“Then…then dare I hope that your primary intent is otherwise? That you are here in response to the protests we have been sending to our colleagues in England and America regarding a certain-er-”
“Major Morley,” said Emerson.
“Then you are aware of the situation. Thank heaven! All of us here feel helpless to stop him. He has been enthusiastically welcomed by the governor of Jerusalem, Azmi Bey Pasha, and has official permission from Constantinople. Professor Emerson, so far as we can determine, the fellow has absolutely no professional training. No one seems to know who he is, or what he is after, though there are distressing rumors that this is a purely treasure-hunting expedition. We cannot-”
Emerson raised a magisterial hand. “Calm yourself, sir.”
“I do beg your pardon.” Mr. Page took out a handkerchief and mopped a forehead now liberally bedewed with drops of perturbation. “When we heard of your arrival it gave us fresh hope. Your reputation is well known, Professor, not only for professional integrity, but for…er…how shall I put it?”
“Cutting through red tape?” I suggested.
Emerson, who had been expecting a more emphatic metaphor, nodded graciously at me. “What’s he doing now?”
“He has just begun his so-called excavations on the Hill of Ophel.”
“Well, well.” Emerson fondled the cleft in his prominent chin. “By a strange coincidence, my own excavation is nearby.”
“The whole area is surrounded by guards and soldiers. No one has been able to get near it,” Page said.
If Emerson had entertained doubts as to how to proceed, that challenge would have ended them. His sapphirine-blue eyes shone with anticipatory plea sure. “We will see,” he said.
Belatedly remembering his manners, Mr. Page offered us refreshment. Emerson declined with thanks. “I want to inspect the site this afternoon,” he explained.
“We promised to call on Dr. Ward this morning,” I reminded him.
“No time for that, no time for that,” said Emerson. “I presume Page here is speaking for the entire archaeological community of Jerusalem. Reassure your associates, sir. Mrs. Emerson and I are on the job.”
WE RETURNED TO THE HOTEL for luncheon. Emerson considered this a frightful waste of time and said so, at length. I had got him to agree by pointing out that Nefret and I were not dressed for scrambling up and down the hills of Jerusalem. I was also anxious to know whether Mr. Plato had returned. He was becoming an infernal nuisance, but we had assumed responsibility for him and I do not abandon responsibilities lightly.
As Emerson had predicted, we found him already at luncheon. He greeted us with a vague smile and asked whether we had had a nice morning. Emerson asked him where the devil he had got to, and he explained, “I wished to be alone when I refreshed my memory of the Holy City.”
“We were worried about you,” Nefret said. “Please don’t go off again without telling us.”
Plato ducked his head and looked a trifle abashed. “You mustn’t worry about me, my dear.”
“But I do.” The warmth of her smile and voice brought a faint flush to the reverential cheek. “You are a friend, and I care about my friends.”
“Yes, yes,” said Emerson. He does not approve of public displays of affection, especially when they are directed at someone of whom he does not approve. “Hurry up and change, ladies. We must be on our way soon.”
“Where are we going?” Plato asked brightly.
Emerson’s mouth opened, but I got in ahead of him. “The day is half gone, Emerson. I propose we wait until tomorrow morning before visiting the site.”
“You deliberately delayed us!” Emerson exclaimed. “See here, Peabody-”
“Furthermore,” I continued in a somewhat louder voice, “Daoud and Selim have not yet seen the Haram al-Sharif. They must be anxious to do so, as am I, though for different reasons. Would you deprive our friends of the opportunity to visit the third-holiest shrine of their faith?”
Selim began, “Sitt Hakim-”
“Do not protest, Selim, I know you are always willing to subvert your own desires to those of Emerson, but I cannot allow such self-sacrifice. I know you are desirous of visiting the Noble Sanctuary, Daoud.”
Douad’s mouth was full. He nodded vigorously, his face alight.
“Curse it,” said Emerson inappropriately.
It was impossible to miss our destination. It dominated the city from all directions. We entered the sacred enclosure by way of a covered street called the Bab el-Kattan. It was an impressive entrance, with its high-vaulted roof, if one ignored the occasional donkey or heap of rubbish.
Opening my guidebook, I read aloud. “It was probably here that Christ turned out the moneylenders and Ezra gathered-”
“Bah,” said Emerson.
Emerging from the tunnel, we found ourselves in an open space shaded by cypresses and fig trees and adorned with fountains and shrines. A flight of steps led up to the platform where the magnificent structure stands. We were walking in that direction when we received an unexpected check in the form of a turbaned attendant, who informed us that Christians could only be admitted when accompanied by a kavass from the consulate of the nation to which they belonged, and by a Turkish soldier.
“I am no Christian,” Emerson said forcibly.
“He is the Father of Curses,” Daoud declared. He went on, in rolling tones, to identify the rest of us by our sobriquets. The attendant, a wizened little man whose face was dwarfed by his imposing turban, opened his eyes very wide. It would have been difficult to say whether he was impressed or simply bewildered. I suspected the latter. We left him scratching his head and contemplating with satisfaction the baksheesh Emerson had handed over.
“Such nonsense,” said Emerson, bounding up the stairs.
Leaving our shoes at the door, we entered. The light was dim and the aspect one of peaceful reverence. In the center, in stark contrast to the intricate designs that decorate the interior of the dome, was a large unhewn rock surrounded by a screen of wrought iron.
“It was upon this rock,” I said in appropriately soft tones, “that Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his beloved son.”
Before Emerson could voice his opinion of a God who would put a faithful servant to such a test, I went on, “And from which Mohammed ascended into heaven.”
“Very interesting, Aunt Amelia,” Nefret said politely.
Our friends joined the worshippers who were at prayer (all of them men) and we passed the time admiring the exquisite workmanship of the mosaics and inlays of gold and marble that adorn the interior. I noticed that Nefret had Plato firmly by the arm, and that he was muttering to himself.
Emerson waited till Selim and Daoud had finished their prayers and then announced we must be going. “There is a great deal we haven’t seen,” I protested. “The Al-Aksa Mosque, the stables of Solomon-”
Emerson’s response, as I expected, was an emphatic “Solomon, balderdash. We will come back another day.”
Since Emerson seldom pays attention to where he is going, I was able to arrange our return route in such a way as to view another of the famous sights of the city. Selim and Daoud were perfectly agreeable to visiting the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; Jesus, whom they call Issa, is a venerated prophet to Moslems. It was surrounded by Turkish soldiers, who were there-I regret to say-in order to keep the peace among the various Christian sects. Despite the relatively late hour, the edifice was full of people, some pilgrims, some clerics going through various rites at various altars. The smell of incense was strong and the noise level high. A group of pilgrims, weeping and praying, had gathered around the Stone of Unction, where the Saviour’s body was anointed after being taken down from the cross.
“If someone isn’t keeping an eye on them,” said Emerson, doing so, “they’ll chip chunks off for souvenirs until there’s nothing left of the stone. Not that it matters, since-”