The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [54]
On the following day we were ready to begin work. Emerson had decided to start with a late cemetery. I tried to dissuade him, for I have no patience with martyrs.
“Emerson, you know quite well from the visible remains that this cemetery probably dates from Roman times. You hate late cemeteries. Why don’t we work at the—er—pyramids? You may find subsidiary tombs, temples, a substructure—”
“No, Amelia. I agreed to excavate this site and I will excavate it, with a thoroughness and attention to detail that will set new standards for archaeological methodology. Never let it be said that an Emerson shirked his duty.”
And off he marched, his shoulders squared and his eyes lifted to the horizon. He looked so splendid I didn’t have the heart to point out the disadvantages of this posture; when one is striding bravely into the future one cannot watch one’s footing. Sure enough, he stumbled into Ramses’ pile of potsherds and went sprawling.
Ramses, who had been about to go after him, prudently retired behind my trousers. After a malignant glance in our direction Emerson got up and limped away.
“What is Papa going to do?” Ramses inquired.
“He is going to hire the workers. See, they are coming now.”
A group of men had gathered around the table where Emerson now seated himself, with John at his side. We had decided to put John in charge of the work records, listing the names of the men as they were taken on, and keeping track of the hours they worked, plus additional money earned for important finds. Applicants continued to trickle in from the direction of the village. They were a somber group in their dark robes and blue turbans. Only the children lent some merriment to the scene. We would hire a number of the latter, both boys and girls, to carry away the baskets of sand the men filled as they dug.
Ramses studied the group and decided, correctly, that it promised to be a dull procedure. “I will help you, Mama,” he announced.
“That is kind of you, Ramses. Wouldn’t you rather finish your own excavation?”
Ramses gave the potsherds a disparaging glance. “I have finished it, to my own satisfaction. I was desirous of carrying out a sample dig, for, after all, I have had no experience at excavation, t’ough I am naturally conversant wit’ de basic principles. However, it is apparent dat de site is devoid of interest. I believe I will turn my attention now—”
“For pity’s sake, Ramses, don’t lecture! I cannot imagine whence you derive your unfortunate habit of loquacity. There is no need to go on and on when someone asks you a simple question. Brevity, my boy, is not only the soul of wit, it is the essence of literary and verbal efficiency. Model yourself on my example, I beg, and from now on—”
I was interrupted, not by Ramses, who was listening intently, but by Bastet. She let out a long plaintive howl and bit me on the ankle. Fortunately my thick boots prevented her teeth from penetrating the skin.
In the pages of this private journal I will admit I made a mistake. I should not have interrupted Ramses when he spoke of his future plans.
I was fully occupied all that morning with domestic arrangements. Not until after the men resumed work after the midday break did I have time to look them over.
The first trench had been started. We had fifty men at work with picks and shovels, and as many children carrying away the detritus. The scene was familiar to me from previous seasons, and despite the fact that I expected nothing of interest to turn up, my spirits lifted at the well-loved scene—the picks of the men rising and falling rhythmically,