The Golden One

by Elizabeth Peters

  What was wrong with her? Usually her small face was alive with excitement and she could outtalk everyone in the family – which was no small feat. Now she replied to Emerson’s greeting with a wordless murmur and her dark eyes moved uneasily around the room.

  “Where is Nefret?” she asked.

  “She and Mrs. Emerson have gone off to look at the new house,” Emerson said.

  “I will go too. Please? Excuse me?”

  She hurried out of the room without waiting for a reply. She’s got something on her mind, all right, Ramses thought. Well, whatever it was, it was not his problem. His mother thought she could solve everything; let her deal with it.

  She came bustling in a few minutes later and went straight to Cyrus, holding out her hands. “Jumana told me you were here. Didn’t Katherine and Bertie come with you?”

  “Bertie wanted to, but Katherine had some chore or other for him,” Cyrus answered.

  Ramses wasn’t surprised to hear it. Katherine disapproved of her son’s fascination with the pretty Egyptian girl.

  “She was hoping you’d come to us for dinner tonight,” Cyrus went on.

  “Bah,” said Emerson. Cyrus burst out laughing and stroked his goatee.

  “I know, old pal, you don’t have time for social engagements. This’ll just be us, nothing formal, come as you are.”

  Emerson’s jaws parted, but his wife got in first. “Certainly, Cyrus, we accept with pleasure. Ramses, Nefret wants you to join her. She is at the new house.”

  “Oh? Oh, right.”

  A sensation his mother would have described as a “hideous premonition” came over him. Why hadn’t he realized? Of course – she had built the house for Nefret and him. It was just like her to do it without consulting them. And there was no way on earth they could refuse without sounding churlish and ungrateful and selfish. Nefret was too fond of his mother to tell her no to her face. She would want him to do it!

  He expected to find his wife on the doorstep, vibrating with indignation. She wasn’t there. He had to track her down, looking into room after room as he searched. The place was quite attractive, really – large, low-ceilinged rooms, with the carved mashrabiya screens he liked so much covering the windows, tiled floors, bookshelves on many of the walls. Otherwise the house was almost empty except for a few tables and chairs and couches. She’d had sense enough to leave the choice of furnishings and decorations to them. Not at all bad, on the whole. If it had been up to him…

  If it had been up to him, he would rather live in a hole in the rock than tell his mother he didn’t like it.

  He found Nefret sitting on the shady porch that looked out on a small courtyard. Jumana was with her, their heads close together.

  “I’m sorry, Nefret,” he began.

  “You apologize too often.” It was an old joke between them, but when she looked up he saw that her face was grave.

  “It’s not so bad, is it?” he asked. “She meant well, and it is some distance from the main house, and -”

  “It’s fine,” Nefret said impatiently. “Never mind the house, Ramses. Jumana has something to tell you.”

  There were wicker chairs and a table or two. He sat down. “Well?”

  She had obviously been talking freely with Nefret, but the sight of him froze her tongue. She twisted her hands together.

  “What is it?” Ramses asked. “Something about Bertie? Don’t worry about him, Jumana, you’ll be staying with us from now on. That was the agreement.”

  “Bertie?” She dismissed him with a shrug. “He is not a worry. No. I must tell you, but…” She swallowed, hard. “I have seen Jamil.”

  “My God.” Ramses breathed. “Where? When?”

  “Two weeks ago.” Now that she had got the worst of it out, the words flowed freely. “I went to Luxor Temple, while Mrs. Vandergelt was shopping at the suk and Mr. Vandergelt was at Mohassib’s. Bertie wanted to go with me, but Mrs. Vandergelt said -”

  “I understand,” Ramses said. “Jamil was at the temple?”

  She nodded. “He had been waiting for days to find me alone. He wanted money. He said that he had discovered a rich tomb, but the others had cheated him and he cursed them all and said he would get even, but he needed money… I gave him all I had.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Nefret said. “The best thing for Jamil would be to turn himself in.”

  Her mouth drooped like that of a child on the verge of tears. “He is my brother. How could I refuse to help him? But he said… Oh, I have been so afraid! I didn’t know what to do. But now you are here, you will tell the Father of Curses, and he will not let Jamil -” Her voice broke.

  “It’s all right,” Ramses said gently. He took her small shaking hands in his. “He won’t let Jamil hurt you. Is that what he threatened? That he would harm you if you told anyone you had seen him?”

  “No, oh, no!” She clung tightly to his hands and looked up into his face. “It is you the Father of Curses must guard. It is you Jamil hates most. He said if I told anyone he would kill you.”

  3

  “Bah,” said Emerson.

  We were seated on the veranda drinking tea. The rays of the sun, low in the west, cast golden gleams through the roses that twined around the open arcades. It was like the old days, when we had so often gathered in that shaded spot; the wicker chairs and settees and tables were not much the worse for wear, and Ramses had taken up his old position, perched on the ledge with his back against a pillar. Now Nefret sat beside him, and her hand was in his. Fatima had insisted upon serving sandwiches and tea cakes, despite the fact that we were to leave shortly to dine with the Vandergelts. Rather than disappoint the dear woman, I nibbled on a cucumber sandwich or two.

  After learning of the reappearance of Jamil, I had decided a private council of war was imperative. Sennia, who had expected to take tea with us, strongly objected to being sent away and was only mollified when – before I could stop him – Emerson handed her the entire plate of cakes to take with her. As soon as she was out of earshot Nefret repeated what Jumana had said, and Emerson responded in characteristic fashion.

  “That is not much help, Emerson,” I said. “A threat cannot be dismissed so cavalierly.”

  “It was an idle threat,” Emerson declared. “How can that miserable little coward constitute a danger to Ramses?” He gave his tall son an approving look, and Ramses replied to the implied compliment with an exaggerated lift of his eyebrows.

  “Come to that, why Ramses?” Emerson went on. “I take it as an affront that he didn’t threaten me. Are you going to eat all the cucumber sandwiches, Peabody?”

  “I think,” said Nefret, passing Emerson the plate, “that in Jamil’s eyes Ramses was the hero of last year’s affair. Or villain, from Jamil’s viewpoint! Not to take anything away from you, Father – or you, Mother -”

  “You are quite right, my dear,” I said graciously. “We did our part, but if it had not been for Ramses -”

  “You ought to take it as a compliment, Father,” Ramses said. He does not often interrupt me, but he does not like to hear himself praised. “Jamil would consider it below his dignity to threaten a woman, and he obviously feels I am less dangerous than you. ‘No man dares threaten the Father of Curses!’ ”

  “What an annoying development!” I mused. “I had hoped the wretched boy had taken himself off to distant parts, or that he had met with a fatal accident.”

  “That is rather cold-blooded, Mother,” my son said.

  “Your mother is a practical woman,” Emerson declared. “I suppose now we’ll have to find him and turn him over to the police, which will be cursed embarrassing for everyone concerned, especially his father. We’ve left him alone, and instead of taking to his heels he has the effrontery to challenge us! He must be mad.”

  “Or mad for revenge,” Nefret said, her brows furrowing.

  “No,” I said judiciously. “He’s too much of a coward. However, his true motive is not difficult to discover. One of h
is most notable traits is greed. He also has an uncanny instinct for locating lost tombs. Depend on it, that is why he hasn’t left Luxor. He hopes to find another; good Gad, perhaps he has already done so!”

  An all-too-familiar glint brightened Emerson’s sapphirine orbs, but after a moment’s thought he shook his head regretfully. “Pure conjecture, Peabody, born of your rampageous imagination. It’s more likely that he hasn’t the courage to leave familiar surroundings and strike out on his own. He made enough from his share of the princesses’ treasure to live comfortably for a while; I would guess that the money has been squandered, and that he approached Jumana as a last resort. He won’t try it again. As for attacking Ramses – stuff and nonsense!”

  “Yes, but he might try and get back at Jumana,” I said. “Especially if he learns she told us he is still in Luxor. She probably won’t believe that she could be in danger from him, so we must make certain she is not allowed to go off alone. Katherine and I had agreed she would come to us; we will bring her back with us tonight. I will ask Fatima to get a room ready for her. David’s old room, I think; it is next to ours, Emerson, with windows that open only onto the courtyard. It will not be easy for anyone to get at her there – or for her to creep out unobserved.”

  “Are you going to tell Cyrus and Katherine about Jamil?” Nefret asked.

  “I am glad you raised that point, Nefret. I will explain the situation to them eventually, but I do not believe it would be advisable to mention it this evening. The walls have ears and the tongues of Luxor wag at both ends. We certainly don’t want Jamil to find out that his sister has informed on him.”

  “There you go, trying to make a mountain out of a molehill,” Emerson declared. “In my humble opinion, the sooner Jamil learns that we are aware of his pathetic threats, the better. He won’t dare show his face again.”

  “In your opinion?” I repeated. “Humble? I trust that you agree that Selim and Daoud must be informed. Harmless the wretched boy may be, but he is their cousin – of some degree – and -”

  “Here is Cyrus’s carriage, come for us,” Nefret said quickly. “Are we ready? Mother, where is your hat?”

  Cyrus’s carriage was a handsome open barouche, drawn by a splendid pair of grays. A brilliant sunset washed the western sky, and across the river the lights of Luxor began to shine. When the carriage turned into the narrow way that led to the Valley of the Kings, the hills rose up around us, cutting off the last of the sunset light. Few spots on earth are as magical as the Valley; it is not only the grandeur of the scenery, but the romance of its history. In the gray twilight one could easily imagine that the shadows cast by the carriage lamps were the ghostly forms of the royal dead, and that the howling in the hills came from the throat of the divine jackal Anubis, god of cemeteries.

  “Now that we are settled here for a long time, we must think seriously of getting our own carriage,” I remarked. “I don’t like depending on Cyrus or on the rattletraps for hire at the dock.”

  Emerson said something under his breath, and I said, “I beg your pardon?” and Emerson said, “Motorcar.”

  That subject caught everyone’s attention and we had a nice little argument that lasted all the way to the Castle. I pointed out that the utility of such vehicles was limited by the condition of the roads and Emerson retorted that the military was using them, and that the new Ford cars had proved to perform admirably in desert terrain. Nefret and Ramses contributed very little. To be fair, they didn’t get a chance to say much.

  Cyrus’s Theban residence was called the Castle, and it well deserved the name. From certain angles it reminded me of the Mena House hotel; it was almost as large as that excellent hostelry and had the same screened balconies attractively arranged at various levels. There was a stout wall around the entire estate; that night the heavy gates stood hospitably open, and flaming torches lined the drive leading to the house, where Cyrus stood waiting to greet us.

  He had, as promised, invited no other guests. I asked after William Amherst, who had worked for Cyrus the previous year, and was told that he had left.

  “Finally wangled his way into the army,” Cyrus said rather enviously. “Some kind of office job. Leaves me confounded shorthanded,” he added. “But Abu is a good reis, and Bertie’s filling in real well.”

  Katherine gave her son a fond look. She had grown a touch stouter, but the additional weight was, in my opinion, quite becoming. She wore a long loose gown in the Egyptian style and an emerald necklace that matched her eyes. Now that she was freed from worry about her son, who had been severely wounded in action the past year, her face had lost its haggard look and once again she resembled the pleasant, plump-cheeked tabby cat of which she had reminded me at our first meeting.

  Bertie was looking well too. He had taken up the study of Egyptology, partly to please his stepfather, but primarily to win favor with Jumana, and there is nothing like the vigorous pursuit of archaeology to give an individual healthy color and a sturdy frame. I did notice, when he advanced to greet me, that one leg still dragged a little. I had hoped that time would bring about a complete cure. Evidently it had not. Ah well, I thought, it will keep him from going back into the military.

  The only other person present was Jumana, who sat as still as a little mouse until Emerson went to her. Everyone was talking and laughing; I believe I was the only one who heard what he said to her.

  “You did the right thing, child. The matter is in my hands now, and there is nothing to worry about.”

  I could only hope he was right.

  It wasn’t long before Cyrus turned the conversation to the subject that had obviously become an idée fixe. “I want a crack at that treasure,” he declared. “Emerson, you’re gonna have to help me with Mohassib.”

  Ramses glanced at me. His dark brows tilted in an expression of amused skepticism, and I intervened before Emerson could answer.

  “Now, Cyrus, you know perfectly well that Emerson is the last person in whom Mohassib would confide. Emerson has told him only too often and only too profanely what he thinks of dealers in antiquities. I would like to hear more about the business. How was the tomb found, has it been investigated, why hasn’t the Service des Antiquités taken steps?”

  That ought to keep Emerson quiet for a while, I thought complacently.

  Nothing loath, Cyrus launched into a tale that was even more bizarre than the usual stories of such discoveries – and that, I assure you, Reader, is saying a good deal.

  It does not often rain in Luxor, but when it does, the storms are severe. One such storm had struck the previous summer, washing away houses and cutting deep channels through the land. The canny thieves of Luxor knew that such downpours were more effective than excavation in removing accumulated debris and, perhaps, exposing tomb entrances. Scrambling around the cliffs, they had found a place where a stream of falling water disappeared into a crevice and then came out again, forty feet away.

  What they saw when they squirmed through the choked passageway into the tomb chamber must have left even those hardened thieves speechless. Unrobbed tombs aren’t found every day, and this one was spectacularly rich. Astonishment did not render them less efficient; within a few hours the treasure had been removed and deposited with Mohassib, who paid them in gold coins. The money was divided among the miscreants, who immediately began to spend it.

  “That old fool Mohammed Hammad bought himself a young wife,” Cyrus said. “It turned out to be a mistake. The news of the tomb got around, as it always does, and a few weeks later the local mamur and his lads descended on the village. Mohammed had time to hide the rest of his money in a basket of grain, and sent the girl off with it, but she hung around flirting with the guards, and one of them knocked the basket off her head. Well, folks, you can imagine what happened after that. There was a free-for-all, villagers and police rolling around the ground fighting each other for the gold pieces. Mohammed ended up with nothing, not even the girl. She went off with the mamur.”

  “Di
sgusting,” Katherine murmured.

  “Poetic justice,” said Emerson with an evil grin. “Mohammed must be feeling hard done by. He may be persuaded to show me the location of the tomb. They can’t have done a complete clearance.”

  “Oh, it’s been located,” Cyrus said. “In the Wadi Gabbanat el-Qirud – the Cemetery of the Monkeys. I’ve been thinking I might spend a little time out there looking for more tombs.”

  “You are supposed to be working at Medinet Habu,” Emerson said with a severe look at his friend. “Not going off on wild-goose chases.”

  “It’s all very well for you to talk,” Cyrus said indignantly. “You’ve had your big finds, but how about me? All those years in the Valley of the Kings and not a durned tomb for my trouble! There’s got to be more of them in the southwest wadis. With Carter’s find that makes two tombs of royal females in those wadis. What I figure is that that area could have been a kind of early queens’ cemetery.”

  “It is a strong possibility,” Ramses agreed.

  Cyrus’s eye brightened, but Emerson said firmly, “You’d be wasting your time, Vandergelt. Carter didn’t find that tomb of Hatshepsut’s, he trailed a group of the locals who had discovered it. You had better stop chasing rainbows and get to work, as I intend to do. You have the firman for Medinet Habu, and you were damned lucky to get it. It is one of the best-preserved temples on the West Bank.”

  “At least there are some tombs at Deir el Medina,” Cyrus muttered.

  “Private tombs,” Emerson pointed out. “And I will not be searching for more. I mean to finish excavating that settlement in its entirety. In archaeological terms it is far more important than any cursed royal tomb. Town sites are rare, and we will gain valuable information about the daily life, occupations, and amusements of the working classes…”

  There are few aspects of Egyptology that do not interest Emerson, but in this case he was bravely disguising a certain degree of disappointment and envy. He had always wanted to work at one of the great temples like Medinet Habu. To be honest, I was not especially excited about the village either, but we would not have got even that site if the individual who had held the firman the previous year had not been taken into police custody. According to Emerson, his excavation methods had been careless in the extreme, so there was a good chance we might come upon artifacts he had overlooked or discarded as worthless.