The Golden One

by Elizabeth Peters

  “Howard Carter, by G – - by heaven,” Emerson exclaimed, extracting one of the letters. “High time we heard from him. Listen to this, Peabody, he says he won’t be coming to Luxor for -”

  He looked up and stopped speaking in mid-syllable. “Peabody? What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I said, forcing a smile. Sennia, quick to catch every nuance, especially the ones one hoped she would miss, demanded, “Is something the matter, Aunt Amelia?”

  “Nothing,” I repeated. “Have another biscuit, my dear.”

  I handed Emerson the missive that had occasioned my lapse. It was a telegram, addressed to Ramses and bearing the stamp of the C-in-C of the Egypt Expeditionary Force.

  We had to wait until dinnertime to find out what was in the cursed thing. I think that if I had not been watching him, Emerson would have ripped it open – and if he had not been watching me, I might have done the same. Delivering it immediately to the addressee was also out of the question; if we had rushed off, Sennia would have been alarmed by our urgency. As Emerson later confessed, the telegram felt as if it were burning a hole in the pocket where he had placed it. Fortunately for his nerves and mine, the children came early in order to say good night to Sennia before she went to bed.

  “Whiskey and soda, my boy?” Emerson asked, his manly voice gruff with the effort it cost him to keep from shouting and/or swearing.

  “Thank you, sir.” Emerson’s perturbation would have been obvious even to an individual less perceptive than his son. “I see you and Mother are already one ahead of me.”

  “Two,” I said. “Yes, yes, Sennia, you have already kissed everybody; now run along.”

  Darkness had fallen; the night breeze rustled the leaves. The lamps, enclosed in glass, burned with a steady flame. “What’s wrong, Mother?” Nefret asked. “Has something happened to Katherine or Cyrus or -”

  “No, my dear; and your question is a salutary reminder of one of my favorite aphorisms -”

  “Don’t say it, Peabody!” Emerson exclaimed.

  “If you insist, Emerson. This is such a minor difficulty, compared with others, that we ought to be humbly grateful for -”

  “And don’t paraphrase, either. Here.” Emerson handed the telegram to his son.

  “Hmmm,” said Ramses, inspecting the envelope.

  “Open it this instant!” I exclaimed.

  He put the glass down before he did so, remarking in his usual cool voice, “Have you two been hoarding this all afternoon? I am surprised you should get yourself worked up over… ” His voice checked briefly, and then he read the message aloud. “ ‘Your assistance required in important matter. Please report soonest.’ Good of him to say ‘please.’ ”

  “Smith,” Emerson said through his teeth.

  “No. It is signed by Cartright. You remember he -”

  “That visit was a reconnaissance,” I said. “Though I cannot explain what he learned from it.”

  “Are you going to answer it?” Nefret demanded.

  “Courtesy requires an answer, surely.” He took up a sheet of paper and a pencil. Nefret, looking over his shoulder, read the message as he wrote it. “Sorry cannot comply. Needed here.”

  “Ah,” said Emerson.

  “Thank you, darling,” Nefret murmured.

  “What for? Can’t leave Luxor, can I, with Jamil on the loose?” His voice changed; he sounded exactly like his father when he went on. “And I don’t jump when someone like Cartright cracks the whip.”

  “I’ll send Ali to the telegraph office at once,” Nefret said. She picked up the paper; hesitated for a moment; then took the pencil and crossed out a word.

  Ramses laughed. “Quite right. I’m not at all sorry.”

  The following day brought a discovery that kept us fully occupied for a time – a cache of mummies, several in their original wooden coffins. To Cyrus’s annoyance we found them, not in a tomb but in the cellar of one of the houses.

  The rock-cut space, which had served for storage, had been enlarged just enough to contain the remains. They were arranged neatly but so tightly that it was impossible to enter the small chamber. Squatting on the steps, Emerson moved his torch slowly over the assemblage. One detail after another emerged from the darkness: the calm face of a woman, crowned with a painted diadem; the brightly colored form of a hawk-headed god; a still form uncoffined and wrapped in intricate patterns of bandages.

  “Roman,” said Emerson.

  “How do you know?” Cyrus demanded, from the top of the stairs. “Let me have a look.”

  Emerson and I went up and gave Cyrus the torch. “The cartonnage masks are unquestionably first century,” Emerson said. His enthusiasm had faded as soon as he realized this, for he is not interested in Greek and Roman Egypt. “Can’t be more precise about the date until we have a closer look. Come up from there, Vandergelt, and let’s get them out. The local thieves will tear the coffins and mummies to pieces if we leave them unguarded.”

  Cyrus scrambled up the rough steps and passed the torch on to Ramses. “Pretty fancy coffins,” he said enviously. “In good condition, too. Maybe there’s more stuff at the back…”

  “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 retort
ed. “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.

  “I will take you to him,” Yusuf quavered. “We meet, at different times, in the cemetery near the mosque. He will be there tonight, when the moon rises.”

  “Abdullah’s tomb,” I said. “Praying at that holy place was an excuse for meeting your son?”

  My resentment must have shown in my voice. The old man shrank back. “It was not an excuse. I prayed there. That my cousin Abdullah would forgive me and ask God to forgive me.”

  He had ignored Jumana as if she were invisible. This did not seem the proper time for a little lecture on the subject of forgiving one’s daughter.

  The cemetery was on the north side of the hill, on a space of level ground. Over the cliff floated a silver orb, flooding the landscape with light. Abdullah’s monument shone like snow.

  On the edge of the cemetery, still in the shadow of the hill, Yusuf stopped. “Let me go ahead. Let me talk to him. I will tell him he must give himself up.”

  “Go on then,” said Emerson.

  He waited until the old man was out of earshot before muttering, “I don’t share Yusuf’s confidence in his power of persuasion. Peabody, give me that pistol of yours – I know you have it, so don’t pretend you don’t.”

  I did not hesitate to do so. I had been practicing with the confounded weapon for years without attaining the degree of skill Emerson possesses.

  “No,” Jumana whispered. “Please, you said you would not kill him.”

  “Couldn’t kill a rabbit with this thing,” said Emerson contemptuously. “If he bolts, a few warning shots should stop him. Worst comes to worst, I’ll shoot him in the leg.”

  Yusuf made no attempt to conceal himself. Standing full in the moonlight several yards from the tomb, he called out, “It is I, Jamil, your father. Come out and speak with me.”

  Though he spoke softly, we heard every word. The cemetery was silent and deserted. Few people came there at any time, and none came after nightfall. It was one of the safest places Jamil could have chosen.

  After a moment the boy emerged from the entrance to the tomb. “Are you afraid to come closer, my father? The spirits of the dead do not trouble the living.”

  He was in Egyptian clothing, a dark robe and carelessly wound turban. His face was the image of his sister’s now that he had shaved off his mustache; he looked very young and very harmless. But there was a knife thrust through his sash, and in his right hand he carried a long stick.

  “The spirit of my revered cousin Abdullah troubles me,” the old man retorted. “We have dishonored him, Jamil, but it is not too late to seek forgiveness. Come with me to the Father of Curses, who will help you.”

  Jamil’s pretty face twisted into a grimace of pure hate. His head turned from side to side, his eyes searching
every shadow. Whether he saw us or only deduced our presence I will never know; but he raised the stick to his shoulder, holding it as one might hold a rifle. It was a rifle – Yusuf’s antique weapon, his most prized possession.

  Yusuf cried out. “No, Jamil! You said you would not fire it unless one attacked you. Put it down.”

  Emerson stepped out into the moonlight. “Drop it, Jamil,” he called. “Yusuf, get away from him.”

  Aiming my pistol at the ground in front of Jamil, he took a long step forward. If he meant to say more or do more, he did not have the chance. A loud explosion rent the air and the darkness was reddened by fire. Somewhat belatedly I tried to fling myself in front of Nefret.

  “Dear God,” Ramses whispered. “The damned gun exploded. I was afraid it would someday, he must be -”

  Emerson was running toward the crumpled form. By the time we reached Jamil there were two crumpled forms. Yusuf had bent over his son, shrieked, and dropped like a stone.

  Jamil was still alive. When I saw the ruin that remained of his face I could only pray he would not live long. His one remaining eye rolled from side to side and focused. Sounds whistled through his broken teeth.

  “Jumana. Sister. Is our father -”

  After one horrified look at Jamil, Nefret had known there was nothing she could do. Kneeling by the old man, her hand on his bared breast, she said, “It is his heart. We must get him to the house.”

  “Heart,” Jamil said faintly. “I killed him. My father. Sister – listen – the tomb -”

  Jumana leaned closer. Shock had deprived her even of tears. “Do you want to tell me where it is? Speak, then, and go to God having done that last kindness.”

  “Kindness.” I think he was trying to laugh. It was a dreadful sound, bubbling with blood. Then he said, with a last burst of strength, “The fools. It was there, before their eyes. In the hand of the god.”

  Yusuf lived only long enough to take the hand of his daughter (placed in his by me) and murmur a few unintelligible words. A sentimentalist might say he had died of a broken heart. In scientific terms he had succumbed to the same heart ailment from which Abdullah had suffered in his last years. We left Ramses to stand guard over Jamil, and Emerson carried Yusuf’s wasted body back to his house. I looked back as we walked away. The lovely shape of Abdullah’s tomb was outlined by moonlight and shadow. In the deeper shadows of the doorway, nothing moved.