“My discomfort is more mental than physical,” Emerson muttered, but he accepted the brandy and took a long swallow. “ Peabody, this is ridiculous. We’ve been in uglier places before, with opponents far more dangerous than that miserable boy; and yet he’s managed to get us in an exceedingly tight spot. No one knows where we are… except Jumana. Have we been so mistaken in her character? I can’t believe she would connive in murder.”
“No,” I said. “She wouldn’t.” The strained voice, the odd, bent walk… “That wasn’t Jumana, Emerson. It was Jamil.”
7
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
When the citizens of Deir el Medina abandoned their houses they took their most valued possessions with them – except for the most valuable of all, the goods devoutly deposited with the dead. Looking for tombs was a gamble, with approximately the same odds as any game of chance. The great majority of them were empty and vandalized, but every now and then a lucky winner would find a prize, with some of the grave goods still intact, and the grand prize, the unrobbed tomb of a king or king’s wife, was a will-o’-the-wisp that tantalized the imagination of every excavator, whether he admitted it or not. However slim the odds, the temptation to search for treasure was hard to resist, especially when the alternative was a clutter of unimpressive mud-brick walls, or the tedious tasks of measuring and recording.
Jumana was supposed to be helping Bertie and Cyrus finish the surveying, but Ramses wasn’t surprised to see her halfway up the hillside, squatting, her head bent, her hands busy. He let out a shout that made Nefret jump and brought Jumana to her feet. She waved vigorously and started down.
“She shouldn’t be doing that,” he said in exasperation. “Look at her, grinning and cavorting. She knows she is violating orders.”
“Don’t be too hard on her,” Nefret said tolerantly. “Mother would be up there too. She’s found something.”
She was holding a small stela. It was not an unusual discovery; a good many of them had been found by earlier excavators, in or near the chapels of the tombs. She offered it to Ramses, raising shining eyes to him.
“You were told not to remove objects from their place,” Ramses said severely. The way she was looking at him made him nervous.
“I tagged the place,” Jumana protested. “As you showed me. I made the measurements, I know exactly where it should go on the plan. There is no chapel there, Ramses, it must have fallen from its place and tumbled down the hillside. See – isn’t it pretty?”
Mollified, and regretting his hard tone, he took the stone from her. The curved top and straight sides, the rows of hieroglyphs that praised the deities worshiped by the male and female figures, were of a standard type, but the deities were somewhat unusual – two plump cats, facing each other across an offering table.
“I’ve seen other stelae from Deir el Medina that depict cats,” he said. “They were identified with several goddesses, including Amon’s wife Mut.”
“Not with the Great Cat of Re?” Jumana asked.
“Not these.” They were rather charming animals, fatter and less aloof than the usual lean Egyptian cat. He indicated the appropriate hieroglyphs. “ ‘Giving praise to the good and peaceful cat.’ Well, maybe they are at that. They aren’t named. But the Great Cat of Re wasn’t peaceful, was he.”
“They’re delightful,” Nefret said, nodding at Jumana. She got no response; Jumana was watching Ramses, breathless and expectant, waiting for a word of praise from him.
“They are,” he conceded. “Let’s take it to Bertie. Drawing it will be good practice for him.”
“I would like to give it to the Little Bird,” Jumana said, as they walked toward the shelter. “Her cat is getting fat, like these, and we could tell her one of them was the Great Cat of Re.”
“We will have to wait for the Antiquities Department to decide which pieces we may keep,” Ramses said. Feeling he had been a trifle harsh, he added, “It was kind of you to think of it, Jumana.”
They greeted Bertie and handed over the stela, and Ramses said, “It’s rather a charming piece. Why don’t you try your hand at making a copy, Bertie? Unless you’re busy with something else.”
“I will do it,” Jumana said. “I can -”
“Yes, I know you can, but I need you elsewhere.”
Selim had set the men to work. He hailed Ramses, demanding his opinion of an unusual raised platform in the corner of the house they were excavating, and Ramses lost track of the time. It wasn’t until Cyrus joined them and suggested they stop for luncheon that Ramses realized how late it was.
“Where’re your ma and pa?” Cyrus asked with a grin.
“They haven’t come?” He knew they hadn’t; his father always made his presence known. “They went to see Yusuf; he sent a message asking for them. But they ought to be here by now.”
Nefret’s expressive face reflected his own uneasiness. “Were we right after all – about Yusuf and Jamil? I really didn’t believe it, you know.”
“Neither did I,” Ramses admitted. He ran his fingers through his hair.
“Where is your hat?” Nefret asked.
“I don’t know. Never mind my damned hat. Confound it, they’ve no business wandering off without informing us. What are we going to do?”
“Have lunch,” Nefret said practically. “And wait a little longer.”
Cyrus demanded to know what was going on, and after they had set out the food, Ramses told all of them about the message. Cyrus was unconcerned. “They can take care of themselves.” Selim scowled. “If Yusuf knew, and did not tell me -”
“That’s only a theory, Selim. We can’t be certain what Yusuf wanted. Maybe it was Mother’s notorious medical skills.”
“He would be more likely to ask for hers than for mine,” Nefret admitted. “The older men and women don’t believe in my newfangled notions. But it shouldn’t have taken them this long, even if Yusuf asked Father to perform an exorcism.”
By the time they had finished the meal Ramses had come to a decision. “We had better try to find them. Assume the worst, as Mother says, and act on it.”
“Where are you going to look?” Cyrus asked. “You don’t know where they might be by now.”
“Yusuf,” Ramses said shortly. “If he has any information, I’ll get it out of him.”
Selim rose. “Daoud and I will come with you.”
“Damn this foot!” Bertie burst out. “Look, it’s almost healed, I can keep up.”
“Not this time.” Ramses’s hand rested briefly on the other man’s shoulder. “We don’t need additional manpower -”
“No,” said Daoud, folding his massive arms.
“No,” Ramses repeated, nodding in acknowledgment. “Cyrus, you had better stay here. Jumana, come with us.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide and dark. “You think I know something I have not told you? It is not true!”
“I haven’t accused you of anything,” Ramses said.
“Do let’s go,” Nefret exclaimed. “Why are we wasting time talking?”
They took the most direct route, past the temple and across the foothills, approaching the village from the south. Most of the inhabitants were enjoying their afternoon nap, but by the time they reached Yusuf’s house a few wakeful souls had spotted them and run on ahead, so Yusuf was expecting them.
He was lying on the divan in the main room, covered with a blanket, though the day was warm. It was the first time Ramses had seen the old man since their arrival. The change in him was distressing. The once plump jowls hung down in loose folds, and his thin hands gripped the edge of the coverlet. He shrank back as they all crowded into the room. Ramses didn’t blame him; they made a threatening assemblage: he and Nefret, Daoud looming like a monolith, Selim’s face unyielding as walnut.