“He has put his damned rubbish dump smack in the middle of the site,” Emerson exclaimed. “I will have to do it all over again.”

He always said that.

We scrambled down the hillside. Selim joined us, and Emerson began rapping out orders. The men scattered. Emerson stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Where is Ramses?” he demanded.

“They will be coming shortly, I am sure. If you want to start the surveying, I am perfectly capable -”

“Very good of you, Peabody, but I believe I will just wait for Ramses. Why don’t you arrange one of your – er – your little rest places?”

I had intended to do it anyhow. In my opinion, periods of rest and refreshment increase efficiency. Shade is hard to come by when the sun is directly overhead, and it was at that time of day we – and the dear devoted horses – would need it most. I prefer tombs to all other forms of shelter, naturally, but there was not much left of the superstructures of the small tombs on the hillside. I concluded that the temple at the far end of the village would serve me best.

A number of deities had shrines there, but the principal dedicatee was Hathor, one of the great goddesses of the Egyptians. Since these broad-minded ancients were not especially concerned with consistency, Hathor played a number of different roles over the long centuries and was identified at various times with other goddesses, but her primary function was that of nurturer and protector, of the living and the dead. The lover called upon her for help in winning his beloved; the barren woman prayed to her for a child. She was worshiped with music and dancing, and her epithets included some of the loveliest phrases in the liturgy – Mistress of All That Exists, Lady of the Sycamore, Golden One.

I wandered about for a time, examining some of the reliefs. One of our fellow Egyptologists had partially restored the temple a few years earlier, and there was a nice little corner in the vestibule which suited my purposes admirably. With the efficiency I had come to expect of him, Selim had brought all the equipment I would need, including a large piece of canvas. He was too busy chasing after Emerson to assist me, so I got one of the other men to help me arrange rugs and campstools and tables, and make a temporary roof of the canvas next to the enclosure wall to provide shade for the horses. I was just finishing this essential task when the others arrived. Emerson, whose eye is everywhere, immediately bellowed “Ramses!” and after a nod at me, Ramses trotted off.

I ended up, as I usually did, with the rubbish heap.

I do not mean to minimize the importance of this task, for it is the aim of a good excavator to find every scrap, however uninteresting it may appear to be. Our men were very well trained, but when one is scooping up sand and rubble it is easy to overlook something. It was my task, therefore, to put the contents of the baskets brought me by the men through a sifter. It turned out to be a more interesting task than was often the case, since the previous excavator had been careless. I found quite a few interesting ostraca, scraps of limestone all scribbled over with hieratic. I puzzled over a few, while no one was looking, but could make out only a few signs. When we stopped for luncheon I handed them over to Ramses.

The ancient language was his specialty, as excavation was Emerson’s, and he reacted with as much enthusiasm as Emerson had done over his wretched huts. We got not a word out of him during luncheon. Nefret had to keep jogging his elbow to remind him to eat.

“What does it say?” I asked.

“Hmmm?” was the only response.

Nefret brushed a lock of curling hair away from his forehead, and he gave her an abstracted smile before returning his attention to the scrap he held. I understood why she had been moved to that tender gesture. Absorbed in a task that challenged and delighted him like no other, he looked as happy as a child over a new toy. This was what he was meant to do. This was what he ought to be doing for the rest of his life, undisturbed by crime and war.

Knowing Ramses as I did, I realized there was not much chance of that, and I consoled myself with the thought that it was not my fault that he got in so much trouble – not entirely. According to the latest psychological theories, he must enjoy a certain amount of danger, or he wouldn’t go out of his way to invite it. It made a change from hieratic, at any rate.

We put in a long hard day, removing Kuentz’s rubbish dump, and Emerson began the survey of the site. This was an onerous and time-consuming procedure, which some archaeologists neglected, but which Emerson considered absolutely necessary. If Kuentz had done such a survey, he had left no record of it. (Emerson would have done it again anyhow.)

Jumana was back to her normal self, cheerful, interested, and willing, and even Ramses admitted she was of considerable help. All she had to do, really, was hold a stick level while the measurements were made, but it was a rather tedious task and she followed orders meticulously.

Naturally I kept a close eye on her. There were two possible explanations for her recovered good spirits: either she was not as attached to her brother as I had believed, and had dismissed him from her thoughts – or she was more devious than I had believed, and expected to hear from him again.

When we returned home I had several more nice ostraca for Ramses.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

The windows of their bedroom faced the stables, but that building was some distance away and they would not have heard the soft noises if they had not been awake. They had been late getting to bed, since Ramses had to be pried away from his “nice ostraca.” Once Nefret had got his attention she had no difficulty holding it, but it was he who heard the sounds, not she. Responding to the slow movements of his lips and hands, she was jarred out of her state of drowsy pleasure when he suddenly jumped up and went to the window.

“Hell and damnation,” she began.

“Sssh. It’s Jumana. She’s leading one of the horses.”

He started to climb out the window. “Put on some clothes,” Nefret said, rising in her turn and fumbling in the dark for various discarded garments.

“Well, then, damn it, find – I don’t care what – something. I can’t let her get too far ahead.”

He snatched the trousers from her hand and put them on, and then he was gone, over the sill and into the darkness. Nefret pulled a caftan over her head and found a pair of boots that turned out to be hers. She would need them; her feet were not as hardened as his. She caught him up as he was leading Risha, unsaddled and unbridled, out of the stable.

“Wait for me,” she gasped.

“No time.” He vaulted onto Risha’s back, and in spite of her excitement and worry, the sheer beauty of the movement stopped her breath. She could do it sometimes, but never like that, never in a single seemingly effortless flow of muscle and sinew. He turned Risha with a touch of his knee and the stallion responded instantly, breaking into a canter. They looked like figures from the Parthenon frieze, the slender strength of the rider at one with his mount.

“Damn,” said Nefret under her breath. She’d lost an additional few seconds gaping after him like a lovestruck girl. It was his fault for being so bloody beautiful on horseback.

And if she couldn’t catch him up she wouldn’t be there to help if, as seemed likely, Jumana was on her way to meet Jamil. What other reason could she have for stealing out at this hour of the night?

Moonlight stretched an inquiring head over the door of her stall; she was accustomed to go where Risha went, and wondered what was happening at this strange hour. Nefret led her out of the stall.

No acrobatics for her tonight, not in a long robe with nothing under it. She used the mounting block, grimacing as her bare thighs gripped Moonlight’s hide, and tucking part of the robe under her.