The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [39]
So I did. It was quite a nice pyramid in its own way, though the passageways were not so extensive or interesting as the ones in the Giza and Dahshoor monuments. Like them, it had been opened by earlier explorers who found it had been completely looted in antiquity.
On the afternoon of the second day came a further addition to what had now become something of a small mob—a pair of what Emerson refers to as cursed tourists. He unbent a trifle, however, when one of them introduced himself as Herr Eberfelt, a German scholar with whom Emerson had corresponded. He was a virtual caricature of a Prussian, monocled, stiff as a board, and very formal in his manner. Herr Schmidt, the young fellow with him, was one of his students—a plump, pleasant chap who would have been quite handsome had it not been for the ugly dueling scar that disfigured one cheek. German students take great pride in these scars, which they consider evidences of courage rather than of stupidity, which in fact they are. I am told the students even employ various painful and unsanitary methods of preventing the wounds from healing so that the scars will be as conspicuous as possible.
Herr Schmidt’s manners were as faultless as his face was not. He addressed me in broken but delightful English and appeared more than ready to accept the cup of tea I offered. However, Emerson insisted on showing them around the site and the young man obediently followed his superior.
I had finished my tea and was about to go after them when one of the workmen sidled up, glancing shyly at me from under his thick lashes. Like the other men, he had stripped off his robe while working and was attired only in a wrapped loincloth. His sleek, smooth body shone with perspiration.
“I have found a tomb, honored Sitt,” he whispered. “Will you come, before the others find it and claim a share of the baksheesh?”
I looked around. Emerson must have taken the visitors into the pyramid; they were nowhere in sight. Daoud was directing a group of workers who were investigating the tombs next to the causeway that led from the pyramid to the river.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“Not far, honored Sitt. Near the Tomb of the Geese.”
He was referring to one of the most famous tombs of Meidum, from which had come the lovely painting now in the Cairo Museum. It was located in the mastaba field almost due north of the pyramid. A crew under Abdullah was at work in the area, searching for other tomb entrances; this man must be part of that crew. His surreptitious manner and look of suppressed excitement suggested that he had come on something remarkable enough to merit a sizable reward. Naturally he did not want to share it with the others.
Anticipation thrilled through my limbs as I pictured marvels equaling the geese, or even the life-sized painted statues of a noble couple that had been found in another mastaba in the same cemetery. Rising, I gestured to him to lead on.
The guttural chanting of Daoud’s crew gradually faded as we scrambled over the fallen rocks and rough ground at the base of the pyramid. We were close to the northeast corner of the structure when my guide stopped. He held out his hand. “Sitt,” he began.
“No,” I said in Arabic. “No baksheesh until you have shown me the tomb.”
He took a step toward me, smiling as sweetly as a shy maiden.
Then I heard a sound like the sharp crack of a whip. A rolling rumble of falling stone followed, as a rain of rocks and pebbles struck the ground behind me. My guide took to his heels. I could hardly blame him. Looking up in some annoyance, I saw a round, alarmed face peering down from the top of the slope, which was almost fifty feet above me at that point.
“Ach, Himmel, Frau Professor—verzeihen Sie, bitte! I did not see you. Are you damaged? Are you fainting with fear?”
He came scrambling down the slope as he spoke, waving his arms to keep his balance, and starting another miniature avalanche.
“Neither,” I replied. “No thanks to you, Herr Schmidt. What