The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [91]
Like the gallant gentleman he was, Cyrus came to my rescue. “No, sir,” he declared. “It’s high noon and I’m famished. I want my lunch before I stir another step.”
Emerson was ungraciously pleased to agree.
The shade of the tents was welcome. One of Cyrus’s servants unpacked the hampers his chef had provided, and we consumed a luncheon far more elegant than most field archaeologists enjoy. While we ate, Emerson condescended to lecture again. He directed most of his remarks at the two young men.
“The brickwork Miss—er—Peabody referred to is on the slopes and at the bottom of the hollow behind us. Some of it probably belongs to tomb chapels. The ruins on the floor of the hollow are clearly of another nature. I will start there tomorrow with a full crew. You, Vandergelt, and Miss—er—”
“If the title bothers you so much, you may dispense with it,” I said calmly.
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “You two will assist me. I trust this meets with your approval, MISS Peabody?”
“Quite,” I said.
“Vandergelt?”
“I can hardly wait,” said Cyrus, with a grimace.
“Very well.” Emerson jumped to his feet. “We have dawdled long enough. Let us be off.”
“Back to the dahabeeyah?” Cyrus asked hopefully. “Since you have decided where you mean to excavate—”
“Good God, man, there are a good six hours of daylight left, and we have seen less than half of the area. Hurry up, can’t you?”
Enviously the others watched Cyrus’s servant strike off toward the river with the empty hampers; then the procession formed again, with Emerson’s entourage trailing after him.
I presumed he meant to complete the circuit of the cliffs, and my heart beat high at the thought of seeing again the southern tombs where we had dwelt for so many happy years. But somehow I was not surprised when he led us into the foothills toward an opening in the rocky ramparts. Cyrus, ever at my side, let out a stifled American oath.
“Great jumping Jehoshaphat! I had a horrible premonition about this. The royal wadi! It’s a three-mile hike each way and I’ll bet you the temperature is high enough to fry an egg on a rock.”
“I’ll bet you it is,” I agreed.
As I have already explained, but will reiterate for the benefit of less attentive readers, the wadis are canyons cut through the high desert plateau by past floods. The entrance to this one was located midway between the southern and northern groups of tombs. Its proper name is the Wadi Abu Hasah elBahri; but for reasons that should be evident, it is commonly referred to as the main wadi. The royal wadi proper is a narrow offshoot of this larger canyon, approximately three miles from the entrance to the latter. Here, in a spot as remote and desolate as a lunar valley, Akhenaton had caused his own tomb to be built.
If the southern tombs brought back poignant memories, the royal tomb recalled scenes that had impressed themselves indelibly upon my heart. In the gloomy corridor of that sepulcher I had felt Emerson’s arms about me for the first time; along the rubble-strewn floor of the wadi we had raced by moonlight to save those we loved from a hideous death. Every foot of the way was familiar to me, and the spot was as fraught with romance as a garden of roses might be to one who had led a more boring life.
Shortly after we entered it the valley curved, cutting off our view of the plain and the cultivation beyond. After approximately three miles the rocky sides closed in and smaller wadis opened up on either side. Emerson had already disappeared; following, we saw him trotting along one of the narrow side canyons, whose floor rose as it proceeded to the northeast.
“There it is,” I said, in a voice pent with emotion. “Ahead and to the left.”
Soon the others saw it too—a dark opening framed by masonry, above a scree of tumbled rock. Charlie groaned. His clean-shaven countenance already showed signs of what promised to be a painful sunburn.