The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [50]
“Sure, sure,” Cyrus said eagerly. Daoud stared off into space, as if deep in thought.
“Carter has no plans for working in the West Valley anytime soon,” Emerson went on. “Lacau agreed with me that the area is wide open to illegal excavation. I trust that pleases you? Good. Now perhaps you’ll allow me to get to work. I don’t want the damned French to have any excuse for criticism.”
“Then you do mean to shut down here?” Ramses asked.
His father looked deeply affronted. “How can you think that of me, my boy? I have never yet abandoned an excavation in midseason and I don’t mean to do it now. We can do both.”
Ramses’s implicit criticism had caused Cyrus to have second thoughts. “I can’t,” he said bluntly. “But I can’t bring myself to turn down the West Valley, either.”
“You’ve investigated most of the known tombs here, haven’t you?” Emerson demanded.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Finish clearing the one you’re working on now and block the entrances of the others.” Having settled that to his satisfaction, off Emerson went, followed by his crew.
Thus reassured, Cyrus beamed and rubbed his hands together. Jumana was bouncing up and down on her toes. She was too much in awe of Emerson to interrupt him, but she was bursting with questions. While Nefret answered them as best she could, Ramses looked out across the narrow valley. Now that they were about to abandon the site, he found himself surprisingly reluctant to do so. He knew as surely as if he had seen them that there were more papyri hidden under that sterile surface—more ostraca, more stelae—new inscriptions, perhaps even the missing fragments of some of the tantalizingly incomplete texts he had translated.
There was nothing in Tomb 55 for him, only a corridor and chamber devoid of decoration. And what about next season? Surely Emerson didn’t suppose he could find a reasonable excuse for continuing in the Valley of the Kings.
Thanks to Emerson’s meticulous methods (and the frequent interruption of their work by distractions “of a criminous nature,” as his mother called them), only half the village had been cleared, along with several of the small shrines and temples at the north end. Emerson drove them all hard that morning, filling in partially excavated areas and completing the clearance of a few others. The debris from these piled up. Sifting it was his mother’s job, and Emerson bewailed her absence in poignant tones. Ramses’s offer to take on the task was refused.
“Get up there with Cyrus and his lot,” Emerson ordered, indicating the tombs scattered over the western slopes. “Good Gad, he’s just standing there smirking. I shouldn’t have told him about the West Valley.”
Bertie and Jumana were doing an efficient job, deciding which of the opened tombs should be permanently closed and which required additional work. Ramses went anyhow. As the sun passed the zenith and perspiration soaked his shirt, he wondered whether Emerson intended to stop for luncheon and rest. Nefret had been in the hot sun all morning, photographing at Emerson’s direction. He had no right to push her the way he did…Then he saw a trio of horsemen approaching along the road to the north, and was relieved to recognize his mother. He ought to have known she wouldn’t neglect their physical comfort, she never did. The man who rode beside her was Sethos; following at a respectful distance was Nasir, carrying a large basket.
Ramses hailed the others. “Time to stop. There’s Mother.”
“Thank goodness,” Cyrus said. He straightened and rubbed his back. “Who’s that with her?”
Ramses gave the older man a hand as they descended the steep hillside. “An old friend,” he said. “Sir Malcolm…uh…”
Cyrus gave him an odd look. “An old friend whose name you can’t call to mind? Say no more, my boy. I’ve got a hunch he has another