He went back to his room to finish dressing. Reginald was standing at the entrance to the balcony. “You'd never know, by looking now, that there was once a teeming metropolis of thousands right out there, would you?” the young man said, while Gil laid out jeans and a T-shirt. “I mean,” Reginald continued, “when you look, there doesn't seem to be anything out there but one pitiful heap of rubble and endless miles of nothing. Yet, a few thousand years ago, it actually rained out there. There were pockets of water all over; trees and grasslands; gazelles and larger antelope; people hunting, putting up shelters, marrying and having babies."
Gil certainly didn't want to hear about marriage. “I suppose I should be checking in with Professor Kenny,” he began, sitting on the edge of his bed to put on his own well-worn but comfortable hiking boots. “He's probably wondering why I haven't had the professional courtesy to report to him before now.” He knew something was wrong the minute he looked up from tying laces to see the expression on Reginald's face.
"Professor Kenny went back to Chicago three days ago,” Reginald said.
"Went back to Chicago?” Gil asked in shocked surprise. “Why did he go back to Chicago?"
"We expect he had a small stroke,” Reginald said. “I thought you knew."
"How could I have known?” Gil asked. “I just got here."
"I guess I just assumed Peter told you,” Reginald said. And didn't that suddenly bring to mind possibilities that Gil didn't even want to think about. “Strange he didn't mention it,” the young man said reflectively. “That's what everyone assumed he went specifically to Thebes to do. He and Professor Kenny had some kind of a big argument about who should take over as director after Professor Kenny left. Peter thought you should. Professor Kenny, though, wouldn't hear of it; he insisted it should be Peter. Sorry."
"Peter thought I should succeed Professor Kenny?” Gil asked, still not wanting to think through all the implications of that. If Peter had gone to meet Gil in Thebes not because of some mysterious pull of destiny but because of a more practical need to explain about the professor's return to Chicago ... and if Peter hadn't told Gil what Peter had come to say, because of extenuating circumstances that had made him even more uneasy in revealing how he, instead of Gil, would be replacing the professor as man-in-charge ... then it logically followed that Peter might have finally been attempting to break the news while he and Gil had been en route to Hierakonpolis, and ... Jesus!
"Damned right, Peter thought you should replace the professor,” Reginald verified. “He was so insistent, as a matter of fact, that we finally had to get him off to one side and tell him he was liable to send the poor professor into another stroke if Peter didn't give in to him."
"Great!” Gil said; it wasn't great at all. Whatever rejuvenation had been accomplished in the shower was now completely undone. He felt literally like shit, knowing he had likely spoiled a whole helluva lot by reading all the wrong things into what Peter had started to tell him in the Land Rover. No wonder Peter had been so angry when Gil had been the one to insinuate their affair at Thebes had been nothing more than a casual coupling. “Just great!"
"Yeah, I know how you must feel,” Reginald commiserated. Gil, however, was sure that no one could possibly suspect what he was feeling at that moment."
"Where's Peter now?” Gil asked, knowing he had to find him, knowing he was somehow going to have to explain, although he could hardly blame Peter for not wanting to listen. How Peter must hate him! Gil had come across hard and unfeeling, a man who had only been out to use and abuse, when in reality he had only been out to protect himself from the pain of Peter's assumed using of Gil. “Where is he, Reginald?” Gil repeated. “It's important I talk with him."
"He really did try to persuade Professor Kenny,” Reginald said, obviously continuing to think Gil's state was the result of bruised professional ego. There was no denying Gil was angry that the job of director had gone to Peter instead of to him, but that momentarily took a back seat to something he found far more important in his life at the moment. “Since Peter promised the professor he'd take over for him, I don't think there's much chance of Peter going back on his word,” Reginald warned.
"I just think it might be smart for Peter and me to sit down and clear the air between us,” Gil said, remembering how Abdul's words to that effect had helped previously. “It's not Peter's fault Professor Kenny chose him over me, is it?"
"Right!” Reginald agreed, obviously pleased that Gil seemed prepared to adjust to the power shift. “I still can't figure out why Peter didn't tell you. Certainly, he, at the time, seemed to think it important that you find out from him personally."
"Yes, well, I'm certain he had his reasons,” Gil replied. Gil wasn't blind to those reasons, either, although he was hardly prepared to go into them with Reginald. Peter's reluctance to tell Gil the bad news had been the direct result of the spontaneous way they had come together at Thebes. It had been such a wonderful moment between them that Peter likely hadn't wanted to spoil it with something he knew Gil was likely to take as a professional affront.
"Your best bet would be to catch him when he comes back,” Reginald said, checking he wristwatch. “He's taken the other Land Rover to check the digging of the exploratory trenches."
"Trenches?” Gil asked; his professional curiosity was triggered even through his emotional upset. “I thought they were dug three years ago.” Professor Kenny had been working the dig officially for that long—longer if one considered the two additional summers of general surveying he had done before actually bringing in a work team. Test trenching was a process for determining the initial archaeological potential of a site too large for immediate total excavation. It usually consisted of digging one or more trenches two feet or so wide and then examining what turned up at various ground levels. Several trenches might pinpoint the most archaeologically rich strata.
"Peter decided to abandon present excavation on the upper wadi and concentrate on a couple of prehistoric grave sites farther down the slope,” Reginald explained, probably, once again, finding it strange that Gil seemed so out of the loop. Peter had spent a day with Gil in Thebes and had certainly had plenty of time, there, to fill Gil in; not to mention the opportunity offered by the drive from Idfu.
"He's abandoning the Scorpion King grave site?” Gil asked. While it didn't diminish the attraction he could admit to having for Peter, there was no denying Gil's chagrin at Peter having seemingly taken it upon himself, as new director, to abandon the area originally scheduled for excavation by the work team. Not that Gil had any trouble defining Peter's motivations for having done so. It was logical that a man who had been adamant that the Scorpion King wasn't buried at Hierakonpolis would be eager to discontinue work in an area that might provide evidence to the contrary.
"I think he might be heading back now,” Reginald said and pointed to a small swirl of dust on the horizon.
"I have to see him,” Gil stated, coming to his feet.
Peter, though, seemed less than pleased to see Gil. His rather rude, “I'm really tremendously busy at the moment, Professor Goldsands!” brought a quick exchange of glances between several members of the group, not yet introduced, who had arrived back to the house with Peter.
"I'm afraid this is really quite important,” Gil replied, “or I assure you, I wouldn't have made the request in the first place.” He thought Peter was still going to refuse—which would have made Gil remaining in Hierakonpolis impossible. If Peter was unprepared even to listen to what Gil might have to say, there was little hope left for them.
"Let's go into the library,” Peter said, leading the way. The two of them, having jettisoned the others, entered a room whose vast majority of books had been shipped in for reference by Professor Kenny and various other members of the group, Gil included. Peter went immediately to a table that was being used as a desk. With an air of authority, he sat down behind the table, motioning toward the several other chairs in the room from which Gil could pick.<
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Gil glanced nervously around the room, trying to muster up the courage to tell Peter the things he so desperately wanted him to know.
"Well, if you seem a little reluctant to begin, after insisting this little meeting is so important, let me guess why you're here,” Peter said, leaning back in his chair so that it touched the cracked wall behind him. Gil felt a rush of resentment that Peter didn't seem able to sense how difficult this was for Gil. “Firstly, you found out from Reginald that I'm now your boss,” Peter said. “Secondly, you found out I've stopped the excavation at the supposed tomb of the Scorpion King. Right?” He didn't wait for affirmation. “Well, I can say only that I was Professor Kenny's choice as his successor. I changed the digging site not because I feared further digging would somehow prove that hole to be the once final resting place of some long-ago pharaoh and, thus, knock my personal theories all to hell ... nor did I do it because I wanted to aggravate you, knowing you and Professor Kenny are of like mind regarding its importance. While it's really not your place to question my decisions, since I have been officially selected to direct this dig, I will make an exception, this one time, by explaining my motivations for deciding to excavate elsewhere.” Gil didn't interrupt. He wanted to hear what kind of excuse Peter could come up with, and he welcomed the additional time it gave Gil to gather strength for the more important confrontation ahead. “I did it because I reckoned that if, by some extremely rare chance, it turned out that where we were originally scheduled to dig could provide proof-positive to support Professor Kenny's claims, then it should be Professor Kenny who brought it to light—not you, not me."
"But the man had a stroke!” Gil reminded, his automatic response making it seem Gil had come specifically to discuss this particular subject.
"We don't know that for a fact,” Peter insisted. “Nor will we know for sure until he undergoes tests back in the States. But even if he did have a stroke, that doesn't mean he won't be back here next year if he follows a prescribed regimen of medicine, diet, rest, and exercise. A stroke nowadays doesn't mean a man is permanently incapacitated."
"I wasn't insinuating that it did!” Gil replied, made indignant by even the suggestion that his professional ambition made him underestimate Professor Kenny's chances for full recovery.
"Had the professor really wanted the Scorpion King excavation to continue without him, he would have had no qualms whatsoever about putting you in charge, don't you think?” Peter suggested. “Despite what Reginald might have told you to the contrary, Professor Kenny's decision to choose me was obviously based on his fears that you might snap up the laurels that he had worked so hard for."
"I don't believe that for one minute!” Gil said, angered by the sheer absurdity.
"Then, what's your explanation for why he chose me?” Peter challenged. “The professor had to know that his decision to leave me in charge would see me shifting excavations to areas I found of more interest than the one he was exploring.” He raised his hand to stop the outburst he was expecting. “Now, you're still a young man and can assuredly spare another year of your life before finding what really lurks at the bottom of that probably empty hole. I'm frankly a little disappointed in your curiosity—or whatever it is—that causes you to want to reap rewards better deserved by the man who has worked so hard to get to them. Where were you, after all, when he was spending his summers wandering blistering desert heat to uncover clues, misleading or not, that finally led him here? If it does turn out that he is unable to return next year for health reasons, I feel quite sure you will be more than amply rewarded for having been restrained, this time around, from rushing into the breach. The man, after all, if it turns out he is permanently incapacitated, could really do worse than eventually look to someone—you, not I—to carry on his work who's similarly won over by the same misconceptions."
"I think you've said quite enough,” Gil injected, fighting to keep down his rising anger at innuendos regarding his professional motives for objecting to the change in excavation site. “Not that I won't have plenty to say later. But it wasn't any of this that made me ask to talk to you this afternoon."
"I'm afraid that's all we do have to talk about,” Peter said, pushing his chair away from the wall and coming to his feet. Obviously, he knew what subject Gil was hoping to head for now. “So if you will excuse me, I'm an extremely busy man."
"Are you so afraid, damn it?” Gil's voice could very well have penetrated the closed door and registered on listening ears elsewhere in the house. Frankly, he didn't give a damn. “Is that why you're so unprepared to listen to my explanations? They might be valid enough to put you once again in the position of having to reaffirm a commitment you never really wanted to make in the first place?"
"Don't you dare try to dump responsibility for any of this in my lap!” Peter warned, like a cornered animal, his anger contorting his usually handsome features. “I entered into a relationship with you in the very best of faith and was rewarded by a knife in the gut. If I'm, now, a little reluctant to listen to your last-minute half-assed explanations, it's only because I can see that you're not merely content to have the knife inserted but are anxious to give the buried blade a few hearty twists for good measure."
"I never meant any of those horrible things I said to you,” Gil nearly shouted. “It was all a mistake!"
"Damned right it was a mistake! It was my mistake ever to be taken in by you in the first place."
"There are explanations,” Gil assured, so wanting to convince. “There really are. Why don't you want to listen to them?"
"It's my damned desperate need to believe that has me standing here, like a bloody fool, thinking that whatever you do have to say won't be totally inadequate."
So, Gil told him about Peter's grandfather and Geraldine Fowler.
"You mean to tell me that you set out to punish me for something my grandfather did years ago?” Peter asked, no-doubt-about-it amazed. “Well, you damned well succeeded, didn't you?” he added, and Gil realized Peter had completely missed the point of the story.
"Don't you see?” Gil resumed, anxiously. It was obvious that Peter had taken what he'd just been told as more proof that Gil had used him. “I thought you were out to use me,” he said, trying to make Peter understand. “I thought it was all happening all over again. You, me. Frederic, Geraldine. Tutankhamen, Thebes."
"How could you have possibly been so ridiculous?” Peter asked in such a way as to give Gil hope of some understanding.
"When you stopped the Land Rover on that dusty road, I thought for sure it was to tell me you really didn't want me,” Gil explained, wishing Peter would take him in his strong arms and say he forgave him. “I was hurt, and I didn't want you to know how successful you had been in making me want you. I acted the way I did to save myself a bit of the dignity I thought you'd completely taken from me."
"You little shit!” Peter said, shaking his head. “You silly, silly, silly little shit!"
This should have been the storybook ending. Gil should have rushed to Peter. Peter should have opened his arms for Gil, enfolding his lover against his strong chest while whispering loving words of forgiveness. The only thing that opened, though, was the door, after a loud knock that startled both men with its jarring untimeliness.
"Sorry to disturb you,” Reginald said, looking as if the very atmosphere in the room told him no one was sorrier than they were, “but I've a rather insistent man out here who wants to see Gil."
Gil thought it must be Abdul—although a moment's reflection would have made him question what the sheikh was so soon doing there. But though the visitor was not the sheikh, his appearance was disruptive. The man, whom Gil had never met or seen before, had arrived with a case that Gil immediately did recognize. “I'm to remind you this is yours,” the courier said. Gil didn't take it, though, probably making the inevitable worse. Surely, he should have been able to come up with something to bluff his way through instead of merely standing there in startled immobility. All he
could think of was how everything he had just worked so hard to mend, over the past few minutes, was likely going to be flushed down the proverbial toilet bowl by this unexpected intrusion. “Sheikh Jerada told me I wasn't to leave until I personally delivered this into your keeping,” the man continued. Later, Gil would not be able to remember what the guy even looked like, forever finding it ironic that someone who had played such an important part in Gil's life should have entered and exited it like some nameless, faceless, diaphanous apparition.
"I don't want it,” Gil finally said; it was hardly adequate and downright lame.
Everyone was staring, frozen momentarily, as Gil could have wished them frozen for eternity. But there was no stopping the ticking of the clock. Knowing that, he reached for the case and took it. If, however, he thought that would be the end of it, he should have known better. The man stood there, waiting. Reginald stood there, waiting. Peter stood there, waiting. Everyone stood there, waiting. “He wants you, Gil, to make sure the contents are intact,” Peter said, obviously tired of waiting.
Like a somnambulist functioning without conscious awareness, Gil opened the case. “Wow!” Reginald provided admiring audio backdrop. “Is that an Egyptian vertebrae neck chain, or what?"
"You obviously have a way of making your spurned lovers come back to you, don't you, Gil?” Peter said sarcastically. “I suppose I should be complimented to find you thought me worth the effort.” He did a quick about-face and exited into the light of a day that, beyond the doorway, was, like Peter and Gil's personal and professional relationship, fading fast.
CHAPTER TEN
"A WHAT?” Abdul asked.
"A scorpion,” Gil repeated.
"A scorpion?” Abdul sounded and looked dubious.
"Sure it is,” Gil insisted. He traced his forefinger along the single petroglyph among several old and faded ones that had been painted on the rock overhang thousands of years before. “See the way its body curls up, like this, to its tail?"
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