In fact, Ramses thought, he had little more authority than the skilled Egyptian workers Reisner had brought with him to act as foremen. To be fair, he hadn’t had much experience in excavating a site like this one, only a single short season with Reisner the year before. But his work must have been satisfactory, or Reisner wouldn’t have asked him back…
Ramses shifted impatiently and stifled a yawn. He had dreamed about Nefret—a dream so vivid and intimate he hadn’t been able to get back to sleep afterward. He had been in love with her for years. Only recently had he discovered what an uphill battle he had to wage if he hoped to win her. She loved him too—as a brother and best friend. Sometimes he thought he’d stand a better chance if she regarded him with indifference or even dislike. His own instincts, as well as the advice he had been given from an unlikely but incontrovertible source, told him that his best course was patience. It was hard, though, when every fiber of his body and mind ached for her. Being away from her helped a little. He had accepted Reisner’s offer in part because it was an excuse to be away from England all summer.
He squinted up at the sun. Reisner was taking his own sweet time. The waiting workmen had squatted and lit cigarettes; listening with half an ear to their low-voiced conversation, Ramses wondered whether one of them was the stone-thrower. The boy with the soft brown eyes, whose beard had barely begun to grow? The bent old graybeard, who wielded a pickax with a young man’s strength? Like his parents, he had always made a point of getting to know the men who worked for them—asking about their families, making certain they got medical attention when it was needed. His mother had earned the title of Lady Doctor, and some of the men preferred her treatments to those of Nefret, who had been medically trained. In his mother’s case, it was probably sheer force of will that made her so successful. You wouldn’t dare die if the Sitt Hakim told you you would live.
With a workforce of more than four hundred men, as was the case here, it was impossible to learn much about the workers, but Ramses had managed to establish friendly relations with several of the men in his own gang. From one of them came a polite cough and a soft inquiry.
“Do we still wait, Brother of Demons? I have no more cigarettes.”
A murmur of mingled disapproval and amusement arose from the other men, but Mitab, the questioner, only smiled guilelessly. Ramses realized that the supervisors Reisner had brought with him from Egypt must have told the locals about his Arabic sobriquet. There was a sort of unwritten rule about the use of these names; they were usually employed in direct address only when they were flattering, like Nefret’s Nur Misur, Light of Egypt, and his mother’s Sitt Hakim. He had earned his appellation because of his purported control of supernatural forces. It might have been meant as a compliment, but Ramses had made it clear that he didn’t much appreciate the distinction. Mitab was not, to put it nicely, the most intelligent of the men. He hadn’t meant to offend.
Ramses smiled and tossed down a tin of cigarettes. He had brought an ample supply, knowing they made small but welcome gifts. “Here is Ali now, bringing the word of the Mudir.”
The word wasn’t what Ramses had expected: “The Mudir wishes you to come to him.”
Ali spoke the idiomatic Arabic of Cairo, which was as familiar to Ramses as his native English. “Now?” Ramses asked in surprise. “I have been waiting for him to tell the men how to go on from here. I think we’ve found a floor level.”
Ali cast an expert eye over the area Ramses had indicated. “You are right, I think. But the Mudir said come now.”
He didn’t have to add: When the Mudir says now he means now. Ramses nodded. He picked up the coat he had removed when the sun rose higher and began picking his way across the uneven surface of the summit, where their excavations had exposed structures dating back to pre-Roman eras. As he approached the western slope, where Reisner was working, he saw a group of people near one of the large circular towers that had been part of a defensive wall.
Ramses swore under his breath. They were frequently interrupted by visitors. Sebaste was off the beaten track for the usual pilgrims, whose standard tours of the Holy Land allowed little time for anything except Jerusalem and the nearby biblical sites, but a few of the diehards (fanatics, as Reisner had once been heard to remark) made it there. As the youngest and least important member of the staff, Ramses was the one appointed to show visitors around and keep them out of Reisner’s way. The tomb of John the Baptist was the chief attraction, with a massive door said to be that of his prison. There was a tomb, or at least a dome covering something, in the courtyard of what had been a Crusader church before it was turned into a mosque. The remains of the church had some points of interest, but not for Ramses, who had seen them too many times. He had also heard more than he wanted to hear about King Ahab, whose bloodstained chariot had been washed in a pool by the gate of Samaria. There was a gate, but the existing structure was Roman, built some eight hundred years after Ahab had ruled at Samaria. He had learned it was a waste of time to mention this to the pilgrims or to point out that according to the historian Josephus, John the Baptist had been beheaded at a castle on the Dead Sea.
They didn’t look like pilgrims. Two of them appeared to be part of an official escort, dressed in shabby uniforms trimmed with an excess of tarnished gold braid. A third man wore a white robe and the green turban restricted to descendants of the Prophet. He was an impressive figure, taller than most, with the sculptured features of a Bedouin, but Ramses’s attention was held by the woman who was the center of the group.
Her costume was, to say the least, unusual: riding boots and trousers, topped by a knee-length garment of vivid emerald-green. A cloak of gray homespun hung from her slim shoulders; her fair hair had been wound into a coronet around her head. Her hands were covered with gauntlets of supple leather. One held a riding crop.
Seeing Ramses, Reisner broke off his lecture with unconcealed relief. “Madame von Eine, may I present my colleague, Ramses Emerson. He will be happy to show you around the acropolis.”
A light, uncomfortable shock ran through Ramses when her eyes focused on him. They were an unusual shade of pale blue-gray, but in their depths he saw a spark of light, like a flame under clouded glass. Her gaze moved from his face to his feet and back again, with the cool appraisal of a potential buyer inspecting a piece of merchandise.
“Ramses,” she repeated. “What an extraordinary name.”
Ramses could not have said what prompted him to reply in German. Her slight accent had suggested she was of that nationality, but it was in part a response to her condescending tone. “It is a Kosename, madam, used by my friends and family.”
“Aber natürlich. You must be Walter P. Emerson, who wrote that pleasant little book on Egyptian grammar.”
“I am flattered,” Ramses said mendaciously.
“Mme von Eine is a specialist in Hittite remains,” Reisner said, cutting the amenities short. “We have found nothing of that period, madame, but Ramses will show you the Herodian forum area and the Israelite levels if you like.”
“Thank you.” She nodded graciously, a noble lady acknowledging the courtesy of an inferior. “I won’t take any more of your time, Mr. Reisner. You are anxious, I know, to get on with your work.”
“Not at all, not at all,” Reisner muttered.
Without waiting for Ramses to lead the way, she started up the slope, her attendants following. Ramses had to take long strides in order to catch her up. He hadn’t realized how tall she was until he stood next to her.
“The terrain is a bit uneven,” he said, offering his hand.
After an almost imperceptible hesitation she put a slim gloved hand in his. When they reached the summit she withdrew her hand and looked expectantly at Ramses. Ramses launched into his lecture.
“After the death of Solomon, his realm broke up into two separate kingdoms—Israel in the north and Judah in the south. Samaria was the capital of the northern kingdom, whose most famous rulers were Omri and Ahab. It was
Omri—”
Seeing her expression, he broke off in some confusion. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I slipped into the standard lecture. You know all that, of course.”
“Of course.” She moved to one side and looked down at the stretches of wall just below. “Seleucid,” she said.
“Quite. Dated to approximately 125 B.C. by means of coins found above and below the floors.”
He went on with his lecture as they moved forward, getting no response except an occasional nod, until she interrupted in the midst of a description of the Greek and Babylonian remains.
“And the so-called Israelite structures?”
“It’s a little hard to make them out,” Ramses said. “As you can see, the site is very complex. But stratigraphically the walls lie below the Greek and Babylonian structures, and since we know from Second Kings that Omri built his palace here—”
“That is your evidence?” The slight curl of her lip indicated what she thought of the evidence.
Loyalty to Reisner made Ramses resent the implied criticism, even though he had certain reservations of his own. “One can’t help but be influenced by the biblical account,” he said stiffly. “It offers such a neat written chronology—the only such chronology we have in this part of the world, until we start to get references in Assyrian and Babylonian records. But I assure you neither Mr. Reisner nor I would follow it blindly. The remains we have found so far indicate a structure of considerable size. It could be a palace, and it seems to have been the first structure on the site. And”—he had saved the best for the last—“this season we discovered a number of documents written in Hebrew.”
“Documents.” She turned those remarkable eyes on him. “Scrolls? Archival tablets?”
“Nothing so impressive,” Ramses admitted. “They appear to be dockets recording the receipt of various goods such as wine and oil.”
“So you read ancient Hebrew?”
“I’m no expert, but I’m copying the dockets and hope to work on them after I get home. The form of the script seems to indicate a date in the eighth century, which agrees with the archaeological evidence.”
“I see.” Turning to the man who stood close by her side, she spoke briefly in Arabic. Her voice was so soft he understood only the word “nothing.”
“Is your dragoman interested in archaeology?” Ramses asked. “I can continue in Arabic or Turkish, if you like.”
“Mansur is not my dragoman. One might describe him as a fellow traveler.”
The man’s deep-set dark eyes met those of Ramses. He inclined his head slightly. It was not a bow to a superior but rather a courteous acknowledgment of an equal.
“We must go now. Lady?” He spoke Arabic, with an accent Ramses was unable to identify. Mme von Eine took his extended hand and turned away, leaving Ramses to trail after them. He was beginning to resent Mme von Eine. She hadn’t been openly discourteous, but one small jab after another mounted up. If Mansur wasn’t a servant, why hadn’t she introduced him? And what the hell did that ambiguous term “fellow traveler” mean?
He decided he was entitled to a few small jabs of his own. Catching up with the pair, he said, “I apologize for not being familiar with your work. Was it at Boghazkoy or Carcemish that you excavated?”
“There is no reason why you should be familiar with it” was her cool reply. “Hittite culture is not your specialty.”
She hadn’t answered his question. He persisted. “Carcemish is by way of being a British concession, and no one has worked there for more than twenty years. Winckler was at Boghazkoy a few years ago. Were you by chance present when he came upon the Hittite royal archives?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Not present at that time, or not ever at Boghazkoy? Why wouldn’t the woman give a direct answer?
“It was, by all accounts, an extremely inept excavation,” he persisted. “Some of the tablets were lost or stolen.”
He reached for her as she stumbled, but Mansur, on her other side, was quicker. “Take care, lady,” he said softly, his hand closing over her arm.
Increasingly intrigued by the odd pair, Ramses said, “I can show you an easier way, a little longer, but not so difficult. Where is your camp located? Or are you staying in the village?”
Mme von Eine’s lips parted in a smile. It gave her face a warmth that was very attractive—and, because Ramses was his mother’s son, suspicious. Apparently he had passed some sort of test. Or had he failed one, in a way that gave her satisfaction?
“Not in the village, but nearby,” she said.
“This way, then. Mind your footing.”
She turned and addressed a sharp rebuke to the two uniformed men, who were slouching along behind, kicking at scraps of rubble.
“I should have told them to stay below,” she remarked through tight lips. “They and their fellows are a nuisance, but the authorities insisted I take them with me. For protection, they said.”
“This part of the region is safe enough,” Ramses said. “But some of the tribes to the north and west can be unruly at times.”
She ducked that implied question too, confining her answer to a brief “So I have heard. We mustn’t keep you from your work any longer. I know the way from here.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Ramses said truthfully.
LIKE EMERSON, I DID NOT believe for a moment that Major Morley was in German pay. The Germans were obviously attempting to extend their influence in the region, but I doubted they were desperate enough to employ such a dullard. However, our agreement to investigate the major provided Emerson with an excuse to do what he wanted to do, as well as a means of accomplishing that aim. Getting permission to work anywhere in the Ottoman Empire was a tedious, frustrating procedure, which could take months and necessitate a personal visit to Istanbul. Emerson had been assured that this problem would be dealt with. Furthermore, working in Palestine would solve the problem of where we were to excavate that winter and would give Emerson an excuse to “drop in on” Reisner and criticize his procedures.
As a loyal Englishwoman I felt obliged to respond to a personal appeal from the sovereign. (To be sure, the appeal had not been to me, but Emerson and I are as one.) However, my own motives were also mixed. Nefret had been correct about Ramses; if he could get in trouble, he would, and we had not heard from him for some time. The area was unfamiliar to me, and fraught with interest. I shared Emerson’s skepticism about the historical validity of some events described in the Old Testament, but by the time of Christ a plethora of documentary evidence verified the accounts of the Evangelists. To a devout Christian like myself, the idea of walking the streets the Saviour had walked, viewing the Mount of Olives and the site of Golgatha, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and other sacred spots, had an irresistible appeal.
The arrangements were not quickly concluded. In the course of the week following Morley’s visit, Emerson was back and forth to London several times. I occupied the time refreshing my knowledge of Scripture. Since in my opinion a rational approach to the Bible is at best confusing and at worst impossible, I had never approached it from the point of view of a historian concerned only with verifiable facts. My research confirmed this opinion.
When Emerson returned from his final visit to London I was in the library. The weather was damp and dreary and I was on the verge of dozing off when the door burst open. I had not expected him back so early. He shook himself like a large damp dog and seated himself behind his desk.
“It is all settled,” he announced. “We will leave for Jaffa in two weeks.”
“We?” I repeated, raising my eyebrows. “You and your humble followers, you mean?”
Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. “Now see here, Peabody, you know I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did. Really, Emerson, you ought to know better than to try those tactics on me. They have never succeeded and they never will.”
“But I enjoy seeing your eyes flash and your lip curl,” said Emerson. “Come now, Pe
abody, you knew perfectly well how this would work out. You are making lists.”
“And if I have?”
“May I see them?”
“If you will show me yours.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “I never make lists, and I keep my notes in my head. I intended to confide fully in you as soon as the arrangements were complete. What did you do with your damned lists? They weren’t in your desk, or under the mattress, or—”
“I keep them with me at all times,” I replied, removing a few folded papers from my pocket. “And the next time you search my desk, please don’t make such a mess.”
Grinning, Emerson held out a large calloused hand.
After perusing my lists, he pursed his lips and nodded. “As I expected, you seem to have matters well in hand. Are you certain you have taken into account the fact that we will be going directly to Jaffa?”
“Naturally. I assumed that we would, since it is the major port for Palestine. Until I know how many of us there will be, I cannot calculate quantities properly,” I went on.
“I assumed you would already have settled that. You and I—You are allowing me to accompany you, I trust?”
“There is no need to be rude, Emerson. I presume you mean to take a crew of our trained men to act as supervisors, but the decision as to which and how many is yours. Selim, of course, and Daoud and…As I said, the decision is yours.”
Emerson’s well-cut lips twitched, whether from amusement or (more likely) the effort to repress a swearword, I could not determine.
“Selim and Daoud will suffice,” he said. “With you and me and Nefret and—”
“You propose to take a young, attractive woman into what you yourself have described as a dangerously unsettled region?”
A River in the Sky Page 4