The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [65]
“I am not referring to your ill-advised attempt to free the animal from captivity. It appears to be a very young lion. Its chances of survival in a region where there are no others of its kind would be slim.”
Ramses was silent for a moment. Then he said thoughtfully, “I confess dat objection had not occurred to me. T’ank you for bringing it to my attention.”
“You are welcome,” I replied, congratulating myself on having headed Ramses off in the neatest possible manner. He scarcely ever disobeyed a direct command, but on those few occasions when he had done so, he had appealed to moral considerations as an excuse for failing to comply. I suspected the well-being of an animal would seem to him a sufficient excuse. By pointing out that he would only be worsening the unfortunate lion’s condition I had, as I believed, forestalled a second attempt at liberation.
How true it is that there are none so blind as those who will not see!
The night was utterly silent; the contentious missionary and his would-be prey had drawn far ahead. Sand muffled the hoofbeats of our steeds. We might have been a pair of ancient Egyptian dead seeking the paradise of Amenti, for I was absorbed in self-congratulation and Ramses was abnormally silent. Glancing at him, I was struck by an odd little chill, for the profile outlined against the paler background of the sandy waste was alarmingly like that of his namesake—beaky nose, prominent chin, lowering brow. At least it resembled the mummy of his namesake; one presumes that centuries of desiccation have not improved the looks of the pharaoh.
When we reached the house David bade us good night and rode off toward the village. It did not improve Emerson’s spirits to find the house dark and apparently deserted. John was there, however. We found him in his own room reading the Bible, and Emerson’s language, when he beheld that sacred Book, was absolutely disgraceful.
Next morning John was most apologetic about his lapse. “I know I ought to ’ave ’ad your beds made up and the kettle on the boil,” he said. “It won’t ’appen again, madam. Duty to one’s superior is wot a man must do in this world, so long as it don’t conflict with one’s duty to—”
“Yes, yes, John, that is quite all right,” I said, seeing Emerson’s countenance redden. “I shall want you to help me with photography this morning, so hurry and clear away the breakfast things. Ramses, you must—what on earth is the matter with you? I believe your chin is in your porridge. Take it out at once.”
Ramses wiped his chin. I looked at him suspiciously, but before I could pursue my inquiries Emerson threw down his napkin and rose, kicking his chair out of the way as is his impetuous habit.
“We are late,” he announced. “That is what happens when one allows social stupidities to interfere with work. Come along, Peabody.”
So the day began. Emerson had moved the men to a site farther north and west, where the irregular terrain suggested the presence of another cemetery. So it proved to be. The graves were quite unlike those of the Roman cemetery. These were simple interments; the bodies were enclosed only in coarse linen shrouds bound in crisscross fashion with red-and-white striped cords. The grave goods included a few crude stelae with incised crosses and other Christian insignia, proving what we had suspected from the nature of the burials themselves—that they were those of Copts. They were very old Copts, and I hoped this consideration would prevent the priest from protesting. He had left us strictly alone, but I feared he might object to our excavating a Christian cemetery. Emerson of course pooh-poohed this possibility; we would handle the bodies with the reverence we accorded all human remains and even rebury them if the priest desired. First, however, he wanted to study them, and if any superstitious ignoramus objected, he could take himself and his superstitions to Perdition or Gehenna.
Emerson wanted photographs of the graves before we removed the contents. That was my task that morning, and with John’s