Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [58]
“I can’t say I give a curse,” said Emerson.
“Emerson,” I murmured.
My gentle warning had no effect. Emerson had worked himself up into a state of righteous rage. “I presume you removed enough of the blocking stones to enter the tomb chamber? How much damage did you do—and what did you take?”
Carnarvon offered his arm to his daughter. “You have no right to question me, sir. I bid you good night.”
Emerson pointed an accusing finger. His voice rolled like that of an outraged god. “Your pockets are bulging, Lord Carnarvon!”
Ramses and I managed to stop him before he went in pursuit of Carnarvon, who was retreating with as much haste as his dignity allowed. I verily believe Emerson would have searched the fellow, which would have led to serious trouble. The damage was bad enough. Once at a safe distance, Carnarvon turned. “You are persona non grata here, Professor. Stay away from the tomb. Do not presume on my goodwill again.”
He walked off, followed by Carter and Callender and by Emerson’s vehement curses.
“Now you’ve done it,” I said, relaxing my hold. “We’ll never be allowed in the tomb again.”
His little outbursts generally refresh Emerson. Displaying his large white teeth in a jovial smile, he said, “In that case, we may as well make the most of the present opportunity.”
We left the ibn Simsah brothers bound securely with strips cut from their garments, after relieving them of various sharp instruments. In his confusion (and, I believe, guilt) Howard had not even remembered to lock the wooden grille. As we made our way down the corridor I said to Emerson, “You ought not have cursed Lord Carnarvon, Emerson.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “He was already out of temper with me.”
“You threatened him with everything from dying of the pox to being devoured by demons in the afterlife.”
Emerson emitted a loud groan. It was not caused by remorse, but by the sight visible in the beam of his torch: a gaping hole, several feet square, at the bottom of the blocked door.
“You were prepared for that, surely,” said the cool voice of Sethos behind us.
“I hoped I was wrong,” muttered Emerson.
“Be fair, Emerson,” said his brother. “What Egyptologist could have resisted?”
“I do not require a lecture from you,” said Emerson. He shone his torch into the opening and moved it slowly from side to side.
The full wonder of the chamber was disclosed, in a series of successive visions. It required some time for the eye to disentangle the strange shapes and sharp shadows: overlapping quartered circles that must be chariot wheels, three great gilded funerary couches with grotesque animal heads, laid end to end and piled with other objects. But what caught the eye and held it were two life-size statues that faced each other like guardians against the wall to the right. The exposed skin had been blackened with bitumen, the clothing and regal ornaments gleamed with gilt. On the brow of each figure the royal uraeus serpent reared its head, ready to strike any who threatened the king.
Even Sethos, the imperturbable, was shaken. On hands and knees, he said, “There’s a drop of about two feet.” He turned as if to lower himself down. Emerson caught him by the collar.
“There’ve been enough clumsy idiots tramping around in there. Go ahead, Ramses. Be careful where you step.”
“It seems to me,” I began, “that as the smallest person present—”
“Good Gad, Peabody, if I can restrain myself, so can you,” growled my husband. “Ramses is light on his feet and agile as a cat.”
“And not likely to pocket any small objects,” said my brother-in-law, not quite sotto voce.
“Are you implying that I would?” I demanded.
“I was referring to someone else,” said Sethos.
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Take the torch, Ramses.”
Ramses slipped carefully down and stood still for a moment, gazing around. “There seems to be an opening on the far wall, under one of the funerary couches.” We saw him stoop and look in. “Good God. It’s another room, packed full of incredible objects,