“Oh, yes, they could have. I tell you, Emerson, you won’t find anything of interest – and how are we to locate the exact spot? The tomb was well hidden, and there are dozens of clefts and rifts in those walls.”
“There may be signs,” Emerson insisted. “Watermarks, fresh stone chips, possibly even scraps of the burial equipment. Do you see anything, Ramses?”
“No, sir.” Ramses bent and picked up a piece of worked stone, covered with a thick patina. He tossed it away. “Paleolithic.”
We made our way slowly along the uneven floor of the wadi, scanning the rocky walls on either side. There was a good deal more debris, in the form of pottery shards and scraps of stone. I came to a halt next to a gaping hole and let out a cry of excitement. “Emerson! A pit tomb, is it not? And here -” I reached for an object half hidden in dusty chips – something that was surely metallic, for a glint of sunlight had shone off it. “Here is – oh.”
It was a crumpled cigarette tin.
“Carter,” said Emerson, making the name sound like an expletive.
“How do you know?”
“None of the local men can afford European cigarettes,” Emerson said. “It’s the brand he smokes, isn’t it?”
As we went on, the ground underfoot became even more uneven; it appeared as if someone had conducted a random but extensive excavation. Emerson growled. “Either Carter has lost all remnants of archaeological conscience, or the locals have been digging, looking for tombs.”
“The latter, surely,” said Ramses. “Carter had every right to be here, Father; he has done nothing wrong.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson, who could not deny this, but who, in his heart of hearts, regarded the entire country of Egypt as his personal property, archaeologically speaking.
We had almost reached the end of the canyon when I became aware of a faint, unpleasant smell. I looked up, expecting to see floating overhead the winged predators that feed on carrion; but the sky was empty of all but light.
Jumana was the first to see the signs for which we had been searching. She ran on ahead, quick and sure-footed over the uneven ground, and came to a stop. “See!”
The object she held up was a small gold bead.
“Ha,” said Emerson. “Well done, Jumana. Yes, just as I expected. The tomb must have been partially filled with rock fallen from the walls and ceiling. The villains were careful not to remove any more of it than they had to, but they were bound to lose a few items. By Gad, that looks like a bone.”
It fell to pieces in a shower of dust when he picked it up. “Water-rotted,” Emerson muttered, and began rooting around in the debris.
“The tomb must be up there,” Ramses said, shading his eyes with his hand. “Directly above, in that rift.”
Emerson got to his feet. Only then did something odd seem to strike him. He threw his shoulders back, raised his head, and sniffed. “Have the local lads been up to their old tricks – throwing the carcass of a dead animal into the shaft to deter other explorers? You remember the Abd er Rassuls, and the Royal Cache.”
“Why would they bother to do that, if there is nothing left in the tomb?” I asked. I pinched my nose with my fingers.
“Precisely,” said Emerson, looking pleased. “I will just have a look.”
We were at the far end of the valley, facing a steep cliff that I judged to be over a hundred feet high. Some thirty feet above us I made out a cleft running deep into the rock.
“Emerson,” I said, choosing my words with care, “it is a sheer drop from the cleft down to the base of the cliff. If you are bent on breaking your arm or your leg or your neck or all three, find a place closer to home so we won’t have to carry you such a distance.”
Emerson grinned at me. “You do enjoy your little touches of sarcasm, Peabody. I can make it.”
“No, sir, I don’t believe you can,” Ramses said, quietly but firmly. “I wouldn’t care to try it either. I’ll go round and up, with the rope, and lower myself from the top as the thieves did.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Ramses seldom contradicted his father, but when he did, Emerson heeded his advice – a compliment he paid few people, including me.
“Oh,” he said, stroking his chin. “Hmph. Very well, my boy. Be careful.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will go too,” Daoud volunteered. “To hold the rope.”
He slung a coil of rope over his shoulder and the two of them set out toward the mouth of the wadi, where the enclosing cliffs were lower and easier to climb. They would have quite a scramble to get to the top, but I was not concerned about them; Ramses was the best rock climber in the family and Daoud had been up and down cliffs like these since childhood. He would make certain Ramses took sensible precautions.
I occupied the time by writing up a few notes about the appearance and location of the tomb, while Emerson dug in the rubble as happily as a dog looking for buried bones, and Nefret paced restlessly back and forth, glancing from time to time at the top of the cliff. The sun was almost directly overhead and it was very warm. I removed my coat, folded it neatly, placed it on the ground beside me, and went on with my journal. The smell did not seem so strong now. The olfactory sense is quick to adjust.
Despite Nefret’s frequent glances upward, Jumana was the first to see them. She began jumping up and down and waving her arms. The two figures, diminished by distance, made me realize how high the cliff was, and how precipitous the drop. I wondered if the rope would be long enough, and if they could find some stout object to which it could be fastened, and if Ramses would have sense enough not to rely solely on Daoud to hold it. Our friend’s strength was legendary, but if a slip or a snakebite caused him to lose his grip, even for a second…
The rope came tumbling down, and one of the small figures began to descend – rather too rapidly, in my opinion. It was Ramses, as I had known it would be. It was hard to make out the outlines of his form, even with the sunlight full upon him, since his dusty clothing blended with the color of the stone, but his bare black head was clearly discernible. When he reached a point some forty-five feet above us he stopped, feet braced against the cliff, and waved.
“Keep hold of the damned rope!” I shouted.
He heard me. A faint and unquestionably mocking “Yes, Mother” floated down to us. Then he disappeared.
“Into the cleft,” Emerson muttered. “How long…”
It was only a few minutes before Ramses reappeared. Instead of reascending he looked up and shouted something at Daoud. Apparently the rope was not long enough to reach all the way to the ground; after Daoud had untied it, Ramses pulled it down and busied himself doing something I could not see – fastening it again, I assumed, since in a short while it uncoiled, the lower end touching the ground not far from where we stood. It had been knotted at regular intervals – a primitive but effective method of preventing the climber from losing his grip.
Ramses swung himself out of the cleft and descended. Even before he turned to face us I knew something was amiss.
“It isn’t an animal,” he said. “It’s a man. Was a man.”
Nefret reached for the rope. Ramses pulled her back and turned her to face him, holding her by the shoulders.
“He’s dead, Nefret. You can’t do anything for him.”
“I can tell how he died.” She tried to twist away from him but he tightened his grasp.
“Nefret, will you listen to me? I’m not talking about a nice dry mummy. There’s still water in the chamber, and he’s been there for days, possibly weeks.”
Her face was flushed with heat and rising temper. “Damnation, Ramses, I’ve examined more cadavers than you have!”
“You aren’t going to examine this one.”
“Who’s going to stop me?”