Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [138]
We managed to get out of its way in time, though Emerson would have been seriously inconvenienced had not Ramses caught hold of the bridle of his horse and pulled it aside. The motorcar passed us in a cloud of dust and pebbles. Next to the chauffeur sat Howard, holding on to his hat. In the tonneau were Harry Burton—who gave us a cheery wave with the hand that was not holding his hat; Mr. Lucas, the chemist; and another gentleman whom I recognized as Arthur Mace, one of the Metropolitan Museum staff who had worked at Lisht in Lower Egypt. He was too preoccupied with holding on to his hat to acknowledge us, though I felt sure he would have done so otherwise. A pleasant, courteous man, he had had a good deal of experience working with fragile materials, and fully agreed with me on the superior usefulness of melted paraffin. The Metropolitan had certainly got its hand in.
Emerson’s language is really not to be repeated. It took all my eloquence to prevent him from galloping back to the house and going in pursuit of Howard in our motorcar.
“You will never catch him up now,” I insisted.
“He did it deliberately, in order to insult me,” Emerson raged.
“If he is behaving so childishly, you need not descend to his level.”
“Bah,” said Emerson, eyes narrowed and jaw set.
I wondered if I could detach a bit of our motorcar and hide it.
After brushing off the sand the wheels of Howard’s car had sprayed on us, we continued on our way. Even at that early hour the road to the main valley had begun to fill with tourists; after we turned aside toward the West Valley, blessed quiet descended, except for the muttering of Emerson. As always, the West Valley cast its spell. A great amphitheater walled by cliffs carved into fantastic formations by wind and water, it is a very silent place, unmatched for rugged grandeur. The sun rose over the eastern cliffs as we rode along, bringing a blush of pale gold to the rock. We and our horses might have been the only living creatures on earth.
Our working area was several miles from the entrance. When we arrived, we found that Cyrus and his crew had got there just before us.
Catching Cyrus’s arm in a firm grip, Emerson immediately launched into a bitter tirade, accusing Howard of daring to drive his own motorcar along a public road.
“Well, now,” said Cyrus, when Emerson ran out of breath. “I reckon there’s nothing we can do about it, is there? Shall we start work?”
“What? Oh.” Emerson rubbed his chin. “You want David, I suppose. The rest of you gather round. I have a plan…”
With a wink and a nod at me, David descended into the torrid depths of Ay’s tomb, accompanied by several of the workmen carrying torches. Emerson delivered a brief lecture on Tomb 25 and set the men to work clearing the stairs. In a single season sand and blowing debris had partially refilled them. I was given the task of resifting the debris we had removed the year before.
This is not the most absorbing of chores, especially when it is a repetition of work one has done before. My attention wandered, and at increasingly frequent intervals I rose to stretch cramped limbs. Thus it was that I was the first to see the boy Azmi coming full-tilt along the rough path. He was mounted on a donkey, which he encouraged to run by means of shouts and—until I advanced toward him—whacks of a stick.
He would have swerved round me had not the donkey decided to stop. No doubt it recognized a defender. I caught Azmi by the neck of his robe. “You know we do not permit an animal to be beaten,” I said sternly. “Even if we do not see you, we know.”
“You did see me,” Azmi remarked. He scratched his side, captured a flea, and squashed it. “But I will not do it again, Sitt Hakim.”
He tried to pull away from me. I held on. “What are you doing here? Why have you come?”
“To speak to the Father of Curses. I have news.”
“Speak to me first.”
Our discussion had attracted attention. Sensing potential drama, the men began drifting