“I couldn’t see anything,” said Ramses, returning to us. “They are definitely Roman or very late Ptolemaic. The most important question is what they are doing here. The settlement was abandoned after the Twenty-first Dynasty, when conditions became unsettled, and the inhabitants moved to the greater security of Medinet Habu, with its stout walls. This discovery may force us to reexamine our assumptions about -”
“Quite,” said his father. Ramses had almost given up his old verbosity, but archaeological enthusiasm sometimes inspired him to lecture. “Er – we will discuss the historical implications at another time, my boy. Just now we need to concentrate on a somewhat tricky problem of excavation. How do you suggest we proceed?”
I left them to it, and joined Cyrus. “They are only Roman mummies, Cyrus,” I said, in an effort to console him. “And commoners, too.”
“A Roman mummy is better than nothing,” Cyrus grumbled. “I swear to goodness, Amelia, I feel as if I’m under some kind of curse. You folks were good enough to let me have the tombs here, and where do we find the first burials? In the town! Unless Emerson needs me, I’m going back up the hill.”
I watched with some uneasiness as he stalked off, kicking at pebbles. One could only hope temper would not lead him into carelessness. Another accident was the last thing we needed.
Thanks to Emerson’s meticulous methodology, we were all day clearing the cellar. Nefret and Jumana took photographs at every stage of the way and Ramses found an inscription that gave an exact date for at least one of the interments: the seventh year of the emperor Claudius. There was not much for me to do and I was tempted to join Cyrus in his search for tombs, but since I knew Emerson would take a poor view of that, I remained, watching and thinking.
I had not given up my intention of speaking with Yusuf. He had been doing his best to avoid us, which was suspicious in itself; his frequent visits to the mosque were also suspicious, though not necessarily for the reason Emerson had mentioned. Repetition of the daily prayers is one of the Five Pillars of Islam, but a man may pray wherever he chances to be. Jamil would not dare come to the house. They would have to meet elsewhere.
I decided to wait until evening, after the sunset time for prayer, before paying my visit. If Jamil had been reluctant to show his face near the village before this, he would be even more wary now. He would wait until after dark before meeting his father.
I did not explain my intentions to Emerson until later that day. Bertie and Cyrus, who was still sulking a bit, had set off for home, and Emerson was down in the cellar with the last of the mummies. He did not want to come up, but I insisted.
His initial reaction was skeptical. “There are a good many ifs in your theory, Peabody. It may be a complete waste of time.”
“If we succeed in proving Yusuf innocent of complicity, it will not be a waste of time,” I retorted. “What was it you said about whittling away Jamil’s supports?”
“Oh, bah,” said Emerson. He cast a longing look at his mummies, which Selim was loading onto a cart. “Careful with that, Selim.”
“Emerson, please pay attention.”
“What? Oh. It can’t do any harm, I suppose. Tomorrow.”
“Today. We must strike while the iron is hot.” Eyes fixed on Selim, Emerson tried to pull away from my grasp of his sleeve. “If you won’t go with me, I will go alone,” I added.
As I had expected, this drew his attention back to me. His brows drew together. “No, you will not. What’s this about irons? Another of your confounded aphorisms?”
“A very apt one, my dear. Yusuf must have learned of Jamil’s latest and most serious crime. We must talk with him, and reinforce the gravity of the matter, before the boy has a chance to tell his version, which will be a pack of lies but which a doting father might believe.”
“Hmph.” Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. “Oh, very well. But not until I have seen our find safely back at the house.”
“Selim and Daoud could manage it perfectly well, as you know. However, there is no hurry. It won’t be dark for another hour.”
With a little encouragement from me, the carts were loaded in good time and we set off for home, where the men carried our new acquisitions into the storeroom. The shelves were filling with a variety of objects, none as impressive as the new coffins, but, Ramses assured me, of much greater interest. Emerson studied them with satisfaction.
“Time for tea, eh?”
“No, Emerson, we must go at once. As I told you -”
“You’ve told all of us, so don’t do it again. Come on then.’
“Do you mean us to come, Mother?” Nefret asked.
“Yes. We will employ a combination of intimidation – Emerson and Ramses – and gentle persuasion – you and I and Jumana.”
Emerson snorted in derision – presumably at the idea of me employing gentle persuasion. Jumana gave me an apprehensive look.
“But, Sitt Hakim -”
“No objections, if you please.” I added, in a kindlier tone, “You were of great assistance yesterday. If your father does possess information about Jamil, you may be able to add something. If he does not – well, in my opinion it is high time he got over his annoyance with you. We may not be able to effect a complete reconciliation today, but it will be a beginning. You would like to be reconciled with him, wouldn’t you?”
“He is my father,” the girl said in a low voice. “I did not leave him, it was he who told me to leave.”
“I am sure he has regretted that, Jumana. Words spoken in anger -”
“Damnation, Peabody!” Emerson shouted. “This is no time for more of your meddling in other people’s feelings. Let’s get it over.”
The luminous dusk of Upper Egypt had fallen when we climbed the hill toward Yusuf’s house. The first stars shone in the eastern sky and the afterglow flushed the cliffs; pale gray ghosts of smoke, swaying in the evening breeze, rose from the cooking fires.
We were met at the door by Mahira, whose scowl made her look even more like a medieval witch.
“It is high time you came. What did you do to my husband?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She hurried us through the house, talking all the while. “It was the medicine you gave him. At first he was better, but this morning…” She flung open the door of the old man’s room. “See for yourself. He has been like this all day.”
The lamp she carried showed the form on the bed. Yusuf was twisting and twitching and talking to himself – or rather, to Someone else – repeating the same words over and over. “Lead us in the right way of those to whom you have shown mercy…”
“He’s delirious,” Nefret whispered, her eyes shining with pity. “What did you give him, Mother?”
“Sugar water. It is not delirium, but nervous excitability. Speak to him, Emerson.”
Emerson hesitated for only a moment. Like another, he is not above quoting Scripture for his own purposes. His sonorous voice rolled out in the words of the fathah, the first sureh of the Koran, from which Yusuf had quoted. “In the name of God, the merciful and gracious. Praise be to God, the Lord of the Worlds.”
Yusuf sat up with a galvanic start. His wild eyes gleamed like those of an animal. “So,” he said. “It is you, Father of Curses. Have you come to punish me because my silence might have caused your death and that of the Sitt Hakim?”
“Good Gad, no,” exclaimed Emerson, shocked into English.
“The Father of Curses is also merciful and gracious,” I explained, hoping this did not sound blasphemous. “We are here to help you – and Jamil, if we can. Where is he?”
“Is it the truth? It is the truth, you do not lie. You do not seek his life?”
We had to listen to quite a lot of this sort of thing and repeat the same reassurances several times. In psychological terms it was quite therapeutic for Yusuf, though rather tiresome for us. My diagnosis had been correct; his indisposition was not physical but mental, and the news of Jamil’s latest assault on us, which he had undoubtedly heard that morning, had left him torn between loyalty and affection, unable to decide what to do.