The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [124]
“We will start with the back wall,” I said to René. “I at the right-hand corner, you at the left. Watch me first; I am sure you are familiar with the technique, but I have my own methods.”
The process of dry squeezing consists of pressing a thin sheet of paper over the carvings with the fingertips. Wet squeezes would of course give a more precise copy, but they often damaged the crumbling reliefs and removed the last traces of any remaining paint. The technique of rubbing should be self-explanatory; soft pencils and a steady, even pressure were necessary. It was hard on the arm and hand muscles to maintain this, especially when working on a perpendicular surface.
I will not elaborate on the working conditions. Imagine the hottest, dustiest, deadest, driest climate your mind can conceive, and double it; that will give some idea of what René and I endured that afternoon. I was determined to stick to it till I dropped and René was determined not to be outdone by a mere woman (though of course he knew better than to voice this sentiment aloud). For his sake rather than my own I decreed occasional breaks for rest, air, and refreshment. Copious consumption of water was essential to ward off dehydration. Each time we emerged my eyes sought Emerson. Each time he was in a different place—remeasuring a room Charlie had already measured, and telling him he had done it wrong, criticizing Abdullah for overlooking a scrap of pottery in a crack in the floor, or hectoring the small work force he had assigned to Cyrus. He left me and René strictly alone most of the afternoon; when he finally came thumping down the passage, it was to tell us to stop for the day.
A faint moan came from René. I said, “As soon as I finish this sheet of paper.”
Emerson picked up one of the rubbings I had completed and held it near the lamp. “Hmph,” he said, and thumped off.
The valley was sunk in blue shadows when we emerged. René collapsed on the ledge, gasping. I handed him my canteen; the water was hot enough to have been used for tea, but it gave him strength enough to go on. I had to help him descend the slope, however.
“What luck?” I inquired of Cyrus, who was waiting below.
“Not much. Emerson insists we pick through every confounded square inch of sand. At this rate it will take two weeks to reach bedrock. So far we have found a diorite maul, the kind the ancients used to break rock, and four pieces of pottery.” Cyrus wiped the perspiration from his brow with his sleeve and then blinked at me. “But my poor dear girl— you look as if you have spent the day in a steam bath. You must be exhausted.”
“Not at all. A nice hot cup of tea and a nice warm cup of water with which to bathe my face, and I will be fully restored.”
“We can do better than that,” Cyrus said, taking my arm. “Come and see what my fellows have done.”
What they had accomplished was little short of a miracle. The area was quite unsuitable for a camp. The central space was so narrow the tents and shelters had to be arranged in a long line instead of clustering together. To clear the ground entirely of rock would have taken weeks, but the men had rolled away many of the larger boulders and prepared relatively flat surfaces on which tents could be erected. Rugs and matting softened the pebbly ground, and folding cots offered promise of comfortable rest. Even the wood and dried camel dung for a fire had to be brought with us, for there was not so much as a twig to be gathered. Several fires burned