest of the men over here at once, Peabody. I want to deepen and widen the trench.”
“But, Emerson, I have not yet—”
Emerson wiped the sand from his perspiring face with his sleeve and gave me a comradely grin. “My dear, I know you are aching to find some beastly collapsing tunnel into which you can crawl, at the risk of life and limb; but it is imperative that we clear this area as soon as possible. As soon as the locals get wind of our discovery, gossip and exaggeration will transform the find into a treasure of gold and gems, and every human rodent in the neighborhood will start burrowing.”
“You are right, Emerson,” I said, sighing. “I will of course do as you ask.”
It took several hours to enlarge the trench so as to expose fully the stones he had found, and to take careful notes of their precise location. As we measured and sketched, while the sun beat down and the sand filled our mouths and nostrils, I would have given a good deal to have a camera. I had proposed bringing one, but Emerson had vetoed the idea, pointing out that the cursed things were cumbersome and unreliable—except in the hands of a trained photographer, which we did not have—and that the efficient use of them required other equipment which was not easy to procure— clean water, chemicals, and the like.
Unfortunately one of the men turned up a few scraps of gold foil. I say unfortunately, for there is nothing that arouses the treasure-hunting instincts and the (alas!) concomitant willingness to commit violence for its possession more quickly than the aureus metal. Shining like the sun, soft enough to be easily worked, incorruptible, since time immemorial it has aroused in men a lust passing the love of women, not to mention their fellow men. The very name of Nubia is derived from the ancient Egyptian word for gold. It was for gold, beyond all other treasures, that the pharaohs sent traders and armies into the land of Cush. I would not be at all surprised to find that it was for gold that Cain committed the first murder. (It happened a very long time ago, and Holy Writ, though no doubt divinely inspired, is a trifle careless about details. God is not a historian.)
There was undoubtedly a great deal of gold in Nubia at one time, but as Emerson remarked, studying the pitiful scrap in his big brown hand, there didn’t seem to be a lot left. However, I felt it incumbent upon me to take over the task of sifting the soil removed from the trench—and a tedious, hot task it was.
The sun was far down the west and the shadows were lengthening, and I was looking forward to a sponge bath and a change of clothing (and perhaps a small whiskey and soda) when one of our less industrious workers, who spent more time leaning on his shovel than he did using it, cried out in surprise.
“Have you stabbed your foot again with your shovel, careless one?” I inquired sarcastically.
“No, Sitt Hakim—no. There is a camel coming, and a man upon the camel, and the camel is running, and the man is about to fall off the camel, I believe; for look, Sitt Hakim, he sits the camel as no man who wishes to remain upright sits upon—”
But I heard no more, for I had seen what he had seen and had realized that for once his appraisal of the situation was fairly accurate. The rider was not sitting on the camel, he was listing dangerously from side to side. Hastening to meet him, I addressed the camel with an emphatic “Adar ya-yan, confound you!”
The camel stopped. I whacked it with my parasol, but before it could kneel (supposing that it had intended to do so), the rider slid from the saddle and fell unconscious at my feet.
The rider was, of course, Mr. Reginald Forthright. I had anticipated this, as I am sure the Reader must have done.
CHAPTER 5
“He Is the Man!”
“GOOD Gad!” said Emerson. “I wonder if the