“Nonsense,” grunted Emerson.
“We know where two of the sarcophagi are, or were,” I explained. “At Deir el Medina, in tomb shafts high on the hillside. They were dragged there by individuals who meant to usurp them for their own burials. One had actually been reinscribed with the name and titles of – er -”
“Pamontu,” Ramses said. “A priest of the Ptolemaic or early Roman period, approximately five hundred years after the last God’s Wife died and was buried.”
“Just what I was about to say, Ramses.”
“I beg your pardon, Mother.”
“It seems likely, therefore,” I continued, acknowledging his apology with a nod, “that by the first century a.d. the original burial chambers here at Medinet Habu were empty except for the sarcophagi. They were too heavy and of no value to ordinary -”
“Yes, yes, Peabody,” said Emerson. “Vandergelt, you’re as bad as Jumana. There is some excuse for her, but you ought to know better. The brickwork west of here may be the remains of a fifth chapel.”
“Abu and Bertie are working there now,” Cyrus said, with a vague gesture toward the west. “So far, no luck. I’m getting tired of this, Emerson.”
“Of what, the Saite chapels? I hope you aren’t thinking of shifting to another area. You haven’t the manpower to tackle the larger temples.”
“Well, I know that!” He glanced at Ramses, who was talking to Nefret, and lowered his voice. “The truth is, Emerson, none of us has got the skill for this job. Oh, sure, we can clean the place up and make proper plans, but what’s needed here is somebody to record the inscriptions and reliefs.”
“You can’t have Ramses,” said Emerson.
“Emerson,” I murmured.
“Well, he can’t! I know, I said the boy could do anything he liked and work for anyone he chooses, but – er – confound it, Vandergelt, stealing another man’s staff away is one of the lowest, most contemptible -”
“Gol-durn it, Emerson, I wouldn’t do a thing like that!”
Their raised voices had caught Ramses’s attention. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked.
“No trouble,” Cyrus declared. “Um – see here, Emerson, I just got to thinking… How about if we trade places? You take Medinet Habu and I’ll take Deir el Medina.”
Emerson opened his mouth, preparatory to delivering a cry of protest. Then his scowl smoothed out. He stroked his chin. “Hmmm,” he said.
“Cyrus, that is an outrageous suggestion,” I exclaimed. “You can’t go trading archaeological sites as if they were kitchen utensils!”
“I don’t see who’s gonna stop us,” Cyrus said stubbornly. “The Service des Antiquités has got too much on its plate to bother with two respectable excavators like us. What do you say, Emerson, old pal?”
Emerson’s face widened in a grin. “You want to get at those tombs at Deir el Medina.”
“Any tomb’s better than none,” Cyrus retorted. “There’s none here. What I’d really like to do is mount an expedition to the Cemetery of the Monkeys, but -”
“You’d break your neck climbing round those wadis,” Emerson declared forcibly. “And waste your time. The most practical method of locating tombs in that area is to follow the Gurnawis – or go out after a heavy rainstorm, as they do.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like rain. Come on, Emerson, this job is right up Ramses’s alley. Look at him.”
He did appear to be enjoying himself. He and Nefret were absorbed with the reliefs – and each other. They were holding hands and talking in low voices as they moved slowly along the wall. With my customary rapidity of thought, I considered the pros and cons of Cyrus’s suggestion. There were a good many things in its favor. The reliefs needed to be recorded before time and vandals destroyed them. This was a perfect place for the photographic technique of copying Ramses had developed, and Nefret would work at his side – close by him, in a nice, safe, enclosed area. And while they were doing that, Emerson could root around the ruins to his heart’s content. However…
“Are we agreed?” Cyrus asked hopefully.
“Agreed on what?” Nefret asked, turning.
“Come and have some tea with Bertie and me, and we’ll tell you all about it,” Cyrus said.
As we left the chapel I lingered, looking up at the carved lintel. “An offering which the King gives, a thousand of bread and beer and every good thing…”
“Did you say something, Mother?” Ramses inquired.
“Just – er – humming a little tune, Ramses.”
“What is Father up to now?”
“I will leave it to him to tell you, my dear.”
And tell us he did, without asking anyone else’s opinion or voicing a single reservation. Having had time to reconsider the matter, I had thought of several. M. Lacau, who had replaced Maspero as head of the Antiquities Department, might not find out about our violation of the rules for some time; he had returned to France for war work, leaving his second-in-command, Georges Daressy, to carry on. Daressy was a genial soul, whom we had known for years, but even he might be offended by our proceeding without his permission.
Considerations of this sort did not enter Emerson’s mind. He had always done precisely as he liked, and had taken the consequences (though not without a great deal of grumbling). Realizing that Ramses had fixed me with a pointed stare, brows tilted, I was reminded of certain of those consequences, such as the time we had been barred forever from the Valley of the Kings after Emerson had insulted M. Maspero and everybody else in the vicinity.
I cleared my throat. “Perhaps we ought to give the matter a little more thought before we decide, Emerson.”
“Why?” Emerson demanded. “It is an excellent idea. Ramses will enjoy copying the inscriptions -”
“I would prefer to go on at Deir el Medina, Father,” Ramses said, politely but firmly. Emerson looked at him in surprise, and I gave Ramses an encouraging nod. It had taken him a long time to get courage enough to disagree with his father. “The site is unique,” Ramses went on. “Do you realize what we might learn from it? We’ve already come across a cache of papyri and a number of inscribed ostraca; they confirm my belief that the people who lived in the village were craftsmen and artists who worked on the royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings.”
“They were servants in the Place of Truth,” Emerson interrupted. “Some scholars believe they were priests.”
“Their additional titles indicate otherwise. Draftsman, architect, foreman -”
“Well, well, most interesting,” said Emerson, who had lost interest almost at once. “Your opinion is of course important to me, my boy. We will discuss it later, eh?”
He was set on his plan and had no intention of reconsidering it. When Cyrus reminded him that we had agreed to attend one of his popular soirees that evening, he did not even swear.
I turned to Bertie, who appeared to be in a pensive mood, for he had not spoken after his initial greeting.
“What do you think, Bertie?”
His brown hair had become sun-bleached and his face was tanned, so that he was a pale shade of brown all over. One could not call him handsome, but his pleasant, guileless smile was very attractive. “Whatever you decide is fine with me, Mrs. Emerson. I’m just a hired hand, as Cyrus would say.”
“You appear to be in a pensive mood,” I persisted. “You are feeling well?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“You took up archaeology to please Cyrus,” I said, and patted his hand. “It was kind of you, Bertie, but he wouldn’t want you to go on with it if you find it distasteful.”
“I’d do more than that for him.” Bertie blushed slightly, as Englishmen tend to do when they give vent to their emotions. “He’s been jolly good to me, you know. I only wish…”