Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [13]
“She isn’t tired,” said David John in disgust, watching his sister being hoisted onto the shoulder of a beaming dragoman. “She just likes being high above the rest of us.”
Ramses deemed it wiser to ignore this accurate appraisal. David John, having made his point, did not pursue it. He slipped his hand into that of his father’s.
“Just remind me, if you will, of the relative location of the tombs in this area,” he requested. Amused by the contrast between the high-pitched voice and the pedantic speech, Ramses said, “Remind you? You haven’t been here very often, David John. How much do you remember?”
“Naturally I have studied the maps and the books, Papa. There, I believe, is the entrance to Tomb 55, where you worked last season. A most frustrating excavation.”
The entrance had been filled in, as was Emerson’s custom when finishing an excavation. Only an uneven surface of sand and pebbles marked the spot. Obediently Ramses indicated the other nearby tombs—Ramses IX, and across the way, on the hillside, that of another obscure Ramses, awarded the number six by modern historians.
“There is certainly a great deal yet to be done here,” said his son judiciously. “What is Grandpapa looking at so intently?”
“The remains of workmen’s huts. Not very impressive, are they?”
They were nothing more than seemingly random heaps of rough stones. Only an expert eye would have recognized them as the temporary living quarters of men who had worked on the nearby royal tombs, or understood, as Ramses was beginning to do, why Emerson stared at them with such interest.
Charla had forged ahead of the others, urging her grinning bearer on with shouts of glee. Her grandmother clucked disapprovingly. “Ramses, she is becoming a positive little slave driver. Make her stop.”
Emerson had also observed the situation, and by the time Ramses reached his daughter his father had already caught her up and was lecturing both Charla and the man who carried her.
“I told you you were not to get away from the rest of us,” he said sternly. “And you…what is your name? I don’t know you.”
The man was a stranger to Ramses as well—a tall, well-set-up fellow with a narrow face and protruding jaw. “Mahmud, O Father of Curses,” he said readily. “I came here from Medamud because I heard you would be hiring workers. I have two wives and thirteen children, and—”
“Yes, yes,” said Emerson. “See my reis, Selim. You know him, of course.”
“All men know Selim, Father of Curses. My thanks.”
Charla propelled herself into Emerson’s outstretched arms. He set her on her feet. “It won’t do you any harm to walk awhile,” he declared. “Take my hand.”
“He was a nice man,” said Charla, unrepentant. “He ran very fast when I told him to.”
“You must not treat people like beasts of burden,” Ramses said. “I hope you thanked him properly.”
Charla looked round, but the nice Mahmud was no longer in sight.
They had their picnic lunch in the mouth of an empty tomb, and then returned to the house. David John’s fair skin was turning pink, despite the hat his mother insisted he wear, and both children were drooping a little from the heat. They considered themselves far too old for afternoon naps, but they were receptive to the idea of a quiet hour in their room. Nefret went to her clinic; the news of her arrival had spread, and a number of patients had turned up. Hers was the only clinic on the West Bank, and Nur Misur, Light of Egypt, as Nefret was called, had earned the loving respect of the villagers. Some of the older men still preferred the medical (and magical) skills of her mother-in-law, who decided to accompany her. Ramses found himself alone on the veranda with his father.
“Odd, that,” he said.
“The helpful Mahmud?” Emerson gestured him to a chair and took out his pipe.
“I might have known