The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [63]
I had never seen Emerson drive the men as he did during the following days. We were short-handed, thanks to the fact that we had sent two of our most dependable men with Reggie, and the fact that Kemit’s friends never returned from their “day of rest.” When I questioned him about them, Kemit only shook his head. “They were strangers in a strange land. They have returned to their wives and children. Perhaps they will come again.…”
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson, there being very little else to say. It was not uncommon for local workers to tire of labor or fall victim to Heimweh, but we had thought Kemit’s men to be of stronger mettle.
Ramses began badgering us to let him return to his own tent, claiming that (a), Emerson’s snoring kept him awake, and (b), it was unlikely he would be “called,” as he put it, again. The first claim was untrue (Emerson seldom snored); and the second was utterly without foundation. As a compromise Emerson had Ramses’s tent moved near to ours, and occupied it himself. “I may as well, Peabody,” he remarked gloomily. “Being in such close proximity to you without being able to act upon my feelings has a deleterious effect on my health.” (This is a paraphrase of Emerson’s speech; the actual words he used were more direct and thus inappropriate for the eyes of the reading public.)
Fortunately for Emerson’s health, mental and physical, we made a discovery that distracted him temporarily. It would have been a momentous event in any season and at any site, for the identification of a hitherto anonymous monument is of consuming importance. Here, after days of dull surveying and fruitless digging, it was as exciting as a tomb chamber full of treasure. The object itself was not impressive—only a weathered slab of stone—but Emerson at once identified it as the lintel of a small pylon-gateway. It was buried deep in sand, which had to be cleared away from its surface and its surroundings, for Emerson refused to move it—in fact, he declared his intention of covering it up again as soon as he had finished studying it and recording the position in which it had been found.
Kneeling in the narrow trench, he carefully brushed away the last layer of sand from the surface. The men gathered around, as breathless with anticipation as we. If the worn marks on the stone proved to be hieroglyphs, the discovery would mean a sizable bonus for the lucky finder.
Unable to endure the suspense any longer, I lay flat on the edge of the trench and looked down. This movement sent a shower of sand onto the stone and the bowed, bare head of my husband; he looked up, frowning. “If you want to bury me alive, Peabody, go right on squirming.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” I said. “I will be careful. Well? Are they… Is it… ?”
“They are, and it is—a royal titulary! The curved ends of the cartouches are quite clear.”
He strove to speak calmly, but his voice quivered with emotion and his long, sensitive fingers brushed the stone as tenderly as a caress. “Congratulations, my dear Emerson,” I exclaimed. “Can you read the names?” (As I am sure I need not explain to my learned Readers, the kings of Egypt and of Cush had several names and titles; official monuments always carried at least two of them.)
“I’ll have to do a rubbing, and wait until the sun is at a better angle, before I can be certain,” Emerson replied. “This local sandstone is so cursed soft, it has weathered badly. But I think…” Leaning close, he blew gently on one section. “I see an n sign with two tall narrow signs below; the first appears to be a reed leaf. Following are two long narrow signs, and then a pair of rush plants. Yes, I think I can hazard a guess. The signs match the ones given by Lepsius for King Nastasen.”
Emotion overcame me. I leapt to my feet and let out a loud “Hurrah.”
Emerson replied with a volley of bad language (evidently