The Golden One

They were on the veranda, sitting side by side and looking very pleased with themselves.

“Only see what Jumana has given me,” Se

“Unless the Museum takes it,” Jumana warned.

“Yes, you said that, but I know Mr. Quibell will let me have it, he is a very kind man.”

It was the little stela with the two cats which I had seen Bertie copying. I admired it all over again, while Emerson smiled sentimentally at the two. Se

Fatima brought the tea and Emerson settled down with his pipe, and I began looking through the post. There was a several days’ accumulation of letters and messages, which I sorted, putting aside the ones directed to Nefret or Ramses, and opening the envelopes addressed to Emerson before I handed them to him.

“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. Se

“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 di

“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, Se

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 reco

“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 ca

“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 a

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 carto

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.