The Serpent on the Crown (7 page)

He glanced at Fatima, who was moving quietly about lighting the lamps. She ducked her head and murmured something about Kareem.

“It’s all right, Fatima,” Ramses said. “The story is like an amoeba, oozing out in all directions.” He glanced out the screened windows toward the little shelter, where the yellow glow of a candle betokened the presence of our guard. “That was a good idea of Fatima’s. In fact, I believe I will station another fellow at the back of the house.”

“You don’t really believe anyone will try to break in, do you?” I asked.

“I don’t believe in taking chances, Mother.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Ramses couldn’t have said why he was so uneasy. His mother was the one who specialized in premonitions, and for once she didn’t seem to anticipate trouble. She went calmly off to bed at her usual hour, leaving Fatima to close up the house. Ramses made the rounds with her, checking doors and windows and gates, going through the same procedure with Nefret’s and his house. The children’s windows were barred, not only to keep his peripatetic offspring in, but to keep others out. They had had an unpleasant experience a few years earlier with someone who had terrorized Carla by whispering at the window. If a thief was after the statuette, there was one sure way of getting it. Emerson wouldn’t have bargained with an abductor who held one of the adults, but he would instantly have exchanged the statuette and everything else he owned for either of the twins.

As he did almost every night, Ramses stood in the doorway of their room looking at the small quiet bodies. David John slept flat on his back, arms and legs thrown out, head thrown back. Carla was a restless sleeper, twisting and turning, sometimes ending up with her head at the foot of her bed and her little bottom bared by the twisted folds of her nightgown. Now she lay curled up like a kitten, the covers clear up to her button of a nose. They looked so helpless. Love, and terror at the thought of anything happening to them, stabbed through him like a knife.

Nefret was already in bed, golden hair spread enticingly across the pillow. She opened half-closed eyes when he came in. “You were a long time,” she murmured.

“I was watching the children. Carla is almost as active when she sleeps as when she’s awake.”

“I expect you were too when you were her age.” She smiled sleepily. “Are you coming to bed?”

It was a tempting suggestion, but that unconquered restlessness made him shake his head. “Soon. I feel like a walk.”

The stars were bright, the moon a sliver of silver. What he really wanted to do was sit under their windows all night, guarding the three who were dearest to him, not trusting anyone else to do it. That was foolish, and he knew it. He was a light sleeper; if anyone came near either window he would hear, especially in his present state of nerves. Daoud’s son, Ali Yussuf, was stationed in the courtyard of the main house—almost certainly an unnecessary precaution, since several servants slept in the house, and his mother was an army unto herself.

Pacing restlessly up and down, his eyes on the darkened window of the room where his wife slept and the faint glow of the night-light from that of the twins, he tried to analyze his malaise. Had something happened to alert what his mother poetically called “the sleeping sentry”—part of the unconscious mind that took note of suspicious circumstances? God knew there had been a number of weird happenings in the past two days, and a number of people had expressed interest in their prize, but he couldn’t believe any of them would stoop to crime to retrieve it. Except possibly for Adrian Petherick, in one of his fits. But I have his gun, Ramses thought. It would be easy for him to acquire another, but surely his sister will keep an eye on him after what he did. The men of Gurneh were peaceful souls, and the house of the Father of Curses was protected by that gentleman’s formidable reputation.

We need a dog, Ramses thought. They’d had several—strays taken in by Nefret along with other abandoned or injured beasts and birds. One of his mother’s favored psychologists would probably have said Nefret had been moved by a combination of maternal instinct and frustrated medical talents. The twins and her clinic on the West Bank kept her fully occupied now, but…

We’ll get a dog, Ramses decided. I’ll see about it tomorrow.

He was about to go back inside when a sound made him stiffen and turn. High-pitched, sharp, it might have been the cry of a bird or animal, but he knew it wasn’t. He broke into a run, heading for the back of the main house.

The courtyard gate was closed and there was no sign of anyone outside, but he heard his mother’s voice, raised over Ali Yussuf’s protests.

“You aren’t seriously hurt. Stop complaining and tell me what happened!”

Ramses didn’t waste time pounding on the gate. He pulled himself to the top of the wall and dropped down inside. His mother, modestly enveloped in yards of dressing gown, had Ali Yussuf’s head firmly between her hands. She glanced at Ramses.

“Just a bump on the head,” she said, sounding as brisk and alert as if she hadn’t just been shocked out of sleep.

Ali Yussuf pulled away from her and groaned theatrically. “I have failed.”

“Not if you kept someone from entering the house,” Ramses said, patting the disconsolate youth on the back. “Tell us what happened.”

Ali Yussuf was not about to admit falling into a doze, but he must have done, since he had been unaware of an intruder until he heard the scrape of falling plaster and saw the figure perched atop the wall.

“Black, all black, like a shadow,” Ali Yussuf said. “But I was not afraid, Brother of Demons…Not much afraid. When it jumped down from the wall I threw myself at it and caught hold of it. I called out—not in fear, no, in warning, as you told me…”

“And then it hit you?” Ramses asked. “The black shadow?”

His mother patted the boy’s drooping head. “Don’t be rude, Ramses. He did his best. His cry for help—er—of warning wakened me, but by the time I had lit a lamp and got to my window I caught only a glimpse of a form going back over the wall.”

“I suppose you had your parasol,” Ramses said.

“Naturally. Goodness, you are in a snappish mood tonight. And before you wax sarcastic again, I will admit I saw only a pair of trousered legs, and that for a split second.”

“Black?”

“No,” said his mother composedly. She bent over, lifted something from the ground and held it up. “You will admit, however, that this is black.”

It was a long garment, full sleeved and hooded, like the robe of a medieval monk.

S
elim and Daoud turned up next morning as requested. They had, of course, heard about the midnight intruder, and both of them expressed indignation at not being allowed to assist in defending the house. Ramses had to agree to let Selim arrange a rota of guards at front and back, though, as he pointed out, there was no danger to any of the family.

“I don’t know what the fellow hoped to accomplish,” he added. “He’d have had to search the whole house without waking anyone. It isn’t as if Father left the statue lying out on a table in the sitting room. You don’t suppose Farhat was having a try?”

“Farhat has broken his leg,” said Selim.

“Broken—”

“His leg. Yes. He will not be climbing cliffs or walls for a while.”

Ramses looked from Selim to Daoud, whose countenance bore its usual amiable smile. He decided to drop the subject.

“I have thought that we might get a dog. Have you any likely candidates?”

Daoud, whose large soft heart encompassed even animals scorned by his fellow Gurnawis, knew of several that might suit. “I will look at them and bring the best tomorrow. A large fierce dog, that is a good plan.”

“Not fierce,” Ramses said in alarm. “Not with the twins around. I don’t want an animal that would injure anyone, I just want him to bark.”

He brought out the statuette, which Daoud and Selim hadn’t yet seen, and let them examine it. Selim’s eyes brightened at the sight of it; he knew enough to appreciate its rarity and its value. Daoud touched it with reverent fingers. “The snake on the crown is missing,” he said. “What happened to it?”

“We think it had been broken off before the thief sold it,” Ramses explained. “Petherick certainly wouldn’t have been so careless.”

“It would be good to find it,” Daoud said slowly. “The snake has much power.”

Ramses laughed and gave him an affectionate slap on the back. “There’s not much chance of that, I’m afraid.”

After a leisurely breakfast they all headed for the Castle, so that the Vandergelts could participate in the meeting. Ramses had decided to take his father’s orders one step further. If Emerson wanted a master plan, with recommendations for future work, that’s what he would get, and Cyrus was entitled to express his views.

Seven of them sat down with Cyrus at the table in what Cyrus was pleased to call his conference room: Ramses, his mother, Nefret, Daoud and Selim, Bertie and Jumana. Jumana was her ebullient self, her tendency to dominate the conversation repressed by her awe of the Sitt Hakim.

Emerson would be pleased at the results of the conference, Ramses thought. Unlike a good many excavators, they had kept meticulous records of their progress—photographs, notes, and Bertie’s plans. He was the best surveyor of the group, and his skills had been honed by Emerson’s demands. There were actually three separate areas at the site: the village of the workmen, their small tombs on the hillside nearby, and the remains of the temples and shrines in which they had worshiped the gods. The tombs were Cyrus’s responsibility, and when Ramses looked through his reports he agreed that Cyrus and his crew had covered the area thoroughly. Almost all the tombs had been robbed in antiquity, their grave goods carried off, their small chapels destroyed. What the ancient thieves had missed, modern looters had found and sold to tourists and dealers.

The meeting held only one surprise: Cyrus’s announcement that he was considering hiring a new artist. “He called yesterday to ask if there was a position open. Name’s Maillet. Ever heard of him?”

“Didn’t he work with Newberry at Beni Hassan?” Ramses asked.

Cyrus shook his head. “Can’t be the same fellow. This lad is in his early twenties. I told him I’d like to see his portfolio, and he promised to bring it by one day soon. What do you think, Amelia?”

Hers was always the last word with Cyrus. She pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. “If he suits you, I think you should take him on. We could certainly use more help, and we cannot count on David to come out every year. He has other responsibilities now.”

Ramses looked at her in astonishment. David hadn’t expressed discontent, not even to him, but he knew how difficult it was for his friend to abandon wife and children for several months a year. How did his mother know?

Because she knew everything. She was the Sitt Hakim, the true head of the family. Everyone acknowledged that, even his father.

They joined Katherine for a late luncheon and then the Vandergelts went with them to where their horses were waiting. Walking with Ramses, Bertie slowed his steps till they were some distance behind the others, and Ramses braced himself. He was Bertie’s chosen confidant, a role he would rather have refused, since he could offer the disconsolate lover no encouragement. Bertie had set his sights on the pretty Egyptian girl several years ago, but Ramses wouldn’t have given much for his chances. Jumana was an ardent feminist and fiercely dedicated to her career, and Bertie’s mother had done her best to discourage her son. Katherine had lost most of her prejudice against “colored races,” but marriage with her son was a different matter, the last barrier of bigotry, which few Europeans ever overcame.

“Perhaps you’ve been too assiduous,” he suggested. “Try ignoring her for a while, or pay attention to another girl.”

“I did try that,” Bertie said morosely. “It didn’t have the least effect.”

“Try again.”

“I guess I could.” Bertie tried to sound casual. “Is Maryam coming out this year?”

Ramses bit back a caustic comment. Bertie had an absolute gift for falling in love with women his mother considered totally unacceptable. Sethos’s daughter Maryam had even more strikes against her than Jumana; she was illegitimate, of what Katherine would call “mixed blood,” and the mother of a three-year-old son. Not to mention her earlier connections with a gang of criminals.

“I don’t know,” he said. “We haven’t heard from her or her father for some time. For God’s sake, Bertie, can’t you find yourself a nice harmless English or American girl? You don’t have to marry her, just—er—amuse her for a few months.”

“They’re all alike,” Bertie complained. “Dull, conventional little dolls.”

“How about Miss Petherick? She’s not dull.”

Bertie stared at him in horror. “You’re joking. She’s a dreadful woman!”

“Yes, I was joking. Not the sort of family one would care to become intimate with.”

The others were already mounted and waiting. Bertie stopped and said softly, “The brother. I thought his name was familiar, and now I’ve remembered. He was an ambulance driver. His ambulance took a direct hit, the wounded he was transporting were blown to smithereens. He got off without a scratch, but…”

“Shell shock?”

Bertie grimaced. “I heard they found him crawling along the road, collecting bloody arms and legs and heads and trying to fit them back together.”

“Good God.”

“So be easy on him.”

“I will. Thanks for telling me.”

Bertie’s story gave him a new sympathy for Adrian Petherick, but it didn’t make him any more eager to establish friendly relations—or relations of any kind. He could only hope he would be able to keep his mother away from the Pethericks.

There was one silver lining to his father’s absence. It gave them all some uninterrupted time to get on with their own work. The workmen’s village had contained masses of written material, some on the scraps of pottery called ostraca, some on papyrus. He had published one book of translations of the Deir el Medina papyri, and was working on a second. Before he excused himself he asked his mother what she intended to do for the remainder of the day. Her answer was a knowing smile. “With your father out of the way, I can work on that article he was supposed to have finished two months ago. Tea at five, as usual, my dear.”