Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [32]
The sky turned from soft gray to pale blue. The sun had risen above the eastern cliffs, but in the depths of the Valley the shadows clustered. Emerson waxed impatient, fidgeting and muttering. Eventually we heard voices, and along came Howard’s crew, led by his reis. They greeted us without evidencing surprise; clearly they had been told of our presence. Reis Ahmed Girigar was one of the most respected foremen in Luxor, and was made of sterner stuff than the others. Fixing Emerson with a respectful but steady eye, he asked whether Carter Effendi was expecting us.
“No,” said Emerson. “We want to surprise him. And you, I think, will have a greater surprise for him. Look there.”
Howard did not turn up for another hour. (His procrastination prompted a number of caustic remarks from Emerson, who was always at the site as soon as his men; but to do Howard justice, the removal of the remaining debris was a task well within the skill of his experienced foreman.) The reis had finished clearing the first stair, and he and Emerson had arrived at an understanding by the time Howard arrived, swinging his stick. The men fell silent when they heard him approach. Howard didn’t see us at first. We had tactfully retreated into the background.
“Why have you stopped work?” he demanded of Girigar.
The moment was one of high drama. Instead of replying, the reis made a sweeping gesture, directing Howard’s attention to the step.
British phlegm went up in smoke, together with dignity. Howard turned pale, then red, and fell to his knees. I doubt he was praying, he only wanted a closer look; but for the first time I fully realized how much such a discovery would mean to him, and I remembered something he had once said about the excavations carried on by the American Theodore Davis. “It don’t seem right that he should find one tomb after another when there’s been nothing for his lordship.” Or for Howard Carter, whose career was dependent on the goodwill of a patron.
“Good Lord,” he gasped. “When…how…”
“We found it almost at once, Effendi, as soon as we began digging. Then we stopped and waited for you.”
“Yes, yes.” Howard got to his feet and dusted off the knees of his trousers. “Quite right. Get on with the job, then. It may not be anything.”
“I think it is, though,” said Emerson.
Howard jumped. “What the devil—Oh, good morning, Mrs. Emerson. Er…how long have you been here?”
“We decided on an early-morning ride, you see,” said Emerson evasively. “When we arrived, Reis Girigar had just made his great discovery, so we were unable to resist hanging about to see what developed. Don’t mind, do you? Here, Peabody, take a seat.”
The seat was a campstool, gallantly produced by the reis. I took it and smiled at Howard, who had been left with no way of getting rid of us short of a blunt dismissal.
I really would not have blamed Howard for cursing Emerson, who stood at Howard’s shoulder and kept giving orders to the men, but before long Howard was too absorbed to feel resentment. The usual debris still overlay the steps, however many there might be, and the cutting itself. The men worked with a will, as anxious as we to see what lay below, but the work seemed to progress with agonizing slowness. Howard was—I must do him credit—a careful excavator, and with Emerson looming over him he was not tempted to neglect proper standards. As the morning went on, the crowd round the excavation increased—most of the guards and dragomen, curious tourists. The latter did not