The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [49]
Despite its unpromising appearance, the village had yielded one major archaeological treasure—the reburial of the High Priestesses of Amon, containing their rich coffins and collections of jewelry. Bertie and Jumana had been the ones responsible for finding it, and although Lacau had taken most of the artifacts for the Cairo Museum, he had left enough for Cyrus to satisfy that ardent collector. Insofar as Ramses was concerned, Deir el Medina had produced objects that had greater historical value. The inhabitants were skilled craftsmen, and many of them were literate. They had left written documents of all sorts, inscribed on papyrus or scraps of pottery, in the cursive hieratic script or the later, even more cursive, demotic. Having discovered, to their amazement, that Europeans would pay good money for such rubbish, the local fellahin had dug illegally at the site for years and sold the material to collectors and museums. The small private tombs on the hillside, built by the workmen for themselves, had also provided income for industrious diggers—wall paintings, votive stelae, tomb furnishings.
Ramses couldn’t imagine living in such a place; yet the laborers had been well off by ancient Egyptian standards, and the closely packed houses probably suited the inhabitants’ tastes well enough. Three thousand years ago the now silent street had been full of people, bustling about on their daily errands, exchanging greetings—and arguing. Some of the letters that had survived indicated that the inhabitants of Deir el Medina were just as prone to family feuds as any modern village population.
With a certain degree of amusement Ramses realized his father wasn’t going to be able to start work immediately. Down below, gathered near the north end of the excavation, were Daoud and Selim and a number of their crew—and in the center of the gesticulating, chattering crowd a tall figure elegantly garbed in white linen. Cyrus Vandergelt hurried to meet them as they descended into the valley. Bertie and Jumana were with him, and Cyrus’s first words made it clear he wanted to discuss the latest developments.
“Why didn’t you tell us you were back? What did you find out? Who’s the fellow who came with you? Did you see Lacau?”
“Just got in,” Emerson said. “Busy. Lots to do. Selim, Daoud—”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Cyrus said firmly. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Emerson. You didn’t suppose you could sneak into town without me finding out, did you?”
Emerson glowered at Daoud, who smiled amiably at him. “My son Sabir came at once to tell me, Father of Curses. I told Selim you would wish to begin work at once, and Selim told the others, and—”
“You told Mr. Vandergelt,” said Emerson.
“Aywa. Of course,” said Daoud, surprised he would even ask.
“So who’s the legal owner of the statue?” Cyrus inquired.
Cyrus couldn’t be ordered about like the Egyptian workers; with a grimace and a growl, Emerson resigned himself to satisfying his friend’s curiosity.
“How the devil should I know? I set inquiries in train. It will take a while to get replies. As for Lacau, he has given me permission to reexcavate Tomb 55. The French Institute will be taking over here eventually.”
Cyrus caught hold of his arm as he turned away. “What about me?” he cried in anguish.
There’s nothing like archaeological fever, Ramses thought. Cyrus still lusted for the golden statuette, but the fate of his excavations had momentarily overshadowed everything else. Ramses glanced at Selim, who was standing by with folded arms, awaiting orders—and listening as intently as the rest.
“You? Oh,” said Emerson, rubbing his prominent chin. “What would you say to the West Valley?”
A slow blossoming of delight reduced the wrinkles on Cyrus’s forehead. “You mean it? Isn’t it part of Carter and Carnarvon’s concession?”
“Lacau is a trifle put