Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [31]
“Well done, Peabody,” said Emerson, taking the torch from me. “Now, Azmi, show me the step.”
The remains of the huts had been removed the previous day, but there was a good three feet of soil and rubble remaining over the bedrock. Azmi indicated a depression less than two feet long and a foot wide.
“I put the sand back, Father of Curses,” he said in a thrilling whisper. “So that you could be the one to find it.”
Emerson handed me the torch, dropped to his hands and knees, and began digging like a mole, throwing the sand out behind him. His large callused hands were efficient tools; it was not long before he let out a muffled swear word and held up a bleeding finger. It was not a request for sympathy, but confirmation of Azmi’s claim. He had scraped his finger on a hard rock surface, the same color as the sand that almost covered it. We all banged our heads together trying to see down into the hole. Sand kept trickling back into it, but before Emerson stopped we all saw the straight edge of what had to be a ledge or step.
Emerson sat back on his heels. I waited for him to speak but he remained silent.
“Dig it out, dig it out,” the boy urged.
“No.” Emerson rose slowly to his feet. “I have not the right to do so.”
“Isn’t it a little late for such scruples?” I inquired. Archaeological fever had gripped me, and I was as anxious as Azmi to enlarge that enticing hole.
“Refill it,” Emerson ordered, in the same quiet, even voice. He took me by the elbow and raised me from the squatting position I had assumed.
Azmi groaned. “Again?”
“Again.”
“But, Emerson,” I cried. “It may be only a natural feature, or the start of an unfinished cutting. Don’t you want to make sure?”
“I have not the right,” Emerson repeated. “In fact,” he went on, “I hadn’t the right to do this much, and it would not be prudent to admit that I had. Azmi, you must allow Reis Girigar to take the credit for finding this, as he will do so in any case. I shall see you are properly rewarded. There, that will do.”
Emerson sat down on the low retaining wall at the nearby entrance to the tomb of Ramses VI and invited me to join him. The predawn chill was bitter. Emerson drew me close and put an arm round my shoulders. “Have a sip of your brandy, Peabody, to ward off the cold.”
“The brandy, as you well know, is for medicinal purposes only. If you had given me time I would have brought a Thermos of coffee.”
“Perhaps I was unnecessarily hasty,” Emerson admitted. “But you understand, Peabody—”
“Yes, my dear, I do. How did you know precisely where to look?”
“Yesterday, after the last of the huts was cleared away, I observed something that caught my attention. The soil lies differently over a concavity. Not much of a difference, unless one is looking for it, but I was looking for it, you see. I couldn’t be absolutely certain,” Emerson said modestly, “so I pointed the spot out to Azmi. He waited until the guards had settled down for the night before he began digging. He’s small, and he knows every nook and cranny in the Valley. Nobody spotted him. He then reported to me.”
A shiver ran through me—part excitement, part cold. “Curse it,” said Emerson. “One would have supposed that by this time our presence would have been noted. Azmi, see if you can rouse one of the guards and tell him the Father of Curses wants coffee.”
Azmi scampered off. The sky had begun to lighten before he returned with two men, whom Emerson hailed by name. “You sleep soundly, Ibrahim, Ishak. What sort of guards are you, to allow us to enter the Valley unchallenged?”
The older of the two, a wiry chap with a grizzled beard, salaamed. “We knew it was you and the Sitt Hakim, Father of Curses, so we left you to do as you wished.”
“That shows excellent judgment,” said Emerson, with a smug smile. “Haven’t you made your morning coffee?”
“As we always do, Father of Curses,” the younger man said. “Ali Mohammed will bring it when it is ready.”
We had our—their—coffee, very black and sweet and hot. Neither of the