The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [66]
After a little reminder from me, Emerson instructed Ramses to remain at the house to get on with his translations. He waved goodbye to us as we rode away, and I thought he looked a trifle wistful at being left behind. He was interested in KV55 too, but I had no doubt that my arrangement was for the best. Sometimes people do not know what is good for them.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
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Ramses knew his feeling of disappointment at watching the others ride off was pure perversity. He had wanted to work on the papyri, and now that he had been given the opportunity, he didn’t feel like doing it. After a restless ramble through the house, and a check of the locked drawer in his father’s desk, he went to the stable and saddled Risha. He told himself he wasn’t exactly disobeying orders. His father had suggested he hire Mikhail Katchenovsky, and the only way of locating the Russian was through the Metropolitan Museum people.
It always lifted his spirits to see Hatshepsut’s temple and imagine how it might have looked when the trees from Punt lined the causeway with green ribbons and the newly finished colonnades glowed in the sunlight. Monumental statues of the queen-king had stood everywhere. The remains of them had been found, smashed into bits. The adjoining temple of the Eleventh Dynasty king Nebhepetre had not been as impressive even in its heyday, and there was not much of it left.
Feeling slightly guilty about his dereliction of duty and his interruption of their work, he declined Barton’s invitation to dismount.
“I’m looking for Katchenovsky. Is he here?”
“Not yet.” Barton slapped at his cheek, which was being explored by a gnat. “He doesn’t usually come until afternoon. If you’re in a hurry you could look for him. He’s staying at one of the West Bank hotels—the one with the bathtub in the courtyard.”
“Ah, yes, Hussein Ali’s luxurious place. I’m not in that much of a hurry. Just ask him, if you will, to come to the house after he’s through here. I have a proposition for him.”
Lansing came along in time to hear the last speech. He raised his eyebrows, and Ramses explained that he had no intention of stealing the Russian away from his work with the Met. “I’ll only need him for a few hours a day.”
“That’s okay,” Lansing said. “We really don’t have much for him to do. Felt sorry for the fellow, actually, he looked as if he needed a job. So you’re going ahead with translating the Deir el Medina material?”
Ramses nodded. “I plan to. Unless something else comes up.”
“Which it’s likely to, with your lot,” Lansing said. “You sure you won’t stay awhile and catch us up on the news?”
“There’s nothing new, except that David is due to arrive today or tomorrow. We’ll be having a little dinner party for him one of these days. Mother will let you know.”
“I’ll settle for an invitation to the exorcism,” Barton said. “When is it to be?”
“Where did you hear that?” Ramses asked.
“All the men are talking about it.” Barton’s voice dropped to a sinister basso. “‘The black afrit walks the streets of Luxor.’”
“Daoud,” Ramses said resignedly.
“The Oracle of Luxor,” Barton said with a broad grin.
“He’s more accurate than most oracles,” Ramses admitted. “Father is considering the idea, but he hasn’t made up his mind yet. I’ll be sure to let you know.”
On his way back he stopped at the guardhouse to tell Wasim he was expecting a caller that afternoon. “Let him pass. And no baksheesh,” he added sternly.
Wasim fondled the aged rifle. “If you say so, Brother of Demons. But I am a poor man, and there have been fewer visitors.”
Katchenovsky turned up several hours later, looking more cadaverous than ever, but he lit up like a lantern when Ramses offered him the position.
“I hoped,” he exclaimed. “But I did not