Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [29]
Ramses looked startled. “Why do you ask, David John?”
“Grandpapa believes his tomb is in the Valley of the Kings. He would like to find it.”
“I’m sure he would,” Ramses said. “It is true that Tutankhamon’s is one of the few royal tombs that has never been found. But he was not an important king, David John. He ruled at the end of the Eighteenth Dynasty, succeeding his father-in-law, who may also have been his father. You have heard of Akhenaton?”
“The Heretic,” said David John promptly. His blue eyes shone. “A fascinating figure. His wife was Nefertiti and he had six daughters. He forbade the worship of the old gods and founded a new city, Amarna, dedicated to his sole god, the Aton. One might call him the first monotheist.”
“Well done,” I said. David John must have been reading Mr. Breasted’s History. Like his father, he was appallingly precocious in certain areas, and he had learned to read at a very young age.
“Akhenaton’s reforms did not endure, however,” I continued. “After his death the court went back to the worship of the old gods and abandoned Amarna. Tutankhaton, as he was originally called, changed his name to Tutankhamon. His wife, one of Akhenaton’s daughters, changed hers as well, to incorporate the name of the god Amon, whose worship had been forbidden by her father.”
David John nodded emphatically. “From Ankhesenpaaton to Ankhesenamon.”
“Good Gad,” I said involuntarily. “Er…again, well done. That is about all we know of Tutankhamon, David John. Few monuments of his have survived.”
“Then if his tomb were to be found—”
“That is most unlikely,” I said. “Your grandfather has got a bee in his…er…”
“Bonnet,” said David John. “A metaphor. I understand. I shall ask him about it.”
He returned to Emerson, and I said, “Really, Ramses, I am beginning to worry about the boy. He rattled off those polysyllabic names as readily as he does that of his sister.”
“He can’t be any worse than I was,” Ramses said with a smile.
I could only hope he was right.
It was shortly after midnight in the early hours of November 4 (I have good reason to remember that date) that I awoke to find Emerson gone from my side. Emerson wakes with a great deal of grunting and tossing about. For him to vanish as silently as a spirit aroused the direst of forebodings. Without stopping to assume dressing gown and slippers, I snatched up my parasol and ran out of the room. The sound of low voices led me to the veranda. The moon had set, but the stars were bright enough to enable me to make out the stalwart form of my spouse in muttered conversation with a much smaller figure. I heard Emerson say, in Arabic, “You are certain?”
“Yes, Father of Curses!” The voice was a high-pitched treble, that of a young boy. The sight of me wrung a small scream from him, but he stood his ground. Emerson glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, Peabody. What are you doing with that parasol?”
I lowered the weapon, feeling a trifle foolish. “Is there news of…of him?” I cried.
“Quietly,” Emerson hissed. “Who are you talking about? Oh, him. No.” He went on in Arabic, “Good lad. Here.”
He fished in the pocket of his trousers, his only garment, and the jingle of coins brought a flash of white teeth from the child. “Wait,” Emerson said. “We will return together.”
“Curse you, Emerson,” I said, trotting after him as he hurried back to our sleeping chamber. “What is going on? If it is not about him…”
Emerson took me by the shoulders. “Peabody,” he said in a low, strained voice, “they have found a stone-cut step.”
A thrill of electrical intensity ran through my limbs. I understood, who better, what that phrase betokened. A step, carved out of the stone, could mean only one thing. A tomb. And where else could it be, but at the spot Emerson had been haunting for days?
I exclaimed, “I am coming with you.”
“I cannot wait for you, Peabody.”
However, his attempts to assume his garments were slowed by excitement and by his habit of strewing his clothing all over the room when he retires.