The Golden One

by Elizabeth Peters

  “Do you suppose I don’t feel the same about you? I’m beginning to understand what you went through, all those times when I was off on some bloody damned job without you. Glad? I suppose I am. Will be. At this moment, I… I’m afraid, I think. I can’t take this risk for you. I can’t even share it.”

  She had never seen tears in his eyes before. Her heart turned over. He hid his face against her and she held him, her arms tight around his bowed shoulders.

  “It’s too late to change our minds now,” she murmured.

  He let out a long breath and when he raised his head she saw again the boy she had loved so long without realizing how much she loved him. His eyes were bright with laughter and dawning joy. “Are you sure you’re prepared for this, Nefret? You’ve heard Mother’s stories. What if it turns out to be like me?”

  The house was very quiet. I was alone, without even a cat to keep me company. Many duties awaited me, but for some reason I didn’t feel like tackling any of them. Seating myself on the sofa, I found my sewing box and took out the crumpled scrap of linen.

  The sitting room door opened. One look at their faces was all I needed. Hand in hand, they came to stand before me.

  “We wanted you to be the first to know, Mother,” Nefret said.

  I had to clear my throat before I could speak. I got out four words before my voice failed me. “Well! Naturally, I am…”

  “Oh, Mother, don’t cry.” Nefret sat down beside me and put her arms round me. “You never cry.”

  “Nor will I mar the happiness of this moment by doing so,” I assured her, somewhat huskily. I held out my hand to Ramses, who seated himself on my other side, let out a yelp, and sprang up. He had sat on my embroidery.

  We laughed until the tears came; they had not far to come. Returning to his seat, Ramses held up the miserable object.

  “She’s going to claim she has known for weeks. What is this, Mother?”

  I wiped my eyes. “A – er – a bib. Babies dribble quite a lot. These blue bits are violets, and these… It is rather nasty-looking, isn’t it? I think the bloodstains will wash out.”

  “It’s the most beautiful bib I’ve ever seen,” Nefret said, wiping her eyes. “And I hope the bloodstains never wash out. You did know!”

  “Not until this moment,” I said firmly. It would have been the height of unkindness to spoil such a wonderful surprise. “I was making it for Lia’s little girl.”

  “Girl?” Ramses’s eyebrows tilted.

  “I suppose Abdullah told you,” Nefret said with a chuckle. “Did he happen to mention ours?”

  “He never tells me anything important,” I said. Nefret laughed, and I saw Ramses shape the word with his lips: “Ours.” He was still trying to take it in.

  I had known, of course, for some time. To an experienced eye the symptoms are unmistakable.

  “When?” I inquired.

  “September,” Nefret said.

  “Ah. So the worst is over, and you are obviously in splendid health. If bouncing across the desert in that motorcar and stealing horses didn’t bring on a miscarriage, nothing will.”

  I spoke with all the authority I could summon, which is, if I may say so, considerable, and the faint shadow of anxiety on Ramses’s face faded. “If you say so, Mother.”

  “I do. And,” I added, “next time I see Abdullah he will verify it.”

  FROM MANUSCRIPT H

  They told Emerson next morning. It took a while to get his attention; he and Cyrus and the others were already planning the day’s activities when they arrived at Deir el Medina. After his wife had poked him with her parasol a time or two he agreed, amiably but in some perplexity, to join them for a brief private conversation in a corner of the vestibule. They had discussed various ways of breaking the news.

  “If I say we have something to tell him, he’ll look blank and ask what,” Nefret said with a chuckle. “And announcing he is about to become a grandfather is too sickeningly coy.”

  So, in the end, she blurted it out. “I’m going to have a baby, Father.”

  Emerson’s jaw went slack. “A… a what?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Ramses said. “But we’re pretty sure it’s bound to be either a boy or a girl.”

  Emerson choked. “Boy? Girl? Baby? Good – good Gad!”

  “Take my handkerchief,” said his wife.

  Emerson indignantly refused the handkerchief; if there were tears in his eyes he blotted them on Nefret’s hair as he took her in a close embrace. He turned to Ramses, held out his hand, and then, to the latter’s utter stupefaction, embraced him too.

  He was with difficulty prevented from rushing out shouting the news at the top of his lungs to everyone present. “A little less publicly, please,” Nefret begged. “We haven’t told Fatima yet, or Kadija, or Sennia, or Gargery, or -”

  “Oh, of course Gargery’s feelings are of paramount importance,” said Emerson with heavy sarcasm and a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “Naturally, my dears, I bow to your wishes. Good Gad!”

  Emerson went directly to Cyrus and whispered in his ear. Within five minutes everyone on the site had heard. It was possible to watch the word spread by the smiles that warmed the men’s faces as they turned to look at Nefret.

  She accepted Cyrus’s hearty good wishes and promises of a celebration to end all celebrations, and then got their minds back to business. “Did anything happen last night?”

  “Good Gad,” said Emerson, still grinning. “Good Gad! Er – what did you say? Oh. Well, we saw a few shadows flitting about hither and yon, but they vanished when I announced my – our – presence.”

  “You didn’t recognize any of them?” Ramses asked.

  “I didn’t have to see them to know who they were,” his father retorted. “Members of our distinguished tomb-robbing families having a look round just in case.”

  “They may try again,” Ramses said.

  “Bah,” said Emerson. “It’s been over fifty years since the Gurnawis attacked an archaeologist.” He added, his face falling, “The greatest nuisance will be sightseers. They will be swarming as soon as the news spreads.”

  In this he was correct. Following regulations, Cyrus had immediately informed the Service des Antiquités of the find. An enthusiastic telegram of congratulations from Daressy was followed in two days by a visit from that gentleman. It was his official duty to inspect the place and make sure the rules were being followed, and a find of that magnitude happened very seldom. Timber balks and a complex arrangement of scaffolding and ladders had been erected, so it was now possible to reach the tomb from below. They had to haul Daressy up by means of a net. He didn’t much enjoy the process, but as he informed them afterward, he would have undergone worse to see the astonishing spectacle.

  “My felicitations,” he declared, mopping his sweating face. “For once we have got in ahead of our energetic friends from Gurneh! It is a pleasure to know I can safely leave the clearance in your capable hands, mes amis.”

  He accepted a cup of tea and mopped his face again. “By the by, I meant to ask how it is that M. Vandergelt is involved. I was under the impression that he had the firman for Medinet Habu.”

  “You are familiar with how it is, monsieur,” Emerson said glibly and ungrammatically. “Thanks to the bedamned war, we are all short of hands. We help one another, as professional goodness demands. It was the young M. Vandergelt who in fact discovered the hiding place.”

  “Ah, je comprends bien,” said Daressy, amused. “C’est admirable, messieurs. Proceed, then. I will return from time to time, if I may, not to interfere with your work, but to admire the wonders you will find.”

  “I told you he wouldn’t object,” Emerson said to his wife, after they had got Daressy off.

  “You left him no choice in the matter,” said that lady.

  Every tourist in Luxor wanted to see the tomb. Most of them left in a hurry, driven off by Emerson’s curses and by the fact that there was not much to see as yet. Cyrus was
determined nothing should be removed from the chamber until he had arranged for proper lighting and had made certain that objects like the coffins could be moved without damage.

  One group of visitors was more persistent. The Albions arrived, en masse, the day after the discovery. Jumana retreated as soon as she saw them, drawing Bertie away with her, and nobody offered them a chair or a glass of tea. The coolness of their reception would have disconcerted sensitive persons, but that adjective did not apply to any of the Albions.

  “So that’s how you’re going to get in and out of the place,” Mr. Albion remarked, eyeing the scaffolding. “Too much for me, but Sebastian would like to have a look.”

  “Sebastian will have to do without a look,” said Emerson. “Good Gad, I have not the time for this.”

  He stalked off to join Jumana and Bertie at the foot of the scaffold. Ramses lingered, marveling at the Albions’ thick skins. Cyrus was unable to resist the temptation to gloat, boasting extravagantly about Bertie and describing the contents of the tomb in loving detail. Mr. Albion’s fixed grin remained in place.

  “Sounds like a big job,” he said. “How long do you think it will take?”

  “Hard to tell,” Cyrus said. “We’ll have to see what’s there and what needs to be done.”

  “Fascinating,” Sebastian declared. He looked around with a complacent smile. “I’ve never observed an excavation in process. Hope you don’t mind if we drop by now and then to watch.”

  Ramses had had enough. “Apparently it has escaped your attention that you are not welcome here,” he said. “After what happened the other night -”

  “Oh, that. An unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  “Quite,” said Mrs. Albion, speaking for the first time. “I do think, Mr. Emerson, that you owe my son Sebastian an apology.”

  Ramses caught his mother’s eye. He took a deep breath. “I am indeed sorry. Sorry that I didn’t catch up with him.”

  “Well, really!” Mrs. Albion took her husband’s arm. “Evil is in the mind of the beholder; isn’t that so, Mrs. Emerson? Let us go, Mr. Albion.”

  Cyrus couldn’t resist one final dig.

  “No use making arrangements with the dealers on this one, Joe. At the final division, most of the objects will go to the Cairo Museum, and the rest, supposing they are generous enough to leave us a percentage, will not be for sale.”

  The Albions left, and Ramses said, “You did rather rub it in, Cyrus.”

  “Enjoyed every minute of it,” Cyrus declared, stroking his goatee. “I hoped Joe would slip and make some dumb remark about how he’d already paid for his share, but he’s too smart for that. I wonder who else is going to turn up?”

  The next to turn up was Howard Carter, who had to listen to a tirade from Emerson about his exploration of the western wadis. “I’ve been trying to track you down for weeks,” Emerson declared indignantly. “Where have you been? What were you doing in the Gabbanat el-Qirud? Why the devil haven’t you made your notes accessible?”

  Carter was too much in awe of Emerson to protest the injustice of the complaint. “My notes are at your disposal, sir, as always,” he said meekly. “I apologize if I offended you.”

  “Bah,” said Emerson. “Now see here, Carter -”

  “Father, I’m sure Mr. Carter would rather hear about the new tomb,” Nefret interrupted. “Sit down, Mr. Carter, and have a cup of tea.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Carter said with a grateful look at her. “I most certainly would. I will be in Luxor for some time – my next project is to copy the procession reliefs at Luxor Temple – but naturally, if I can assist in any way at all…”

  “You can come by now and then,” Emerson said grudgingly. “It will teach you how to conduct a proper clearance of a tomb.”

  However, the most unexpected news came in the form of a telegram.

  “Look forward to seeing you all soon. Fondest regards, Cousin Ismail.”

  “I might have known the news of the tomb would fetch him,” Emerson grumbled. “He doesn’t say when he is coming. Damned inconsiderate.”

  “Even more inconsiderate is that infernal signature,” I said in some vexation. “How are we to introduce him? The Vandergelts are bound to recognize him as Sethos, but we cannot call him that. What is his real name?”

  “Cursed if I know,” Emerson admitted. “Never gave it much thought.”

  “Well, my dear, he will turn up where and when he chooses, as he chooses, and there isn’t a thing we can do about it.”

  He turned up at Deir el Medina, two days later. We had had several other visitors that morning, including the cursed Albions; they came round almost every day, though they did not have the temerity to approach us again. Emerson stormed about this, but there was no way we could keep them away from the site as long as they did nothing but sit in their carriage at a distance and look on. The scaffolding had been completed and the door ordered; since nothing more could be done until we had acquired a generator and electric lighting, Emerson had sent us back to work on our boring village. I looked up from my rubbish dump to see a man on horseback approaching.

  He came straight to me and removed his hat. “Good morning, Amelia. At your rubbish again, I see.”

  He looked well. I observed that first: the healthy color in his face, the upright frame and easy pose. A neatly wound turban concealed his hair, and a magnificent coal-black beard hid the lower part of his face. The tweed suit was not the one he had borrowed from Ramses; it was new and very well cut. In short, he was the picture of a distinguished Oriental gentleman, possibly an official of high rank who had, as his accent indicated, been educated at an English university. Cyrus might be able to identify him as the surly, silent individual who had been his guest the year before, but I doubted any of the others who had known him so briefly would be able to do so.

  “A fondness for beards must run in the family,” I remarked.

  “You could hardly expect me to appear in Luxor without one, my dear. Some sharp-eyed person might notice I bear a resemblance to a certain well-known Egyptologist.”

  “How am I to introduce you?”

  “Cousin Ismail, of course. I rather like the name.”

  He turned and offered his hand as Emerson came hurrying toward us.

  The cordial reception he received seemed to surprise him a little. Nefret gave him a kiss, and Cyrus a hearty handshake, a knowing smile, and an invitation to visit the tomb. Sethos had to hear all about its discovery first; he congratulated Bertie and Jumana, who didn’t know quite what to make of him, but who were flattered by his interest. After luncheon we all went up to the platform outside the tomb. Sethos crawled in and out of the passage, and then brushed himself off and remarked, “You’ve quite a job ahead of you, Vandergelt. I would be happy to recommend a good restorer. I suspect you may need one, some of the organic materials appear to be in a delicate condition.”

  “Are you an archaeologist, sir?” Jumana asked.

  “I have had a good deal of experience in the field,” said Sethos smoothly. He glanced casually at the rock face above the entrance. It was the first time I had noticed the symbol – a roughly carved circle divided by a curving line.

  Ramses waited until Bertie and Jumana and Cyrus had started down the ladder before he spoke. “I hope you don’t mind, sir. I took the liberty -”

  Sethos grinned. “I was about to suggest it myself. The Master’s mark may not deter every thief in Gurneh, but it still carries some weight. By the by, are you acquainted with that lot?”

  From the height where we stood, the Albions’s carriage was clearly visible. It had been there for several hours.

  “We know them slightly,” I said. “Do you?”

  “Albion was one of my best customers. I stopped dealing with him a few years ago, after he tried to cheat me.”

  “Cheat you?” Emerson repeated. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone could.”

  “Dear me, Radcliffe, was that meant to be sarcastic? He didn’t succeed.
Watch out for him, that’s all I’m saying.”

  When we parted for the day, Cyrus apologized for not inviting “Cousin Ismail” to dinner. “Got to stand guard tonight,” he explained. “But we’re expecting the door to arrive in a day or two; once that is up and secured, we hope, sir, to see a great deal of you. I would very much enjoy a private chat.”

  “Thank you,” said my brother-in-law.

  I had assumed he would stay with us. He said he had made other arrangements, but would be delighted to join us for tea and an early supper. Jumana’s presence prevented conversation of a personal nature, and when we got to the house Sennia was waiting on the veranda.

  “So this is Sennia,” said Sethos, offering his hand. “I have heard a great deal about you – all to your credit, and all well deserved, I see.”

  He had a way with women of all ages, and Sennia was no exception. Immensely flattered at the grown-up speech and gesture, she gravely shook hands with him. “Thank you, sir. I have not heard about you, though. Are you a friend of ours?”

  “A very old friend” was the smiling reply. “Isn’t that so, Radcliffe?”

  “You call him Radcliffe?” Sennia spread her skirts in a ladylike manner and took the chair he held for her. “He doesn’t like to be called that, you know.”

  “I had no idea,” Sethos exclaimed. “What shall I call him, then?”

  “Well, I call him Professor,” Sennia explained. “Aunt Amelia calls him Emerson, or ‘my dear,’ and Nefret calls him Father, which he is, and Ramses calls him ‘sir,’ and some people call him ‘Father of Curses.’ ”

  “Perhaps ‘sir’ would be best,” said Sethos, wrinkling his brow. “What do you think, Sennia?”

  I decided it was time to intervene. Emerson was biting his lip and muttering. “Speaking of names,” I said, “perhaps you would allow us – your old friends – to use your given name.”

  “Call me anything you like, Amelia dear” was the smiling and uninformative response.