The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [48]
It would require more than unsuitably clad, garrulous crowds to rob the eastern valley of its grandeur; but to my mind the western valley is even more impressive. “Valley” is not really an appropriate word, suggesting as it does the green and fertile depression watered by a river or stream. These canyons, or “wadis,” as the Arabs call them, are as rocky and bare as the desert itself. We followed a twisting path that led through fantastic rock formations into a cup or bowl, floored with fine white sand and enclosed by rugged limestone cliffs. The only color was that of the blue sky high above; no green growing thing, not even a weed or a blade of grass, refreshed the eye.
Yet there was once water to spare in this arid amphitheater. The wadis were cut through the soft limestone of the cliffs in prehistoric times, when the desert bloomed like the rose and floods cascaded down the Theban hills toward the river. They are still subject to rare but violent flash floods which wash debris down the valleys and into the tombs.
A scorpion scuttled away from my foot; the insect, and a hawk hovering high above, were the only other living creatures in sight, though dark stains, clearly visible against the sun-whitened limestone, marked the nesting places of bats. The rock walls rose steep but not smooth; hundreds, nay thousands, of pockets and crevices, bays and caves turned the cliffs into a ragged fretwork of stone. The silence was absolute, for the sand muted even the sound of footsteps. One had an eerie reluctance to break that silence.
I broke it, but not until after Abdullah and Daoud had gone off to investigate a promising crevice. Neither of them knew our real purpose that day. We had not taken our loyal men with us to Nubia—it would have been impossible to provide transport and supplies for a large group in that troubled region—and they knew no more of our activities the previous winter than was known to the general public. The chances of keeping a secret increase in inverse ratio to the number of people who are acquainted with that secret.
“The place is certainly remote and private enough for our purposes,” I said. “But is it a likely spot in which to find Cushite royal scepters?”
“Egyptology is full of unsolved mysteries,” Emerson replied sententiously. “We will give our colleagues another, and let them debate endlessly as to how these remarkable objects could have found their way to a crevice in the rock.”
“Thieves’ loot,” I suggested, my imagination fired. “Hidden by an unscrupulous robber who did not want his associates to share in the proceeds, and who was prevented, by accident or arrest, from returning to get them.”
“That will be the accepted explanation, no doubt. But where did the thieves find them? I can hear Petrie and Maspero arguing that question for the next twenty years.”
His eyes sparkled with enjoyment. I felt he was beginning to enjoy his trick a little too much. “It is a pity we must do this,” I said.
Emerson “wiped the grin off his face,” as the expressive American phrase has it. “You don’t suppose I enjoy it, do you?” He did not give me a chance to reply, but went on, “Truth is impossible in this case, nor does it always suffice to end foolish speculation. Don’t forget the mummy in the royal tomb at Amarna. I gave Newberry the facts of that matter the other night, but I don’t suppose for a moment that will end speculation. Mark my words, scholarly journals for years to come will repeat the rumor that Akhenaton’s mummy was found at Amarna. And furthermore—”
“Yes, my dear,” I said soothingly, for I recognized the symptoms of one who doth protest too much. Deceit was anathema to that clear, candid brain, but he was right; what else could he do? “What will be your theory?” I inquired.
“Another cache of royal mummies, my dear Peabody.