The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [105]
“We are honest people here, we respect the Father of Curses and his honored chief wife and all the Inglizi who hire us to work. But in every village there are a few who are not honest; I think Mohammed is trying to stir them up against the Father of Curses, for he was talking loudly in the coffee shop and the ones who listened were the evildoers among us. Warn the Father of Curses, Sitt, and take care for yourself. Mohammed holds you in equal blame for his disgrace. He hoped to be the sheikh after his father died.”
And still hoped, I fancied. The mayor’s concern for us was not entirely altruistic; Mohammed could be a potential rival. Nevertheless, he was an honest man, and I thanked him before hurrying on.
Emerson had named our excavation site the Eastern Village, overriding the objections of Cyrus, who claimed that one house and part of a wall did not a village make. He added that no one, not even an idiot like Akhenaton, would build a residential quarter so far from the river. (Cyrus was one of those who did not share my exalted view of the heretic pharaoh, but he generally kept his opinions to himself when I was present.)
They were arguing the matter when I arrived on the scene, for even at my best pace I could not catch Emerson up when he was in a hurry. Emerson had spread his plans out across a boulder. Taking his pipe from his mouth, he used the stem as a pointer. “These are ancient roads, Vandergelt; half a dozen of them converge at this point, which is midway between the southern and northern tombs. The house we finished uncovering yesterday is obviously one of a number of such dwellings; there is mud-brick of similar shape and material scattered all over the hollow. Oh, curse it, I can’t be bothered to explain my reasoning now; why the devil should I? Go with Abdullah; he is following the face of the enclosure wall. He ought to come across a gate soon.”
Muttering and shaking his head, Cyrus went off. Watching Abdullah and his trained men of Aziyeh was fascinating for an archaeological enthusiast; in some places only a skilled eye could distinguish between crumbled brick and the natural soil that had buried it. Cyrus was enthusiastic about the profession, mistake me not; but like many excavators he preferred royal and nobles’ tombs to the dwellings of the humble, which these clearly were. The only artifacts we had uncovered were faience beads and a wooden spindle whorl.
“Emerson,” I said urgently. “I must speak to you.”
“Well, what is it?” He had rolled up the plan and was poised on one foot, impatient to get to work.
“The mayor told me an old enemy of ours—of yours— has returned to the village.”
“What, another one?” Emerson let out a bark of laughter. He started off. I ran after him.
“You must listen to me. Mohammed has good reason to hold a grudge against us—you. He is a sneak and a coward—”
“Then he will have better sense than to bother me. I think,” said Emerson consideringly, “that we will divide the work force. Charles seems to be getting the hang of it; with Feisal to help him, he can start on the southeast corner. I want to get an idea of how much diversity in plan …”
He trotted off, still talking.
As I had suspected, Emerson had only been teasing poor Charlie when he threatened to set him to work on the boundary stela. The subject was not mentioned again. By the time we stopped for luncheon, the partially uncovered walls of a second house had proved Emerson’s theory, to his satisfaction, at least. My task, which was that of sifting through the fill removed from the site, had not proved onerous; there were few objects, and they were of poor quality. I was glad to stop, though; the sun was hot and there was little shade. How Bertha endured the heat in her muffling garments I could not imagine. I had enlisted her aid that morning; she had been quick and competent.
Emerson had graciously consented to allow his hard-pressed workers to rest during the hottest part of the day. This was customary