Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (13 page)

days blend into one another. This time I really will write a proper report. I suggested to Ramses that he ought to do it, and he said he would, and then he went off to the saloon, and the next time I saw him he was reading some ponderous tome in German and admitted he hadn't set pen to paper. So here it is. You will be relieved to hear that the situation at Amarna is not as grave as you feared. According to Ramses, who seems to remember every confounded scene on every wall of every tomb- how does he do it??-the locals have not damaged them or the Boundary Stelae. He did have a few critical remarks to make about Mr. Davies's copies of certain scenes, notably in the tombs of Ay and Parennefer. I think it was Parennefer. Never mind; it will be in his notebook. I had to drag him out of the tomb in question. As for the city site, it is so extensive one can only make general observations. The area the Germans were excavating in 1913-14 has been partially re-covered by blowing sand. Ramses says you will know the precise location, which is more than I do, even after having it shown me. It's all so flat and featureless. We walked the plain from end to end-it's over five miles!-and to think I was worrying about gaining too much weight!-without seeing any signs of recent digging. Really, the area is so large I can't imagine how a would-be thief would know where to start. We made a sentimental pilgrimage to the Royal Wadi one day. It is an incredible place, isn't it-quiet as death and empty as a lunar landscape. We had, of course, called on the Sheikh el-Beled as soon as we arrived. The Sheikh remembered you very well-especially you, Mother. As we drank coffee together, Ramses explained in his most flowery Arabic that you had a great interest in the site and would be very sorry if anything were damaged or stolen. The poor chap turned as pale as a gentleman of his coloring can turn. Did you really tell him you wanted someone's head in a basket? You never told us that. Later. Oh, dear, I did it again. Ramses called me to come and look at the sunset, and one thing led to another. It was a spectacular sunset. The river looked as if it were on fire. It is several days later, to be honest. I should be ashamed of having accomplished so little-I meant to read several medical journals and the new publication of the Egypt Exploration Fund, and practice drawing hieroglyphs so I can help Ramses copy texts- he never criticizes mine, but when I'm not looking he does them over! He thinks I don't know, but I do. It hasn't been wasted time, unless being happy is a waste of time. We've been cut off from everything-no newspapers, no letters, no telephone calls. Ramses is getting a little restless, though; I know the signs. He can't stand inactivity too long. We reach Luxor tomorrow, so our idyll will soon end. I will get this letter off to you as soon as we arrive and let you know in due course about the situation in Luxor. Dear Mother and Father, Nefret insists I add a few words. I can't think why; she writes much more entertainingly than I, and she has told you everything you need to know, for the present at least. I certainly did not mean to speak disparagingly of Mr. Davies. There were only a few minor points, which is not surprising when one considers the vast extent of his work and the speed with which it was published. As Nefret mentioned, the tombs at Amarna are undamaged. I did notice a number of new graffiti, all from the hand of a single tourist who may be a member of some odd cult-he didn't leave his name, only a peculiar symbol. They are on the rock face outside. At least the fellow had the decency not to scratch his wretched monogram across the reliefs, which is more than can be said for some. Your affectionate son, Ramses

FROM MANUSCRIPT H Ramses was well aware of his parents' real reason for sending him away from Cairo. His father's hints had the subtlety of a cavalry charge: in case you didn't get the idea the first time, he turned round and rode over you again. He understood their concern-he'd given them the devil of a time last season-but sometimes he wished they would back off and let him manage his own affairs. It was good to be back in Luxor, though. The morning after their arrival he finished dressing before Nefret and went up on deck. They had a new steward, a fresh-faced boy who was having a little trouble getting used to his new duties. He kept dropping things, especially when Nefret was present. She reassured him so sweetly, Ramses had begun to wonder whether young Nasir did it on purpose. While he waited for Nasir to pull himself together and bring the coffee, he leaned on the rail looking out across the cultivation toward the western mountains, flushed with the reflection of sunrise. They were moored at the dock Cyrus Vandergelt had built for his Valley of the Kings, and Ramses could make out all the familiar landmarks: the narrow road that led to the Valley of the Kings; the rocky slopes of Drah Abu'l Naga; and dim in the distance the ruined temple of Hatshepsut, where he and David had copied some of the reliefs. He missed David, but not as much as he would once have done; marriage was turning out to be a much more time-consuming business than he had expected and more confusing. He had loved her so long, and had finally won her; yet his need of her grew stronger every day, and with it the fear of losing her. It was on her account that he had agreed to leave Cairo. She'd have stuck with him wherever he went, and fought with him if the need had arisen-and she had the right- he couldn't deny that, no one had a better right-but it had been hard enough for him to accept her as an equal companion and ally when she had been only (only!) the woman he loved. Now she was also his wife, caring for him as he had never dared hope she would, and he wanted to lock her up and keep her safe. She wouldn't stand for that, nor should she . . . but the thought of harm coming to her made him break out in a cold sweat of terror. I wonder how the hell Father does it, he thought. He felt her presence and turned. "Damn," she said, laughing. "I was trying to creep up on you." "I always know when you're near." He took her hands and drew her to the rail. They stood side by side in companionable silence until a crash of crockery announced the arrival of Nasir. "He does it on purpose," Ramses said, after the boy had carefully swept up every splinter of china and Nefret had dismissed him. "Sweeping up the broken bits gives him an excuse to linger. You must start scolding him, or we won't have a cup left." "We can always buy more." Ramses laughed and shook his head. "What were you staring at so intently?" she asked. "Everything. I've missed it. I didn't realize how much." Her eyes followed the same sweep his had made, from one end of the plain to the other. The rosy light on the cliffs had faded into pale gold. "I think Mother and Father miss it too," she said. "She has her pyramids, but this was home for a long time. There are so many memories ..." "My God, yes. Murder and torture and every year another dead body, as Abdullah used to say." "Some of them quite horrible," Nefret agreed. "Poor mummified Mrs. Bellingham-" "And the two who were mutilated by the mechanical crocodile, and Dutton Scudder, and Bellingham himself. I must have left someone out, that can't be all." He was trying, with fair success, to emulate her detached tone, but she saw his long, sensitive lips tighten and cursed herself for not changing the subject. She had learned during her medical training that sardonic humor was one way of protecting oneself against the grisly sights of the dissecting room, and the pain of losing patients, but Ramses still had a hard time pretending to be indifferent. It was one of the reasons why she loved him so much. "So where are we going today?" she asked, buttering a piece of leathery toast. "Gurneh. I sent word to Yusuf last night." "Yes, of course." He looked up from his plate. The dark eyes that were so often half hidden by drooping lids and long lashes met hers directly. "Don't be patient with me, Nefret. Slap me down when I go all brooding and theatrical." "Eat your eggs," Nefret said tenderly. "They're stone cold." He pushed his plate away. "I hear voices. It must be the fellow who's brought the horses. He's early. Take your time, I'll go down and-" "No, I've finished." They descended the stairs to the lower deck, where they found Ashraf, the crewman on guard duty, confronting the newcomer. It wasn't Yusuf or one of his sons. It was a girl, wearing a blue tob, whose wide sleeves had been turned up over her head to get them out of the way. The long face veil was not as common in this area as it was in Cairo, but no respectable woman would go about with her head bare; the kerchief she wore instead of a tarhah was tied at the nape of her neck, covering her hair except for two long curling locks on either side of her face. At the moment the lower part of her face was concealed by a fold of the tob. Turning her back on Ashraf, she let the cloth fall and addressed them in a piercing shout, and in carefully enunciated English. "Welcome-good morning-please, I must talk to you, now, before Jamil comes; I ran very fast so I would be here before him and now this person will not let me pass!" Nefret poked her husband in the ribs, reminding him of something he knew only too well: that a fixed stare at a Muslim female was worse than rude. She couldn't blame him for staring, though. The girl must be one of Abdullah's far-flung and extensive family. They were a handsome lot, but she was something special: big melting brown eyes, rounded cheeks, and a full, pink mouth. She was a tiny creature, barely five feet tall and at the moment every inch was rigid with indignation. "Yes, of course," Ramses said. Ashraf was trying to look as if he weren't there. He hadn't done any harm or meant any, but he had no business making advances, even harmless advances, to female visitors. "Come into the saloon. Would you like coffee?" "Yes, thank you. If it is not too much trouble." She gave Ashraf a triumphant look and swept past him. "No trouble at all," Nefret murmured. "At least I hope not." If Ramses heard, he pretended he hadn't. Like his father, he was genuinely and endearingly bewildered by the effect he had on susceptible women (which included most women, Nefret thought). By the time Nasir had stumbled though the coffee-serving process they had established the girl's identity. She was Jumana, the daughter of Selim's uncle Yusuf, the head of the Luxor branch of the family. It was no wonder they had not recognized her immediately; five years ago she had been one of a cheerful pack of children, indistinguishable from the rest. Jamil was her brother. "He is lazy," she said, pursing up her pretty mouth. "He should have been here with the horses before this. But it is good for me that he is so slow. I ran all the way." "All the way from Gurneh?" Nefret asked. "No, from the house of the Father of Curses. He told my father to stay there to look after it. Do you want it back now?" "No," Nefret said. They had discussed the matter with the senior Emersons before they left Cairo. "We will only be in Luxor for a few weeks, and we would prefer to stay on board the dahabeeyah." "That is good, but someone should have told my mother. She has been cleaning everything and making me work too." Ramses was smiling. He spoke to her as he would have to Sennia. "You don't like to do housework?" "No. I want to work on the excavations, like the men." She leaned forward, slim brown hands clasped, eyes wide and serious. "I have been to the school of Mrs. Vandergelt. I can read and write and speak English; I speak it well, you see. I can learn anything, I am much better than Jamil. He is too lazy to study. But it is Jamil my father says will be your reis while you are here. Why not me?" "The work is very hard," Ramses said Nefret knew this approach was not going to be effective. Ramses wasn't taking the girl seriously, but she was not deceived by the pretty face and childish figure. Jumana had got more than an education at Katherine Vandergelt's school. If she had been English she would have been out with the Pankhursts, chaining herself to railings and demanding the vote. "How old are you?" she asked. "Sixteen. But I am very strong. I can climb the cliffs as well as Jamil, and carry heavy baskets." Ramses leaned back and looked helplessly at Nefret. Unlike some men, he had sense enough to know when he was out of his depth. "What you want is impossible," Nefret said. "In the first place, your father would never agree to that arrangement. In the second place, you are too young for such a responsible position. The men wouldn't take orders from you and you have not had the proper training." The big brown eyes filled with tears. "I thought you would help me. You do all the things I want to do. And they said you were kind." "It took me many years to learn to do those things. When I was your age . . ." She saw the corners of Ramses's mouth twitch, and stopped herself. Good Lord, I sound like one of those sententious old ladies I always despised, she thought. "I will tell you what we will do," she went on. "We will speak with your father and if he agrees you can spend some time with us while we are here. We will see how you get on, and then, perhaps, it might be possible for you to have the training you want. I make no promises, you understand." The girl jumped up and flung herself at Ramses's feet. Grasping his hands, she began pressing kisses on them. "The blessings of God be on you, Brother of Demons! You will do it? You will speak to my father?" "Yes, yes, of course." Flushed with embarrassment, he tried to free his hands. "Uh-please don't do that. You had better run along now, before Jamil gets here." She gave him a radiant smile-spared a noticeably dimmer one for Nefret-and darted out. "You're perspiring," Nefret said critically. "Where is your handkerchief?" He hadn't misplaced it yet; the day was still young. After wiping his forehead, he demanded, "What did she do that for? I didn't say anything! You were the one who promised we'd give her a try." "Because you're a man. She thinks I need your lordly permission to carry out my promise, and," Nefret added with a grin, "she knows men are susceptible to big brown eyes and fawning flattery." "I'm not. If I have to put up with that sort of thing every time she comes round-" "Well, you may, though now that she's got her way she won't be quite so attentive. She's a calculating little baggage. It's a good thing I was here. What would you have promised her to stop her crying?" "I hate to think. Did you really mean what you said? Yusuf isn't going to like it. He's probably selected a husband for her. Most Egyptian girls of sixteen are already married." "Of course I meant it, and I don't care whether Yusuf likes it or not. We'll see how she works out. You of all people are not going to tell me she doesn't deserve a chance because she is female?" "I of all people am not." Taking her hand, he raised her to her feet. "There's Jamil at last. She's right, he is slow." Jamil looked like his younger sister-big brown eyes, well-shaped features, brilliant smile-except for his mustache, which was large and luxuriant. He was of medium height and obviously conscious of his lack of inches; when he shook hands with Ramses he rose onto his toes and straightened his shoulders. He made no mention of Jumana, so Ramses concluded the girl must have made good her escape before he got there. "The horses have been washed," Jamil announced, stroking his mustache fondly. Ramses nodded. His mother had begun that custom on her very first visit to Egypt, starting with the hired donkeys and moving on, over the years, to other animals. One of his fondest memories was of watching his mother calmly scrubbing a camel with a long-handled brush while the camel bellowed and kicked, and four of their men tried to control its thrashing legs. He could only dimly imagine the incredulity with which her initial efforts must have been received, but it had now become an accepted tradition, and Abdullah's kin took pride in the care they gave their animals. These appeared to be in good condition and sturdily if not elegantly built. Nefret was getting acquainted with her mare, whispering into its pricked ear and stroking its neck. She was wonderful with animals and impossibly tenderhearted; every year she collected a menagerie of injured or abandoned creatures. Ramses hoped she wouldn't want to adopt a few stray cats, dogs, and goats while they were in Luxor. He gave her a hand up, and mounted his horse, a massively built black with white blazes on forehead and chest. They set off along the road that led through the cultivated fields toward the cliffs of the high plateau. The air was already warm. What with their unexpected visitor and Jamil's nonchalance about time, they had been late in getting off, but it was necessary to pay a courtesy call on Jamil's father before they went on with the day's business. The house his parents had built was near the hill and the village of Sheikh el-Gurneh. They had all lived there, in comparative harmony, for almost seven years; but Ramses had no particular desire to live there again. If we come back to Luxor for a long period of time, he thought, I'll build another house-one that will be ours from the start. His mother's energetic personality imprinted itself on every place she had ruled as mistress. At least he didn't have to face that penetrating stare of hers whenever he walked into the saloon. Nefret must have felt the same; without discussing it or asking his opinion, she had replaced the portrait with another of David's paintings, the copy he had made of the offering scene from Tetisheri's tomb. Word of their coming had preceded them by several weeks, and someone-probably everyone-had worked like the very devil to get the house in order. It had been freshly painted and reroofed. The flowers in the boxes on the veranda had a suspiciously youthful look, but they would show up nicely in the photographs he meant to take for his mother. The whole family, men and women and children, poured out of the house to greet them. Then the women retired, leaving them on the veranda with Yusuf and the other men. The years had changed Yusuf, and not for the better. He had got quite stout. A roll of fat framed his bearded chin, and when he smiled his cheeks swallowed up his eyes. After the usual compliments had been exchanged, they settled down on the veranda with coffee, cigarettes, and several platters of food, and Yusuf asked how he could be of service. "Where will you be