A River in the Sky (4 page)

The new War Office building was on an imposing height in Whitehall, across from the old Admiralty. Emerson was expected, for he had telegraphed earlier. I was not expected. There was some little discussion, which I ignored. I had worn my second-best summer hat, trimmed with roses, and a new costume of crimson silk (crimson being Emerson’s favorite color), and I suppose I made a rather unusual figure in that bastion of male supremacy. The men, even the clerks, might have ordered their somber black suits and their gray cravats from the same tailor and haberdasher.

Since Emerson refused to budge a step without me, MO2, and even the DMO, were forced to concede. An extremely nervous young person escorted us to an impressive office on the second floor, where we were met by an equally nervous young secretary. He began twittering at us but was almost instantaneously replaced by the DMO himself, General David Spencer, who came bursting out of his office.

“Mrs. Emerson, I presume,” he said, with a (very) slight bow. “I was not expecting you.”

I studied him with some interest, since I had never met a DMO before. A long, sagging chin was more or less balanced by an unusually high forehead. Under heavy brows a pair of muddy brown eyes regarded me without plea sure.

“I believe I can provide a useful viewpoint,” I explained, switching my parasol from my right hand to my left and offering the former. “I felt it my duty as a loyal servant of the Crown to be present.”

A poorly suppressed gurgle of amusement from Emerson rather destroyed the solemnity of my statement and wrung a critical look from Spencer.

“Come in, then,” he said grudgingly.

There was another person in the office, a slight, unimposing young man with protuberant blue eyes and a brown mustache. He rose when I entered and politely held a chair for me. I assumed he was the unnamed gentleman to whom Emerson had referred. By that time I had become a trifle impatient with unnecessary mystery, so I introduced myself.

“Mrs. Emerson. How do you do?”

“This,” said Spencer, forced into feeble civility, “is Mr. Smith.”

“No, it isn’t,” I said, arranging my skirts and my parasol. “His name is Tushingham, and I met him two years ago following a lecture he gave at the Royal Academy of Science. How are your botanical studies progressing, Mr. Tushingham?”

Over a chorus of snorts from Spencer and chuckles from Emer
son, Tushingham said, “I did not presume to assume that you would remember me, Mrs. Emerson. Our encounter was fleeting, to say the least.”

“You mean you hoped I would not remember you. Never fear, Mr. Tushingham. My discretion is well known. Now let us not waste time, you probably have other matters to attend to and I mean to do a little shopping while I am in town. Major Morley is not a German agent.”

The general dropped heavily into a chair and stared at me. Tushingham seated himself and stared at Emerson.

“Does the Professor agree?”

“Oh, certainly,” said Emerson, standing behind my chair. “He is a common garden-variety adventurer. Not that he isn’t capable of making mischief. His notion of proper archaeological methodology—”

“What about the other fellow—Panagatopolous?” demanded the general.

“Panagopolous,” I corrected. “If he is secretly working for Germany, or any other government, he is the finest actor I have ever seen, on or off the stage. You know, of course, of his role in Morley’s project.”

“We investigated his background,” Tushingham said. “In his native Greece he is considered to be part of the lunatic fringe of biblical scholarship—harmless and possibly mentally disturbed. I—that is, we—assume Morley is using him and his bizarre theories as a rationale to mount an expedition.”

“I am certain that is the case,” I replied. “As for Morley, my husband and I are of the same mind concerning his motives. He isn’t the first treasure hunter to be enticed to the Holy Land.”

“Quite,” said Emerson. “Shapira, Parker—”

He would have gone on and on, and I was in a hurry to get to the shops, so I interrupted. “Religious fanaticism and greed, singly or in combination, have been responsible for a number of explosive
incidents in Jerusalem. One needn’t invent German spies to explain this latest project, or wish to prevent it.”

Tushingham leaned back in his chair, ran his forefinger along his mustache and shot the general a meaningful glance. I had the distinct impression that he shared our opinion but had failed to convince his obsessed superior.

“Morley has raised a great deal of money from various wealthy, gullible individuals,” Emerson said. “Surely that constitutes fraud, or at the least—”

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “In our free society people are allowed to spend their money as foolishly as they like. You are wandering from the point, Emerson, if you will excuse me for saying so.”

General Spencer leaned forward, his elbows on his desk and his hands clasped. “And what, Mrs. Emerson, is the point?”

I told him.

“H
E STILL BELIEVES
M
ORLEY
is working for the Germans,” I said as Emerson and I left the building. “Goodness, how dull these military persons are. Once they get an idea into their heads it is impossible to get it out. Mr. Tushingham, now—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Tushingham?”

This was such an unjust reproof I realized Emerson was in a surly mood—possibly because I had removed him from the general’s office before he had a chance to enlarge upon his opinions. He had not offered me his arm. I took it and leaned upon it and replied, not to the question itself but to the annoyance that had prompted it.

“The lecture was on new varieties of wheat in the Golan Heights, Emerson. You refused to attend it because, as you so pithily put it, varieties of plant life are only of interest to you when they are on your dinner plate.”

“Hmph,” said Emerson. “He’s no damned botanist, is he?”

“Oh, yes, and a good one. Wasn’t it you who mentioned that exploration and archaeology make excellent cover for spies? The same is true of other scholarly professions—botanists, geologists, even ornithologists. They provide a legitimate excuse for persons to poke their noses into places where they might not otherwise—”

“I did point that out,” said Emerson between his teeth. “So you needn’t lecture me about a subject with which I am thoroughly acquainted.”

His point was valid, so I abandoned the subject. “There is a cab, Emerson.”

“So I see.” Emerson gestured, and the driver pulled in to the curb and stopped.

“Fine day, sir and madam,” he said, raising his whip in salute.

“Hmph,” said Emerson, helping me in. “Take us to Victoria Station.”

“By way of Harrods,” I said. “I have a great deal of shopping to do before we leave for Palestine.”

F
ROM
M
ANUSCRIPT
H

From where Ramses stood at the top of the mound he could see some distance across the plain. It was a country of rolling hills and peaceful valleys, fields of grain laced by streams whose water caught the sunlight in a shimmer of sparkles, vineyards and groves of olive and fig trees. On the eastern slope of the hill a cluster of nondescript buildings marked the modern village of Sebaste. Behind him lay the ruins of the royal city built by King Herod in the first century. Reisner had identified the forum area, the road of columns that led round the hill to the forum, and the great temple Herod had raised to the glory of the emperor Augustus.

It was the latest of several cities that had occupied the same site, each built upon the ruins of its predecessor. Tells like this one were found all over Palestine, rising above the plain like the man-made hills they were. In theory it should have been possible to peel off each
level of occupation sequentially, from top to bottom, with each successive level earlier in time than the one above. In actual practice, the separate levels were sometimes almost impossible to separate. New settlers had dismantled earlier structures and reused the stones, and dug foundations down through earlier strata, sometimes to bedrock. The result resembled a trifle that had been violently stirred with a spoon, mixing fruit and cake and cream into a hopeless jumble. (He had done that once when he was six years old, feeling that since everything got all mixed up inside anyhow, he might as well save time by doing it beforehand. The explanation, though quite logical, had failed to impress his mother.)

The only practical way of dealing with such a site was the one Reisner had adopted—digging straight down next to a foundation wall and trying to locate the dividing line between one occupation level and the one above it. Clearing then continued horizontally along that line. Ramses was waiting for Reisner to come and verify his belief that they had found an actual floor level. He wasn’t allowed to proceed until the Mudir had approved his findings.

In fact, Ramses thought, he had little more authority than the skilled Egyptian workers Reisner had brought with him to act as foremen. To be fair, he hadn’t had much experience in excavating a site like this one, only a single short season with Reisner the year before. But his work must have been satisfactory, or Reisner wouldn’t have asked him back…

Ramses shifted impatiently and stifled a yawn. He had dreamed about Nefret—a dream so vivid and intimate he hadn’t been able to get back to sleep afterward. He had been in love with her for years. Only recently had he discovered what an uphill battle he had to wage if he hoped to win her. She loved him too—as a brother and best friend. Sometimes he thought he’d stand a better chance if she regarded him with indifference or even dislike. His own instincts, as well as the advice he had been given from an unlikely but
incontrovertible source, told him that his best course was patience. It was hard, though, when every fiber of his body and mind ached for her. Being away from her helped a little. He had accepted Reisner’s offer in part because it was an excuse to be away from England all summer.

He squinted up at the sun. Reisner was taking his own sweet time. The waiting workmen had squatted and lit cigarettes; listening with half an ear to their low-voiced conversation, Ramses wondered whether one of them was the stone-thrower. The boy with the soft brown eyes, whose beard had barely begun to grow? The bent old graybeard, who wielded a pickax with a young man’s strength? Like his parents, he had always made a point of getting to know the men who worked for them—asking about their families, making certain they got medical attention when it was needed. His mother had earned the title of Lady Doctor, and some of the men preferred her treatments to those of Nefret, who had been medically trained. In his mother’s case, it was probably sheer force of will that made her so successful. You wouldn’t dare die if the Sitt Hakim told you you would live.

With a workforce of more than four hundred men, as was the case here, it was impossible to learn much about the workers, but Ramses had managed to establish friendly relations with several of the men in his own gang. From one of them came a polite cough and a soft inquiry.

“Do we still wait, Brother of Demons? I have no more cigarettes.”

A murmur of mingled disapproval and amusement arose from the other men, but Mitab, the questioner, only smiled guilelessly. Ramses realized that the supervisors Reisner had brought with him from Egypt must have told the locals about his Arabic sobriquet. There was a sort of unwritten rule about the use of these names; they were usually employed in direct address only when they were flatter
ing, like Nefret’s Nur Misur, Light of Egypt, and his mother’s Sitt Hakim. He had earned his appellation because of his purported control of supernatural forces. It might have been meant as a compliment, but Ramses had made it clear that he didn’t much appreciate the distinction. Mitab was not, to put it nicely, the most intelligent of the men. He hadn’t meant to offend.

Ramses smiled and tossed down a tin of cigarettes. He had brought an ample supply, knowing they made small but welcome gifts. “Here is Ali now, bringing the word of the Mudir.”

The word wasn’t what Ramses had expected: “The Mudir wishes you to come to him.”

Ali spoke the idiomatic Arabic of Cairo, which was as familiar to Ramses as his native English. “Now?” Ramses asked in surprise. “I have been waiting for him to tell the men how to go on from here. I think we’ve found a floor level.”

Ali cast an expert eye over the area Ramses had indicated. “You are right, I think. But the Mudir said come now.”

He didn’t have to add: When the Mudir says now he means now. Ramses nodded. He picked up the coat he had removed when the sun rose higher and began picking his way across the uneven surface of the summit, where their excavations had exposed structures dating back to pre-Roman eras. As he approached the western slope, where Reisner was working, he saw a group of people near one of the large circular towers that had been part of a defensive wall.

Ramses swore under his breath. They were frequently interrupted by visitors. Sebaste was off the beaten track for the usual pilgrims, whose standard tours of the Holy Land allowed little time for anything except Jerusalem and the nearby biblical sites, but a few of the diehards (fanatics, as Reisner had once been heard to remark) made it there. As the youngest and least important member of the staff, Ramses was the one appointed to show visitors around and keep them out of Reisner’s way. The tomb of John the Baptist was the chief
attraction, with a massive door said to be that of his prison. There
was
a tomb, or at least a dome covering something, in the courtyard of what had been a Crusader church before it was turned into a mosque. The remains of the church had some points of interest, but not for Ramses, who had seen them too many times. He had also heard more than he wanted to hear about King Ahab, whose bloodstained chariot had been washed in a pool by the gate of Samaria. There
was
a gate, but the existing structure was Roman, built some eight hundred years after Ahab had ruled at Samaria. He had learned it was a waste of time to mention this to the pilgrims or to point out that according to the historian Josephus, John the Baptist had been beheaded at a castle on the Dead Sea.

They didn’t look like pilgrims. Two of them appeared to be part of an official escort, dressed in shabby uniforms trimmed with an excess of tarnished gold braid. A third man wore a white robe and the green turban restricted to descendants of the Prophet. He was an impressive figure, taller than most, with the sculptured features of a Bedouin, but Ramses’s attention was held by the woman who was the center of the group.

Her costume was, to say the least, unusual: riding boots and trousers, topped by a knee-length garment of vivid emerald-green. A cloak of gray homespun hung from her slim shoulders; her fair hair had been wound into a coronet around her head. Her hands were covered with gauntlets of supple leather. One held a riding crop.

Seeing Ramses, Reisner broke off his lecture with unconcealed relief. “Madame von Eine, may I present my colleague, Ramses Emerson. He will be happy to show you around the acropolis.”

A light, uncomfortable shock ran through Ramses when her eyes focused on him. They were an unusual shade of pale blue-gray, but in their depths he saw a spark of light, like a flame under clouded glass. Her gaze moved from his face to his feet and back again, with
the cool appraisal of a potential buyer inspecting a piece of merchandise.

“Ramses,” she repeated. “What an extraordinary name.”

Ramses could not have said what prompted him to reply in German. Her slight accent had suggested she was of that nationality, but it was in part a response to her condescending tone. “It is a
Kosename,
madam, used by my friends and family.”

“
Aber natürlich.
You must be Walter P. Emerson, who wrote that pleasant little book on Egyptian grammar.”

“I am flattered,” Ramses said mendaciously.

“Mme von Eine is a specialist in Hittite remains,” Reisner said, cutting the amenities short. “We have found nothing of that period, madame, but Ramses will show you the Herodian forum area and the Israelite levels if you like.”

“Thank you.” She nodded graciously, a noble lady acknowledging the courtesy of an inferior. “I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Reisner. You are anxious, I know, to get on with your work.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Reisner muttered.

Without waiting for Ramses to lead the way, she started up the slope, her attendants following. Ramses had to take long strides in order to catch her up. He hadn’t realized how tall she was until he stood next to her.

“The terrain is a bit uneven,” he said, offering his hand.

After an almost imperceptible hesitation she put a slim gloved hand in his. When they reached the summit she withdrew her hand and looked expectantly at Ramses. Ramses launched into his lecture.

“After the death of Solomon, his realm broke up into two separate kingdoms—Israel in the north and Judah in the south. Samaria was the capital of the northern kingdom, whose most famous rulers were Omri and Ahab. It was Omri—”

Seeing her expression, he broke off in some confusion. “I’m sorry.
I’m afraid I slipped into the standard lecture. You know all that, of course.”

“Of course.” She moved to one side and looked down at the stretches of wall just below. “Seleucid,” she said.

“Quite. Dated to approximately 125
B.C
. by means of coins found above and below the floors.”

He went on with his lecture as they moved forward, getting no response except an occasional nod, until she interrupted in the midst of a description of the Greek and Babylonian remains.

“And the so-called Israelite structures?”

“It’s a little hard to make them out,” Ramses said. “As you can see, the site is very complex. But stratigraphically the walls lie below the Greek and Babylonian structures, and since we know from Second Kings that Omri built his palace here—”

“That is your evidence?” The slight curl of her lip indicated what she thought of the evidence.

Loyalty to Reisner made Ramses resent the implied criticism, even though he had certain reservations of his own. “One can’t help but be influenced by the biblical account,” he said stiffly. “It offers such a neat written chronology—the only such chronology we have in this part of the world, until we start to get references in Assyrian and Babylonian records. But I assure you neither Mr. Reisner nor I would follow it blindly. The remains we have found so far indicate a structure of considerable size. It could be a palace, and it seems to have been the first structure on the site. And”—he had saved the best for the last—“this season we discovered a number of documents written in Hebrew.”

“Documents.” She turned those remarkable eyes on him. “Scrolls? Archival tablets?”

“Nothing so impressive,” Ramses admitted. “They appear to be dockets recording the receipt of various goods such as wine and oil.”

“So you read ancient Hebrew?”

“I’m no expert, but I’m copying the dockets and hope to work on them after I get home. The form of the script seems to indicate a date in the eighth century, which agrees with the archaeological evidence.”

“I see.” Turning to the man who stood close by her side, she spoke briefly in Arabic. Her voice was so soft he understood only the word “nothing.”

“Is your dragoman interested in archaeology?” Ramses asked. “I can continue in Arabic or Turkish, if you like.”

“Mansur is not my dragoman. One might describe him as a fellow traveler.”

The man’s deep-set dark eyes met those of Ramses. He inclined his head slightly. It was not a bow to a superior but rather a courteous acknowledgment of an equal.

“We must go now. Lady?” He spoke Arabic, with an accent Ramses was unable to identify. Mme von Eine took his extended hand and turned away, leaving Ramses to trail after them. He was beginning to resent Mme von Eine. She hadn’t been openly discourteous, but one small jab after another mounted up. If Mansur wasn’t a servant, why hadn’t she introduced him? And what the hell did that ambiguous term “fellow traveler” mean?

He decided he was entitled to a few small jabs of his own. Catching up with the pair, he said, “I apologize for not being familiar with your work. Was it at Boghazkoy or Carcemish that you excavated?”

“There is no reason why you should be familiar with it” was her cool reply. “Hittite culture is not your specialty.”

She hadn’t answered his question. He persisted. “Carcemish is by way of being a British concession, and no one has worked there for more than twenty years. Winckler was at Boghazkoy a few years ago. Were you by chance present when he came upon the Hittite royal archives?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

Not present at that time, or not ever at Boghazkoy? Why wouldn’t the woman give a direct answer?

“It was, by all accounts, an extremely inept excavation,” he persisted. “Some of the tablets were lost or stolen.”