“Very well,” I said. “Thank you. Where are you on your way to this morning?”
“Just out for a little ride,” said Mr. Albion. He took out a large white handkerchief and mopped his face. “Say, you folks couldn’t introduce me to a few tomb robbers, could you?”
Emerson had begun backing away. This remarkable request stopped him dead. “What did you say?”
“Well, we’re collectors,” Albion said calmly. “Especially Sebastian here. He’s just crazy about ancient Egypt.”
If I understood the meaning of that slang word, it did not suit young Mr. Albion. He did not look like a man who would go “crazy” over anything. His eyes were wide-set and somewhat protuberant, and as cool as ice-clouded water, whose color they matched.
“Yessir,” his father went on cheerfully. “We’ve been collecting for quite a while. That’s why we came out this winter, looking for more good stuff.”
Emerson was staring, his astonishment now mitigated by amusement. I feared annoyance would soon mitigate the amusement, when he realized, as had I, that Albion was absolutely serious.
“The usual method of collecting antiquities,” I said somewhat sarcastically, “is to buy from dealers. Mohassib in Luxor -”
“Been to see him already,” said Albion. “ ’Scuse me for interrupting, ma’am, but I didn’t want to waste your time.”
“Thank you,” I said, taken aback.
“You’re welcome, ma’am. Now Mohassib has some fine things, but he’s playing the dealer on me, trying to raise the price. I figure the best way is to go straight to the people he gets his stuff from. Cut out the middleman, eh?”
I looked at Mrs. Albion, wondering if she would display embarrassment at her husband’s outrageous speech. She had loosened her veils. There was no doubt which side of the family her son favored. She had the same long face and thin lips and pale gray eyes. They were fixed on Mr. Albion with a look of fatuous admiration.
“Well?” said Mr. Albion hopefully. “You’d get your cut, of course.”
“We are not dealers,” Emerson said. “And I must warn you, Mr. Albion, that what you have proposed – in all innocence, I trust – is not only illegal but dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” Mrs. Albion transferred her stare to Emerson. Her lips straightened out and her eyes lost their warmth. “What possible danger could there be for us? We are American citizens.”
“The danger,” said Emerson, “is me. If you have not heard enough about me to understand my meaning, ask your guides. Let us go, Peabody.”
I thought it best to take his advice. Emerson had kept his temper remarkably well – though I was unable to say the same about his grammar – but he was bound to lose it if the Albions went on in the same way. We went on, leaving three people gaping at us and six others concealing their grins behind rather dirty hands.
“Very good, Emerson!” I exclaimed. “You did not use bad language – and under considerable provocation, too.”
“Don’t talk to me as if I were Sennia,” Emerson grumbled. His well-shaped lips twitched, and after a moment he began to laugh. “One can’t become angry with people like that. Introduce him to a few tomb robbers! I would be tempted to cultivate him for comic relief, if we didn’t already have enough of it in this family.”
“The boy didn’t utter a word,” I said.
Emerson was still in an amazingly good humor. “He isn’t a boy. He appears to be about the same age as Ramses. I suppose you find his reticence suspicious?”
He began to chuckle again, and I joined in; not for worlds would I have taken umbrage at his little joke. I did find the younger Mr. Albion suspicious, however. Either he was completely cowed by his father or he did not deign to express his own ideas, whatever they might be. And what had brought that oddly assorted trio to the difficult path? Where had they come from, and why? It was possible, if nerve-racking, to ride a donkey up the steep path from the Valley of the Kings, but I would not have supposed that Mr. Albion or his elegant wife would be up to it. The downward path was even more hazardous on donkey-back, and so was the descent behind Deir el Bahri.
Our path was relatively level until we reached the hill overlooking the little valley of Deir el Medina. We paused there, not to rest, for it had been an easy stroll, but to get a bird’s-eye view of the site.
The tombs of Deir el Medina had been known and looted for many years. They were relatively unpretentious, the shaft leading down to the burial chamber surmounted by small chapels crowned with miniature brick pyramids. Many of the latter had crumbled and fallen and the remaining chapels were in very poor condition. However, the underground chambers were often beautifully decorated. They were the tombs of the people who had lived in the village below. It was still largely unexcavated. Studying the rough, partially exposed walls, Emerson burst out, “Confound the lazy, incompetent scoundrel! Only look what he has done to the place!”
He was referring to Mr. Kuentz, our predecessor, who had been arrested (thanks to us) the previous year. “He hasn’t done much,” I said, hoping to calm my grumbling spouse. “I expect he was too busy with his other activities – spying and tomb robbing. They do take time.”
“He has put his damned rubbish dump smack in the middle of the site,” Emerson exclaimed. “I will have to do it all over again.”
He always said that.
We scrambled down the hillside. Selim joined us, and Emerson began rapping out orders. The men scattered. Emerson stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Where is Ramses?” he demanded.
“They will be coming shortly, I am sure. If you want to start the surveying, I am perfectly capable -”
“Very good of you, Peabody, but I believe I will just wait for Ramses. Why don’t you arrange one of your – er – your little rest places?”
I had intended to do it anyhow. In my opinion, periods of rest and refreshment increase efficiency. Shade is hard to come by when the sun is directly overhead, and it was at that time of day we – and the dear devoted horses – would need it most. I prefer tombs to all other forms of shelter, naturally, but there was not much left of the superstructures of the small tombs on the hillside. I concluded that the temple at the far end of the village would serve me best.
A number of deities had shrines there, but the principal dedicatee was Hathor, one of the great goddesses of the Egyptians. Since these broad-minded ancients were not especially concerned with consistency, Hathor played a number of different roles over the long centuries and was identified at various times with other goddesses, but her primary function was that of nurturer and protector, of the living and the dead. The lover called upon her for help in winning his beloved; the barren woman prayed to her for a child. She was worshiped with music and dancing, and her epithets included some of the loveliest phrases in the liturgy – Mistress of All That Exists, Lady of the Sycamore, Golden One.
I wandered about for a time, examining some of the reliefs. One of our fellow Egyptologists had partially restored the temple a few years earlier, and there was a nice little corner in the vestibule which suited my purposes admirably. With the efficiency I had come to expect of him, Selim had brought all the equipment I would need, including a large piece of canvas. He was too busy chasing after Emerson to assist me, so I got one of the other men to help me arrange rugs and campstools and tables, and make a temporary roof of the canvas next to the enclosure wall to provide shade for the horses. I was just finishing this essential task when the others arrived. Emerson, whose eye is everywhere, immediately bellowed “Ramses!” and after a nod at me, Ramses trotted off.