Children of the Storm (38 page)

Ramses drew the curtain aside and looked out. The window was unglazed, covered only by a loose netting to keep out insects. Moonlight bathed the distant cliffs and whitened the sandy waste that faced that side of the house. Nothing moved.

“All gone,” he said, bending over his daughter. “I made it go away, and it won’t come back, ever. Nothing can hurt you. Go to sleep now.”

He got a damp kiss (she was still leaking at eyes and nose) and a squeeze round the neck from Davy, who was now wide awake and ready to be sociable. He hugged his mother and held out his arms to Maryam.

“May I?” she asked timidly.

“Yes, of course,” Ramses said. “I’m sorry you were disturbed.”

“I shouldn’t have intruded,” she murmured. “But her crying was so pitiful. I responded without thinking. Good night, darlings.”

All she got from Charla was a sleepy grunt. Davy was in a mood for conversation, but he submitted to having his mouth and eyes buttoned shut with the chuckles this game always induced.

The nightmares had begun only recently. According to Ramses’s mother—the ultimate authority—a number of children suffered from them at this age, and got over them eventually.

Which was all very well, but Ramses realized there wasn’t much chance of a romantic holiday while the nightmares lasted. He didn’t flatter himself that he was the only one who could comfort Charla; it just happened that he had been first on the scene every time, and Elia, for all her admirable qualities, didn’t understand that a tight grasp and a firm, reassuring voice was what the little girl wanted. His father or David—or his mother—could probably act as effectively. However, it wouldn’t be fair to ask any of them to sleep in a neighboring room while he and Nefret were absent.

It took a while to get Nefret back into the mood that had been interrupted, not once but twice. She was upset about something—he had learned to know the signs—but he couldn’t think what.

THE FANTASIA WAS NOT DUE to begin until evening, but even Emerson glumly conceded that there was no use going to Deir el Medina that morning. Selim and Daoud and the others were determined to put on the most extravagant performance ever given in Gurneh. The whole village had been buzzing, and no one had the least intention of working that day. The motorcar stood in front of the house, shining like jet. Selim had spent all evening scrubbing and polishing it.

After breakfast his mother rallied her troops and took them off to the Castle to begin packing the artifacts. She declined Emerson’s half-hearted offer to join them—“You’ll only stand round grumbling and lecturing”—and Sethos said he had business in Luxor. Cyrus was ready for them; the packing materials they had used before had been taken out of storage and brought to the display room, and a local carpenter was nailing the wooden cases back together. Ramses understood why Cyrus wanted to get the job done. It was pure torment to see the magnificent assemblage and know it was lost to him. In theory Ramses agreed, as did his father, with the idea that Egypt’s treasures belonged in Egypt, but Cyrus’s hangdog looks made him wish Lacau had been a little more generous.

They started with the smaller and less fragile objects—the stone and metal vessels. Even these were wrapped in cotton wool or waste fabric, with layers of straw under, between, and over them. When a packing case was full, Bertie and David nailed it shut. Cyrus trusted no one except themselves in that room. Ramses was assigned to the task of making lists of the contents of each case, with Lia to help.

In some ways the job was easier this time, since they had done it before, but additional precautions were necessary for a more prolonged trip—and, Ramses feared, more careless handling. Cases containing the more breakable objects, of faience and pottery, would be fastened with screws instead of nails.

Maryam hadn’t seen the display before. Awestruck and breathless, she moved from one table to another, her hands tightly clasped behind her back like a child who is afraid she will be tempted to touch. As it would any woman, the jewelry held her longest.

“How can you bear to let it go?” she asked naively, gazing up at Cyrus.

“I haven’t got any choice in the matter, my dear. Take your time; you’ll never see anything like this again.”

“I think it is very unkind of him not to leave you more.”

“I think so too,” Bertie said with a rueful grin. He straightened up and stretched. “Which piece of jewelry do you like the best?”

“Oh, goodness!” Unconsciously she moistened her lips with a pink tongue. She put out her hand, glanced guiltily at Bertie, and pulled it back. He laughed indulgently. “You can touch them, they won’t break. What about these earrings?”

“They’re beautiful, but so big.” Timidly one finger indicated a ring. “This is pretty.”

It was one of the least impressive of the lot, a gold band with a flattened bezel on which the figure of a seated crowned woman had been somewhat clumsily inscribed.

“Try it on,” Bertie said. He took her hand.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t!”

“You have tiny hands and slim fingers. You won’t hurt it.”

Ramses noticed that his mother was watching the pair with an enigmatic smile. She had been critical of Bertie’s “moping” over Jumana—not because she disapproved of the relationship, one-sided as it was, but because she disapproved of moping. Katherine had made no secret of her hope that Bertie’s interest in the Egyptian girl was only a temporary infatuation. Ramses wondered if she would be less prejudiced against the illegitimate child of a master thief and a murderess. Not that he blamed Bertie for indulging in some harmless flirting. Maryam was a pretty little thing, and she was obviously enjoying the young man’s attentions. She held up her hand, admiring the ring.

“It’s not as pretty as some of the others,” remarked Sennia, who had also had the two under close observation. “I like this one, with the carnelian cat. But I would never try it on.”

“Why not?” Cyrus exclaimed suddenly. “Why the dickens not? Try ’em all on! Amelia—Lia—all you ladies. They’ll be stuck away in dusty museum cases from now on, never again gracing a pretty hand or neck. Give ’em a last treat.”

“Cyrus, you are a sport,” Ramses said.

“And a poet,” Bertie declared. “Sennia, here’s your cat. Mother, what’s your choice?”

Ramses supposed that for Cyrus it was an act of defiance, a final gesture of possession. The women converged on the table, behaving as if they had been suddenly and simultaneously infected with the same benign fever, one that brought color to their cheeks and a glitter to their eyes. Even his mother, who claimed that baubles did not interest her, bent her head and allowed Cyrus to hang a magnificent pendant around her neck; it was a three-dimensional lapis ram, crowned with gold and reclining on a golden plinth. He’d noticed that jewels had a strange effect on women . . .

. . . Noticed, and forgotten. How long had it been since he gave Nefret a piece of jewelry? She had her own money and could buy whatever she wanted, gems more expensive than anything he could afford. But from time to time she still wore the cheap gold bangle he had given her when they were children, and there had been her little joke the other night about the bracelets . . . If it was a joke. In vino veritas? She seemed particularly interested in several of the remaining bracelets, and he went to help her fasten a massive hinged cuff around her wrist. David was laughing as he bedecked his wife with pectorals and bracelets. Then he insisted she and the others pose for photographs.

“We’ll never dare show them to anyone outside the family, though.”

“Never mind,” Lia said. “We will gloat over them from time to time, and remember a wonderful experience. Thank you, Cyrus.”

The fever had passed. Slowly and with obvious reluctance the women began to divest themselves of the jewelry. Though the pieces had been skillfully restored and mended, they required to be handled gently. Ramses went to help his mother remove the heavy pendant, which depended from a necklace of gold barrel beads.

“Suitable for a God’s Wife—the ram is Amon-Re, of course—but I wonder if she ever wore it in life,” she remarked, rubbing the back of her neck. “I wouldn’t care to do so. Well, we have enjoyed a jolly time, but we had better get to work. We must stop early today in order to prepare for the fantasia.”

THEY HAD DISCUSSED WHETHER OR not to take the children. The very idea of the three younger hellions running around in the dark, among open tomb shafts and blazing torches and half-savage dogs, made Ramses’s hair stand on end, and he was relieved when his mother put an end to the discussion with a decided, “Out of the question. Dolly will accompany us, but not the others.”

“Isn’t that a little unfair?” Nefret asked, while Lia looked apprehensive—no doubt picturing Evvie’s response.

“It would be unfair to Dolly to do otherwise. He should not be punished because the younger children cannot be controlled. It is not their fault, they are just like little animals at this age.”

This appraisal did not go over well with either Lia or Nefret.

His mother had invited the Vandergelts to come by the house beforehand. No alcoholic beverages would be served at the fantasia, and Cyrus enjoyed a preprandial nip of whiskey. They drove up in style, behind the matched grays that drew Cyrus’s carriage. Cyrus and Bertie and Walter were on horseback, dressed in their best to do Selim honor. That left room in the carriage with Katherine for several of the ladies, as Cyrus pointed out, adding a delicately phrased compliment about their small size and slimness.

“We could take—” Emerson began.

“No, Emerson, we cannot,” his wife said sharply. “You promised Selim he could drive it.” She ran an appraising eye over the group and settled the matter in her usual brisk fashion. “Evelyn and Sennia and I will go in the carriage.”

“As I have already demonstrated, I am not a good horsewoman,” Maryam said, eyes downcast. “I hope I am not inconveniencing anyone. Perhaps I should stay with the children.”

“No, no, my dear, you will enjoy it,” Emerson said, responding with his customary chivalry. She looked up at him, her long lashes fluttering, and smiled.

Her father paid no attention. He was talking to Cyrus. His luggage must have arrived by train; he was wearing well-cut tweeds and riding boots, and his hair was now grayish brown. It would, Ramses suspected, continue to gray at an unnatural but measured speed.

They waited until the sun set and the calls of the muezzins had faded into silence before preparing to leave. Sennia, who had taken to wearing a somewhat unorthodox version of Egyptian dress, preened herself in a robe Nefret had helped her design; she looked unnervingly like a miniature Hathor sans ears and crown, draped in white and bedecked with glass beads. Dolly, very spruce in his best coat and trousers, was to ride with his father.

“Where is Selim?” Emerson demanded. “Has he changed his mind about driving the motorcar? We could take—”

“No, Emerson! He has it all worked out. He wants to make a grand entrance.”

Their own entrance was not without éclat. Their hosts had sent torchbearers to meet them midway, and a gaggle of children accompanied them up the hill. Selim and Daoud were at the door to greet them and escort them into the house, where an elaborate meal was ready. Selim’s wives, Rabia and Taghrid, must have been cooking all day. Dolly sat cross-legged next to his father, watching his every move. He had been instructed in the proper etiquette and was determined to make no mistakes. The Vandergelts had attended other such affairs, and even Katherine used her fingers neatly and with smiling good humor. Walter’s glasses kept steaming up.

When they had eaten more than was good for them, they went outside. Torches and bonfires lit the scene as the darkness deepened. Daoud’s house, which had once been Abdullah’s, faced onto one of the few open spaces in the village. As honored guests, they were shown to a row of chairs in front of the house and the show began.

Dancers and singers, musicians and magicians performed in turn. Selim caught Ramses’s eye, winked, and withdrew. The most famous storyteller in Luxor launched into a tale.

A hand plucked at Ramses’s sleeve. Maryam was sitting behind him. “What is he saying?” she whispered.

The flames gave her face a rosy glow and danced in her eyes. She looked as if she were enjoying herself; he didn’t have the heart to hush her, although talking during the performance was frowned upon. “It’s just a little fairy tale about a princess and a magician. I’ll translate it for you later, all right?”

“Thank you.” A shy, charming smile. Then her hand went to her mouth. “Oh . . . what’s happening?”

The storyteller must have exceeded his time limit. Daoud hurried into the center of the space, gesturing and calling out orders. The audience moved back. Some of them were in on the secret; grinning and jumping with excitement, they helped Daoud clear the area, thrusting children into the arms of their mothers and hauling goats and donkeys out of the way. One of the drummers sounded a beat and the others joined in, accompanying the rising roar of the engine as Selim sent it racing up the path.

Ramses thought, “He’s going too fast,” but he never knew whether it came just before or just after the awful screech of tortured metal. Premonition or recognition, he was on his feet and running when the crash came.

The motorcar was upside down, halfway down the slope, jammed against a ridge. One of the lamps was broken but the other had miraculously survived; its light shed a sickly glow over the scene. Selim lay on his back, flattened, unmoving. His robe was torn and stained.

Ramses was the first to reach him. He searched for a pulse in the limp wrist. It was slippery with blood and his hands were shaking. He couldn’t find one.

Nefret shoved him out of the way. “Don’t anybody touch him. Stay back. Get out of the light, damn it! Ramses, make them back off. Keep Rabia and Taghrid away, they mustn’t see him like this.”

He could hear Selim’s wives keening and begging to go to him; his Aunt Evelyn was reassuring them, her voice calm and authoritative. His mother, of course, was already on the scene, shining a torch onto the broken body. She was the only one who’d had the sense to think of it. Ramses could almost have wished she had not. In its direct beam the bloodstains sprang to life, wet and red and glistening.